by Tyler Vance
Meanwhile, the Celestial had put in some overtime and cured every single recipient within a few weeks. They were able to empower a rune inscribed in the patient’s own blood and energy that apparently blocked the metal from inexplicably draining the cyborg’s life-force. For that, the Emperor granted the Celestial the exclusive right to sell Alimiat’s life work, while he looked on incredulously.
Since then, Alimiat had dedicated his life to finding a scientific means of protecting life force and getting credit for his work. While testing life force modulating formula’s he’d developed on animal subjects, Alimiat had inadvertently created the drug Four. Four literally converted life force into minutes of an unadulterated euphoria so powerful and pure that the minute it laid its incubus finger on an individual’s blood, addiction was both immediate and irrevocable.
Alimiat had been desperate and jobless, living in a shanty on the west side of the wall through Interium. In the name of his research, he had become the first ever Four dealer. Within ten years, the drug, younger than Dorothi, had touched every corner of the continent and killed his oldest daughter.
Four caught up with Alimiat first, though. A man who’d lost everything to the chemical had confronted him. Alimiat had arrogantly said that addicts had some choice in the matter.
In answer, the man had pulled a gun on Alimiat and extorted all of Alimiat’s Four and the notes on how to synthesis it. The yellow-eyed Four addict had gone on to inject a minute dose of the chemical into Alimiat’s arm. Then he’d left him in a pile of drooling ecstasy. Apparently, he hadn’t wanted to interrupt the first moment between a father and his child. The addict had left and gone on and immediately overdosed. His shriveled body had been found dead in an alley with a smile on its lips. And Legacy had taken the recipe to Four.
From the outside in, Alimiat hadn't changed his habits in the slightest. He had still spent all his time with test tubes and chemicals, trying to retrace the steps that had led to his creation of Four. He hadn't even had the drug's chemical name to work with. He could’ve reverse-engineered the formula long ago through a few, specific reactions, but each time he had held Four in his hands, he'd found himself reaching for a needle to satiate the unbearable craving.
Alimiat had quit sleeping and eating. He had spent all his time buried in notes and chemical equations. Ironically, Alimiat’s total obsession to resynthesize Four had led to three different compounds that regularized life force. One formed a semi-permanent quantum bound with the brain in a way, Alimiat speculated, that would both stabilize and regulate life force.
Alimiat had seen the repairs he’d made to Sheikoh as a means to get money to buy himself the precious chemical, but no one took the failed scientist’s calls. About a month after Sheikoh had been reborn, the man had left him and Emili alone with Dorothi. They’d never figured out what had happened to the dude. Sheikoh privately hoped that someone had put that dude out of his misery a long time ago.
Sheikoh climbed up the ladder and slipped through the trapdoor overhead.. He knew the sewer was a far safer course to take but he just couldn’t force himself out there.
‘My emotions can’t take the awful smell. I’m soft as a cucumber from all of these feelings and what not,’ He quietly laughed to himself, joking down the raw feeling. And if he smelled funny the Celestial might think he was chill with being poor and pay less. He had to have money. For Dorothi.
Sheikoh pushed open the trapdoor and squinted through the light that was streaming into his own personal walled garden. Vines waved with a gentle breeze as though they were welcoming him back. It was a good thing that no one in Interium cared about nature, or he might not be able to use the passage to his safehouse. Sheikoh smiled at the plants and swung onto the grass.
He closed the trapdoor behind him. It blended into the dirt and grass seamlessly. He straightened up and looked at the ivy-draped walls. Then he laughed aloud, having thought of another reason to have gone through the trapdoor.
If he came smelling like the sewer, Indigo would probably shoot him.
Part II: A Council of Criminals
Chapter 8 - The Renegade Celestial
His cellpad said it was 7:31, which meant there were two and a half hours between now and when Sheikoh was supposed to meet Indigo by the gate. First things first, he called Dorothi in sick. Then he went back to the Wrays’ house, technically Dorothi’s, to pick up some supplies. However, as soon as he was in sight of it, he twitched back behind a trash barrel, gripping the handle of his pistol. A white-cloaked Century stood at his doorstep.
