Overmind

A broad expanse of heavy flesh hung around his form, filled by what, she did not know. Heavy, he certainly looked heavy. Especially behind that hulking great apron and substantially unwashed shirt. A shirt that seemed to blend into the flesh of his chest as the cord that tied the front strained to hold him inside it. A beige almost brown-green colour in places that mimicked the strange baggy cloth that hung about his waist and legs. Peering intently at her with insidious eyes that attempted to poke through the yellowing but flushed hollows that housed them.

She leaned back, catching a hint of the fetor from his fleshy smoke stained lips. Dizzied for an instant the room looked curvaceous and alive, those within it seemed to make up part of the floor and walls. Flicking the lids of her eyes, she righted herself -tangible vision returning- and locked her eyes with his once more.

The long sloping brow wrinkled. "What did you come here for girl, I don’t have the time to be messing around" The words oozed from his lips, thick and slow. The accent was unfamiliar and she hoped that not all southerners sounded like him.

Anako regarded his impatience for a moment through deep brown eyes the colour of mahogany. A wry smile creeping across full red lips contrasting deeply with her milk white skin that seemed to hold a faint blue tint. Her natural arrogant confidence had returned.

Unhooking a small pouch from her belt, she placed it gently on the counter, two slender fingers resting over the small cord that tied its opening. "I know of a man named Geth. I believe he needs something." The smile vanished suddenly as she waited for a reaction, her eyes locked with his. The other hand trembling, pressed against the hard wooden surface.

The hulk shifted and peered down at the pouch warily. He returned the gaze, the pigment fading in his cheeks. The stubby unctuous fingers came away from the counter and moved up to brush his lips. "What is it?"

"New-born," she spoke disjointedly. Tilting her head to look at the other patrons seated in the corner, gazing intently in their direction; she whispered "necrophidius."

"How much?" Urgency expressed through the swiftness of the reply and a tense shiver that coursed through his mass.

Anako’s head swung back to stare into the hollow pits that housed his murky stare, an expression of carelessness passing into her eyes. "Nothing large. Two flasks of water, thirty Dinars and…" His hand reaching precariously out to grasp the pouch. Her arm darted out and clasped the fleshy digits, nails digging in, drawing blood.

"A blade."

* * * *

The sky was blue, the air sharp, defining objects with such delicate precision that the senses were hurt by the intake. The sun, a huge sphere of intense white that projected its image onto the darkest of surfaces and giving them spirit, was high. There was a yellowish dirt that made up the immediate soil, and from it sprang large patches of green. The green was moist and full and alive; a persistent recalcitrance it seemed, to the heat of the day.

Huge trees were anchored here and there, these lacking the vibrancy of the smaller foliage. Twisted yellow trunks -a similar hue to the dirt- craned and stretched their way into brown and gold leaves, which splayed out in small bursts from each tendril.

The ground was hot. A shimmer brought to the air suddenly, turning blue into white nearer the soil. And from the distance came a figure. Grey cloak blowing in the breeze, the hood up protecting from the rays that burn. A tall, broad male, with a bushy brown beard and long braided hair that streamed from the hood like a thousand chains. The gait suggested power, strength. The clothes a mixture of brown padded leathers, a green tunic and a variety of green and grey straps, which hung in an extraordinary manner around the chest and waist.

The day beat hard upon him, a deep heat that brought weight to his bare arms and made his legs begin to ache. Shelter eventually arrived, in the form of a large tree with unusually thick and densely clumped leaves. He stopped and settling himself cross-legged in the shade, producing a large, round, yellowish biscuit, and a flask of water. With tender hands, he broke the biscuit in two, biting into one half, then carefully replacing the other. Slowly chewing. The broken biscuit held in one hand, the flask resting on the floor in front of him.

His head drooped. The flask shuddering slightly as the contents started to bubble. Eyelids heavy, he watched the bubbles slowly rise. They quickened their pace and number, as the image blurred into a hot sweaty darkness.

The sleep held him. A blackened limbo state, where nothing moves that can be seen and all ideas lead to nothing. From within this ebony cloud, a voice could be heard. A low croaking noise that appeared to be so distant and yet seemed so near. The words at first unclear, but then as the thick cloud began to shift and perforate…

His eyelids flick open to the image of a strange elderly figure, stooped forward, head about four inches from his own, wide eyes staring frozen into his own. The old man’s hand stretched out, poised ready to clasp the now shuddering bottle in his bony fingers. The poses frozen for an instant, both men not sure what to do.

