NANO Archive 01: The City of Fire

by Jason Crutchfield

  “What do you mean you've been struck by an unknown projectile? I want a full interior scan, and I want it yesterday. Move it!” Sarge dropped the metal beam directly next to Crelyos' head and pressed his finger against his ear to issue his orders.

  “A metal stake? A beeping ball? What the hell are you—” Kaboom. A huge chunk of the Hoverbuster exploded and fire erupted from the interior like an active volcano. The cry of the engines as the aircraft spiraled to the ground several hundred feet below widened all our eyes until the faint sound of a second explosion sent wafts of smoke drifting up through the desert sky.

  “Damn it! Dr. Korenkov, how far out are you?” Sarge kept his finger to his ear and briskly walked away from Crelyos, who remained stunned on the ground with his eyes wide and his mouth agape. “Just outside? Did you round up the hyped at Raze's fortress? Good, we need immediate extraction. I think Loftsborough has some reinforcements.” Sarge finished issuing orders and offered Crelyos one last brief glance before looking at the Storm Duo and waving his hand in a circle above his head. “We're bugging out, you two. Get a move on; I'm issuing an immediate retreat. That's an order.”

  “Well looks like you get lucky this time, old hag.” Nomeiko drew her blade across her tongue as though enjoying the taste of my blood before she shoved it back in its scabbard. “Let's go, useless brother.” The Storm Duo rushed off after their commander between houses ablaze with crackling flames. A quick glance at Crelyos' spiritually broken state propelled me to action, and I dashed after the fleeing trio.

  “Not so fast, you three… I'm not letting you get away that easily!” I determined in my thoughts. The wall on the opposite end of Loftsborough exploded much like the first, and the Hoverbuster I witnessed fly into the distance upon my arrival to the city waited on the other side of the gaping hole. Sarge allowed his subordinates to pass and pointed his hand at Crelyos; a metallic groan echoed from Crelyos' metal arm, and Sarge lifted my blond comrade off the ground with the power of his unique nanite. Crelyos helplessly dangled in the air with downcast eyes.

  Sarge cast a glance to me and flicked his wrist, launching Crelyos across the scene of destruction directly into my body. Logic demanded that I shift to the side and continue my pursuit. Something in my bosom, however, halted that action; instead, I dropped my dagger and widened my arms to accommodate him. When he collided with me, we both tumbled across the metal floor. At the end of our roll, my body pressed atop his own as we lay in a heap between several burning structures. I groaned and regained my senses before glancing down at Crelyos' glistening blue eyes. Such deep regret and guilt filled them that I immediately broke eye contact.

  “This is all my fault… I should have…” Crelyos' voice cracked like a man's last sane words before succumbing to hyperaugmentation. But where a hyped's last words cracked with madness, Crelyos' words cracked with grief. The Hoverbuster's engines whirred in the distance, and Sarge and his subordinates disappeared into its belly. After the hulking metal vanished from the gaping hole like a phantom, Crelyos parted his lips to speak.

  “Stop.” I pressed my hand firmly against his mouth. I could not assure him there was nothing more he could have done to prevent the tragedy; I could not even assure him that he bore no responsibility for its occurrence. However, despite the reality of what I could not do, I did not want to hear the next words he planned to utter in his state of self-loathing. After a few seconds, Crelyos gripped my wrist and removed my hand from his lips.

  “Where is Oswald? I need to be stronger… I need a new nanite.” His voice changed, his eyes narrowed with furious rage, and for a moment, I felt as though I stared into a mirror that was ten years old.

  File 35: A Cursed Destiny

  The next day, the harrowing stench of decay and the stale chill of death swept through Loftsborough's ruins like an infection from the wastes. Though not absolutely obliterated, the city's devastation testified to the destruction Sarge's military force left in its wake. The miserable screams of the unfortunate citizenry consumed by the previous day's merciless fire rang fresh in my mind I stood in the wreckage of Eugene's mansion. I sifted through the rubble and bits of steel that Sarge neglected to draw toward him during his display of magnetic might. As I systematically searched the debris, Crelyos' horrified face and solemn words haunted me like an ironic case of foreshadowing.

