07-30-2022, 12:46:22 PM
wrote about three short story things, so.
you cry.
Joseph lifted the crosshair to Immaculate's head. One shot, and it would have been over, he thought, as he sunk into the ground, the blood from his arm mixing in with the mud.
Every time they've played this little game, they never took a shot. Or, when they did, they never shot to kill. Mostly a miss, sometimes a graze. A perfectly aimed shot to the arm, like Immaculate had right now. Or to the leg, he thought, as he watched the other limp towards him. But never anything vital. Never the head or the chest. Something stopped the two of them every time from shooting at each other's hearts.
So there he was, laying face up on the ground as Joseph aimed the barrel of his rifle. His whole body ached. The piercing of the bullet wound, and the blunt, overarching pain from the fall to the ground, obviously. He'd become used to those injuries. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing, but he was used to it. Didn't make them hurt any less. But when Joseph looked down at him, there was that third sensation of pain. The one that he'd always felt when the two of them were facing each other. As if someone was pulling his chest to the ground. He could identify no specific physical cause for it, unfortunately. No way to circumvent the sensation.
Silence.
“I know you will not shoot. You did not do it before, and you will not do it now.” Immaculate spoke those words with as much authority as he could muster up.
“You think you've found a pattern, sinner?”
“You are very predictable.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“You are. Here's what will happen next. You'll cock your smile, light yet another cigarette, call me either my alphanumerical designation or ‘sinner’, and then we'll split ways.”
Joseph stared at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again, then closed it again, as if trying and failing to prove him wrong. And then, he put his rifle back on his back. That pull on Immaculate's chest didn't go away as Joseph sat down across from him, and pulled another cigarette out.
“You're twice as clever as you need to be, sinner. Wonder how Daylight keeps you in line.”
“They give me something to act on.”
He blew out a cloud of smoke. “For someone so smart, you'd think you'd find something of your own to fight for.”
“Do you think you are smarter? …Maybe you can say what you fight for.”
He took a glance up from his light, smiled, before searching through his pockets for a tiny little bottle. “For the people. For those who fought in the past. So they don't struggle in vain.”
“Did you come up with that on your own.”
He took a swig. “…You ever tried this?”
“The answer is ‘no’. Is it not.”
“For the ethanol?”
“For your cause. You fight for what something you were given.”
“Maybe I was, sinner.”
“I believe I have made my argument.”
Joseph grabbed Immaculate's hand, and pressed the little bottle inside. “Wonder if you're out of those painkillers. Take this.”
“I never can tell if you want me to die or not.”
“I'll at least ease your pain when I pull the trigger.” Funny, Immaculate thought, that's quite the opposite of what you do when we're in a duel. “So, I-00. You sure you've never taken a swig?”
Immaculate couldn't lie. Not even to this prick, he thought, as he looked Joseph right into those black hole eyes. “Once.”
“Then why don't you keep entertaining me, sinner? Tell me your little story. Clone boy's first bender.”
Immaculate weighed his options. Any tracking process would take until sunrise. He had hours to waste, and Joseph had hours to make whatever great escape he would have to do.
He might as well entertain the man. Besides, it's what he's been doing the past few months.
Immaculate took the bottle, and gulped it down. It burnt his throat, just as he expected. But the repercussions would be dealt with another time.
“It was when I was promoted into Stage 4.”
“You say that like it's meant to means something outside of a corporate dossier.”
“You asked for the story.”
“Never said I wouldn't comment.”
“You do have skill in speaking out of turn.”
“You're welcome, sinner.”
“My…supervisor. A Dr. Tardestrella. The woman who oversaw my physical and mental formation, both before and while I've been here. The night my promotion was put into the system, she led me to her office. A small thing. Almost a closet. She handed me a small cup, of a colorless liquid.”
“Ethanol.”
“I am glad you could understand the context. I didn't realize at the time. She instructed me that it was an intoxicating, grain-derived ethanol mixture. It would produce symptoms of relaxation, and issues of perception. If I wanted to drink it, I was allowed to, but it was my choice. I took it as an input. A command. So I swallowed it.”
