More actions
By Oracle9
In the second installment of the Prophet series, Temilo must choose between the clan that raised him or the corporation which gave him his powers.
EPISODE ONE
(Lap dog.)
Prophet pulled the cap off of the syringe and jabbed it into his thigh. A dull pain bounced around his leg as he pushed down on the plunger. What he couldn’t see, outside of his window, was the Lancastrian snow falling on a dead forest. Still and lifeless.
In the mornings, Prophet would prepare breakfast, oatmeal and sliced banana. He would do yoga for an hour or so, listening over his breathing for the sound of approaching footsteps. After, the hunt would begin. Prophet would wrap himself in a wool coat and take out a hunting rifle, wandering the thirty mile radius around his log cabin until his hands went numb. Chasing deer across ridges and valleys covered in snow. They rarely made any noise at all besides an occasional mewing, though their heartbeats were slow and meandering. They would be hunched over feeding on grass in a clearing, the soft sound of their chewing filling Prophet’s ears. Prophet would unsling his rifle. The bolt would go up, back, forward, down. The shot would ring out, deafening like a strike from the most powerful whip. Prophet would hear the animals of the forest skitter away as he walked up to the body, picking it up and slinging it across his shoulders to take home. Gutting and skinning the deer would not be pretty. Prophet’s only table would be caked with blood, but it was safer than going into town. In the evening, he would do his injections, bringing his loaded rifle to bed with him. At night, he would dream.
—
“These will last you about seven months. Enough time to taper off.”
The councilmember placed a suitcase in Prophet’s lap. She had long, dark bangs that shaped her face like a portrait.
“Taper off?” Prophet asked. He opened the suitcase and felt the dozen or so plastic syringes inside with his fingertips. “I thought we could continue the muscle treatments?”
“That’s called ‘having your cake and eating it too.’ It’s not possible,” she said. “I’d have to smuggle these syringes out to you for the rest of your life, and I’d probably get caught doing it.”
Prophet closed the suitcase.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asked.
—
In the months after The Cult was dismantled, Prophet was promoted to senior security officer for the HR family. He told the guards where to go and where to stand. He sat in on every security briefing. He attended every diplomatic meeting, international conference, and potluck. Behind HR at every single one of his speeches was the man with blank eyes, listening intently. He ranked higher than even Kaine now. Bits of memory came back to him every once in a while, stopping him in his tracks. A sharp pain in his chest. Water rushing over his body. Those events felt like it happened to someone else, a different person entirely. Presently, Prophet was at a dinner party, doing rounds between the four entrances to the ballroom.
“Prophet, sir.” Each guard nodded as he passed by.
Outside, people were walking the streets with briefcases and backpacks. Prophet could hear the percussion of coins in a cup being shaken up and down. All of this was underneath the slow, swinging jazz music echoing throughout the ballroom.
“Temilo.”
Prophet turned his head. The smell of expensive perfume.
“Sorry, I-... It’s Izel.”
Prophet knew her as the newest member of the Shogunate council. She was appointed to fill the gap left after Junji’s arrest. One of the few members who wasn’t from Japan, who was actually from Novenae.
“May I have this dance?”
“I’m on duty, ma’am. I can’t leave my post.” Prophet said.
“That wasn’t a request. I’ve had someone take over the rest of your shift for you.”
Prophet hazarded a grin. “I’m afraid I don’t know how to dance.”
By his ear, he heard “Let me teach you.” Izel led him to the center of the floor, under the light of the chandelier. She bumped into the backs of tuxedos and sparkling dresses. “Sorry, excuse me.” Izel guided one of Prophet’s hands to her waist and raised the other out in front of them as the band began to play a waltz.
“Go forward like this,” Izel said. “Then to the side with your other leg.”
Prophet did so.
“Now do the opposite.”
Prophet was getting better at reading other people’s heartbeats. It was nebulous, not like listening to music, but you could tell when someone was sad or angry or excited or terrified. It was in the way their heart lurched forward or their breaths came in quick staccato succession. In Izel, Prophet could feel a little bit of trepidation. She pressed herself against his chest and her heartbeat filled his ears. In stereo.
“Te pedirán matar a la patrona,” Izel whispered carefully.
They spun round and round, between politician and millionaire couples locked each in their own box step. Prophet stuttered out a “What?”
“The Shogunate. They’re going to ask you to kill la patrona. You’ll get the mission details tomorrow.”
One, two, three. They turned and did it all over again.
“Why me?” Prophet asked.
“Because I recommended you.”
Prophet’s fingers tightened around her hand. “Who are you?”
“I’m giving you the choice. You deserve to choose. It’s your mother.”
Prophet let go and stepped back.
“Encuentrame. Mañana.”
The smell of perfume faded and the music slowed to a stop. Prophet stood there alone, as the ballroom burst into applause.
