Morning Sun

by Jeremy Flagg

  Jasmine’s heart thumped as the orphan screamed. The tiny human fought to get away from her, indicating she was uninjured. Jasmine let her go and stood, being careful to use her body to shield the girl.

  “Move.”

  The ten paces between her and Vlad seemed almost claustrophobic. She wanted nothing more than to never see this man again. The weight of his rifle didn’t cause his limb to shake as he held the sight on her face. Being a woman in the military meant you worked harder, proved yourself more often, and dealt with more shit than the boys. Vlad would test her at every opportunity if she let him.

  “Put your gun down.”

  The command center listened and at any moment they could force him to stand down. They could intercede and tell Jasmine to eliminate the remaining hostile, they could command them to take her prisoner and report back to the Facility. The deafening silence on the other side of the comm was another test, one she had to deftly maneuver or the General would seize the opportunity to exterminate her.

  “You are ignoring a direct order, soldier.”

  Ten paces.

  “I repeat—”

  “We eliminate them, sir.”

  “Not your call.”

  “Hostiles are terminated.”

  “Do I hear you disobeying a direct order?”

  Given the chance, Vlad would carve the heart from her chest. He imagined her as nothing more than a tool utilized by the Corps. To him, she might as well be one of the synthetics, something less, something used by humans to perpetuate their mission. She hated Vlad, but he reminded her that she was still human.

  The first step forward, the man didn’t blink. Vlad possessed an iron will, something at times she envied. At the second step his left eye narrowed as he used the sight on the gun. On the third step he fired.

  The face hurt the most. Her eyes and mouth remained vulnerable, causing her to grit her teeth and shut her lids. She always feared a bullet would hit her eyelid. The projectile wouldn’t kill her, but she would most likely lose her eye. The same thing would happen to teeth. The sound of metal on metal scrapping sounded as the first bullet grazed her cheek, dangerously close to her eye socket.

  Jasmine turned her head with her next step. Vlad knew her weaknesses, and he thought his aim accurate enough to stop her before she reached him. The third bullet struck her in the throat, forcing her to swallow hard, gasping for air she couldn’t obtain. Vlad dropped low and rushed her knees, tackling her to the ground.

  He rolled away, ejecting the magazine from his gun, and reached to his leg to slide in another. Jasmine grabbed him by the ankle and pulled hard, bringing his chin down on the imitation wood floor. He tried to pull away, but her fingers held solidly to the top of his boot. She dragged her way up the man, dizzied from the lack of oxygen.

  Placing her forearm on the back of his neck, holding him in place, she managed to suck air into her lungs. It’d be days until she could talk normally. The moment her powers shut off, her body would be covered head to toe in bruises. She wondered how long she could remain in this form, and if her body healed with her abilities activated.

  Vlad rolled to his side, sending her onto her back. She grabbed at his jacket, fingers catching the thick flame retardant material. He pressed his fist against her torso and pushed, freeing himself from her grip. The man had a reputation for being a fighter; on paper it was one of the best things about him. Jasmine considered rereading the files if she made it back to base.

  She got to her feet and managed to knuckle punch Vlad’s hand as he tried to reload the gun. He dropped the weapon and swung back with his arm, slamming into her shoulder. When she didn’t flinch, it was the first time she saw a hint of fear crossing his face. She assumed he was weighing every nasty comment, every threat, every act of aggression ever committed against her.

  The skin at the back of his neck felt distant, as if there was cardboard separating her senses from his body. She picked him up and dropped him hard, bring his head down on the top of a desk. Spinning him over, she delighted in the blood smearing across his face.

  “I gave you an order,” she coughed.

  If he struggled, his captain would be justified in continuing pounding him into the ground. Instead he went limp, refusing to protest. Vlad knew the rules. She wrapped her hand around his neck and raised him up over her head. He maintained his calm, remaining in control, but as the oxygen became scarce, he clawed at her hand.

  “I could kill you right now,” she said.

  Children were already stronger than their human counterparts, but with a weighty dense exterior, her muscles compensated. She wanted to let go of her metal skin and return to a fleshy form just for the sake of feeling the man’s pulse slow. Within the awesomeness of her abilities, she had fleeting moments where she felt truly powerful.

  “But I won’t,” she said before piledriving him into the floor. He’d suffer a bruised throat, possibly a concussion, but he would live. She hovered over his motionless frame, admiring her handiwork.

  “One of us is still human.”

  The expressions on mission control’s faces would be of disbelief. Each operator would think a confrontation between the loosest cannon on the team and a Child would end in somebody dying first. They’d question her ability for follow-through, ignoring her compassion or her humanity—for them, only signs of weakness. She faced it as a woman, now she faced it as a Child.

  “Mission control, are you still there?”

  The static in her ear flared to life. “Captain, we’re having difficulty establishing communications. Electromagnetic pulse fried area electronics.”

  “Sure.”

  Twenty minutes passed as she waited outside with Vlad slumped on the ground and Murdock holding on to her arm for guidance. In the distance, a jet moved toward them, the tiny light growing stronger. Jasmine squeezed the hand of the young girl, trying to offer some amount of comfort while she sniffled.