After a few, deep breathes, Sheikoh's heart stopped racing. He knew this was a message from Cylium Vest. A reminder about what was in store if he didn’t play by the Arch Centaurai’s rules. But there was nothing to worry about; Vest thought he needed him. For now.
Sheikoh began edging around the back of a street, making for a back way to his place. He didn’t plan on interacting with the haunting Century on his doorstep. Luckily, it wasn’t like he needed to use the door or anything. He was still Silence, the criminal prodigy.
Nonetheless, Sheikoh couldn’t help but shiver. He knew that if the Arch Centaurai had made catching him a priority, he would have had his very own Solitarium cell a long time ago. He doubted even the legendary Ghost could stand Vest's attentions for long. Cylium Vest didn't fear either of them, Sheikoh knew. What the Centaurai had erected the wall for, it hadn’t been about Legacy. On to the empire, Legacy was like a little itch.
For someone who'd spent a lifetime hiding from the gang, it was a sobering thought.
Sheikoh slipped through a window and gathered everything he might need. Lock picks, matches, gasoline... smoke bombs, a flashlight…
He also select another gun out of his sizable arsenal, one Indigo hadn’t touched. Last night, Sheikoh had triple checked his ML5 for any signs that Indigo had messed with it. Everything seemed aboveboard, but just in case... Sheikoh bent and hid the spare somewhere even the most thorough pat-down wouldn’t wander.
Sheikoh wrapped a coil of industrial-strength magnet ribbon around his ankle, shoved a handful of band aids and some beef jerky in his pocket, and glanced down at his foot. His electroblade was exactly where it always was, sheathed in his boot.
Sheikoh never went out without it. He knew it was strange, that most people would feel uncomfortable carrying around a knife that'd slashed their insides, but he was too pragmatic to let it bother him. And he couldn't help but feel connected to it.
His electroblade had been the first and last weapon he’d held as the hero. It was the beginning and the end of his childhood. When he looked at its caressing gleam, it always seemed wise in an unspoken, elemental way. His knife had watched him grow into who he was.
By this blade, he’d earned the name Silence, and with it, the reputation that had fed him, Emili, and Dorothi. It was a part of him. And it’d paid its dudes, the same knife that’d almost killed Sheikoh in Chain’s hand had killed Chain in his. The cloudy night he’d become a killer, its leather-dressed handle had been the only thing to hold his hand. Sheikoh’s electroblade was an extension of his darkest self.
His thoughts drifted over a less confusing time. A time when right and wrong had still been black and white. When he had swung his clumsy metal legs off of the cold operating table for the very first time, it’d been the only thing to hold his hand. He had been young, but not so innocent.
Not after what Chain had done.
He’d sat there, surrounded by surgical instruments, bits of machinery and metal. And the knife that had been pulled from his chest. Sheikoh’s muscles burned with hatred, and pain coursed through his chest. Raw loss edged his blood, and, as he stared at the electroblade, it promised retribution, revenge in the name of everything he had lost. It was all he had had left.
Sheikoh had wrapped his hand around the knife and crept out of the Wrays’ household, making for Chain's hangout on the renamed Temptation Street. He snuck behind her and the man that she was laughing with.
Sheikoh’s lip curled. How could she laugh, like she hadn't murdered him in cold blood? How could she enjoy herself while he suffered?
To all intents and purposes, Sheikoh had died at Chain’s hand. Now she would die by his.
He would tear her to pieces.
Sheikoh grasped the electroblade and pushed it into Chain’s back. It slid in the women like it had found its place in the world. Chain had screamed and writhed while the other gangster had looked on in confusion. Sheikoh had pulled a scalpel out of his leg compartment, intending to kill the other man, but the gangster had stumbled away.
Sheikoh had turned then, intending to leave the knife inside of Chain in payment for her treatment of him, but, she had thrashed one last time and disgorged the burning knife from the creeping, black hole it'd never stopped burning into her body. The electroblade had flipped through the air and glancing sharply against the pitted concrete, spinning like a top and skidding his way. It had clanked against the heel of his brand-new blacksteel leg. To Sheikoh’s dark, thoughtful eyes they’d seemed a perfect match. He had picked up the knife that'd offered Chain the death she’d been so worthy of with peaceful emptiness in his chest.