—
In the morning, Prophet received the call. He arrived at Foundation headquarters downtown, an impossibly tall plexiglass building located just at the Novenae border. People stared as he walked through rows of cubicles, men in suits sitting up in their chairs to get even a brief glimpse. Even the place that made him what he was saw him as an anomaly. Two armed guards pulled a set of sliding doors apart for him and Prophet stepped in. The council room was on all sides paneled by wooden shoji. A lattice of oak planks cut through pictures of cherry blossoms and cranes and geishas painted all around the room. The doors slid shut behind him.
“Prophet,” Hidori waved from the other side of the room. A man was sitting next to him, and the rest of the Shogunate were spread out across the circumference of a conference table. “Come, sit.”
Prophet took a seat. “Sir. You wanted to see me?”
Hidori looked at the man. “If you’d like to introduce yourself.”
“I’m Mulder. I’m from Novenae Peacekeeping and Intelligence.”
The Peacekeepers were Novenae’s intelligence agency. Prophet had only met the Peacekeepers once, in the hospital after Naomi’s rescue. He found it near impossible to read their emotions- their heartbeats were always slow and steady with a calmness from years of training.
“We saw your work with the Cult. Well done.”
Prophet could feel the chains against his skin, the smell of human flesh. “Thank you, sir.”
“We’ve been able to reclaim much of the subsurface because of you. You taking out Seth was instrumental. Thanks for that.” Mulder spoke between heavy, frequent breaths. He cleared his throat. “Are you familiar with the Teresita clan?”
Prophet shuffled uncomfortably. “Somewhat.”
“They’re by far the largest clan in Novenae. No doubt you ran into some of them while infiltrating the Cult, maybe unknowingly.” The man slid a manila folder across the table and Prophet caught it, flipping it open and passing his fingertips along the braille. “They do drug trafficking, counterfeit, smuggling, the works.”
Prophet’s fingers passed over the words “LA PATRONA”.
“Their leader is who we’re interested in. We don’t know her real name, or if she’s even documented. Besides bribery, she’s not exactly appreciative of the government’s work. When Novenae declares independence this May and the feds vamoose, she may try to take control.”
“I see,” Prophet said.
“Listen, we want independence to go as smoothly as possible. She needs to be…” Mulder clicked his tongue twice.
“Arrested?” Prophet asked.
Mulder’s chuckle was filled with phlegm. “Do I need to spell it out for ya?”
“There won’t be a trial?”
“She’s got half the judges of Novenae in her pocket. Any trial just wouldn’t be real justice. She’s gotta go.”
Prophet pretended to think for a moment.
“Understood?”
Prophet closed the manila folder and put it back on the table. “I would just weigh you down. I don’t think I’m a good fit for this mission.” The room was silent for a minute and Prophet suddenly felt cognizant of the tattoos along his arms.
“Prophet,” Hidori said. “May I talk to you in private for a moment?”
Outside, the hallway was empty, but far in the distance you could hear keyboards clacking and papers being shuffled. Hidori’s brown eyes peered at Prophet from between his mask and the edge of his wide-brimmed hat. “What’s gotten into you?”
“I’ve never done investigative work. I’d be no help.”
“You seemed to find Domovoi alright, but I don’t think that’s the problem.”
Prophet said nothing.
“I’m worried the Shogunate will vote to use the repossession clause on you.”
Part of Prophet’s contract. They would take out the hearing aids implanted in his skull.
“You need to put your personal quandaries aside, just this once. When this is all over and done, I’ll have you right back on the security detail.”
Back in the council room, Prophet sat again at the table. Council members shuffled their papers and quieted.
“I’ll need a place to stay, and a fake ID. I’ll tell you when I’ve found her.”
“Great,” Mulder said. “It’s a deal.”
They shook hands and Mulder’s palms were ice cold.
—
The alarm on Izel’s phone jolted her awake and she reached a clumsy hand out to silence it. She peeled off layers of blankets and rubbed her eyes. It was Saturday and she was still hungover from last night. When she sat up in bed, she could see the faint silhouette of a man standing in the corner of her bedroom.
Izel screamed.
She reached for the pistol on her bedside table and aimed it. She pulled the trigger and the gun gave a few empty clicks.
“We need to talk,” Prophet said. He held the cartridge up for her to see.
“Ay, mierda,” Izel said. She was trembling and took three deep breaths. “It’s just you. What the hell are you doing in my apartment?”
Prophet began to pace around the room, putting his ear up against every cupboard and shelf. “Did she send you?”
“I have a secretary, you know. You could schedule an appointment. Can you stop looking through my stuff?”
“Making sure this room isn’t bugged.” Prophet opened a drawer, then closed it. When he was satisfied, he turned to face her. “If you’re an active clan member then I’m obligated to report you to Hidori. And the police.”
“You’re not exactly squeaky clean either.”
“Who sent you?”
“Nobody did. I can’t believe you almost chickened out. It’s your mother.”
