RAZOR
Ash fell from the sky, fluttering in greyish-black flakes, like so many dark butterflies descending from the stratosphere. The sun was a dim, far-off lamp overhead in the murky haze of ash and smoke.
To the west, plumes of black smoke climbed toward the sky, in great, writhing masses, like ethereal snakes summoned from oil and flames, rearing up in the sweeping valley below. It was a place that used to be a giant metropolis, now reduced to rubble and glowing coals. Even the city skyline, with it’s majestic, manmade spires, were nothing more than funeral pyres, now.
That taste. That smell. So thick and potent in the air. It was more than the smoke. It was more than the afterburn of the weaponized chemical firestarter. It was, in a way Razor couldn’t rationally explain, the sickening aroma of death itself.
He didn’t want to be here. He knew death well, but life was really more his thing. He preferred building and cultivating things to breaking them down.
Creatures, in particular, were always more fascinating alive than dead. And a lot of creatures had died today. Of the human variety. People with homes and lives and perspectives on the world. All snuffed out in one great, terrible event.
Because it was terrible, wasn’t it? Suzerain could spin it all he wanted, and the others would likely agree, saying this was some great victory in the name of the Protectorate. But Razor would never see it that way. This was a tragedy. An unmitigated disaster. No one had won anything, here. It was all loss. And it was all too late. All he could do now was move on, and try to put this out of his mind. Look to the future.
But he couldn’t do that. There was something holding him, here. Someone.
Parallax. Par-a-llax. There was something about that name. Something about her. The girl with the long, shiny black hair, and glowing purple eyes. The girl who moved like a shadow while wielding blades of light.
She was deadly. Enigmatic. She was…beautiful.
There she was now, standing at the lip of the valley, her back to Razor, facing the burning city. Her uniform was torn and shredded in places, the bright chrome of her metal body shining through. She was a statue, a monument. No part of her moved except for the lower ends of her hair against her upper back, swaying gently in an almost imperceptible breeze.
He wanted to go to her. To comfort her. But that would be a mistake. To see only the girl, and not the pristine metal armor which protected her. Armor he had no hope of bypassing, to get to the heart underneath. It was part of why he admired her in the first place.
No. He wouldn’t talk to her. He wouldn’t touch her. But he wouldn’t leave her, either. He would approach her, slowly. He would stand next to her. Silently. In solidarity. He would be with her, in this moment. Until it passed.
Later, they do touch, in the wan neon light of the cabin of Parallax’s ship. They lie on the couch next to the holotable, holding tight to one another, feeling the presence and pressure of each other’s bodies, slowly letting go of the day, trying to find sleep.
It is here, lying on his side, watching Parallax’s eyes flutter and clench as she drifts to and from unconscious, that Razor hears something. A sound that doesn’t belong. That shouldn’t be. A pounding on the pressurized door of the cabin. From the outside.
His first instinct is to wake Parallax. Only, he’s not yet convinced he’s the one who’s actually awake. To get to the cabin door, someone—or something—would have to breach the outer door first, breaking into the decontamination area. Shouldn’t he have heard such a commotion? Felt the impact? Wouldn’t every siren and alarm in the ship be awhir, and abuzz?
No, this can’t be real.
Can it?
He waits, listening, waiting to hear the sound again. As he does, he can’t help but think of a something called ‘sleep paralysis’, in which humans sometimes find themselves semi-conscious, dreaming awake, usually believing there’s something in the room come to get them, unable to move or even scream.
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It’s a human phenomenon, but Razor can still relate. He’s tethered to the couch, unsure if what he feels is real paralysis, or a heavy, ominous feeling of apprehension.
No. There it is again. He’s not imagining it. The three dull thuds on the other side of the cabin door.
This time, he’s awake enough to trust his senses. Something’s out there, even if both his and the ships radial sensors have failed to pick it up.
Still, there’s something unnervingly dreamlike about this experience. Something he doesn’t quite trust.
