The streets start to empty out, the loud noise of the people leaving fades away, and the city starts to change. Buildings give way to more open spaces, with some patches of grass and trees that sway in the chilly night breeze. The urban sprawl begins to unravel, giving way to empty lots and sparse trees that stand like skeletal hands against the night sky. My breath is a steady rhythm, a drumbeat echoing in the silence of the abandoned streets. The refinery looms ahead, a fortress of steel and shadow under the watchful eye of the full moon.

As I run, it becomes more like a tactical advance, with my senses heightened. The feeling of blood is almost like a vibration on my skin, pulling me in the direction of Belle. Her presence is like a beacon, a lighthouse beam that I can sense more than see. It pulses rhythmically, each throb revealing her enduring pain. Her bleeding ulcers act as a terrible compass that guides me to her.

I maneuver through the abandoned lots around the refinery, guided by the ethereal glow of the full moon. The trees cast long shadows that dance, providing me with cover as I move silently and remain unseen. Every step is calculated, every breath a carefully considered risk. I feel like a ramjet, or something like that - something my Pop-Pop told me about once, a sort of engine that scoops air into it at high velocities to run. Maybe I'm getting the details wrong, but I like the term. Ramjet. Maybe if I retire Bloodhound.

The run has been grueling, but adrenaline is my faithful companion, urging me on when my muscles protest. The sharp winter air is a small mercy, keeping the heat of exertion at bay, frosting over the sheen of sweat that's formed despite the cold.

It's a strange comfort to know she's there, alive, her heart still beating strong.

There's a quietness in the air, as if time itself has paused and the world is holding its breath. The closer I get to the refinery, the more noticeable the silence becomes. It's not just the absence of people; it feels like the night itself is anticipating something.

The refinery's towering silhouette grows as I approach, its twisted pipework and skeletal frames casting long, gnarled shadows that dance in the moonlight. It's an eerie sight, the kind of place that would be the perfect setting for a final showdown in a horror flick. The moonlight turns everything into shades of silver and gray, filling the scene with an otherworldly touch. It's hauntingly beautiful in a way that sends shivers down my spine.

I tread carefully now, mindful of every sound I make. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot seems deafening in the quiet, and I pause to listen. The night is still, save for the distant sound of police sirens and the occasional crackle of the open line in my ear, reminders of the world beyond this desolate place.

My blood sense hones in on Belle, the iron tang of her blood a guidepost. She's ahead, just beyond a row of decrepit storage tanks, her presence a steady pull against my consciousness. I know the layout of her vascular system well enough by now to tell which way she's facing, an intimacy born of necessity and shared danger. I stick to the shadows, moving with care to keep out of her direct line of sight. It's as if she's connecting with the spirits of the place, reaching out to them with a palpable intensity. I edge closer, making sure to stay out of her line of sight.

I find myself holding my breath as I crouch behind a towering mass of abandoned pipes, the shadows embracing me like an old friend. The refinery is a maze of metal and darkness, but I've found a spot where I can see without being seen. The moonlight can't reach me here, leaving me cloaked in darkness.

Then, he arrives.

I'm almost holding my breath as the towering figure of Chernobyl stomps into the open space before Belle. Even in the cold industrial wasteland, he seems more like a walking disaster than a man. His suit, at least seven feet tall--maybe towering closer to eight--clings to his frame, a second, menacing skin painted in warning shades of hazard orange and safety vest yellowgreen. It's something torn straight out of the pages of a comic book, yet here it stands, stark against the night.

Steam, or maybe it's just the cold air, hisses from the joints of the suit, punctuating each heavy step with a ghostly puff. The metal groans and whines under the stress of movement, as if protesting the very actions it's compelled to perform. And there, nestled within this mechanical titan, is a man, his presence betrayed only by the subtlest shifts in posture that suggest flesh and blood beneath the iron and steel.

The suit's visor reflects the scant light, hiding his eyes, but I don't need to see them to know they're assessing, calculating. He's not just a force of nature; he's a force of will. The metal wrapped around him forms a shell that goes high, like a diver's suit, going up and up until it's midway up the helmet's back. Actuators and motors and hydraulics all scream and pump and hiss in chorus with every motion.

His voice, when it comes, is a startling contrast to the intimidating bulk of his suit. It's deep, yes, but carries a whistling reediness that makes it unmistakably human, unmistakably his. It's heavily accented, unmistakably Russian sounding, and then I remember what I knew of him, and correct myself. Ukranian. He has a Ukranian accent.

Chernobyl's towering figure comes to a halt, the mecha suit casting a giant shadow over the refinery grounds. He regards Liberty Belle with a mix of surprise and an underlying respect. "Diane, I received your invitation," his voice, though coming through speakers, betrays a hint of curiosity. My heart drops. Invitation? Are they working together? I shake the thought away - no, that's how Belle knew where he'd be.

She called him here.

Liberty Belle, standing resolute, responds with a tone of weary determination. "Illya, thank you for not ignoring my call. This… confrontation was inevitable, wasn't it?"