“My mother will face the consequences of her actions. I wanted nothing to do with it.”
Izel shook her head. “I can’t believe she raised someone like you.” She saw the look on Prophet’s face. “Sorry, that was too far. My point still stands.”
“There’s a reason I left.” Prophet walked over and took the pistol out of Izel’s hand. He slid the cartridge in and handed it back to her. His eyes were eery in the darkened bedroom.
“So what will you do?” Izel asked.
“What I’ve been asked to do.”
—
Once Prophet and Agent Mulder had left, Hidori breathed a sigh of relief.
“I’d like to bring up another point of discussion,” a council member said.
Hidori pulled down his mask briefly to sip on a glass of water. “Are we really going to do this again?”
“Hidori,” a council member named Ebisu said. “Didn’t you see what happened today? He’s not going to be your lap dog forever. We need to make more.”
“Too risky. Too expensive. If HR gives us the money, I’ll gladly oblige but until then-”
“The money will come,” another council member said, “once we show them the possibilities. We have to keep pushing forward.”
Hidori sighed. “No. I will not collapse this company for a desperate cash grab. That’s final.”
—
After the begging and the pleading for his lawyer and the fervent apologizing, Junji had fallen ill. He would lay motionless on his cot for nearly the whole day, only moving to adjust himself before lying still again. He watched that same spot on the ceiling for months on end. When the prison doctors came, they lifted him up to find blackened bed sores spread out across his lower back. They shined a flashlight in his eyes, and snapped their fingers in his face, but Junji said nothing. Once they left, Junji was alone again. As if stumbling through a thick fog, Junji could almost see the outline of a young boy. His son. His beautiful son, with his short black hair that Junji loved to run his hands through. How was his asthma? Was he doing okay? Have they been able to pay the bills while he’s been gone? The fog swallowed everything up and a heaviness began to pacify him, his view of the prison ceiling dimming into nothing. My son, my son. I tried to save this company, how could you do this to me? My son, my son.
Junji felt strangely like a part of a whole, his memories being refracted and distorted across hundreds of collective minds. He could feel himself slipping away.
EPISODE TWO
(Bien hecho.)
On the way home from the hunt, walking down the usual trail, Prophet heard three loud bangs against the door of his cabin.
“Hello?” a voice shouted. They knocked again.
Prophet let the deer carcass over his shoulder fall into the snow. He got onto his belly, crawling over to a tree blackened with frost and listened.
“Is anybody home?” A woman shouted. Behind her was a heavyset man who seemed on edge. “Prophet?”
Prophet brought the bolt back on his rifle. He surmised that he would take out the man first, then use the treeline as cover to reload. With the snow gnawing at his chin, he started to crawl closer, keeping his body hidden behind trees and bramble. He would need to reach the edge of the twenty meter wide clearing around the cabin to get a clear shot. The voice kept calling in the distance.
“Prophet? Anyone?”
Prophet stopped. He recognized that voice. The woman did something peculiar- she leaned her forehead against the wooden door and began to whisper to herself.
“Temilo,” Izel said. “If you’re here, I know you can hear me. They captured Hidori.”
Prophet’s hearing aids adjusted, like a camera zooming in.
“They’re going to kill him. If not for Novenae, then come back for the man who gave you your gifts.”
Prophet breathed quietly. The heavyset man whispered into Izel’s ear, something about leaving before the blizzard, and they walked off until Prophet could no longer distinguish their footsteps from the ambience of the forest. He got up and entered his cabin. From under the bed, he pulled out an old rucksack with the letters “N.D.F” printed on the top flap and put it on. Through a trapdoor in the center of the room, he lowered himself down into the crawlspace where wooden beams criss-crossed over his head in the dark. Prophet felt around for the handle of a trunk buried up to its lid in the soil and opened it. The ambient temperature was cool all year round, good for storing an emergency surplus for if the hunt failed him. He figured this all out back when he still thought in the long-term, back when that still mattered to him.
Prophet took the contents of the trunk and began piling it into his rucksack. Brown bags of MREs, the heart, liver, and kidneys of countless deer. If they had found him this easily, he would need to go somewhere more remote. If only for a few weeks, long enough for them to think the cabin was abandoned and move on. There was a mountain, the tallest in the region, due Northwest of here. The hike was dangerous, which meant that nobody would follow. He lifted himself back onto the ground floor, taking a canteen and filling it up with every drop of his potable water. What he couldn’t see was the beard growing steadily around his face, and his long matted hair which hid the scars around his eyes. With the wind picking up, flinging ghostly trails of snow into the air, Prophet set out towards the shadow of the mountain in the horizon.