“See, that's the difference between you and me, I-00.”
“What is.”
“I'm killing myself because I don't plan on living long. I'm burning out for a reason. And you, you kill yourself because you got told to.”
“I am telling a story.”
“Continue, asshole.”
“And once a few minutes had passed, she sat down and explained that it was considered traditional in some hierarchal systems that when someone was sent to war, they would be allowed a final drink. Or a first drink, in my instance. A drink to remember, to ease the nerves and soften the blow of the bullet ready to pierce the space between your forehead.
And thats why I got it. To celebrate, and to soften, the fact that I would be introduced to the next part of training. No simulations, or digital dreams. I would be exposed to flesh and blood. Because I would not just be a propaganda figure for Daylight to market, but a weapon crafted for their dominance. Their progress.”
Joseph looked at Immaculate, the last of the cigarette smoke fading into the night sky. “And what? You clearly accepted it, considering you're here. And you shot me. Even if you're not very good at hitting me.”
Immaculate stayed silent. The truth was that, he hadn't accepted it at first. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just the nature of the topic, but the first thing he did was cry. A strange, uncomfortable sensation, as tears fell from his face and he asked Dr. Tardestrella what she was doing about it, if there was any choice for him to make in it other than accept it, wondering if there was a chance to run for a fraction of a second.
He had never cried before. And he had never cried since.
At least, until that moment, where he pushed himself off the ground, and found himself staring at Joseph Luna with tear filled eyes.
And Joseph didn't have that cocky smile that Immaculate had predicted. The two of them looked at each other with an expression that he couldn't identify. It wasn't anger. Immaculate was intimately familiar with Joseph's anger. And he wasn't quite sure it was apathy. It was just an expression. That was the only way to describe it.
And then he interrupted the scene. “Not like the first drink thing's bullshit. Did that too. I was young, given a glass before my first fight. By…”
More silence.
“By whom.”
“…Him. The day before he died.”
Him. That weight that hung over the two of them. Immaculate's template, and Joseph's old guide. The two of them couldn't interact without that shadowing over the two of them. As if he really could never leave.
“I don't remind you of him. I know that.”
“You sure as hell drink like he did. One gulp and no time to look back.”
“I doubt that is a genetic thing. More of a matter of environment.”
“You cry like he did.”
“I do not cry.”
“Liar.”
“You should let your hopes down. Don't think of him every time you see my face. It won't get you anywhere.”
“When I see your face, I just think of you. And your bullshit.”
That fucking pain again, as Immaculate managed a laugh. “Hurtful.”
Joseph pushed himself off the ground, and began to slip away. “That's the point, sinner. I'll find you the next time you raise that blaster.”
Every time they've played this little game, they never took a shot. Or, when they did, they never shot to kill. Mostly a miss, sometimes a graze. A perfectly aimed shot to the arm, like Immaculate had right now. Or to the leg, he thought, as he watched the other limp towards him. But never anything vital. Never the head or the chest. Something stopped the two of them every time from shooting at each other's hearts.
So there he was, laying face up on the ground as Joseph aimed the barrel of his rifle. His whole body ached. The piercing of the bullet wound, and the blunt, overarching pain from the fall to the ground, obviously. He'd become used to those injuries. He wasn't sure if that was a good thing, but he was used to it. Didn't make them hurt any less. But when Joseph looked down at him, there was that third sensation of pain. The one that he'd always felt when the two of them were facing each other. As if someone was pulling his chest to the ground. He could identify no specific physical cause for it, unfortunately. No way to circumvent the sensation.
Silence.
“I know you will not shoot. You did not do it before, and you will not do it now.” Immaculate spoke those words with as much authority as he could muster up.
“You think you've found a pattern, sinner?”
“You are very predictable.”
“And what makes you say that?”
“You are. Here's what will happen next. You'll cock your smile, light yet another cigarette, call me either my alphanumerical designation or ‘sinner’, and then we'll split ways.”