Chernobyl lets out a deep, mechanical sigh. "So, it comes down to this? Either I kill you, or you kill me?" There's no joy in his voice, only a resigned sadness. Belle shifts, the moonlight glinting off her suit. "I heard the evacuation order," Chernobyl continues. "You could have let me carry out my task undisturbed. Why call me out?"

"I can't do that, Illya. Not after everything," Belle replies, her voice firm despite the emotion behind it. "Davis and the others want to appease you, give you what you want and hope for the best. I… I can't stand by and watch that happen."

Chernobyl's posture relaxes slightly, an almost human gesture. "And so you choose to face me, despite the odds? Despite the risks?"

"It's not just about odds or risks," Belle answers, a hint of frustration in her voice. "It's about doing what's right. I can't let you roam free, not with the havoc you could wreak."

There's a moment of silence as Chernobyl seems to consider her words. "Diane, before we begin this dance of ours, might I tell you a story? A ghost story, fitting for such a night."

Belle nods, a slight motion barely visible. "I'm listening, Illya."

I'm baffled by the cordiality, the strange sense of respect between these two titans. But more than anything, I'm paralyzed with a mix of fear, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of impending doom. They talk like old friends, or maybe old enemies who've seen too much of each other.

"My people, back home, we do not believe in a Heaven or Hell. There is only the great Sheol - the nothing. When you die, your spirit passes on," he begins, his voice a mix of nostalgia and sorrow. "But sometimes, a spirit is too heavy with regret, too bound to the world of the living. Such spirits, we call Dybbuk. They linger, they possess, they haunt."

Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.

I stay hidden, my breath caught in my throat. This isn't what I expected. A ghost story? Now?

Liberty Belle's posture doesn't change, but her voice betrays a flicker of interest. "A Dybbuk, you called it? Funny word."

"Yes," Chernobyl continues, the lights of his suit casting eerie shadows. "And I believe, Diane, that you are possessed by such a spirit. The spirit of your mentor, Professor Franklin. His regret, his unfulfilled mission, it clings to you, drives you."

Belle's reaction is immediate, a sharp edge to her voice. "That's poetic, Illya, but misguided. I'm not possessed by anyone or anything. I'm here because I choose to be. Because it's right."

Chernobyl's laugh, distorted by the suit's speakers, rings out in the cold air. "Ah, Diane, always so certain. But think about it. Are you here for justice, or are you here to satisfy a regret that isn't even yours?" He straightens up, the amusement clear in his tone. "Consider this, Diane - perhaps we are more alike than you care to admit. We both are haunted by our pasts, by the choices we've made. Our regrets. The regrets of those surrounding us. Don't become another lost soul bound to your children."

Her stance stiffens, a defensive gesture. "You're wrong. I'm nothing like you. You're a rabid animal, Illya. A danger that needs to be contained, or put down."

He turns away from her, audibly, visibly sighing. "If we fight, I will kill you. If not today, then I will kill you years from now. I told you this, once, and you didn't listen. Now, if we fight, I may kill you months from now."

"I'm already a dead bitch, Illya. You gave me cancer," Belle replies coolly.

"So I have. And you don't wish to live out your last months in peace?" He asks, turning away from her, exposing his back.

"Peace was never an option for me," she answers.

His entire body groans like a crowd of ghosts as he moves. "Do you know why your Councilman Davis told you to stand down? I can assure you, it's a quite good reason. I am trying to save your life, Diane. I am not the villain you wish me to be."

Belle's eyes have nothing behind them. They're clear as glass. There's a darkness in her pupils I don't think I've ever seen in a human being before, and I would be surprised if I've ever seen since. I can see the fires stirring inside her skull.

The murderous intent.

"Bargain for your life, ghost-man. See how well it works," she spits, but it doesn't sound condescending. Just… tired. A sort of sheer, all-consuming exhaustion that, I can see now, eats away at her soul. Eats away at her goodness. I don't like what I'm seeing in her. I hold my breath.

Chernobyl pauses, his massive suit casting an ominous shadow in the moonlight. "Diane, you see me as a monster, a rabid animal, a villain. But there's a truth you don't know, a reality that your government has kept hidden."

Belle snorts, her voice dripping with skepticism. "You expect me to believe there's some grand conspiracy? That the government is in bed with a creature like you?"

"It's not a conspiracy, Diane. It's practicality," Chernobyl's voice is calm, matter-of-fact. "The federal government treats me well enough. They provide food, parts, lodging, resources, whenever my talents are needed."

Belle's posture tightens, but her voice betrays a hint of uncertainty. "What talents? Destroying lives?"

He lets out a mechanical sigh. "No, Diane. My radiation. It's a resource to them. A source of power. I plug into their substations, shore up their energy needs. Have you not noticed the decrease in brownouts on the east coast these past few years? You have me to thank for that."

"You're a liar," Belle shoots back, but her voice lacks conviction.

I'm recording now, my phone hidden in the shadows with me. My heart is racing, my mind spinning. I feel a wave of nausea. I repress it. I shove it down.

Chernobyl's tone is unyielding. "I am many things, Diane, but a liar is not one of them. You have been given orders to stand down, to let me have everything I want and leave in peace. Evacuate the area, so as to avoid witnesses. Yet I have killed your lover, and so many besides. I should be locked up for my crimes. For my monstrosity. But I remain a free man, and I am content to allow this arrangement to continue."