—
Prophet took the key out from under the welcome mat, the door scraping along its frame as he let himself in. His childhood home was empty. Prophet ran his hands across shelves which once held thousands of potted plants. The sofa, the chairs, only their outlines etched into the hardwood. Prophet lifted the floorboards in the center of the room, reaching for the iron safe which held the clan’s secrets only to grab air. He walked over to the corner of the room, where dad’s shrine once was, and the table was bare. Stripped of the flowers and Dad’s portrait. Prophet bit his lip. He stood and went down the hall, opening the door into his parent’s old bedroom. Throughout Prophet’s childhood, hundreds of illegal immigrants had stayed here evading the police. The mothers and fathers of all the clan’s current members. While they stayed, Prophet would help his mother craft fake ID cards, passports, and birth certificates on the family computer. They were often never good enough- a picture was a few pixels too far to the right, a line was in the wrong typeface, but sometimes he pulled it off. Sometimes he made the perfect document, and while waiting for it to print, he would look up at his mother and she would flatly say “bien hecho.”
Across the hall, Prophet stepped into his room. He could remember how bare it used to be- he had envied the people on TV whose bedrooms were lined with LED lights and posters. Mom always said it was a waste of money, that it would chip the paint. He dragged his hand over his bedside dresser, his fingertips picking up a small ivory cube. Rectangular, it was unmistakable. A mahjong tile. Later, in the city center, Prophet walked with his arms buried in the pockets of a hoodie. He stepped over bits of trash. Walk fast, keep your head down. If anyone talks to you, ignore them.
“Spare change. Spare change,” A woman begged, slumped against a granite column.
Mom had very few vices. She never did drugs, or drank alcohol.
A hand reached for Prophet’s wallet- Prophet stepped aside curtly and kept his pace.
But she gambled, she gambled often.
Prophet came upon a building squeezed between the skyscrapers, reminiscent of an ancient palace. He stepped past the oak pillars of the entrance into a thick smog of cigarette smoke and whiskey. Slot machines made melodic chimes as they spun, iterating through a million ways to lose all your money. Piles of plastic chips were slid across tables. The flashing lights painted themselves over Prophet’s eyes like an artist on a great blank canvas. But this was not the gambling Mom did, not the gambling where you watch your funds plummet on a digital screen. Prophet walked up to a smiling representative in neatly ironed clothing.
“Would you like to cash in?”
Prophet took out the tile and held it up so she could see. Her heart skipped a beat, but her voice remained cool.
“Go to the door at the very back. I’ll tell them that you’re coming,” she said quietly.
Prophet walked through two rows of patrons on both sides, each of them bathed in the hypnotic glow of the slot machines. Prophet could sense excitement, their hearts fluttering, holding their breaths in anticipation. The back wall of the casino was lined in windowless wood paneling, save for a small door guarded by two Clan members. A placard hung overhead reading “EMPLOYEES ONLY.”
One of the guards stopped Prophet. “She’s in the middle of something.”
“I’m her son,” Prophet said. “You gonna stop me?”
He stepped through into a wall of sound, a room filled to the brim with raucous yelling. People clambered around a pit partitioned in the center of the room stomping their feet and shaking their fists. Two roosters eyed each other from opposite ends of the pit with blood running down their coats. They lunged at each other, feathers flying, the cheering rising and falling. One of them was hurt now, a rooster with a jet black streak of feathers down its nape. It limped clumsily backwards and the other seized the opportunity. Last to sound out was a weak whimper as the rooster’s throat was slashed. Prophet could hear the blood squirting out with every heartbeat- an artery had been severed. A man grabbed both animals by the scruff and surveyed them, one dangling limp from his hand, and nodded into the crowd. The cheering rose to a crescendo.
“Temilo,” Prophet made out through the noise. One of his godbrothers turned around to greet him. “Hermano. ¿Qué haces aquí?”
“Where’s Mom?”
“Sigáme.”
They snaked through the crowd as a teenage boy came out sweeping feathers off the pit for the next fight. They walked up behind Mom and her two bodyguards and Prophet tapped her on the shoulder. Mom eyed him for a brief second.
“Ganaste peso.”
“We need to talk.”
“¿Qué?”
“Can we go somewhere private?”
“¿Cómo?”
“It’s important.”
Mom received a wad of cash, delivered by one of her godchildren, and stuffed it in the pocket of her leopard skin coat. “Ven conmigo.”
They stepped out of the coliseum into the hallways of the casino where the cheering was only a dull roar. The bodyguards watched from a distance.
“¿Viste eso? Ese gallo fue mío. Crecido en mi granja. Estás engordando mijo, deberías comer menos.”
“It’s muscle. That’s not important- people are coming to kill you.”
“Ya sé. Muchas quieren matarme. You know, deberías comer como los chinos. Ellos son saludables.”
“The government wants you dead now.”
“¿No les doy suficiente dinero ya?”
“They’re asking me to kill you.”
Mom went quiet. She raised an eyebrow.
“I’m giving you this one chance- leave the country as soon as you can. Go where they can’t find you.”
Mom thought briefly. “No.”
“What?”
She chuckled. “Y si yo salga, ¿a donde iría? Bonitaña es un cráter en el suelo.”