Joseph stared at him. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Opened it again, then closed it again, as if trying and failing to prove him wrong. And then, he put his rifle back on his back. That pull on Immaculate's chest didn't go away as Joseph sat down across from him, and pulled another cigarette out.
“You're twice as clever as you need to be, sinner. Wonder how Daylight keeps you in line.”
“They give me something to act on.”
He blew out a cloud of smoke. “For someone so smart, you'd think you'd find something of your own to fight for.”
“Do you think you are smarter? …Maybe you can say what you fight for.”
He took a glance up from his light, smiled, before searching through his pockets for a tiny little bottle. “For the people. For those who fought in the past. So they don't struggle in vain.”
“Did you come up with that on your own.”
He took a swig. “…You ever tried this?”
“The answer is ‘no’. Is it not.”
“For the ethanol?”
“For your cause. You fight for what something you were given.”
“Maybe I was, sinner.”
“I believe I have made my argument.”
Joseph grabbed Immaculate's hand, and pressed the little bottle inside. “Wonder if you're out of those painkillers. Take this.”
“I never can tell if you want me to die or not.”
“I'll at least ease your pain when I pull the trigger.” Funny, Immaculate thought, that's quite the opposite of what you do when we're in a duel. “So, I-00. You sure you've never taken a swig?”
Immaculate couldn't lie. Not even to this prick, he thought, as he looked Joseph right into those black hole eyes. “Once.”
“Then why don't you keep entertaining me, sinner? Tell me your little story. Clone boy's first bender.”
Immaculate weighed his options. Any tracking process would take until sunrise. He had hours to waste, and Joseph had hours to make whatever great escape he would have to do.
He might as well entertain the man. Besides, it's what he's been doing the past few months.
Immaculate took the bottle, and gulped it down. It burnt his throat, just as he expected. But the repercussions would be dealt with another time.
“It was when I was promoted into Stage 4.”
“You say that like it's meant to means something outside of a corporate dossier.”
“You asked for the story.”
“Never said I wouldn't comment.”
“You do have skill in speaking out of turn.”
“You're welcome, sinner.”
“My…supervisor. A Dr. Tardestrella. The woman who oversaw my physical and mental formation, both before and while I've been here. The night my promotion was put into the system, she led me to her office. A small thing. Almost a closet. She handed me a small cup, of a colorless liquid.”
“Ethanol.”
“I am glad you could understand the context. I didn't realize at the time. She instructed me that it was an intoxicating, grain-derived ethanol mixture. It would produce symptoms of relaxation, and issues of perception. If I wanted to drink it, I was allowed to, but it was my choice. I took it as an input. A command. So I swallowed it.”
“See, that's the difference between you and me, I-00.”
“What is.”
“I'm killing myself because I don't plan on living long. I'm burning out for a reason. And you, you kill yourself because you got told to.”
“I am telling a story.”
“Continue, asshole.”
“And once a few minutes had passed, she sat down and explained that it was considered traditional in some hierarchal systems that when someone was sent to war, they would be allowed a final drink. Or a first drink, in my instance. A drink to remember, to ease the nerves and soften the blow of the bullet ready to pierce the space between your forehead.
And thats why I got it. To celebrate, and to soften, the fact that I would be introduced to the next part of training. No simulations, or digital dreams. I would be exposed to flesh and blood. Because I would not just be a propaganda figure for Daylight to market, but a weapon crafted for their dominance. Their progress.”
Joseph looked at Immaculate, the last of the cigarette smoke fading into the night sky. “And what? You clearly accepted it, considering you're here. And you shot me. Even if you're not very good at hitting me.”
Immaculate stayed silent. The truth was that, he hadn't accepted it at first. Maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was just the nature of the topic, but the first thing he did was cry. A strange, uncomfortable sensation, as tears fell from his face and he asked Dr. Tardestrella what she was doing about it, if there was any choice for him to make in it other than accept it, wondering if there was a chance to run for a fraction of a second.
