Copyright © 2023 - Written content by J.E. Maurice (unless otherwise credited) - All rights reserved by the creator. Reposting is permitted as long as proper credit is given (I.E., a link to the original story and/or links to the author's social sites.)
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Amidst the growing torrent above, black clouds swirled, and thunder growled furiously as a figure emerged from a shadowed doorway, shrouded in a billowing cloak. Her profile remained elusive, a ghostly presence that haunted the relentless downpour, as though she were a phantom from a forgotten era. With each step, her clawed feet whispered against the slick, black walkway, and her every move was enveloped in an air of caution.
As she navigated the labyrinthine streets, the city's augmented reality billboards flickered to life with holographic advertisements, casting fractured reflections across her hooded visage. The patter of the raindrops masked the subtle buzz of cybernetic implants that pulsed beneath her flowing garment.
Yet, in spite of the indifferent hustle and bustle of the humming city around her, a growing unease crept through her mind. Gael Zehra could not shake the feeling that she was being pursued, that unseen eyes were tracking her every move through the winding alleys and darkened corners she traversed. She quickened her pace, and her mind raced to decipher the stranger’s intent. She was no novice when it came to making enemies, and this stalker could be any one of them. Or perhaps none at all.
I don’t know why I’m letting myself get so worked up over this, the cheetah thought to herself. It’s just some junkie lowlife who wants my wallet. Well, they’ll get more than they bargained for…
As she turned a sharp corner, her trembling fingers closed around the handle of a small dagger concealed within the folds of her cloak. With practiced precision, she whirled around to face her hunter, brandishing the weapon fiercely. Her bravado faded away in an instant, however, as a slender hand shot out from the inky blackness of the alleyway, grasping the blade as she swung it; with one swift motion, it wrenched the dagger from her grip as she took a step back, and then another. A pair of gleaming eyes fixed on her, burning red like cinders through the falling rain.
“What the hell…?” she murmured, voice wavering as a biomechatronic nightmare moved out of the shadows toward her, instantly sending her mind into a fight or flight response. Not in all her years had she seen anything like this creature.
“My master sends you his regards, Ms. Zehra,” he said in a voice like cracking ice, running one finger along the blade of the dagger he had taken.
“Your… your master?” Gael breathed, preparing to flee for her life, but a glimmer of curiosity rooted her to the spot. “You’re… impossible… you must be the Scarab…”
This remark seemed to catch the strange creature off his guard; he appeared almost puzzled, if such an expression were possible on a glass face like his. Gael sensed him hesitate, and she immediately pressed this perceived advantage, hoping to secure herself a course to surviving this encounter, as she doubted she could simply outrun him.
“Don’t you know?” she continued quickly, stalling for time as her mind searched for an escape route. “Tales of a cyborg boogeyman are told in whispers through underground channels. They nicknamed it Scarab, after its armored body. I never believed these rumors myself… but… here you are in the flesh… among other things.”
“Who tells these stories?” Scarab inquired, his tone grave. He did not sound pleased by the news of his apparent fame in the criminal underworld.
“Many people,” she replied tremulously. “But the details are scarce and inconsistent. Most of them believe you’re a vigilante… but you’re working for someone else, yes?”
Scarab did not answer. He seemed to be mulling over her words. At least, that is how Gael interpreted his silence. She gritted her teeth together, hating the uncertainty of the situation, and fearing that bolting would cause the cyborg to attack.
“May I… may I ask who your master is, Scarab?” the cheetah inquired warily, an action she regretted immediately. In a fraction of a second, Scarab propelled the dagger in his hand towards her, and she slumped to the cold ground, the blade jutting out of her throat.
“You may not,” he answered softly, crouching beside her, and rifling through her pockets as she frantically grasped at her neck to stop the bleeding. While her vision slowly darkened, she watched him extract her wallet from her cloak, and dump its contents onto the rain-slicked concrete. Her last thought before her consciousness slipped away was the realization that when the authorities finally found her, it would appear as nothing more than a mugging gone too far.
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Sylux examined his handiwork for only a brief moment before rising to his feet; a single thought pulsed through his head.
Scarab. They call me Scarab.
He pivoted around, and leapt up onto the siding of the apartment complex behind him with one fluid motion, using the gutters and air conditioning units to efficiently crawl up the outer wall to the rooftop. He had to return to his master immediately to deliver this alarming news. Somehow his anonymity had been shattered, as rumors about him had apparently already spread like a dark breeze through shady underpasses.
He sped across the fluorescent city, blazing his own trail over or through every obstacle in his path, the storm above beginning to lessen, its black clouds receding. Halfway to his journey’s end, Sylux froze in his tracks–coming to a very abrupt halt–and cocked his head to one side to listen closely. A soaring melody echoed in his ears from afar, floating nearer on the cold breeze, accompanied by a dark rhythm beneath it. The noise was entrancing, and he felt himself being drawn in by it, as if a chain around his heart were tugging him in its direction.
He gazed towards his distant home, the tall skyscraper glowing like a distant beacon in the twilight. Every instinct in his body demanded that he continue on his course back to Locke headquarters, but an ache in his chest desperately desired to find the source of the music; it was still over seven hours until the sun would begin to crest the horizon, and Slade would undoubtedly be slumbering until then. Thus, Sylux knew that if he were to investigate this point of intrigue first, time would be no object. He hesitated for a few more moments.