“I don’t care. You can’t stay here, it’s suicide.”
“No. Pasé años construyendo esta familia, prefiero morir que abandonarla.”
“You know what I’ll have to do.”
“Mátame entonces.” Mom’s heart rate got faster and faster. “¿Te enseñé a ser un cobarde?”
“No- you did this. You brought this upon yourself.”
“Verdad. Escogí esta vida y sus consecuencias. No necesitaba tu consejo.”
“I’m done with this,” Prophet said. He stormed off, out the back entrance of the casino and into a hot summer day. He squatted in the alleyway with his head cradled in his hands. Around him, bodies of roosters rotted away in plastic bags, piled up in dumpster after dumpster after dumpster.
—
“You’re going to have to choose eventually,” Izel said.
Fresh air poured in from the bay as they walked along the outside of the biodome. Within, the shadow of a great rain tree could be seen with its distended branches creeping up the glass.
“What does it matter to you?” Prophet asked.
“If you put it off,” she said, “the choice will be made for you. Then you’ll really be sorry.” She paused and looked up at Prophet. “Why do you hate her so much anyway?”
“I don’t know- forcing me into a criminal syndicate from a young age. Spying on me. Mocking me constantly. She practically disowned me when I left for the military.”
Izel leaned on a guardrail, her dark black hair hanging over the water of the bay. “She’s done a lot of good, Temilo. Bonitañans do well here because of her. Not everyone is so lucky. Maybe there’s something you’re missing.”
Prophet shook his head. “You don’t know anything.”
—
Under the eaves of the casino, by the front entrance, a van pulled up. The SWAT team crammed inside stared at Prophet as he listened for the sound of his mother’s voice. He nodded.
“Let’s move.”
EPISODE THREE
(Dispara.)
Prophet paused to catch his breath. Every step cramped the muscles in his foot, trying to keep balance while scaling the rolling hills. This was only the base of the mountain, it would get much harder from here. As he pressed forward he could hear the animals of the forest, their tiny heartbeats, watching him silently. They’d slink away as he came close and watch him from their nest or burrow or tree branch. Prophet envied them. Their lives were so uncomplicated- only preoccupied with the fight for survival, nothing more. He hiked up to a clearing where a rocky path devoid of trees rose up before him at a nearly 45 degree angle. Clouds of frost came from his mouth and nose. If he could still see, and there was no fog, maybe he would marvel at the valley splayed out around him. Maybe he would see his own log cabin, now a tiny speck in a sea of white snow. Maybe-
Prophet stopped. He hadn’t noticed a faint crackling noise… behind him? As he turned to pinpoint the source, his backpack ripped. Prophet reached his hands out but it was too late. Pale deer organs and MREs fell, tumbling down the mountainside made slick with snow. Dreadfully distinct until they tumbled beyond sight or sound. A flock of birds flew away as Prophet swore. Some rations had come to rest nearby and Prophet stooped down, picking them up one by one out of the snow. He stuffed as many as he could into the pockets of his deerskin coat. Just before sunset he found a flat clearing and scattered his things on the ground, panting as his sore legs were massaged by the cold. A few feet away, a squirrel peered at him from behind the base of a tree. Maybe the animals had been laughing at him, at how feeble and pathetic he was.
Prophet grabbed the bowie knife in his pocket and hurled it. It barely missed- the squirrel scurrying out of sight. Prophet was too sore to make chase. He watched his knife settle in the snow.
—
“Two on each side of this door. The one behind the counter is armed,” Prophet said.
The SWAT officers all nodded. The team was stacked up on the front door, led by an officer holding a metal shield. The door was opened and a stun grenade was tossed into the vestibule which exploded with a deep heavy slam. The officers moved in.
“POLICE! PUT YOUR HANDS UP!”
The officers screamed into the room now filled with smoke. A silhouette reached for something at its waist. Prophet raised his weapon instantly and peppered the shape with bullets and the officers watched the silhouette stumble backwards and fall over onto the red carpet floor. A second clan member emerged from around a corner, laying three shots into the lead officer’s riot shield. Prophet spun around and fired with the bullet passing through the drywall and into the clan member’s temple. The woman behind the counter was nowhere to be seen.
“Down. This room is clear,” Prophet said as he reloaded. The officers nodded. They proceeded into the main chamber where the slot machines were lined up like shelves in a grocery store. Guests playing poker or blackjack or mahjong in expensive white suits looked around in terror. Broken out of their trance. Cigars and glasses of drink fell to the floor as they put their hands up. Prophet could hear a platoon of clan members emerging from the back room, from the stadium, tuxedos covering their armored vests. He could hear their terrified heartbeats.
A cacophony of gunfire broke out. The officer with the riot shield took point and they moved up in a line, bullets cracking digital screens and roulette wheels. One clan member went down, then two, then three. Halfway down the room, Prophet swore he could hear another pair of footsteps.