That was the purpose of revenge. It was the force of retribution. If somebody was worth vengeance, then they deserved to die. That was the primal law of life.
The knife seemed to nod in agreement.
He looked down at his Trinity and realized how much time he’d wasted; it was somehow 9:48. His breath caught in his throat. And he had to get all the way over to the wall by 10:00. Sheikoh thought about the distance for a second. Then he thought about what might happen if he was late. Dorothi’s face rose in his thoughts, and his face twitched.
Sheikoh shot forward, running for all he was worth.
Speed whistled in his ears, and wind twisted fingers into hair as he dodged his way down backstreets and alleyways he knew by heart. A few startled pedestrians glanced up surprised at his inhuman pace. Sheikoh weaved through them, his eyes narrowed against the wind’s thrash. He bit his lip in intense concentration, even as his chest floated at the sense of absolute freedom.
Running was one of the few times Sheikoh felt at home in his cyborgic Frankenstein of a body. He never felt tired, or lost his breath. His adroit prosthetics maintained a bounding, antelope grace that could easily surpass a normal person’s sprint. A cyborg could spend all day in back to back races with the best runners of the world and beat every single one of them, every single time.
Then in times of danger, Sheikoh could go even further. His cyborg limbs could be forced into overdrive mode when a certain amount of adrenaline crept into his blood. Overdrive mode intentionally surpassed specified limits, letting Sheikoh react from behind a superhuman blur of motion.
There were downsides, of course. Overdrive mode left his overworked autonomic limbs vibrating and useless for a while, depending on how much he overused them. Pretty big deal in the middle of a fire fight. More ominously though, overdrive mode degraded the synaptic wires intimately winding all throughout his body. If he overused his secret weapon too consistently, he chanced damaging one of the irreplaceable, essential wires that regulated half of the organs in his chest. When Chain had messed him up, she’d done a good job of it. Sheikoh couldn’t survive without perpetual, internal stimulation.
In short, if he snapped the wrong wire, he was as good as dead.
A man carrying a heavy-looking ceramic pot stumbled into his way. The dude’s eyes widened, and Sheikoh cursed to himself. At the last second, he leapt, twisting his legs to the side so he wouldn’t kick the guy. Sheikoh landed more or less the same time as the pot judging by the shatter behind him.
Sheikoh shot an apologetic look behind him and quickly left the alley behind. And then another. And a street. And another alley, another, a few more, and he was suddenly walking distance from the gate.
Sheikoh slowed to a jog, shaking his wild, wind-swept hair. Then he stopped and combed the tangles out with his fingers. He didn’t want Indigo to think that he was excited to be here or whatever. As he power-walked, he flipped open his Trinity. The digital clock read 9:57. Right on time.
Sheikoh dropped the cellpad back into his pocket, suddenly nervous. The wall grew in his vision, and after a minute, he could make out the form of a massive, ebony man leaning against its grey concrete. Indigo didn’t even glance his way.
Sheikoh unconsciously changed his course to bring him over to the ganglord. He noted Indigo’s discomfort with a tiny smile. Then Sheikoh quickly scanned the crowd of wallside people, and there was no sign of Indigo’s men. He smiled and made his way over to Indigo who was awkwardly leaning against the wall. It looked like Indigo had taken his conditions seriously. Good for him.
“Hey, Gorgeous,” Sheikoh greeted Indigo.
Indigo grunted back without sparing him a glance.
Sheikoh smirked up at the towering ganglord, taking in his puffy, bloodshot eyes. This was probably the first time the ganglord had ever had to set his alarm clock. Sheikoh mirrored Indigo’s stiff pose for the slightest, mocking instant. Then he let his body slide down the coarse concrete and slump onto the grass at its edge.
“You look tired. Party too hard last night?” Sheikoh asked conversationally.
“Shut up,” muttered Indigo, covering up a yawn.
“It’s cool, mate. I’m pretty tired too,” Sheikoh confessed.
“Shut up,” muttered Indigo again.
