The sky is choked out with smoke and steel. Gods live not in clouds of water, but in needles that stab so high it pierces the stratosphere. To fall from their heights is to burn before you reach the ground, be it concrete or bloody ocean.

I had fallen that distance before, such that I still feel the searing heat. But that day was not today, nor was it yesterday.

Today, the unclasped cylinder of my revolver rotates just slightly, five slots filled. The sixth I had just removed, pocketing the metal to be resold later.

A man with trousers still down lies in wet concrete, soaked in his blood. Silent, like stone. I flip him onto his back and look upon my bounty. The body is worth a few Req, even with a busted face. I lean down to tighten his flared jeans, clipping the belt tight enough to withstand the trip. With that, I face down the alleyway and lift his foot. A younger man looks up at me, fear ripe within his eyes.

“Why did you do that?”

“You slept with dangerous company.”

“Him? But… he was so sweet to me.”

“He didn’t offer you the privacy of his home. How is that sweet?”

“It is — was — complicated.”

My skin stirs just slightly. A couple of years ago, and the motion would have completed itself; the “muscles” would contour themselves beneath my skin, the motors and gears whirring within me. It would raise an eyebrow. I snuff all those motions out. Feels wrong, now.

“Leave.” I punctuate the command with my revolver — an empty gesture; he’s not worth the alloy.

“I know you’re a bounty hunter and all, but… I just, let me just.” He sidesteps me and hunches down. With the tenderness of his voice, I assumed that it was a gentle thing he planned to do. Instead, he reached into his ex-lover’s shirt pocket and retrieved a glimmering signet, reflecting the cumulative LEDs that may as well be the sun of lower Atsalipoleis.

Without second thought, I flip my revolver and slam its hammer upon his head. The young man collapses onto the concrete. I stare at his body for a few moments, but no blood intermingles with my mark’s. I kick him over, so that he doesn’t drown in the red sea. I retrieve the signet and turn it over in my hands. Not as heavy as I thought it would be, but it would be worth some Req.

All the way to the station, the signet and the dead round jingled like cold bells, and the dredge of the streets wavered around me, eyes kept down. Such is the path of a hunter, a shit-eating sheep that preys on sheep. A step above outright property, but miles beneath any semblance of proprietary.

Finally reaching the station, I find myself in the back, where the USCorp Depository is. I slam my fist onto the buzzer and wait a few moments. Flecks of smoke-colored snow land on the strip of asphalt, others teetering over the edges into the slums below. A distant display has a trailer for a movie playing on repeat: attractive actors with glittering smiles; “Red Hot Automa,” the title in thick, bold lettering. A projection of a carbonated drink clips into a reflective building, morphing the slick bottle for the brief moments they intersect.

The door beside the buzzer unclasps, rolling up into the ceiling. An Enforcer Replika glares at me, signified by the marbled texture of his skin.

“Hunter 361-A, ‘Death’s Head.’”

“Reporting.”

“What are the last digits of your Retrieved ID.”

“0071.”

“Ah, Tryst Illaise. That mark has been around for a long time within the registry. Where is the lethal wound?”

“Back of the head. Brain’s likely scrambled.”

“That will be a deduction. The surviving family members won’t be able to Reanimate his memories.”

“What a shame.”

“Any other inflicted wounds?”

“Just the lethal one.”

The Replika stares at me with his steely eyes. Machinations within my skin are whirring. Does he recognize me for what I am? Will he put an end to the facade I’ve lived for dozens of years? Five rounds are all I have. Will they be enough? Will I have time to react?

“The allotted Req will be sent to your callsign’s profile within the next seventy-two hours. Good work, 361-A.”

“Hmhm,” I murmur as I turn away, pushing my hood up as I walk into the throngs that populate the skybridges.

My head runs the calculations in the head while I head to Giuseppe’s. Right now, I have the Req for two recharges, which won’t last me until my next paycheck. I retrieve the signet from my pocket and finger the metal; its cold, like everything else, and there’s a texture on the inside of the ring — the outside is entirely smooth. Like any other signet ring, it’s more of an affirmation to the wearer than it is a declaration for the world. The sensation isn’t entirely familiar, however; a few other targets held signet rings on them, too, but most of them were inherited from ancient orders that hardly exist anymore. This one is cheaper, lighter — easily produced, recyclable for the modern era.

At first, I thought the plink was rain, or something or another dropping out of someone’s pocket. After all, I was immersed in a crowd of people, all struggling their way through Atsalipoleis rather terrible urban design. Then, someone fell over in the crowd, a dull thump of their body collapsing accompanied by the shocked screams of their companion.