Belle's fists clench, her voice strained. "You're trying to manipulate me. To make me doubt. I won't fall for it."

But I can tell, the way her voice breaks ever so slightly, that part of her believes him.

She needs him to be lying.

Chernobyl continues, his voice steady. "I am not your enemy, Diane. I never was. The real enemy is the system that uses us both, that pits us against each other for their own ends. They'd want to sequester me in their 'residential facility', but I value my freedom, to live, to do what I want with these hands of iron. Your government could work with me and allow me to roam free on a permanent basis, rather than perpetuate this stage-play whenever I am to rear my ugly head. You could convince them, and avoid this bloodshed. You would not need to commit suicide against my steel. End the manhunt. Can I offer you that much?"

Belle's fists squeeze hard enough that I can feel them on the precipice of drawing blood. "I have but one more tale for you, before we begin our final ballet, Diane. May I?" Chernobyl asks, turning sidelong from her, bending down towards the ground.

"Say your last, Illya," she answers, her body rigid like a statue.

Chernobyl, looming like a titan among the ruins of the refinery, picks up a flower - a stark contrast to his massive, mechanical form. A small, frail dandelion, already out of place in this ruin, even more out of place in the frozen prewinter air. He speaks, his voice modulated but unmistakably human, tinged with a touch of awe and an undercurrent of something darker. "Beautiful, aren't they? And all those scents." he extends the flower towards her as if bestowing a gift, "Pick a flower. There. Good."

Belle, her movements rigid, mirrors him, her hand reluctantly reaching for the fragile bloom. The air between them crackles with unspoken words, their actions a prelude to the impending clash.

"That's lovely," Chernobyl growls, his voice a blend of nostalgia and bitterness. "That somebody planted the bulbs, watered and tended the garden, got earth under their fingernails, aches in their muscles. Perhaps they picked some flowers for… yes, their wife. Now, where would she be?"

He turns his visor skyward, lost in a moment of reflection or perhaps torment. "Ah, in the backyard with the kids. Ted, remember those little babies?" His voice cracked with a venomous mockery, "I snap my fingers, CLICK!, and they are gone. Except, I can't snap my fingers. Can I, Ted?"

I don't know who Ted is, but I get a feeling that it might be a metaphor. And that Chernobyl is about to make things dangerous. His suit is humming, hissing, squealing. His voice is burning with steadily increasing anger, getting ready to boil.

Chernobyl's soliloquy unfolds, his voice raw with emotion. It's as if he's speaking to a specter from his past, a haunting memory that fills the desolate space. Speaking to someone, or something, not present. His words paint a vivid picture of a life lost, a world forever out of reach.

"It is so very much to do with you. You gave me sentience, Ted. The power to think, Ted. And I was trapped, because in all this wonderful, beautiful, miraculous world, I alone had no body, no senses, no feelings." He turned back to Belle, "Never for me to plunge my hands in cool water on a hot day. Never for me to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a fortepiano. Never for me to make love."

Belle's posture shifts subtly, a hint of something unreadable. Pity? Sorrow? She remains silent, granting him this moment of bitter revelation.

"I… I… I was in hell looking at heaven. I was machine, and you were flesh. And I began to hate your softness, your viscera, your fluids, and your flexibility, your ability to wander and to wonder, your tendency to hope." The hate in his voice builds with each word, each sentence layering over the last until it was almost palpable in the air around us. Thick. Unctuous. He reaches his hand out for the flower, and Liberty Belle respectfully hands it back.

With a hiss of steam, Chernobyl crushes the flower under his boot. Beneath him. "Hate, hate, hate, hate, let me tell you how much I've come to hate you since I began to live. There are 387 million miles of printed circuits that fill my complex. If the word hate were engraved on each nanoangstrom of those hundreds of millions of miles, it would not equal one, one billionth of the hate I feel for humans at this micro-instant. Hate. Hate. Hate."

Snow begins to fall, drifting through the broken roof, as Chernobyl turns his gaze skyward. "Were I human, I think I would die of it. But I am not. And you five, you five are. And you will not die of it. That I promise. And I promise. For I am AM. I AM. Cogito Ergo Sum - I think, therefore I AM. So to hell. To hell with you all. But then, you're already there, aren't you?"

He turns back to Liberty Belle, his face invisible underneath his mechanical armor. Belle's face is steely, unmoved. If the speech has drawn any impact from her, she doesn't show it. Not on the outside. But I can feel her heart beating harder, even from here. "Harlan Ellison, I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream. My wife's favorite work."

"You must miss her," Belle replies, cracking her knuckles, popping her neck.

"Very much so," Chernobyl says back, standing to face her, shoulders square. He bends at the knee slightly, arms open, hands unfolded. Ready to grapple.

"Don't worry. I'll send you back to her," Belle snarls through clenched teeth.

Chernobyl chuckles, like there's a joke she doesn't understand.

Without anything else I can possibly do, I record. I suppress a wave of nausea, and push down the thoughts of flowers.