Yet again, I woke, but this time not shackled to a chair, two men draped in suits sitting on either side of me. I wasn’t sure if this was an upgrade, but at least the chair felt comfortable.
Oh, and it was warmer too.
My head, though, was pounding harder than a jackhammer did, when shredding cement. I stimulated my SMB and saw the light flicker red, blue and green to my right.
Damn, EMP-Shackle.
The EMP-Shackle was wrapped around my hand like a snake. The red, blue and green lights that blinked intermittently were sprinkled across the bangle as it slithered around my arm.
“Is this necessary?” I muttered, not realising I didn’t have enough energy to talk. “Do you like your tongue?” The Mangol said, tone cold...resilient. “Objectively, I do. Yes,” I answered.
“We’re at an impasse. I don’t. So, either you shut up, or I relieve you of it. The choice is yours.”
I silenced myself and bellowed in my pain and misery
The slight inertia I felt, verified that I was being escorted via the Skylanes, but where to? It would’ve been nice to speak with Nova, but with the EMP-Shackle slithering up my arm, it’d nullified any attempt I’d make trying to stimulate my SMB with my cybernetic arm or eye. Bullshit.
As I sat there between The Mangol’s bodyguards. I finally grew enough courage to look at her. She sat opposite me wearing a navy blue kitenge with black, yellow and white textile patterns woven into the garb. The headdress she wore was tilted to the left slightly and had the same colours as her kitenge dress.
Consistent to form she wore a red mask with white drooping eyes, elongated ears that matched the width and length of its gaping mouth. If I knew anything about Pre-Imbibe Collectors this mask was either a Ngil or a Doei mask, rare artefacts before the World’s oceans were swallowed during the apocalyptic event known as The Imbibe.
Overall, the well-styled kitenge and red mask made her seem well suited to her role as Administrator of Underwent Market. I could sense her aura laced in pristineness with a hint of malevolence.
“Never expected the Mangol to be a woman,” I said, ignoring her last threat. She didn’t respond, but I could sense the wry smile from behind the mask.
“I’m glad I didn’t disappoint,” She added.
At that moment the bodyguards’ temples began to frantically blink red. The biochips they had woven across their foreheads, like jewellery, were going off.
All four of The Mangol’s bodyguards were bald and had crimson jewels stapled to the centre of their foreheads. They had well-trimmed beards, but with varying lengths. The suits they wore had Nsibidi symbols stitched into the garbs, which held a sombre indigo glow.
The bodyguards brandished their pistols, which were now trained on me.
I guess I am a threat. So much for getting out of here without being shot.
Then, I felt a nozzle burrow into my side... the same side that asshole burrowed in last night with his steel ball in Underwent. At least he’s dead. I tried shifting in my seat, doing my best to relieve the ever-growing pain I felt throbbing at my side, meticulously.
They could’ve at least given me a painstim or an anaesthetic patch, I shifted uncomfortably again, trying my best to alleviate the pain, but the bastard sank his pistol further into my side, like oil seeping through the sand.
“…any further and I’d need an appendix,” I complained, glaring at the bodyguard to my right. He stared back, thankfully, not gleefully, but then he sank it further into my side. I groaned with a sombre mumble and felt as the car made a sharp right.
“Show him, Moja,” The Mangol said. The bodyguard to my left opened his mouth.
He had a stub for a tongue.
“Husbands don’t need tongues,” The Mangol said, in an unusually sensual tone.
“Husbands?” I asked, confused.
“That’s who they are, my husbands.”
“Interesting dynamic,” I said, ensuring to keep the sarcasm from my tone. I let that sit in the air for a moment, hoping to bait the Mangol into speaking, but the woman was clearly in control, as she ignored me.
“How are your Husbands supposed to protect you, in a firefight?” I asked.
The Mangol released a long sigh and the bodyguards followed up with gimp-like laughs through their stub-tongues.