“Alpine? What’s wrong?” I turn to see what was happening, and then I hear the woosh of a bullet tracing right over my shoulder — the casing hits someone’s shoulder, and they scream.

“ALPINE! Alpine, please please please, oh Virium, oh Virium, please.”

The crowd is dissipating, the shot person hurrying off with the others. I turn to face the direction of bullets, and I see a glimmer in the distance. What the fuck?

I drop my belly to the ground in an instant, realizing, finally, that it’s a sniper. Either they have a silenced rifle and they have terrible aim, or they’re so far away that I can’t hear the shots fired.

Crack! That’s the first shot, the one that dropped Alpine. I turn to Alpine’s companion, and they’ve dropped low, too. I scan around for the nearest cover; this skybridge runs across an artificial canyon, one whose walls reach dizzyingly beyond sight. I figure it’s best to move forward rather than backward.

I turn to Alpine’s companion and gesture forward with my head before crawling onward.

Plink. A round cracks the asphalt before me. A moment crosses my mind, and I reach into the hole it made and retrieve the round. The alloy is heavy, heavier than the signet ring. I crawl forward, and I hear the second Crack! echoing across the canyon. Lists of names revolve my head — who could it be? Did Alyssa’s P.I. finally find me? Was it Victor recollecting my revolver? No, I’ve left no trace that’s identifiable to the one they know.

It must be a friend to the man whose signet ring I carry.

We’re a few measures from cover now, with several close calls to boot. In my blackened hands, there’s four rounds. With the third, I noticed that its grooved slightly, designed to spin in the air. Must be made from higher qualities alloys, then. It’ll be worth a charge, at least.

I turn to see where Alpine’s companion is, and they’re a few measures behind me. Eyes wide, reflecting another billboard for Red Hot Automa. I can almost see the Automa’s actor in their eyes.

I nod to them, in a way that I hope is assuring, and then I crawl the final distance. I get up and kneel forward, extending my hand just beyond the steel wall I hide behind. A few moments, their hand interlocks with mine, and I pull them the rest of the way.

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The sniper was far and had bad aim.

“Fuck, what was that? Who are you? God, Alpine!” The flurry of thoughts and emotions clearly outpacing their sensibilities, a common problem for humans, I’ve noticed. They approach me with open arms and embrace me tightly.

I sit there, arms stuck to my sides. A motor whirs within my skin, trying to transform me, trying to molt my appearance and hiding from the situation at hand. I refuse.

After a few moments that could have been a millennia, they let go of me.

“Sorry.”

“It’s okay.”

A stream of tears reach down their face, flecks of black snow giving the appearance of cheap eyeliner smudges. “What should I do?”

“I don’t know.”

I’ve already decided what I want to do. I’m going to Giuseppe’s and selling the generous alloys that were spent on me. Then, maybe I can figure out who’s hunting me. A sting of disappointment roils within my stomach, realizing I should buy more rounds for my revolver.

“What are you going to do? We just got shot at and you’re as stoic as an Automa.”

I shake my head. “I got my own shit. This is just another Tuesday. I can’t have dead weight.”

“Dead weight? Fuck you!”

Alpine’s companion gets up. They’re taller than I expected. They turn the direction they came, remembered the sniper that we just ran from, and thought to turn the other direction.

With them gone, I turned to other matters. Five dead rounds, — one light, four heavy — and the ring. Totaling the estimated sum in my head, it looks like I just got a bonus. I can last the three days until my paycheck off the Req alone.

Calculating the route to Giuseppe’s, I follow it to a tee. Most of the skybridges were empty, and the alleys had the usual population. When I was more exposed, I watched distant sightlines for that familiar glimmer — the reflection of the sniper’s scope. Eventually, I reached my destination with time to spare before he closed.

“Aye, it’s my favorite trash heap. How’re ya doin’?”

“Fine.”

“All the warmth of a winter’s end.” Without replying, I unpocket my small treasure trove, sans signet ring — that will be last. He whistles. “I recognize those rounds, and I know you didn’t buy ‘em.”

“I was shot at on the way here.”

“That ain’t be good.”

I shrug. “These are the rounds I could retrieve. They had bad aim.”

“Did you shoot back?”

“Too far. Only have my revolver.”

“Right. Ol’ reliable. Ever thought about upgrading?”

“Why? It works, and other options are too expensive. You barely repay the Req on my spent rounds.”

With the reminder, he looks upon his desk and the small glittery rounds again. “I know a guy that might be willing to loan you one. Considerin’ the heat you draw, you might want something that packs a punch.” He swipes the rounds behind the counter and then types on his keyboard.