With a final glance towards his dwelling place, he turned away from it—swiveling to his right—and began to run. His hybrid heart began to beat faster, and a swirling mix of emotions blent to concoct a sensation he had never before undergone. Trepidation was at its forefront, but that sharp edge was dulled by a feeling of exhilaration and independence that he had not yet experienced. While his programming waged war upon these newfound qualities, deeming them to be perilous, he could not bring himself to stop. The music was drawing too near for him to back away now.
He had to know.
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Kindrick Alkaline kicked his feet up on top of his portable refrigerator, stretching his aching legs as he uncorked a bottle of his preferred energy beverage, and unwrapped his late dinner from its transparent packaging. The view of the city from his apartment’s rooftop was always superior if accompanied by his nightly routine, yet it still had its drawbacks. Any of his neighbors with their windows open would likely register complaints tomorrow morning concerning the loudness of his outdoor stereo; as much as he disliked disturbing the peace—and drawing attention to himself—he simply could not hear the songs it played at a lower volume over the din of the constant thunder, and the frequent passings of the express trains, whose tracks ran directly beside the residential building.
An added benefit of raising the amplification of the music was that if the marble fox felt inclined to sing along, not a soul could hear him. As a courier of sensitive documents, his tenor-range crooning during his shifts was frowned upon by his colleagues and clients alike, and they had made that exceptionally clear. He would not soon forget a rather churlish grizzly bear telling him, “you’re a courier, you twit, not a caroler.”
This interaction had rather obliterated his remaining enthusiasm for the job, though admittedly he had not ever daydreamed about being a courier in his childhood. Opportunities for the position he truly desired were few and far between, and very often it was a matter of having close relationships with the right people to find any success in the music industry; and he could very confidently say that he knew none of these elusive “right people.”
He knew not how long the stranger had been present on the roof alongside him when he finally became aware of their company, for they said nothing, yet Kindrick had the oddest impression that they were attentively listening to the songs playing from his stereo. He turned his head toward them, putting much of his effort into appearing as if he was not startled by their appearance, though he was; they remained in the shadows to his left, the details of them completely obscured, but Kindrick noted that they were quite tall and slim.
“You can come sit here, if you want,” Kindrick said brightly, patting his miniature refrigerator with his padded toes, as he was still using it as a footrest. “I won’t bite!”
Only the growling thunder above, and the rushing wind answered him. The newcomer kept their silence.
“You sure?” Kindrick attempted the invitation again, presuming this visitor must be a resident of their shared apartment complex. “You strike me as someone who appreciates music, just like me. No need to be shy.”
Again, he received no response from them.
“Okay,” he shrugged, leaning back in his chair again. “Whatever makes you comfortable is okay with me.”
As the night wore on, he would intermittently find himself scanning the darkness for that slender silhouette out of the corner of his eye, and always managed to find it. Not once did it sway, shift, or even turn its head, leastways as far as Kindrick could see. It was not until nearly three hours had come and gone, and the marble fox had risen from his seat, stretched, and clicked off his radio did he realize the stranger had vanished. Much to his chagrin, he found himself thoroughly exploring the makeshift rooftop terrace, but turning up no sign that anybody had ever been present at all.
He collected his things, feeling that maybe he had fallen prey to a simple trick of the shadows, which had created some strange optical illusion of a figure in the dark. He simultaneously felt, however, a sharp pang of disappointment that the unknown arrival—if they had truly existed—had left him alone without a goodbye. Not even a friendly wave of the hand to acknowledge their time together. But perhaps he was taking it too personally.
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Slade leaned back in his chair, eyes fixed to the ceiling above as he mulled over Sylux’s report of the past night’s events. Sylux stood in front of him, hands clasped respectfully behind his back; directly to the protogen’s left stood Jaxon Nyx, looking rather bad-tempered; admittedly, he frequently looked that way.
“And what did Gael say they’re calling you again?” Slade inquired, brow furrowed.
“It seems they call me ‘Scarab,’ master,” Sylux replied. “Though, according to her, they believe me to be a vigilante acting upon my own interests. There is no connection established between Locke and myself.”
“Well… that’s something,” Slade muttered. “That lack of connection to us seems to make it more likely that we don’t have a leak… but that’s still a possibility. Someone within Locke might be stirring up rumors about a cyborg assassin to make everyone on the information pipeline keep their eyes peeled for it.”
“It could be the leak’s attempt to cover their tracks,” Jaxon agreed. “Their treachery would’ve been a hell of a lot more obvious if it revealed too much information.”
“My thoughts exactly,” replied Slade, rising to his feet. “Jaxon, keep an eye on this. If there’s a leak, seal it.”
“Yes, sir,” the gorilla said.
“And Sylux,” the cougar continued, fixing the protogen with his orange stare. “It’s more important than ever to make sure there are no witnesses of your work. Understood?”
Sylux felt an unpleasant tension rise up in his abdomen, conflict clawing at his heart. Perhaps it was a result of his inability to control himself effectively in recent days, as the shame of surrendering to his wild impulses cascaded down on him in renewed waves, much as it had during his entire journey home from the detour to the marble fox’s rooftop. Most disgraceful of all was yearning to return there for another chance to hear the exhilarating music, and he despised himself for it. Yet, despite this war waging within, he answered obediently with the utmost composure.
“Yes, master. Understood.”
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END OF ENTRY 003.
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