  “This is all my fault… I need to be stronger… I need a new nanite.” The blond mercenary's words hung in the air even as I located the target of my search. I curled my fingers around the segregated pieces of my father's hunting rifle that hid among the rubble. I stared at the broken halves and wondered how closely my rifle represented Crelyos' emotional state. The whistling wind carried the sounds of the mourning city with its cold sting, and it drew me from my inward musings.

  I stood erect and turned to face the carnage of Loftsborough; the surviving men and women busied themselves with the recovery and disposal of their fellow citizens' corpses all while sobbing and whimpering. Despite the faint glint of morning gray streaming through the gaping tears in the clam-like slit, Loftsborough's enormous central sun remained unlit. I assumed Trumark ordered its dousing to aid the town's grieving process. Nearby, the little old mayor directed human traffic with quaking hands. My eyes drifted to the charred, shattered remains of the central square. They settled upon the feature which stood out like a cotton ball in a pile of coal: the little white angel, Elsa.

  In the middle of the scorched destruction, the small child stood with her feet angled in toward one another. She drew her arms tight around her cyborg teddy with which she never parted and hugged it to her chest. Her entire body shook as though overcome with an insurmountable chill, but I knew the tremors that raced along her frame stemmed from the incessant stream of tears pouring down her cheeks in a river of grief. She hung her head; her blond hair covered her face like a curtain concealing her empathetic tears. I sighed, shook my head, and approached the small child.

  “Elsa…” I knelt down and set the pieces of my broken rifle on the ground in order to place my hands atop her shoulders.

  “It's… not fair. These people are all… so sad. Why? Why is everyone dead?” Elsa's voice quivered synchronously with her sobs.

  “That's why I told you that you didn't need to come. I was only retrieving something. Mayor Trumark wants us to leave, so we'll be heading out soon. You could have waited for me with Oswald and Richter.” I stood and twisted the upper half of my body to glance back at the mayor and his people.

  To my surprise, while the townsfolk continued scurrying about with heavy hands and heavy hearts to collect their fallen, Mayor Trumark's wrinkled brow faced Elsa and me. He arched his sagging forehead; the old man's vacant algae colored eyes belied an undeniable conflict which no doubt raged within the pit of his bosom. Did the mayor regret commanding us to leave shortly after we aided in repelling Sarge's invasion? Or did he abhor our presence like a cancerous tumor that offered him nothing but grief since its first appearance?

  “Neither,” Elsa sniffled, “he feels pity for us…”

  “Pity? I don't understand,” I turned my gaze to the young girl who stared up at me with puffy eyes still holding the watery remnants of her sorrow.

  “He thinks bad things will follow you everywhere,” Elsa wiped her eyes on the back of Magnolia's head.

  “He's probably right,” I chuckled softly in an attempt to lighten the mood and take Elsa's thoughts off the grief and pain that undoubtedly invaded her telepathic mind.

  It seemed hard to believe that the previous day, Loftsborough transitioned from a place of celebration to a stage of merciless battle before ending as a black charred stain in the middle of the desert. I recalled the confusion that ensued when a communication from the aircraft to Sarge foretold the enormous bird's destruction moments later.

  I learned shortly afterward that, although at their own leisurely pace, Elsa and Richter h
ad pursued me during my headlong dash to the city from the hilltop. When he reached Loftsborough, Richter promptly dispatched the Hoverbuster with one of the explosive stakes he kept in the miniature quiver on his right calf. The chaos inevitably led to Sarge and the Storm Duo's retreat, but I failed to understand the reason behind Richter's interference. As I pondered what the sleek archer stood to gain from rendering aid during my plight, I began toward the former elevator shaft with a slow gait. Elsa followed close behind.

  “I made him! I told him if he didn't come, then I was gonna run away again!” Through her sniffles, Elsa chortled behind me when she perceived my thoughts. I grinned as we approached the edge of the long shaft newly fitted with a corded ladder. I slipped the pieces of my father's broken rifle into the belt housing my lone dagger and descended.