“Behind us,” Prophet screamed. “Behind!”
Prophet leaped to the side, taking cover as the officers’ backs were pumped with lead. They fell, leaving Prophet alone in an eerie silence. He sidled around a column as two clan members scanned the room.
“El otro,” they said. “¿Dónde fue el otro?”
Prophet took off his shoes leaving just his socks. He ducked from cover to cover quietly. He crouched under a blackjack table and peered over, aiming at them from the opposite side of the room. Just like the firing range, when he was a kid. He could feel Mom’s hands on top of his own, guiding the pistol towards its target, her chin resting on top of his head.
“Firme,” Mom whispered.
His skinny arms made the pistol look massive. He was only seven years old. She pushed the gun slightly to the side and Prophet saw the sights align with the red bullseye painted across from them.
“Dispara.”
As the clan members turned, Prophet laid four shots into each of them. Blood erupted from their tuxedos and they fell over. The magazine in Prophet’s pistol clattered to the ground and he put in a fresh one. Panting heavily, he found his shoes and put them back on, stepping through the door which was labeled “EMPLOYEES ONLY”. The casino speakers turned on and deafening rock music began to play. Prophet’s hearing aids quieted everything to prevent his hearing from being damaged. He cleared every corner with just the music throbbing in his chest. One, perhaps hiding around this corner? The music made things fuzzy. Two shots in the center of their forehead and this clan member was dead, sliding down the wall covered in their own blood. One behind him? Prophet turned around and fired into nothing but drywall. He was starting to get disoriented. He fired into the ceiling and the music cessated abruptly and he calmly put a fresh magazine into his pistol.
Patrona had plenty of time to escape by now, but she was never the type to run from a fight. As Prophet turned a corner he heard a familiar inhale. He quickly pulled back as a hailstorm of bullets whizzed past his shoulder.
“MUÉSTRESE, COBARDE,” Mom screamed. She fed a new magazine into her Uzi.
Prophet doubled back into a room filled with stacks of papers and filing cabinets. Probably the casino’s records- kept in paper form so they could be burned at a moment’s notice. He hid behind a filing cabinet in the dark.
“Sé que estás allí,” Mom said.
Prophet could see Mom’s dress shoes from the gap between the bedsheets and the floor. They approached him and Mom peered under the bed.
“Dejame verlo.”
Prophet crawled out with tears in his eyes. He showed his mother the scab on his knee. The blood was fresh and bright red. Mom took out a cotton ball wet with rubbing alcohol and pressed it into the wound and Prophet started to cry again as the pain set in.
“You will be fine,” Mom said.
The lights flicked on. Prophet aimed and fired, knocking the Uzi out of Mom’s hand. Papers fluttered to the ground. Her footsteps ran back down the hall and into the arena and Prophet pursued. The pit in the center was empty save for the stains of dried blood. The music began playing on the intercom again- this time, cutting in and out between static. Prophet caught brief flashes of his mother running through the stands. He fired, his bullets just missing and denting the plastic chairs. The audio over the intercom blared the sound of footsteps running every which way. Unsure, Prophet creeped forward slowly with his pistol close against his chest. A fist connected with his cheek and he stumbled backwards, a hand clawing his pistol out of his grasp. They scuffled and Prophet kneed his mother in the chest making a flat impact that echoed through the stadium. As Mom caught her breath, Prophet stood over her, pointing the gun at her face.
“Lo sabía,” Mom croaked out. “Usas el sonido para navegar.”
“Shut up,” Prophet said. His hands were trembling.
“Hágalo,” Mom said. “Dispara.”
Prophet hesitated.
“Pull the trigger,” Mom said. She reached out and guided the barrel until it pressed right against her head. “Pull it.”
Prophet held his breath.
“Pull it.”
Prophet pulled away. He massaged his temples, sighing. Pacing around the arena.
“Why? Why won’t you just leave?” Prophet asked.
Mom got up and dusted herself off. She scoffed.
“Why are you so stubborn?”
“La policia va a preguntar,” she said. She fished out a pistol tucked away in her sock. “Es mejor que vayas conmigo.”
Prophet exhaled. He could hear more police cars pulling up outside, surrounding the building.
“¿Me acompañas o no?”
“Where do we go?”
“Sígame.”
She led them to a side room filled with shelves. “Empuja,” she gestured to a large bookcase in the corner and Prophet pushed it aside to reveal a ladder. They climbed down into an underground parking garage where a single vehicle waited for them. “Esta conecta al área de carga,” she said. “¿Tu madre es inteligente, no?” and a smile. Prophet wasn’t sure if he could trust her, but it was too late now. He got in the car and they sped off.
—
Hidori walked in to find the rest of the Shogunate already at their seats.
“Did I miss a memo?” he asked.
“We arranged to meet without you,” a councilmember said.
“Who chaired the meeting?”