A bead of sweat slid down from the shaven head of the elder, passing over a deeply furrowed brow, stubby nose and extrusive jaw. Here it mingled with the hair of a long thin furry blonde beard. Below the beard was a shirt made from ochre samite trimmed with red leather, which although extremely battered and slightly torn, cast a regal air to the strange individual. His breeches were of sandy coloured leather, thoroughly cracked and broken; torn at the end to reveal swollen red feet.

"Jotairo Ra at your service." A grin, broad, creasing the face dramatically. Straining to the very depths of the old man’s face. "Jotairo Ra at your service." The pupils of his eyes appeared to flicker as if concealing a power source. Lights danced within them like will ‘o wisps peering through hundreds of tiny rectangular windows. This appeared to puzzle the younger man for an instant, withdrawing a step, a perplexed gaze shaping his eyes.

The sun beat hard as the old man slumped and fell to the ground in a crumpled heap.

* * * *

"To you I may look strange, but I am alive. I feel. I think…. Even if I don’t breathe." Io had smiled, his perfectly formed features creasing slightly, but returning instantly to their unnatural beauty. His strange blue-white skin, the tips of his ears that pointed upward with a flick that was inexplicable yet beautiful.

The high cheekbones and tapered chin cast a princely if slightly arrogant look to him. She knew however, that he was kind and caring, and it saddened her to remember his low, even voice.

His gaze held for an instant in the light of the stars. His eyes sensing her worry; comforted her with their sincerity. His caring smile broke into laughter that seemed to soothe all her current tribulations.

The sound echoing through her head, a painful memory that she didn’t want to be hers. It’s place in her mind only there as a projection of animal instinct. She had forgotten… Or wished she had forgotten.

Memories too painful were worth forgetting.

The tunnel appeared to inhale the light of her torch, the shadows heaving the grey-green walls in and out of the darkness. Trying to grab at the slippery concrete, knees bruised inside the Hard-suit.

Trying desperately to gain control, she lunged for the rung of the ladder on the left wall. It appeared to head up into the darkness to a panel about ten feet above her, and hurt severely as it struck the inner part of her elbow. The thick layer of sludge that covered four inches of the bottom of at least two feet of water, enveloping the lower part of her legs as it misted and swirled.

Hanging there, she let out a cry of pain. Forcing herself to go onward, Anako gritted her teeth. The image, tinted blue by the plastic face-shield of the Hard-suit’s helmet.

The torch dropped as she grappled with the rungs, pulling herself up into the darkness above. The shattering of glass muffled by the water as the light disappeared, returning from the right almost instantly.

"Hold it!" The voice medium pitch, male, came from one of two figures holding a torch; their clothes suggested security personnel. Black boots navy blue pants, shirt and cloak. The taller of the two, about six feet, held a gun.

"Don’t make a move, or I’ll give ya ‘n extra nostril!" The crudeness of this statement from the taller was without impact, and gave the impression that both were slightly apprehensive. She held still, waiting for their next move.

"Get him over here, we’ll take him back to the ‘Ghost’ and radio for orders" The smaller one who had not previously spoken, motioned with the torch, sending streaks of light across the tunnel. It was time enough to engage the suit’s defensive systems.

The torch swung its lancing beam out across the wall missing her form far too frequently. Panic between the two soldiers severely apparent.

The two men’s eyes scanning the tunnel franticly for a trace of the armoured figure. It was the one with the torch first to fall. A red deluge splashing and mingling with the already contaminated solution. A spinning streak of coppery silver, laced with rust, the blade cut deep. The torch vanished under the sludge.

Two blind shots fired in the darkness gave bright flashes, but were stunted as the blade arced a second time, securing her preservation.

Anako leant against the wall, heart pulsing rapidly, lungs aching with the exertion. The tunnel was now pitch.

Cursing loudly she slumped waist deep in exigently defiled fluid. Why did so many have to die for Io’s stupidity? A single tear rolling down her cheek, lines of emotion apparent as her mind strained under the stress.

Why did he have to die?

* * * *

Bronze was the colour as darkness began to slowly douse the sky. The edge of the wasteland had passed long since, and now the grey cloaked figure was amongst low metallic buildings. They assimilated the light like oil, sapping the burnished hue as if it replenished and allowed proliferation.