He had never cried before. And he had never cried since.
At least, until that moment, where he pushed himself off the ground, and found himself staring at Joseph Luna with tear filled eyes.
And Joseph didn't have that cocky smile that Immaculate had predicted. The two of them looked at each other with an expression that he couldn't identify. It wasn't anger. Immaculate was intimately familiar with Joseph's anger. And he wasn't quite sure it was apathy. It was just an expression. That was the only way to describe it.
And then he interrupted the scene. “Not like the first drink thing's bullshit. Did that too. I was young, given a glass before my first fight. By…”
More silence.
“By whom.”
“…Him. The day before he died.”
Him. That weight that hung over the two of them. Immaculate's template, and Joseph's old guide. The two of them couldn't interact without that shadowing over the two of them. As if he really could never leave.
“I don't remind you of him. I know that.”
“You sure as hell drink like he did. One gulp and no time to look back.”
“I doubt that is a genetic thing. More of a matter of environment.”
“You cry like he did.”
“I do not cry.”
“Liar.”
“You should let your hopes down. Don't think of him every time you see my face. It won't get you anywhere.”
“When I see your face, I just think of you. And your bullshit.”
That fucking pain again, as Immaculate managed a laugh. “Hurtful.”
Joseph pushed himself off the ground, and began to slip away. “That's the point, sinner. I'll find you the next time you raise that blaster.”
dream boy.
The dream cost ₱400.0 an hour, but Immaculate figured it was worth it. He liked dreams. Every night, he would settle into bed, close the capsule, and zoom through libraries of memories until he found something he liked. Then, he let the chemicals soak into his head, and fell into a life that wasn't his own for a few hours, until he woke up. He wasn't the only one who did this, not by a long shot. Store-bought dreams were always better than the real thing, Daylight advertised. When you let your subconscious take the helm, you risk nightmares, anxiety, fears that stood in the way of your life. Why worry about that? Try Daylight Nightlight DreamTechTM, where every night is paradise.
Immaculate had never had a dream of his own, and he figured himself lucky for that. He didn't know what his subconscious would make up, or if it was even developed enough to make a dream outside of a hot flash of light or two. Abnormally underdeveloped social intelligence, the algorithm said about him when he got sent to this city, but who needed social intelligence for what he did? All he needed to do was look pretty and shoot straight. And he was damn good at that.
All his dreams, from the moment he was made, were pre-programmed chemical injections for fun and learning. At least now, he had a bit more of a choice in what his dreams were about. He never liked the randomly inserted dreams that were just mere simulations of his original's life as reimagined by the company. If he wanted to see that, he'd just watch the movies out in theaters. Most of the time, the dreams were just generic fake memories, meant to satisfy wants that he knew he'd never be able to have until he retired. And he doubted they'd ever let him retire.
His favorite dreams were the ones with the -companionship- tag. They usually inserted him in faux gatherings with faces either programmed or stolen from his memory, and tricked his mind into thinking he'd known them forever. Faces that meant nothing were turned into family members, childhood friends, ride or die companions. He'd buy a bunch, and run them over and over again, inducing sleep just to have the chance to experience them.
They would get transmitted into his brain. Radio frequencies burnt right into his head. And he'd feel the warm embrace the whole way through.
He didn't really know why he enjoyed them so much. He didn't need companionship, he thought. He had everything he needed, he was built with everything he needed in mind at the tip of his fingers. No one else could afford to spend so much money on inserting fake memories into dreams every single night. But it didn't matter. His body was sore, and he was going to bed.
“You come here often, I-00?”
And there Immaculate was, in a simulated house party, leaning over a subconscious countertop. The dream was a period piece, dating back all the way to the late 20th century. For a moment, he could have forgotten who he really was: Designation I-00, a perfect replica, a product for saving the people of Solas City from themselves and their so-called martyrs. In a dream, he was an alternate version of himself, surrounded by people he could call friends and surrounded by old tech and colorful lights. Immaculate wondered if this was how real people lived their lives. The people down in the bottom levels of this city.