The Mangol’s Husbands temple interfaces began to blink rapidly, the colours went from red, yellow and green as if... biometric waves, they speak to each other through the neural network of a closed-circuit SMB. Of Course. Speaking slows them down, this way they operate like one unit.
“Was it a billion for the independent SMB neural network?.” I asked. I tried to hide my smugness, but with my death encroaching, why even bother to be ‘polite’?
The Mangol’s mask shifted left then right as if it were part of her face. I let my eye traverse the back of the car.
“You’re trying hard to get yourself killed, Cypher Please, don’t. You’re someone of importance to a major player in this city, that they were willing to make a deal with me, for you. Fascinating isn't it? Here I thought I’d get to slay you alive for mentioning cloning around me and, ding, I got a call.”
This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.
“You’re giving me up to Akatani?” I hissed, then felt my head snap to the right. The husband to my left hit me with the back of his gun. It was a warning, based on me not being knocked out. I'll take that... for now.
“I said,” She hissed through the mask, “a major player, not some vending machine scammer.”
“I see,” I answered. There wasn’t much to go on from here, but I knew at least two things right now: The Mangol hated clones, so she wasn’t involved in Adrianna Smith and the Jon Doe’s Artificial Deaths, and I’d love to solve this case.
Well, that’s what I hoped for at least.
◆
After a two-hour flight, the vehicle finally descended and I felt my stomach rise from the descent. I didn't know what to expect, but I was damn well happy I wasn’t about to die. Or was I?
A cold whiff of wind burst through the door after they decompressed. Goosebumps ran along my body, reacting to the cold and annoying me in one go. My jacket wasn’t thickly layered, so I tried stuffing my right hand into the pocket.
The husband to my right nudged me through the door, to follow the husband on my left. I got through the door with some effort and watched as one of the husbands began removing the EMP-Shackle on my cybernetic arm.
Once he was finished, I then stimulated my SMB to move my left arm and as I expected, all three batteries had been removed. “Bastards,” I muttered.
The husband’s SMB interface lights began to blink yellow and blue.
“You’re laughing aren't you?” I asked, but then saw his lips carve a smile.
I got it. I would’ve taken out the batteries as well, but to slap an EMP-Shackle on my arm? To make me think I had a chance? It was shrewd, smart... and farsighted.
The Mangol was no ordinary woman, she made that very clear from the way she moved. She had her Reaver seek me out and kill me. Failed. I did break the rules of Underwent, so I understand. She considered recruiting me, I was a talent in her eyes. I probably would have swayed her, but my comment about cloning set her off. That’s fine.
But now? I know some major players in Bridge City. I didn’t believe the Commissioner would get involved in something like this when she was dealing with the riots within the Industrial District... or was she?
My eyes readjusted to the natural light of the moon that beamed through a cluster of clouds. My surroundings were stale in colour, with hints of muted greys overlapping shadows. The wind tasted cold, with a hint of salt and dust. Yep... I’m back in Bridge City, or that’s what I thought at least.
After catching my bearings, I caught sight of ten rows of yellow, white and orange blinking lights.
A runway.
In the distance, a large carrier helicopter, with a trailer slapped to the bottom was gloating at us. In front of the trailer, three people stood aloft, as if they owned the damned airport.
One of the husbands yanked me towards The Mangol, kicking me in the back of my knees, sending me to kneel before her. I snarled at the man and he tapped the pistol he had holstered under his shoulder.
“How do you know Mr Black?” The Mangol asked, vocoder tone emanating from the mask.
“Who?” I asked, confused.
“…you have ire for the dramatics... Cypher, I can’t say I’m a fan, but…” The Mangol said. My left jaw snapped to the right from a punch loosed from one of the Mangol’s bodyguards. Moja, I think. As I corrected my head alignment, to stare up at the Mangol, I noticed it wasn’t Moja, who stood beside the Mangol eyeing me with his SMB interface, blinking red.
Moja rushed from beside The Mangol and armed me to my feet. Two of Mangol’s Husbands led the way as we made our way down the runway.