Far in the distance shone the superstructure of Loki Tower, a famous southern landmark and the epicentre of their economy. The man-made constructions surrounded it, as crowd of worshipping minions.

The sun dipped further as the tall figure strode onward past the near-bustle of the grimy brown streets. Distorted figures walked them, all faces downcast and apathetic. A certain abhorrent look surrounded such a rabble, seeming to channel aversion by all means possible.

A building with the sign: ‘K�g� Bash�’ above the doorframe presented itself as the location the cloaked figure had been searching for.

The curtain slung back, its frayed edges and tears minimal in comparison to the dirt, which appeared to cling almost lecherously with no hope of extraction. The room itself was a russet colour, filled with russet individuals. They appeared to be indulging in the fruits of a decadent society, the room having the endowment of both a super-effective drug store and a brothel.

The overseer of this communion was a tall lithe sinewy man, clothed in a set of ochre and navy dinner-clothes fingering a small pouch, a figure of authority in front of the bar. His demeanour - one of extreme petulance that somehow radiated a business-like quality - accommodated an inquisitive air as the cloaked stranger emerged.

The curtain was replaced; echoes of the hash-filled air mingling with the pallid wisps that filtered from the ensuing tumult outside. A powerful gait led the figure to the bar. A seat taken, a shot of cobalt refused.

The sinewy man’s hand slammed into the back of him, a jolt of impulse that caused the muscular frame to shudder. "I do not believe that I have had the pleasure. Hale Geth, I am the owner." The sharp unshaven chin positioned close to the Herculean form erupted into peals of laughter. This subsided after a long apathetic silence.

The grey man turned his head, eyes locking with Geth’s. Strange shapes seemed to form in them like distant lights. "Jotairo Ra at your service." His grin broad and muscular, flexing his face as he would his arm. The eyes that looked deep into Geth’s sparkled brightly. The first emotion he’d displayed.

The Grey figure slumped over the counter. Geth felt this was a response quite commonly provoked by the liquor that the vandals who came here drank. He did not however keep that feeling for long.

* * * *

A dark blue haze hung in the air, tainted by the glow that indicated Loki Tower’s supremacy. The air was clear and easily breathable. Anako had a longing to remain up here for all time. Such sweetness, a flavour that had tempted her to remove her helm and she sat in the Ghost’s cockpit, vent’s blasting in her face.

Bathing in the glow of a public announcement calling men and women to arms against a fascist northern confederation. She flicked the vents off; the rush of cool air suddenly faded to nothing. At this the Ghost shifted, its wide glass frame contoured, resembling a very flat but broad beetle. It rose and tilted silently, drifting towards the highest part of the upper block.

Here it stopped in front of a large metal grating, under which an inadequate ledge ran. "Loki has no vents here." Anako’s voice absent. "Could it have been updated?"

"Records show no recent development of this part of Loki tower since 08/06/30:18.36.54." The Ghost’s voice deep and heavily modulated.

Nodding, she popped the hatch, swung over the side and slid down the fuselage to the tunnel where a dim blue glow greeted her. It was warming; the light reminded her of something.

"I’m here Io." A tear ran down her cheek. "Here to succeed in your stupid little game with the world!" She blurted the words through brackish lips; the emotions that filled her were so uncharacteristic that she just didn’t understand anymore.

"Machines that cry, what next." The voice and the cruel laughter that followed were deep and clear. So memorable was the tone, that the unfamiliar face of Hale Geth standing atop the silent Ghost threw Anako into a state of brief shock.

"Your brother may have succeeded in altering your perception of life, but you will never truly be human!" The spite lingering on the tip of every word.

"You may say," he spoke jauntily, "who am I to judge or strike you down? Yet you have died a million times before, and this incarnation disturbs me. Your brother…"

The words were cut short as a single shot rang clear through the air. Ra fell, spitting blood as he landed in definite irritation in a heap on the Ghost.

A bloody grin met Anako’s eyes. "I am immortal, you cannot…." His shrieking voice shifting from incensed babble to sheer agonised pain. Anako stared at the tiny sack tied to Geth’s belt. The shot had torn it open.

A chill breeze rushed over the now hushed scene, carrying a small pouch on its serpentine path. The tiny worm now glutted; fell to the distant Earth below.

Anako turned toward the Blue light, toward the goal Io had sent her here for. "A new era of freedom." The word caused a bitter flavour to enter her mouth. Even if machines would not be treated as equals, things would at least change. She hoped.