He thought he could forget the real world. Until the program decided to pop him of all people into the system.
He looked at Joseph. Or, at least, the dream's idea of how Joseph Luna, that goddamn “fuck you and fuck the money you stand on” rebel who must had had a target locked on in Immaculate's mind. Cigarette in mouth and cup in hand. Even in a fake world, he wanted to kill himself for real.
“Even in my dreams, you want to chase me down.”
“Aren't you the one in control of your own mind?”
“No.”
“All matter of fact, aren't you. Least you managed to be right for once. But don't you want to be?”
“You are not real.”
“Maybe I'm not. I'm just how you think of me.” He sat up on the couch, and twirled a kitchen knife in his hands. “Fuckin’ suave, killer, and always in your head.”
“And always with a death wish. I suggest you not drop that knife.”
“You like dreaming, sinner?”
Immaculate looked head on at him. He wasn't real, he had to remind himself. Just a guy, persistently in his head who he couldn't even escape with preprogrammed dream lives. “Yes. I do not see how that's relevant.”
“You like the sensation of sleep, don't you? The luxury of getting to rest.”
“Let me guess, you're going to call me a sinner once again for wanting to rest.”
“Fighting's a virtue, you can't give up on it.”
“I'll trade my virtue if I see morning light.”
“What are dreams, anyway?”
“Random neuron fires that your subconscious pieces together to build a narrative while you sleep. This is an artificial dream with controlled neuron signals. The system controls what is allowed in here. Which should not include you.”
“What kind of dream is this?”
“A companionship-tagged dream. Designed specifically to amplify feelings of belonging and closeness.”
“What, I-00, you lonely or something?”
“Why do you ask me so many questions.”
“Ask yourself, I'm all in your mind, remember?”
“...I don't consider myself lonely.”
“Are the rest of these people your friends?”
Immaculate looked around. He would admit, outside of Joseph, he didn't recognize any of these faces. Maybe he'd seen them around at HQ, and a few reminded him of models on advertisements, but if you asked him, he wouldn't be able to put a name to the face.
“Am I the closest to you, sinner?” Joseph-no, the mental, subconscious construct of Joseph, smiled. “Looks like what they say is true. Keep your enemies closer.”
Immaculate had never had a dream of his own, and he figured himself lucky for that. He didn't know what his subconscious would make up, or if it was even developed enough to make a dream outside of a hot flash of light or two. Abnormally underdeveloped social intelligence, the algorithm said about him when he got sent to this city, but who needed social intelligence for what he did? All he needed to do was look pretty and shoot straight. And he was damn good at that.
All his dreams, from the moment he was made, were pre-programmed chemical injections for fun and learning. At least now, he had a bit more of a choice in what his dreams were about. He never liked the randomly inserted dreams that were just mere simulations of his original's life as reimagined by the company. If he wanted to see that, he'd just watch the movies out in theaters. Most of the time, the dreams were just generic fake memories, meant to satisfy wants that he knew he'd never be able to have until he retired. And he doubted they'd ever let him retire.
His favorite dreams were the ones with the -companionship- tag. They usually inserted him in faux gatherings with faces either programmed or stolen from his memory, and tricked his mind into thinking he'd known them forever. Faces that meant nothing were turned into family members, childhood friends, ride or die companions. He'd buy a bunch, and run them over and over again, inducing sleep just to have the chance to experience them.
They would get transmitted into his brain. Radio frequencies burnt right into his head. And he'd feel the warm embrace the whole way through.
He didn't really know why he enjoyed them so much. He didn't need companionship, he thought. He had everything he needed, he was built with everything he needed in mind at the tip of his fingers. No one else could afford to spend so much money on inserting fake memories into dreams every single night. But it didn't matter. His body was sore, and he was going to bed.
“You come here often, I-00?”