He scoots backward, slowly, easing his forearm out from under Parallax’s midsection. She adjusts in her sleep, allowing Razor to pull free. She rolls over onto her other side, but doesn’t wake. If anything she seems more comfortable, able to slip further down into a deep sleep.
Leaving her sleeping form behind, Razor rises from the couch, casting his gaze around.
He’s become used to the comfort of this place. The feeling of being encased and enclosed in a dark, warm space, the hazy lights from the cockpit contrasting with the dark blue shadows in every corner of the main cabin. It’s supposed to be cozy here. It’s supposed to be safe. Which makes this intruder, whatever it is, all that more of a threat in Razor’s mind.
No, it’s more than just that. It’s a violation.
After giving the interior a thorough search with a few quick glances, scanning the room with his OS, he then turns to face the door of the cabin, making his way toward with slow, deliberate steps, listening intently.
He stops, in front of the door.
Suddenly, he feels silly. He must be malfunctioning. Which isn’t entirely unheard of, after a battle. Even Biodroids can be injured, or traumatized. You get hit in just the right way, at just the right time, and something gets broken, or jogged loose. That’s why tune-ups exist.
It’s the only explanation. There’s nothing on the other side of this door. There can’t be. There-
THUMP.
This time, it’s not a series of thuds. It’s just the one. Not a statement, but an exclamation point at the end of the sentence. It penetrates, echoing inside the hull of the ship’s frame, making the entire vehicle tremble, just a bit.
Is it…SERAPHIM?
Whatever it is, he can’t hesitate. Whatever’s out there, it’s not friendly, or it would have announced itself already.
Razor takes a step back. But only one.
He wakes up his Nanobits, quickly summoning a long-handled, Trident-esque weapon—only instead of three prongs, there are five, each with slim, two-foot-long, razor-edged spikes at the end.
He thrusts with the weapon, puncturing the door in five different places, pushing each spike all the way in.
He waits, still holding fast to the handle. Will he feel the jutter of an impaled opponent trying to get free? If the attack neutralized the entity instantly, will he be able to detect that as well?
Doesn’t seem so.
Perhaps there really isn’t anything there. Perhaps this is all just the product of some undiagnosed malady? Or a hyperactive imagination, drawing from his own feelings of insecurity when it comes to Parallax and his relationship with her. The things he can barely admit to himself, let alone to her, or anyone else.
But there’s no room to dwell on such things, not in this moment. There’s no time to wake or warn Parallax either, not without splitting his focus and attention away from the door, and whatever might be behind it.
He pulls his makeshift weapon back, freeing it, with the sound of sheered bits of metal being pried back. The temperature drops, a frigid chill seeping into the cabin, as all the warm, pressurized air leaks out through the holes in the door, piercing the air with a loud, overlayed, high-pitched whistling.
The second door’s been breached. There’s nothing between this one and the outside. Which means there is something out there. Or was.
It’s dark out. Overcast. Still, Razor watches the holes in the door, looking for some subtle fluctuation in the dim light on the other side. Some sign of where to strike next.
He dismisses his Trident weapon and summons something else. A sword, this time. Short enough that he’ll be able to maneuver it inside the cabin. He falls back into a ready stance, sword raised.
The door blasts inward, straight off its hinges.
Razor sidesteps, reflexes taking over.
The door flies boast, flipping, and crashes into the far wall of the cabin toward the front of the ship, near the cockpit.
Air courses out through the portal in a deafening, ongoing rush. Then there’s shift, as freezing cold air from outside forces it’s way in, roaring like a living creature. The force of the air pressure is enough to knock Razor to the floor, or at least make him feel like he’s about to be.
In the midst of all this, there’s a shadowed figure standing where the door used to be. Young-looking. Feminine. Just a bit shorter than Razor himself. Stance wide. Gripping the top part of the door frame with both hands. Her hair, tied into a ponytail behind her head, whipping wildly.
No weapons. No detectable Biodroid components. No hints of a hologram, or a SERAPHIM strike. Just a human, teenage girl. In a loose-fitting, navy blue jumpsuit.
“Hi,” she says.