  “You could have killed him,” Murdock said.

  “I know.”

  “He won’t stop until you do.”

  “I know.”

  “Then why?”

  She looked over her shoulder at the blind man. His eyes were left a milky white after they powered down. It’d be minutes in the Body Shop before they had them repaired and offered him additional upgrades. His words rang true; she anticipated countless fights where she and Vlad would wrestle for dominance.

  “I need a bigger monster on this team than me.”

  “Why?”

  The transport sent a cloud of dirt into the air as it landed in the parking lot. The back opened up and several scientists came out, flashing their badges. Members of Genesis Division took the girl, wrestling her out of Jasmine’s grasp. She didn’t flinch as the orphan reached back for her, scared to death of what awaited her on the vehicle.

  Jasmine watched as one of the scientists poked her with a syringe, stopping the girl’s resistance. The men handled her with care as they set her on a gurney and strapped her in for takeoff. The back of the research vessel closed and within the minute, the turbine roared to life and they were airborne, most likely heading toward the Facility owned by Genesis Division.

  She pondered Murdock’s question while they waited for their own extraction. The seasoned soldier would return to her cramped quarters this evening and shower before taking her first shot of whiskey. When she reached a comfortable level of drunkenness, then she could let her guard down and begin to cry. It wasn’t a healthy lifestyle, but she found comfort knowing she still had a heart.

  “I need him to remind me how much further I have to fall.”

  Alyssa

  February 13, 1992

  My Dearest Alyssa,

  Of all the Children I’ve penned, none have I observed more than you. While your parents missed your recitals, determined to earn enough money to achieve the American dream, I watched in their place. Like a mother, I’ve seen flashes of your youth, and each time, I’ve watched you dance. Before your powers d
eveloped, I witnessed your soul bared for all to see on that stage. As you quietly practiced in your bedroom, I admired your determination. While I am no replacement for your mother, know I am proud of what you accomplished.

  I cannot see into the essence of men, but action has always been your forte. While I believe my mind is my strongest asset, your body is a graceful machine. Do not hate it. Do not believe it robbed of a passion you once possessed. The passion will never leave you, my child.

  As a darkness descends upon the world, there will be few who stand up and fight. Within you resides the heart of a warrior. I beg of you, Alyssa, when you are given the option of changing the world, know it cannot be done without you.

  Sincerely,

  Eleanor P. Valentine

  May 3, 2026

  Tears. The acceptance letter to Juilliard crumpled in Alyssa’s hand as she fell to the floor in the foyer. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe, the room starting to spin. The mail on the small table in the entry served as a reminder of the empty home waiting for her.

  She wailed as she curled up on her side, clutching her legs tight against her stomach. Minutes dragged on until there were no tears left and her breathing returned to normal. The letter not only welcomed her, but offered a scholarship to attend one of the most prestigious conservatories for dance. Her dad would have been angry, and her mother, her mother would have urged her to follow her dreams.

  “Alisa.” Her mother’s accent would thicken. Ever since she discovered Alyssa’s social media account with an Americanized name, she learned to create guilt with that single word. “Child, the world gives you no limitations, only you can do that.”

  Her anguish mingled with guilt.

  She sat up on her knees, staring down the dark hallway leading into an even darker living room. Until a few weeks ago, she came home from the dance studio in the evenings to be greeted at the door by her mother’s spicy gursan and her father on the couch reading the Chicago Tribune. Now, the house smelled empty, sterile from the cleaning lady and less like a home than a hospital.

  The foyer served as a limbo between her memories and the reality waiting for her further in her home. Alyssa wished it was as simple as picking up the phone and reaching out to talk about the pain in her heart. With the majority of her family still residing in Saudi Arabia and no friends due to her hectic rehearsal schedule, she was truly alone for the first time in her life.

  “A-ozu billahi mena shaitaan Arrajeem.” She uttered the assurance more often than not lately, hoping Allah saw fit to ease her troubled heart. Staring at the letter on the floor, her mind refused to contemplate what the future might hold. Thinking beyond the agony of this moment seemed impossible.

  Alyssa snatched her ballet slippers off the table covered in mail and decided to be anywhere other than an empty house. She reached down and adjusted her black tights and smoothed out her dress. Grabbing her jean jacket, she paused before she exited, holding the door open a moment longer. She hoped to hear her father asking where she might be off to at that late hour. The silence—she couldn’t bear the sound of so much nothing in a place once filled with so much love.

  The streets of Chicago offered a distraction from her uncomfortable reality. Almost eight in the evening and already the downtown area seemed void of real life. The L rattled by, cutting through the night air as it worked its way toward the business district Loop. Walking a well practiced route kept her in street lights as she headed to the community center.

  When they first moved to the Windy City, she couldn’t hide her disappointment, not wanting to leave New York behind. Both parents grew up in poverty, and through adversity, they found themselves celebrated specialists in the field of nanotechnology. Moving to Chicago as a young girl had been rough, leaving behind her grade school friends in the hope of her parents providing a better life. Yet until just recently, Chicago had transformed into a home she found difficult to abandon.