And there Immaculate was, in a simulated house party, leaning over a subconscious countertop. The dream was a period piece, dating back all the way to the late 20th century. For a moment, he could have forgotten who he really was: Designation I-00, a perfect replica, a product for saving the people of Solas City from themselves and their so-called martyrs. In a dream, he was an alternate version of himself, surrounded by people he could call friends and surrounded by old tech and colorful lights. Immaculate wondered if this was how real people lived their lives. The people down in the bottom levels of this city.
He thought he could forget the real world. Until the program decided to pop him of all people into the system.
He looked at Joseph. Or, at least, the dream's idea of how Joseph Luna, that goddamn “fuck you and fuck the money you stand on” rebel who must had had a target locked on in Immaculate's mind. Cigarette in mouth and cup in hand. Even in a fake world, he wanted to kill himself for real.
“Even in my dreams, you want to chase me down.”
“Aren't you the one in control of your own mind?”
“No.”
“All matter of fact, aren't you. Least you managed to be right for once. But don't you want to be?”
“You are not real.”
“Maybe I'm not. I'm just how you think of me.” He sat up on the couch, and twirled a kitchen knife in his hands. “Fuckin’ suave, killer, and always in your head.”
“And always with a death wish. I suggest you not drop that knife.”
“You like dreaming, sinner?”
Immaculate looked head on at him. He wasn't real, he had to remind himself. Just a guy, persistently in his head who he couldn't even escape with preprogrammed dream lives. “Yes. I do not see how that's relevant.”
“You like the sensation of sleep, don't you? The luxury of getting to rest.”
“Let me guess, you're going to call me a sinner once again for wanting to rest.”
“Fighting's a virtue, you can't give up on it.”
“I'll trade my virtue if I see morning light.”
“What are dreams, anyway?”
“Random neuron fires that your subconscious pieces together to build a narrative while you sleep. This is an artificial dream with controlled neuron signals. The system controls what is allowed in here. Which should not include you.”
“What kind of dream is this?”
“A companionship-tagged dream. Designed specifically to amplify feelings of belonging and closeness.”
“What, I-00, you lonely or something?”
“Why do you ask me so many questions.”
“Ask yourself, I'm all in your mind, remember?”
“...I don't consider myself lonely.”
“Are the rest of these people your friends?”
Immaculate looked around. He would admit, outside of Joseph, he didn't recognize any of these faces. Maybe he'd seen them around at HQ, and a few reminded him of models on advertisements, but if you asked him, he wouldn't be able to put a name to the face.
“Am I the closest to you, sinner?” Joseph-no, the mental, subconscious construct of Joseph, smiled. “Looks like what they say is true. Keep your enemies closer.”
find me.
And there he was, face down in a puddle of rain and blood in Solas City. Joseph's mouth tasted like iron, his eye was swelling, and his whole body had that signature dull pain of “having fell from great heights” throbbing across it.
The rain wasn't doing much to sooth the pain. It was warm, almost hot, as it fell on his body. His rifle laid just out of reach. If he could just push himself off the concrete, pull himself towards his weapon, keep going, he could put up a last stand. Not that you need to, not that it helps, Joseph thought to himself. It was a strange phenomena: when he crossed paths with that I-00 boy, a straight shot from either of them became curved by the hands of fate, just barely missing.
He couldn't put a pin on why that was. He'd at least tried to disconnect the visuals of that sinner, I-00 versus the dead man he was molded from. But for all he did to ascend from his mortality, Joseph Luna was still human, with all the sentimentality that came with it. Of course he wouldn't be able to fire at an old friend, someone he loved like a brother, even if he could look in I-00's eyes and know instantly that this wasn't the Immaculate Aqal he watched bleed out on the jungle floor.
There was something different about those eyes, something that couldn't get Joseph to look away. They were a smokescreen that he couldn't help but look into, just for the chance to see what was underneath. That was what you had to do to a target, of course, but the desire to search never left his head, no matter how much he tried. If Joseph could just figure out the details behind I-00's little glares, or how his hands trembled when he aimed, or how he tries and fails to hide his amusement with every one-liner dropped, or how he aimed his blaster right at Joseph's head, just as he was doing now.
