RAZOR

Daimon's ship soars like a black eagle overhead. It is sleek and sharp-looking, and a tenth the size of Razor's ship, with only enough space for living quarters, an armory, and whatever other personal effects Daimon might require. He normally does not stoop himself to menial search missions, launching drones and scanning for quarry. He doesn't scout, or research, or perform expeditions in order to ascertain truths. He is a living weapon. If Razor is the spyglass, Daimon is the gun; if not the bullet itself.

Stranded, resigned, low on energy reserves, Razor watches as the black ship makes its descent. There's nowhere to run, and nothing else for it. No option but to face the music. He only hopes Daimon will be somewhat reasonable. Perhaps he won't make due on his earlier threat.

The ship docks on a flat, open section of the plateau, the force of its jets kicking up cyclones of dust and sending gravel flying outward, sliding and bumping across smooth slabs of stone.

Razor, sitting on a chair-sized boulder, activates a pair of clear visors which extend over each eye, a protective layer against the dust particles and wind.

Thin landing legs jut out from underneath as the ship catches itself, bobbing as if cushioned by giant springs. There’s a hissing sound as the bay opens up.

Daimon doesn’t extend a ramp. He hops out, lands on the ground, and turns to face Razor.

Not for the first time in a situation like this, Razor wishes he could see Daimon's face. The high-ranking Biodroid has a tendency to keep himself hidden behind his mask. The mask is the same color as the rest of his sleek, armored body—a light, almost white-looking grey. It’s tempting to think the paint job is an indication of his high, pure status and manufacturing, slightly muddied by the crass updates and alterations, but that’s likely just romantic thinking on Razor’s part. Daimon’s thought-process tends to lack that sort of subtlety, in his experience.

Razor realizes Daimon is gesturing, using two fingers to summon him closer.

Razor stands, feeling naked, like a model stripped open and laid bare across a repair table.

Still, it’s not like there’s anywhere to go.

He strides forward, holding Daimon’s apparent gaze head on.

Always with the freaking mask.

He comes to a stop just several strides away. "Daimon."

He doesn’t answer right away. He lets the silence ride. The rough wind screeches through the canals, rustling the masked Biodroid’s silvery hair.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

“I’m disappointed, Razor.” The voice is muffled and digitally artifacted, but Razor’s ears are keen to every word. “I am not accustomed to disappointment.”

“The Blast model was awake by the time my drones arrived,” Razor says. "Something I hadn’t anticipated. That’s why they escaped. With enough time, and my ship, I can track them down again. I already had a lead when-"

Daimon’s hand moves with incredible speed, fingers making a cage over Razor’s face.

Razor pulls back, reflexively, but the tips of Daimon's fingers have dug into the edges of his face, and the more he pulls, the more the pressure at the points of contact build, until there is a creaking, warping sensation in Razor's head. Warning notifications flash in Razor's HUD. If Daimon applies just a bit more force, his skull is going to rupture in several places.

Razor freezes, leaning backward at an awkward angle. The only thing keeping him from falling backward onto the ground is Daimon's relentless grip on his face. He is quite determined not to move, not to speak, even as the silence drags and the tension builds.

"I tried," Razor says.

Because fuck it.

He wants me to be the first to speak, even if he's going to hold it against me.

"You're a tool, Razor," Daimon says. "Your purpose is to serve the Elite. To serve me. Tell me, what should I do with a defective tool?"

He cocks his head, appraising Razor like a spare part. The mask retracts, thin plates that fold back over each other and move out of the way, resting against the sides of his jaw.

It's not the first time Razor has seen his face. He looks young, somber, determined. His face is not the face of a killer. Of a rampaging monster. You have to look into the eyes, in particular, to see that.

As soon as his face is exposed to the atmosphere, there's a faint hissing, and slow swirls of smoke billow out and away from the skin. A burn mark travels across his left cheek, the side which faces the dim, obscured sun, but he takes no heed. His focus is entirely on Razor.

He leans close. "Strip it for parts?"

Still holding tight to Razor's face, still fixing him with his gaze, he holds up his free hand, arm pointing in the direction of Razor's distant, hovering ship, a dark smudge in the sky. His robotic hand splits apart and moves out of the way, while his forearm expands, glowing yellow lines appearing along the length. The arm buzzes ominously, energy building, culminating in a deafening BLAT.

A thin, orange-yellow laser bursts from where the hand used to be. The arm pulls back, absorbing the recoil, but the shot itself is unerring, a long line traveling toward Razor's ship.

NO!

Without thinking, Razor tries to pull away, only to be reminded of Daimon's skull-crushing grip.

He tries to contact the ship through his OS, only to receive that familiar notification, reminding him he's no longer authorized to access the ship's computer.

He can only watch as the laser impacts the hull of the ship.

A bright explosion plumes, flames extending outward in a blazing ball. The ship drifts, launched back by the explosion, and goes into a spiral, leaving a thick trail of smoke behind it.

Decades of work, and passion, and cultivated beauty. Life itself. Snuffed out in seconds.

The ship collides with the surface of the plateau. More flames issue upward, reddish-orange and angry-looking, accompanied by great, black streams of smoke.

Gone. All gone.

Daimon releases his grip suddenly. Razor, mentally defeated and physically unsupported, drops backward onto the hard ground.

Daimon takes a step back. The plates of his mask whir, sliding and locking back into place. He turns his back.

"Don't get up. I'll do it myself."