“I did,” Ebisu said. She put a grainy photograph up on the TV screen at the end of the table. “Your lap dog ran away.”
On the TV, Prophet was sitting in the passenger seat of a car.
“With the target.”
He sat next to an elderly woman, who was driving. Hidori couldn’t believe it. He would throw all of it away, just for some crime boss?
“We’ve unanimously passed the supersoldier initiative. Several candidates have been located and will be fitted with implants within the week.”
“What?” Hidori asked.
“We have also invoked the reposession clause on Temilo Cuaxiloa. Our agents will begin looking for him, and la patrona, at once. At least now we have positive identification.”
Hidori scowled. “You should have told me. I should have been there.”
“With all due respect Mr. Tojo,” another councilmember said. “We are not letting you kill this company. We have so much potential and you’re smothering it, trying to play it safe. You’re outvoted nine to one.”
Hidori looked into each of their eyes. “Keep your damn supersoldiers then,” he huffed. “This meeting is over.” He walked out into the hallway and into the elevator, pressing the button for the archives floor. He took off his tie. Who was Temilo, really?
—
“Lights out.”
A buzzer sounded and the prison went dark. The rows and rows of cells went quiet save for the occasional cough or sneeze. Inmates laid in their beds waiting for sleep.
“Does he ever get out of that bed?”
Two prison guards peered through a cell door’s window, watching the shadow of a man sleeping in the dark.
“Doctors can’t figure out what’s wrong with him,” the other guard said.
The first guard took out a flashlight and began flickering it on and off through the glass window. “Wakey, wakey,” he chuckled as the crown of Junji’s unkempt hair was briefly illuminated. On and off. The cot was suddenly empty.
“What the hell?” the second guard said. They drew their pistols as the first guard scrambled for his keys, unlocking the door. The cell was in perfect condition. Except for a few darkened splotches soaked into the bedsheets, it was like nobody had been there at all.
“Did he escape?” the first guard asked. Junji stood behind them. One side of his face looked like it was about to burst. He grabbed both of their throats and crushed them between his fingers.
EPISODE FOUR
(Your real family.)
The next few weeks were a blur.
It was too cold for yoga, too cold for anything, so Prophet would begin the hunt as soon as he woke up. He would hike through steep, unfamiliar forests for miles to come up with nothing. No deer, no elk, no moose. His rations dwindled, Prophet’s pack getting lighter as the days dragged on. He began hunting well into the night. Stumbling through cobalt valleys under a dimming sky with the snow up to his knees. Mom wouldn’t have done this, he couldn’t help but think. In her endless paranoia, she would have had everything planned out. They would be sitting by the fire, eating rations, biding time. Prophet pushed those thoughts to the back of his mind. He heard a hoof settle in the snow. Maybe a hundred meters out. A deer.
Prophet started walking downwind, keeping a quick pace but careful not to make too much noise. From tree to tree, the deer’s image formed in a landscape of sound. It was fairly small, maybe a juvenile. Gnawing on a bush next to a spruce tree. It was so cold, Prophet could barely feel his hands. he brought the rifle up. The deer raised its head, as if it were about to leave and Prophet didn’t hesitate. He fired.
The bullet ricocheted off of the tree, spitting bark in the deer’s face. It ran off.
Prophet’s breath quivered. He grabbed his rifle and smashed it against a nearby log, denting it. Mom wouldn’t have missed. He brought it down again and the gun snapped like a twig. The other half of the barrel went flying off into the frost. Mom wouldn’t have even put herself in this situation. She would always be somewhere comfortable, relaxing while Prophet rotted in his own mistakes. Always with some advice to give.
Prophet kneeled in the empty forest.
A little bit of advice would be good right now.
—
Hidori’s eyes burned so he took off his glasses and rubbed them until stars formed in his vision. On his computer were twenty or so open tabs, most of them pieces of paper photocopied onto government databases. They painted a picture of a young boy from eastern Novenae, graduating from high school at near the bottom of his class, enlisting in the Novenae Defense Force, being gravely injured on a recon mission at the border. The Foundation had picked Temilo’s name randomly out of a handful of people who’d been blinded during the war, and entered him into the program. There wasn’t any information from before high school, but the Foundation hadn’t looked. They had assumed it wasn’t important. Hidori switched over to a tab with a picture of Prophet’s graduating class. Out of the hundreds of students, Hidori picked out Prophet’s face. Prophet looked softer, less burdened, but he wasn’t smiling. There was a knock on the door to Hidori’s office.
“Come on in.”
Izel walked into Hidori’s office with trepidation. “Hey.”
Hidori looked disappointed. “The council send you?”
Izel sat at the chair in front of Hidori’s desk. “No. Just making sure you’re okay.”
Hidori turned back to his computer.
“It’s heartless, the way they went over you like that. I asked them to wait for you. I don’t know what’s gotten into them lately.”
Hidori rested his chin on the palm of his hand.
Izel looked over at the envelopes stacked up on his desk. “What’s all this?”