  When I reached the bottom and glanced up, I noticed Elsa struggling to steady herself on the ladder's unsecure rungs. Despite her trouble with the swaying apparatus, she refused to relinquish or even reposition her embrace on the teddy bear. Elsa finally cleared the last few pliable rungs by hopping down with dramatic flair and a high-pitched “Hiyah!”

  I waited patiently with my back against the nearby wall and my arms folded beneath my breasts. My leather trench coat groaned with my motions. I had retrieved it from the small girl shortly after she and Richter dramatic arrived in Loftsborough. Elsa giggled and bounded across the precarious bridge extending from the city's entrance. I followed.

  Though the morning fallout rolled overhead in typical grim fashion, the distant smell of acid and soil gases tickled my nose. It would probably rain that day. As we traversed the short distance to Oswald's trailer, Elsa occupied herself with a gentle hum and a sprite skip. A sense of relief washed over me in light of her happier disposition; I assumed we had ventured too far from the city for the anguished cries of the citizens to reach the range of her telepathic nanite. She quickly informed me that I was mistaken.

  “I can still hear them,” she chirped with a hidden sense of sadness emanating from her voice, “but it's just the feeling, not the thoughts. It's like a big pool of black poking the back of my chest. I'll be okay, though, I think those people will find happiness again one day.”

  “I hope so, little one.” Without glancing back at the city, I ascended the short, steep hill on which Oswald's trailer rested behind our dune buggy.

  Leaning against the wall with his arms crossed over his sleek pectorals, Richter stood with a cigarette tucked loosely between his lips. His bow hung in a tight fastening between his shoulder blades; its tip peeked over the top of his head. I did not see the mechanical contraptions which afforded his arms the strength to draw his otherworldly bow, but a pair of gaudy pauldrons took their place on his shoulders. I assumed with the proper stimulus, the metallic and mechanical parts would fold out like a segmented garage door to cover the entire length of his arms within seconds. So they were powerful, intimidating, and portable.

  “How convenient,” I thought to myself. I ended my journey at Richter's right side and pressed my back firmly against the trailer; I folded my arms across my stomach. From our vantage point, the two of us watched Elsa struggle to ascend the rocky slope with passive interest.

  “Is the doctor still operating on Crelyos?” My gaze cut to the archer. At first, he only gently shrugged his shoulders in response.

  “If you mean the big guy, then yeah I guess. I just met all of you crazies yesterday, and I'm awful with names.” Without drawing the tar-stuffed stick from his lips, Richter hissed smoke from his nose and mouth with a sharp exhale.

  “Yeah, that's him. I'm just worried. He's already got three implants. I tried to convince him not to get this procedure. But he's stubborn, and Oswald really wanted to get inside his head. What if four is too many for him?” I tipped my head back against the trailer and closed my eyes. My thoughts drifted to that giant blond lug and the zany doctor no doubt toying with his unique implant with the excitement of a child on his birthday.

  “Four? One is too many.” Richter tugged the remnants of his cigarette from his mouth and tossed it to the crusted earth. Surprised, I snapped open my eyes and raised a single brow at his remark. I lifted one of my hands and rapped my knuckles methodically atop one of his metal pauldrons.

  “Cryptic words for someone that uses so much technology. Most of this stuff you can't even find anymore. The only difference between your technology and neurotech is the difference between hardware and software,” I grinned. Richter's initial response involved a sluggish lift and drop of his shoulders. But a few seconds passed, and as I took note of his trend to shrug, he retorted.

  “No, the difference is that I tell my equipment what to do. I made it with my own hands, and there is no chance that it will ever decide it doesn't like what I have to say, no matter how many tools I slap on my belt.” Richter's words conveyed his disdain for neurotech effectively enough, so I decided to drop the issue.

  “So, what, you have no nanites at all? How do you even survive?” I posed my inquiry with active interest; the prospect of someone surviving the apocalyptic events of the Titan Crisis and its ensuing fallout without Panacea baffled me.