Fuck.
“You think you've got the upper hand, sinner?”
“I am quite objectively, and literally, standing above you right now.” I-00's foot dug right into Joseph's back as he clawed at his rifle. It was just within arm's range, if he could just reach a little further-
“Then shoot, I-00.”
“What.”
“It's called a dare, sinner. You've got the upper hand, and the finger on the trigger. So why don't you shoot?”
“You really would like to die.”
“I like calling your bluff.”
“I do not bluff. Whatever that means.”
“A card game term, sinner. When you play, you pretend you're more powerful. That the house gave you incredible ammo, and that you're willing to unload it on everyone that goes against you, when in reality, you've got nothing more than a single bullet in the revolver. So you lie about your hand, to hide the fact that you aren't as lucky you say you are. The perfect mask against an opponent.”
“So you are calling me a liar.”
“You do it all the time, don't you? Said it yourself, that's just your job. You're a master bluff by design.”
Joseph could feel the click of the blaster as he managed to grab the barrel of his dropped rifle. He could feel I-00 raising it, and the little spark of emotion rising in his voice as he muttered, “…I would never lie to you, Luna. No point in lying to a dead man.”
Grab the rifle. Swing it over. Joseph knocked I-00 out of the way, and pointed his rifle at the man. He still felt too much like shit to pick himself up, but at least he wasn't defenseless this time. The two of them stood in a stalemate, as Joseph smiled. A real, genuine smile, one that never failed to appear when he saw I-00 in his scope. “You got it right that I'm a dead man, I-00. You just misjudged my deadline.”
“They already have one in mind for you.” That mention of “they”, of the company that sent itself from across the sea and fucked over everything Joseph had ever known in his life. He had to remind himself that no matter how much of a thrill this chase was, the two of them still had one mission each. To kill the other. To make an example of the both of them.
No matter how human the face across from him looked, with his bloodied face and split lip that framed a face both so familiar and so distant, Joseph knew this wasn't someone he could let in. This was a product, designed to drill into his soul and split it apart into every little fragment that could exist of it.
And the worst part, it worked. Because the sight of I-00 triggered a pain in Joseph's chest, one of the few pains that grew worse the longer you wait from the wound.
“You will not shoot.”
“And what makes you think that, sinner?”
“You cannot have a chase with one man.”
“Is that your way of saying you're gonna back down, huh? Back down from shoving that barrel down my throat?”
“Is that your confession?”
“…Maybe it is.”
I-00 looked down, and lowered his blaster. He put it on his side, exchanging it for one of those mass produced, all-in-one cyberknives.
“I knew it. You bluffed. You would never shoot for my heart.” Joseph's smug remark was interrupted by a sharp blade shooting right past his head, nicking his ear.
As the warm blood flowed down his face, I-00 turned away. “Don't speak too soon.” His shoes clicked on the concrete as Joseph grabbed the glowing blade. White text flickered across the hilt. Registered specifically to a “Designation I-00”, with all the information and coordinates associated with its owner. “Maybe this will make the next time we cross paths come faster.”
“You're not exactly a hard man to find. Your face is all over this dammed city.”
“Goodbye, Luna.”
And there Joseph was, left alone, left on the pavement, left on the ground of a city of lights, left to fight in a city of vice, left behind in a city of “progress”.
The rain wasn't doing much to sooth the pain. It was warm, almost hot, as it fell on his body. His rifle laid just out of reach. If he could just push himself off the concrete, pull himself towards his weapon, keep going, he could put up a last stand. Not that you need to, not that it helps, Joseph thought to himself. It was a strange phenomena: when he crossed paths with that I-00 boy, a straight shot from either of them became curved by the hands of fate, just barely missing.