  In an effort to help her fit in, her mother insisted she participate in an activity with other young girls. Despite her father’s protests and conservative arguments, her mother enrolled her in an after school program for dance. She made friends. Alyssa continued into high school, spending more and more time at the community center, practicing in front of a wall of mirrors.

  “Why don’t you start taking professional classes?” her mother would ask. After a decade at the community center with her aging mentor, it become a second home. “It’s filled with love,” she would tell her mother.

  Standing at the community center gate, she reached for the keys until she realized the lights inside were still on. Through the door and up a small flight of stairs, she froze at the sight of a dozen teenagers in black uniforms. They ignored her, engrossed in their movements in unison.

  An Asian man stood to the side of a young woman, tapping her elbow, forcing her to straighten her arm. Alyssa recognized the man, a regular instructor at the community center. She hadn’t thought the space would be occupied when she arrived.

  She removed her shoes, scooting them under a chair with the other footwear. The instructor smiled at her as she made a slight bow and stepped onto the floor. She had never taken one of his classes, but she had been sure to observe the formality of his students when in class. She scurried along the back of the gym-sized area, reaching the stage at the far end of the room.

  While she spent her school days listening to racial slurs about her modest clothing or insistence on donning her hijab, the community center remained a neutral territory for all. Sensei Koji, much like her own teacher, demanded the community center stay a safe haven. Along with dance and martial arts, evenings offered rousing games of bingo, quilting bees, basketball, and movie screenings.

  Sitting down on the stage, she slipped on her ballet shoes while she studied Koji. His voice held authority, firm and at the same time caring. Stretching her legs, she grabbed one foot, awakening the muscles in her calves. When she switched to the other, her thigh begged for her to take it easy. With summer vacation in full swing, she already rehearsed for two hours this morning before going to work at the coffee shop. Despite her muscles’ protest, dancing gave her a chance to ignore the outside world.

  Students grunted as they practiced their punches, making her smile. Somewhere in that crowd of new artists could be a potential Sensei in the making. Much like she rose above the crowd and became a favorite pupil, one of them could be in the next generation of teachers. Alyssa brushed off her leggings as she stood, wondering if maybe that would be her destiny, a teacher.

  There was no soft music helping her time out the movements, but after practicing the routine for the better part of a year, it came naturally. Her limbs executed each step, twirl, and point with a precision that dazzled any onlookers. Each kick, roll of the arm, or dip held a rigid exactness that promised her entry into any institution.

  Alyssa finished the two minute routine, fully aware it was nearly perfect. Unlike her peers, or even her instructor, her embodiment of grace was not the result of grit or practice. She admired Koji as he demonstrated a sidekick, holding each position for several seconds, describing his form to the class. No, her passion for dance had little to do with her talent, and all to do with a gift from Allah.

  Alyssa Rahim, a Child of Nostradamus, blessed with abilities exceeding those of other dancers her age. At fifteen, she held promise in her dance class, and her instructor pushed her harder in an attempt to elicit perfection. Once she underwent the change, her muscles adapted to every task, memorizing each action with such precision she feigned mistakes to not arise suspicion.

  Standing on his right foot, Koji’s body extended to counterbalance his outstretched left foot. She commended the beauty of his movements, wondering how often modern dancers incorporate martial arts into their routines. Rising to the tips of her toes, she stretched her body, balancing in place, counting the seconds.

  “Slow and graceful like a dancer,” Koji said loud enough for her to hear. Her gaze remained fixed on th
e wall, but she knew they watched her. Slowly she lowered her leg, exaggerating the movement for his students to study. As her toe touched the wooden floorboards, Alyssa relaxed her stance, allowing her heels to rest on the ground.

  While she rehearsed, she found herself watching the students more and more. Another twenty minutes passed and then they bowed to their instructor and left the floor to start putting on their shoes. Parents waited for their kids, talking to Koji, most likely exchanging appreciation for the opportunity to take his class

  The sight of the doting moms caused her to freeze. Their smiles as they led their children out the door reminding her so much of her own parents. Her father believed women shouldn’t use their bodies like she did. Alyssa lay awake as her mother, the progressive idealist, defended the practice.

  Her father had a stern demeanor, but in their household, Alyssa’s mom carried more than her fair share of influence. They reached an unsaid compromise when Alyssa decided to pursue ballet, one of the more reputable dance forms. Attempting to remain modest for her father, she danced in tights and a long sleeve shirt. It wasn’t her father’s traditions that prevented him from seeing her recitals; work often kept him away.

  Even at a young age she admired the hard work required to make a better life for their family. He wanted the world for his daughter. Though he missed her performances, she often came home to a box of roses and a note from her father giving his congratulations.

  She would never receive flowers from her father again.

  Tears threatened to roll down her cheeks once more. The sight of Koji standing next to the stage sobered her thoughts. The man’s black gui made his light complexion stand out. Sorrow-filled eyes gave him away; he had heard what befell her parents. At the funeral, people held the same look as while offering their sympathy.

  “I heard your audition went well.”