  “Unfortunately, when you're a kid you don't control what your parents put in you. I got Panacea, but that's it,” Richter tugged another stick of tobacco from his vest pocket and shoved the filtered end into his mouth. With a flick of a sludge-based open-flamed lighter, the tip took on the glowing hue of an ember.

  “I see. So what do you two plan to do now?” I asked as I lowered my arms to my sides and made my best attempt at relaxing.

  “We're… going with you… of course!” Between the sounds of her heavy breaths, Elsa interjected her intentions. The small girl finished clambering up the hill and stood before the two of us; with her body doubled over and her hands resting atop her slightly bent knees, Elsa swallowed gulps of air. Magnolia hung by its arm from the pinch created by the girl's right hand pressed against the ball of her knee. While her state of exhaustion amused me, her statement intrigued me far more.

  Richter narrowed his eyes into a thin slit and glared down at the young child. When she perceived this, Elsa stood erect, crossed her arms, and glared right back at him. I glanced between the two with a grin painted on one corner of my mouth. After a few seconds, I stepped forward and squatted in front of the small child. Her attention shifted from a stubborn glare at her benefactor to a pleading gaze at me; I simply tilted my head to one side and reached up to ruffle her long blonde locks of hair.

  “You sure? Where we're going is far away and fairly dangerous. There will be a lot of fighting and killing, and I can't guarantee your safety,” I pointed out.

  “Are you serious? She's just a kid. She's too young to be caught up in your bullshit,” Richter interrupted with a condescending scowl.

  “Really? I guess I never really thought about it…” I sincerely retorted. As Richter pointed out the girl's excessive youth, I allowed my gaze to travel up and down the height of her. I grew up among the Bald Eagles and matured with Shandi's help; through those experiences, I came to understand that the tragedy that occurred in Yordleton far exceeded normal events one might expect in the life of a young girl.

  Intellectually, I knew that a girl that age typically involved herself with dolls and school rather than a life of learning combat and walking a tightrope on the edge of death, but the reality asserted itself with the same fervor Elsa asserted her will to travel with me. From an age not much older than the small child, I grew accustomed to the intimacy of battle and the Reaper's tango. So the concept that her age might somehow hinder her ability to make life-altering decisions eluded me on an intrinsic level.

  “I'm not a child anymore, Richter! I can do what I want!” Elsa shouted defiantly; the flustered crimson that spread across her cheeks likely stemmed from her aggravation that Richter spoke of her as though she were not standing directly in fron
t of him.

  “The fact that you think you can do whatever you want makes you a child.” Richter's voice never changed in pitch or volume; he spoke with a cold, piercing calm with all the penetrating power of one of his custom arrows.

  “Elsa, Richter's right. It's really dangerous, and I don't want anyone getting hurt because of my vendetta,” I placed my hands on her shoulders and stared into her pretty blue-green eyes.

  Crelyos' face raced through my mind like a dune buggy. At first his lopsided grin and stubborn, endearing anger pervaded my thoughts, but as the images progressed to represent the time that passed since he accompanied me on my journey, those expressions contorted into rage, anguish, and deep sorrow. Much like Crelyos, the threat of Elsa experiencing irreversible emotional or mental trauma concerned me far more than the idea of any physical wound. “Why do you want to go with us so badly, anyway?”

  “Because you're special too! And…” Elsa's initial statement escaped her in a passionate torrent of desperation, but she paused before speaking her latter words as though streaming them through some unseen filter. She tugged Magnolia up to her face to cover her quivering lips. Only the sad glint of her eyes peeked over the top of the cyborg teddy's head, and those sea-hewn oculars averted themselves from my gaze as though they might betray her embarrassment or grief. “…and I don't want to be alone anymore.”

  Her words knocked me on my proverbial ass. I creased my brows and stared back over my shoulder at Richter. At first, his mouth hung slightly agape to the point that his cigarette threatened to escape and plunge to the ground. After a few seconds, however, he drew his lips taut and inhaled a lung full of smoke. He closed his eyes then lifted and dropped his shoulders in a defeated shrug.