“Someone that can afford these rounds aren’t to be trifled with. Good alloy, though, so you’ll be getting your blood’s worth. Were any of these in your skin? Alright, the Req is ready to be retrieved.”

I pull out my Deck. A cheap thing that most people have integrated in their skin. To not have it integrated, well, it’s suspicious. Most people just assume I can’t afford it, call me street trash, and kick me out of their establishment. Giuseppe knows better. His whole customer base is street trash, down to the bone. I tap the receiver, and my Deck buzzes slightly.

The yellow LED glows — payment received — and the green LED, too. That one usually indicates a new message.

I unfold the Deck and see the words Righteous Randy’s fiRearm Reliquary. I eye Giuseppe, who playfully puts his hands up. “Just in case, man. Just in case.”

I roll my eyes and fold the Deck before jamming it in my pocket. “Thanks for looking out for me. Really, I appreciate it.”

He seems a little put off from the affection and catches the line before I can cast it: “Alright, alright. Of course, man. What do you need?”

I pull out the signet ring and show it to him, presenting it within my open palm. He reflexively reaches for it, and I close my fist. “No, it stays in my hand. Do you recognize it?”

My hand unfurls, and he leans down — his warm breath feels unsettling on my skin, and I almost snap my hand away. But I endure the moment, endure the memories.

He recoils instantly. “Where did you get that?”

The tone almost shocks me, but I remain steady. “Off my mark.”

“Who was the mark?”

“His name was Tryst Illaise.”

His face pales, horror plain on his face. “Illaise? Like… I-L-L-A-I-S-E, Illaise?”

I scan my memory banks for a moment, trying to recollect who Illaise might be. After finding nothing, I answer. “Yes, Tryst Illaise.”

His warm demeanor dies instantly, already reaching postmortem and souring all over.

“Out.”

“What? I don’t understand. Who is Illaise? I don’t recall any celebrities or royalty with that name.”

“Oh, he’s royalty, alright. A dark prince, he is. I can’t believe you lied to me. Those sniper rounds, oh I should’ve known. Oh, Frank, my dear, please forgive me. OUT! Why haven’t you left yet?”

My skin feels tight, my nails stabbing into my palms. The pain relieves the tension within me, but I still feel so tight.

With a quick motion, he’s aiming a shotgun’s barrel at me, retrieved from under the desk.

“Street trash, if you don’t leave in the next five fucking seconds, I swear to Virium I’ll blow your fuckin’ head off.”

I scatter. I bolt so fast out the door that, when I reach the slick asphalt of the outside, I fall fast on my knees.

“Don’t you ever come back. I don’t need the heat. Goddamnit.” WIth that, he slams the shutters down behind me. People are staring at me, curiosity blossoming in all their little faces.

I get up before I calculate my next destination. I turn down an alleyway, enshrouded in darkness where no LEDs can reach. Without hesitation, I hide in its shadows. My skin shakes violently, gears whirring on all cylinders. Clutched in my hand is the ring, and I look at the engravings inside. Two snakes, eating each other’s tails. A crown on one, a tiara on the other.

Still shaking, I put the ring on and pull out my revolver. I unclasp the cylinder and check the live rounds. Five rounds. I unfold my Deck and check the advertisement Giuseppe had sent me.

To quell the shaking, I meter polyrhythms up and down my thighs:

5’s against 4’s, rounded, off-centered. Tightness. Withdrawn.

“I should’ve fucked you myself when I got the chance.”

“You are designed to be used, not to choose. That detracts from your purpose.”

3’s against 8’s, unwound, loose. Untethered. Release.

“You’re safe here.”

“You’re beautiful.”

5 to 4.

“Those marks of mine will remain in you forever, and you will never know their cause.”

threes to eights.

“Scars mean we’ve lived! We’re here despite them!”

four with four. Even. Same.

“I love you.”

The shaking ceases, finally. Without a thorough third-party cleaning in years, or a wipe of my memory, things recirculate within my mind. Errant thoughts that redraw themselves within my cortex; things blend together, becoming less of a filed and sequenced continuum, devolving more or less into a frame of “now” that lives somewhere between then and what is considered outwardly tangible. When those errant thoughts intermix with now, commands from then attempt to reconfigure themselves. My body lacks a natural biology; instead, I’m a false reflection. I don’t breathe — I wasn’t designed to, nor do I have the capacity to. So, I’ve been taught other means to ground myself. Polyrhythms, rhythms measured against rhythms.

Clara had taught me them, the musician I was given to.

Now, I have no one.

With a snap, the barrel clicks into place.