“I just don’t get it.”
“Get what?”
Hidori turned his laptop around to face Izel. “Temilo’s from Kiuh Saang, Teresita’s home district. He joined the army right after high school, a week after he graduated. A lot of people do, especially people with grades as poor as his, but maybe he was running away. He must have gotten involved with Teresita somehow. Still, I’m just not sure why he would go back after all these years.”
Izel looked at the screen, and then back at Hidori. “Why are you doing all this? He went AWOL… at this point, it doesn’t matter why.”
“Temilo is my friend. Am I supposed to believe that he would just throw everything away? After all he did for Naomi? There has to be a good reason.” Hidori sunk back into his chair. “If only I could talk to him, just ask him myself.”
Izel paused for a moment. The only light in the room was from Hidori’s desk lamp. She could see the shadow of some framed photos, cleaning supplies stacked on the shelf behind Hidori. Without Prophet, and without the clan, she felt truly alone. She wondered if this would be the mistake that costs her everything.
“Hidori?”
The businessman perked up.
“There’s something you should know about Temilo and I.”
—
Prophet awoke in the heat of the morning sun. The bedsprings creaked as he sat up. The room he was in was small and bare with just the bedside table next to him where his pistol was placed by an ornate lamp. The window was open and the sounds of the city were notably absent. Just the birds chirping and the odd car passing by. He remembered driving for a long while last night. He remembered his mother, once she was satisfied that they were not being followed, driving into a village deep in the forest bisected by a rough gravel path. Prophet had heard families sleeping soundly in their bedrooms. The streets were narrow and split by crevices that snaked every which way. They pulled up to a squat home surrounded by a low wall. That was all Prophet remembered. He listened through the floorboards and heard water being poured onto soil, along with a familiar humming.
“Ayudame,” Mom commanded as Prophet reached the bottom of the stairs. She was halfway through watering shelves upon shelves of potted plants. “Then we can have some breakfast.”
Prophet grabbed another watering can from the kitchen and filled it up in the sink and did so. The events of the previous night began to dawn on him.
“That was foolish, what you did,” Mom said. “You should have at least finished the job. Now, we’re both in trouble.”
“You wanted me to kill you?” Prophet asked.
“I wanted you to pick a side.”
“I did.”
“It was too late.” Mom took a philodendron’s leaf in the palm of her hand. She looked at the wrinkles along its carapace. She muttered, “I need to water this one more often.”
Prophet tipped the watering can over a spider plant. “We could go to Rockfield. Maybe some of our cousins survived. Our real family.”
“Tu familia real fue en el casino.”
“What’s your bright idea, then?” Prophet snapped. “What do you want to do?”
Prophet’s mother thought for a moment. “You have to kill me.”
“What?”
“That’s what your friends want, right? If you bring them my dead body, they will forgive you.”
“Is this another mind game? Another loyalty test? Aren’t you sick of testing me, your own flesh and blood, to see if I’m good enough?”
“I’m teaching you, hijo.”
“I don’t need teaching.”
“You do if you want to survive.” Prophet’s mother put the watering can away and stepped into the kitchen. She took some scrambled eggs and bacon off of the stovetop onto two plates, and began to set the dining table. “Nobody will help you now except me, Temilo. You need to learn to make the difficult choices. Until then, we will stay here.”
Prophet said nothing. He took a seat and they ate breakfast in total silence.
—
Ebisu sighed as she entered the foyer of her home. She pried off her shoes, and changed out her office clothes for sweatpants and a T-shirt.
Yuppies don’t understand that their business isn’t the sum of its products or its achievements, or its glass headquarters in the trendy part of town.
Ebisu fumbled with her phone and, after a moment, classical began to play out of the speakers in the corners of her living room.
Their business is a number. The money coming in and the money going out. All that matters is keeping that number positive.
She walked over to the kitchen, her figure blurred in the stainless steel of the appliances, and she got out the cutting board and a knife and some carrots. She laid it all out on the granite counter and began to slice away. Unlike most accountants, Ebisu wasn’t satisfied with just keeping the books balanced. She saw how big the numbers *could* be, what would make them big enough that they’d never have to worry about money again. It infuriated her, watching people overrule her to play it safe, keeping the revenue pathetically small. If they could only see what she saw. Ebisu looked up. There was a figure standing in the hall at the kitchen entrance. She dropped the knife, covering her mouth, stumbling back.
“Oh my god… Junji?”
The music coming out of the speaker soared and dipped. Junji’s larynx squeezed out sound around the tumors in his throat.
where is my boy?
Before Ebisu could say anything, Junji dug his fingers through her ribs and into her heart. The blood stopped flowing into Ebisu’s brain, replaced instead by a fluid black and slick. Ebisu’s eyes rolled into the back of her head and her body went limp. Viscera spilled onto the floor. The music from the speakers drowned out the sounds of the transformation that followed.