I peered to the right, then left, noticing that there were no buildings around us. The ground felt soft, like soil? This isn’t an airport, this is a field. Damn it... I’m in over my head.
The Mangol pushed towards the middle of the runway where the three men were. No… correction, there were two men and one woman. Interesting.
The howling winds tried to whisper in my ears, but the pain from last night's skirmish and the light torture session began to throb, matching The Mangol’s annoying vocoder-voice box. “Mr Black,” The Mangol said. “Mangol…” The man standing in the middle said.
A tempest brew, between the Mangol and whoever this Mr Black was. I could almost see the power these two wielded within their palms but the thing that resonated the most between the two, was their mutual respect as Mr Black’s golden eyes stared back at The Mangol.
They both stepped forward, a good few meters from me. I tried to follow, but Moja’s grip around my arm was too tight, stopping me from going any further.
The two stood in the centre of the runway, conversing lightly. There was a flash of white from Mr Black’s teeth, and I could hear The Mangol’s vocoder-box laugh, trailing towards me.
It wasn’t a good time for melancholy to hit me, but it did, and so did my anxiety. What in the Imbibe were these two pieces of shit discussing... WHO THE HELL IS MR. BLACK?
Mr Black finally turned and eyed me, whilst The Mangol looked towards the trailer section of the helicopter. A cranking roar followed, and two men emerged from the trailer holding what seemed to be a piece of wood.
The two men darted across the runway and stood behind Mr Black’s compatriots. One looked oddly familiar and I tried straining my eye to try to catch a better look at his face.
The silhouette shadow that was cast against him, smothered half of his face, making it hard unable to see who he was.
The Mangol ripped whatever the sheet was from the board and inspected it for a moment. I tried getting a better angle of what the item was, but Moja ensured I didn’t move a muscle.
After a few minutes, The Mangol summoned me, and Moja pushed me towards the centre of the field. I felt as the eyes of both factions pierced my soul as these Husbands tussled me forward, like a horse on a rope.
Mr Black was a large man, roughly 6’2 and wore a white pinstripe suit with matching shoes. There were no signs of LEDs. Weird, especially with today’s fashion trends. Around his shoulders was a tiger fur coat, barely hanging on, but because of the massive broadness of his shoulder, they barely moved as they sat on him.
The man’s face was hard but warm, all at the same time. He had a classical aura to his smile, which now beamed, showing his white teeth, naturally white in my opinion. His nose was broad, but not broad enough to match his matching smile. His eyes though were piercing and cold.
A sign of ruthlessness.
“I think this concludes our business,” The Mangol said, turning towards Mr Black.
“Sadly, it does, my dear. Please, keep in contact... we have much to discuss,” Mr Black said.
“Hardly.”
The Mangol turned away, heading back towards her entourage, mask shifting up and down, matching the unevenness of her steps. As she passed me, she was sure to slip one final dagger down my throat. “I do hope to see you in Underwent sometime, Cypher. Please, I beg you, visit us.”
I didn’t turn or flinch at her words, because I knew what they meant. A warning, Stay out of Underwent Market.
Message received.
Mr Black and his entourage waited for the Mangol to leave, not uttering a word, leaving me jaded from the pressure of my situation. Who the hell were they, and why did they want me? Is this related to Artificial Death?
Hundreds of thoughts poured into my mind, like spilt milk over the counter. I’d done many things in my years within the Federation, and for there to be a security breach these past five years? That would be truly appalling.
I had reasons to live. LIFE to protect. Damn this! I hissed, feeling powerless.
Mr Black turned to me and flashed that menacing smile of his. “Heard you killed a Reaver, Cypher.” Mr Black said, clapping his hand across my shoulder. “I require some of that old ISOP skill you let rot away. It seems to bloom when needed.”
I dropped my shoulder, feeling his hand slide off instantly. I snapped my head towards him and eyed him from head to toe. “What do you know of my time as Infiltration Special Operator for the Federation?” I snarled, feeling my anxiety rise within my stomach.
“Everything,” Mr Black said, voice cold as his eyes, “Everything.”