Chapter One

Our protagonists make their first appearance.

            The light was blinding, magnified by the combined white of the walls and floor.  My eyes opened to a scream, and it was the light that I saw before anything else.  With a choked scream, he hit the floor, spewing torrents of blood, carving rivers down his face.  With a harsh snap, he fell still, and his killer stood over him like an old tomcat, face unreadable as he examined the final expression on his latest kill.  The killer stood, but I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the murdered man, his white coat crumpled and stained red by the blood that pooled around him.  He wore glasses; he looked like a man living out the dreams of a child bullied at school�"like a modern scholar.

            The killer stood up straight, taller than I had imagined, and for a moment I forgot how to form words.  My pulse slammed through my veins, as if trying to find a way out.  He ran a card over the block of machinery at my side, and with a quiet whir the links that held my arms at my side, and my neck on the table lifted and slid away, disappearing into the surgical table I’d made my bed.

            In his other hand, he held a gun, but he held it as though it were something alien.  I wondered if he’d freed me only to execute me, to give the other man company in his ungraceful departure.  “Let’s go.”  As I started to stand, I expected stiffness�"but found none.  Wires streamed from the crook of my elbow, hooked to machinery and bags of liquid that looked unnatural.  I tore them out with a quick tug, biting my lip as they pinched against my skin, trying to stay locked in place.  The other man, the dead one, wore a white coat, black slacks.  But the killer and I were dressed alike, in white scrubs.  Clothing seemed like a poor way to select my allies, but I could see no other options.  He pushed the gun at me, and though I’d never seen one like it, I knew as soon as it touched my hand that it was Glock 32, maybe only a couple years old, but carried religiously.  It felt right in my hand, like an extension of my own arm, as if I were made to hold one, though I’d never fired a gun before.

            “Let’s go.”  The killer repeated, as if he knew no other words.  When I looked up, he hesitated, as if, suddenly, I was something to fear.  His eyes had halted on my one eye, the way I remembered people did when I was young�"like a ticking time bomb.  But the reason, now, felt different.  He shook his head, as if to shake his thoughts out, and signaled me to follow.

            I took a step to follow, but it was as if someone had been waiting for us.  Everything moved fast after that, but it was as if my muscles had been trained to react.  The table tipped and crashed on its side, clanging loudly against the seamless white floor, even as the first bullets tore through the walls, nestling deep in the white, cracking the tiles that I hadn’t noticed before.  The heart monitor let out a shriek like the death noise of a parasite separated from its host.  Everything had fallen to madness, but with the pistol gripped in my hand I felt like a cog found its peg.

            The killer and I ducked behind the table as it fell, taking shelter from the explosion of gunfire.  We were running on the same internal pulse, fueled by the same reflexes.  My next blink brought a cross-hair into my vision, like bringing my eye to the sight of a gun.  Behind my metal shield, I brought the pistol up, preparing for a break in the fire to take my shot.

            The killer stood upright, it was a swift movement that seemed to hold all of the boldness and confidence in the world.  It was as if he were being pulled upright by the same impulse.  I saw the bullet before he did, and the crosshair locked onto it only just before it tore through his shoulder, staining the white scrubs in blood that seemed almost black, and then in another moment it was as if he was bleeding steel, as it melted from his pores and the droplets found each other and seamed together until he was a man made of metal, and the fluorescent lighting seemed made him a blaze of gleaming light.

            Every bit of me wanted to stare, but I was a witness in a body turned machine.  I threw an arm over the table, hauling the pistol�"as if I’d been born with it in my hands.  I was numb, a machine acting on miles of pre-programmed code, moving with all of the fluidity of something made for one purpose.

            The room was dead quiet when my senses returned to me in a rush, and for a moment I was overwhelmed.  When I looked to the killer, he seemed much the same as the metal seemed to drip down his skin in bright rivets, made liquid again, and thinned to droplets before evaporating entirely.  The wound in his shoulder still leaked dark blood, but if he was in pain, he hid it well.

            “We should bandage that.”  I told him as I pulled myself off the floor; my scrubs splattered with blood belonged to someone who was no more.

            He had his hand on his shoulder, gripping it tightly as if to keep the blood from escaping.  “I don’t think we’re going to wake up.”  He spoke, grinding his teeth.  He was tall, but not quite towering, and built like a weekend fitness fanatic, as opposed to an Olympic athlete.  I hadn’t noticed before, but ugly scars marred his skin, covering his arms all the way up to the short sleeves, circles like old cigarette burns marked his neck.

            “Then let’s not die.”  I tried to sound sure, convincing myself that that was even possible.  But my mind nagged me, asked me what we had become, asked me where I was�"asked me how long ago was last night, when I fell asleep in my own bed, but I silenced it, focusing on the task at hand.  I found bandages in the table, drilled with bullet holes, and bandaged the killer’s shoulder.  It was makeshift, but it was the best I could do for now.

            “Yeah,” The killer moved to his feet, and stepped over the table, “let’s do that.”  He stepped briskly over the collapsed bodies, and out into the hall.  I hurried after him, but was held my breath to protect against the thick scent of blood. 

            The hallway was the same white, doors stretched in both directions forever.  “Where do we go?”  I asked; my hand held tight on the pistol.

            The killer didn’t answer, but moved decidedly down the hall.  I couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he’d been here than I had, seeming to have some working knowledge of the building.  We stopped at a pair of steel doors, and I reached for the call button for the elevator, but the killer’s gaze stopped me in my tracks, leaving me to dumbly leave it be and follow him, instead, into the stairwell.

            “What’re we doing?”  I asked him, doubtful of whatever plan he had concocted.

            “We’re getting out of here.”  The killer sounded annoyed, and moved only faster.  Doors passed us, leading out to other floors, maybe with more rooms, maybe with exits.  A heavy, industrial-looking door led to the roof, and the killer flinched as soon as the salty air licked at his wound.  It smelled like the ocean.

            Despite myself, I reveled in the height.  I’d been something of a daredevil once, I wondered if I was still the same person.  Wondered if my sight had granted me a new identity, after all, Lux-prior had never seen the ocean, and didn’t know what “heights” looked like.  Couldn’t describe the color of an apple, but as the cross-hair at the center of my vision passed over everything, I knew what it was�"I measured it out in units too exact to be organic.  I stepped to the edge, and looked out at the water below.  The building, a huge industrial tower with few windows, stood atop a steep hill, and foamy waves lapped at the foundation.  My gaze measured the difference, four hundred feet, at least.  Twice the distance that would be fatal.  I sucked in a salty breath, and let my lungs clung to it as I took two quick steps backwards, and ran.  My bare feet folded to the cold edge of the concrete roof and pushed off, and I was flying.  The salty air whipped at my face, and I closed my eyes to take it all in.  I counted the seconds, and straightened out my body.  My feet broke the water with a feeling like I’d been hit by a baseball bat, the water was freezing, and I felt a new rush of adrenaline as I swam for the surface.

            Back on the roof, the killer was a dot; he seemed reluctant to do the same.  And then, he almost seemed to throw himself from the edge.  As he hit the surface, the water turned red, and he released a choked breath before going limp.  Not far off, the water gave way to a rocky beach, it looked empty, but welcoming compared to where we had come.  I wrapped an arm around the killer and swam, my new strength eating up the distance to promised safety.