He couldn't put a pin on why that was. He'd at least tried to disconnect the visuals of that sinner, I-00 versus the dead man he was molded from. But for all he did to ascend from his mortality, Joseph Luna was still human, with all the sentimentality that came with it. Of course he wouldn't be able to fire at an old friend, someone he loved like a brother, even if he could look in I-00's eyes and know instantly that this wasn't the Immaculate Aqal he watched bleed out on the jungle floor.
There was something different about those eyes, something that couldn't get Joseph to look away. They were a smokescreen that he couldn't help but look into, just for the chance to see what was underneath. That was what you had to do to a target, of course, but the desire to search never left his head, no matter how much he tried. If Joseph could just figure out the details behind I-00's little glares, or how his hands trembled when he aimed, or how he tries and fails to hide his amusement with every one-liner dropped, or how he aimed his blaster right at Joseph's head, just as he was doing now.
Fuck.
“You think you've got the upper hand, sinner?”
“I am quite objectively, and literally, standing above you right now.” I-00's foot dug right into Joseph's back as he clawed at his rifle. It was just within arm's range, if he could just reach a little further-
“Then shoot, I-00.”
“What.”
“It's called a dare, sinner. You've got the upper hand, and the finger on the trigger. So why don't you shoot?”
“You really would like to die.”
“I like calling your bluff.”
“I do not bluff. Whatever that means.”
“A card game term, sinner. When you play, you pretend you're more powerful. That the house gave you incredible ammo, and that you're willing to unload it on everyone that goes against you, when in reality, you've got nothing more than a single bullet in the revolver. So you lie about your hand, to hide the fact that you aren't as lucky you say you are. The perfect mask against an opponent.”
“So you are calling me a liar.”
“You do it all the time, don't you? Said it yourself, that's just your job. You're a master bluff by design.”
Joseph could feel the click of the blaster as he managed to grab the barrel of his dropped rifle. He could feel I-00 raising it, and the little spark of emotion rising in his voice as he muttered, “…I would never lie to you, Luna. No point in lying to a dead man.”
Grab the rifle. Swing it over. Joseph knocked I-00 out of the way, and pointed his rifle at the man. He still felt too much like shit to pick himself up, but at least he wasn't defenseless this time. The two of them stood in a stalemate, as Joseph smiled. A real, genuine smile, one that never failed to appear when he saw I-00 in his scope. “You got it right that I'm a dead man, I-00. You just misjudged my deadline.”
“They already have one in mind for you.” That mention of “they”, of the company that sent itself from across the sea and fucked over everything Joseph had ever known in his life. He had to remind himself that no matter how much of a thrill this chase was, the two of them still had one mission each. To kill the other. To make an example of the both of them.
No matter how human the face across from him looked, with his bloodied face and split lip that framed a face both so familiar and so distant, Joseph knew this wasn't someone he could let in. This was a product, designed to drill into his soul and split it apart into every little fragment that could exist of it.
And the worst part, it worked. Because the sight of I-00 triggered a pain in Joseph's chest, one of the few pains that grew worse the longer you wait from the wound.
“You will not shoot.”
“And what makes you think that, sinner?”
“You cannot have a chase with one man.”
“Is that your way of saying you're gonna back down, huh? Back down from shoving that barrel down my throat?”
“Is that your confession?”
“…Maybe it is.”
I-00 looked down, and lowered his blaster. He put it on his side, exchanging it for one of those mass produced, all-in-one cyberknives.
“I knew it. You bluffed. You would never shoot for my heart.” Joseph's smug remark was interrupted by a sharp blade shooting right past his head, nicking his ear.
As the warm blood flowed down his face, I-00 turned away. “Don't speak too soon.” His shoes clicked on the concrete as Joseph grabbed the glowing blade. White text flickered across the hilt. Registered specifically to a “Designation I-00”, with all the information and coordinates associated with its owner. “Maybe this will make the next time we cross paths come faster.”
“You're not exactly a hard man to find. Your face is all over this dammed city.”
“Goodbye, Luna.”
And there Joseph was, left alone, left on the pavement, left on the ground of a city of lights, left to fight in a city of vice, left behind in a city of “progress”.