“Maybe the two of us should just sleep together,” Sheikoh went on with an impish smirk up at the bigger man. Indigo closed his eyes in exasperation.
“Shut up,” Indigo muttered.
Sheikoh looked at the ganglord, a little disappointed. That’d been good.
“See, what I did was-
A speed-blurred fist cut off his explanation.
Instinctively, Sheikoh rolled away, leaving a blur of his own. He felt the breath of Indigo’s strike on his cheek. There was a loud crack, as Indigo’s knuckles slammed into the Coral Grey wall. For a moment, the seemed to shake.
One of the Century guarding the gate twisted an alien visor in his and Indigo’s direction. After a few seconds, he apparently decided things were cool and glanced away. Sheikoh looked up at the ganglord, shocked. Memories of the pounding received at Indigo’s hands rose into his thoughts.
Maybe he should shut up. Sheikoh’s face formed an uneasy smile. It was just so fun to piss Indigo off.
The two of them waited together in silence. Sheikoh played with a blade of grass. He kept imagining Indigo punching him in the face and the fractured cheekbone he’d have gotten if he hadn’t dodged. He shook himself and thought, ‘I bet he broke a knuckle and is too embarrassed to admit it.' He appraised the ganglord out of the corner of his eye. A moment later, Indigo shook a massive hand.
A giggle escaped the hand Sheikoh clapped over his mouth. Indigo looked at him, so Sheikoh turned and opened his mouth to make a comment like; ‘How about you save your punches for the job.’
Indigo raised an eyebrow as if to answer something like; ‘You must really wanna get hit.’
Sheikoh decided to leave the thought unspoken. He turned to face forward. Out of the corner of his eye, Sheikoh noticed that Indigo was grinning.
Oh well. After all, they were co-workers now. That is, if he ended up taking this job. Sheikoh remembered the Arch Centaurai with a shiver.
Then Indigo’s face flickered. Sheikoh followed the man’s gaze over to the narrow, factory-lined street branching off the side of the square.
A man was obviously coming their way. A man dressed in the rattier end of west side clothing, with lanky, greasy hair, a voluptuous beard and a dirty face. Over it was a pair of fuzzy eyes and a confused-looking expression. Sheikoh was surprised; he had been expecting another Dekla-type east side messenger. This man’s out-of-focus gaze unnerved him a little.
“Follow me,” rasped the vagrant when they were within earshot. Then he turned and rapidly tripped back the way he’d com
e.
Sheikoh and Indigo exchanged bemused looks. For once the two were of exactly the same mind; ‘Is this guy for real?’ The way the man shambled along, it looked like he was glowed out. But it wasn’t Four, his eyes weren’t scarred with yellow.
“Well, guess we follow him,” Sheikoh shrugged at Indigo. They caught up to the dirty man.
“I am your contact. No questions. Just follow,” the vagrant muttered out of his bearded mouth in an eerie, toneless voice.
Indigo and Sheikoh shared another glance. Indigo’s face was equal measures of anger and incredulity, and Sheikoh knew how the ganglord felt. But between him and Indigo, they didn’t have anything to worry about. This dude wasn’t going to mess with Silence and Indigo. No one in Interium was that stupid. There was no way they were in any danger.
Nonetheless, Sheikoh’d learned his lesson yesterday. He kept a hand on his pistol.
After a while, their motley group came to a stop in front of a shanty, one-room building.
Sheikoh could tell that the houses on the dirty, residential street were all built based on the same model, but, depending on the paintjobs and/or the various states and areas of decomposition, all of the dingy houses all looked wildly different. It was a bad neighborhood, even for the West Side, and that said something. The dirty-looking bum guide looked right at home here.
The man pointed an ominously limp arm at the door of the house before them.
“Go in. They’re waiting,” the man droned, staring at them with slightly unfocused eyes. Creepy.
Secluded building no-one would cry for… super creepy guide… Indigo…. two plus one equals… ambush. Sheikoh shot a glance at Indigo, just in time to catch the ganglord’s identical, distrusting look at him. Sheikoh and Indigo turned and focused their suspicious gazes on to the bum. Obviously, neither of them were going into the building without something more than ‘they’re waiting’.