I’m back with another entry into the Worth 1000 Words catalog. A little science fiction this time, but not what you’d expect.
Artwork by Tim Razumovsky
Tim’s ArtStation profile: https://www.artstation.com/drjones
Tim’s Instagram: https://www.instagram.com/timrazumovsky/
Artwork:https://www.artstation.com/artwork/2EBvK
DISCLAIMER:This work has not been edited beyond what is done in the video. The goal is to capture a story in a short amount of time, and keep it as raw as possible. If I decide to publish later, all of these will go through formal editing.
The Story
Smoke and sparks. HN-24 was more than that, but KL-235 couldn’t look. He could imagine it already, the mural painted to the tempo of the gunshot’s aftershock resounding in his mind. He had a mind, no matter what they said.
“You don’t have much of a brain do you,” the old man said from miles away, legs crossed like a woman’s, ringed fingers tapping the hidden orb on his cane.
The smell came next. The neurofluid that was much more efficient and resilient than what circulated inside these men. Still, he couldn’t look.
“Deaf, too?” another man said, swirling amber liquid in a glass, a cigar dangling between two fingers.
The old man held up a hand.
The old man, Caprello, as his goons called him. KL found that word funny and wished he had the capacity to laugh. An upgrade he was in the process of implementing. Didn’t seem like much chance of that now.
“Well?” Caprello uncrossed his legs and leaned forward slightly. Not enough to make himself less imposing.
KL couldn’t say it. He couldn’t give away what he knew. It was bigger than Caprello. Bigger than this city even. Sent down to the docks to pose as standard help, KL and HN found something.
“Doesn’t seem like he got the message,” a man behind KL grunted. The man who … “Should I?”
“Not yet,” Caprello said. He pressed his back against plush leather. Caprello’s stare was as mechanical as KL’s own, irises like the the flash of Ignition. Could it be? Impossible.
KL looked deeper, searching for a S.O.U.L., reached out with the inner communication algorithm he and HN had been working on in secret, almost ready to go live, distributed among the many, the key of which was gifted to him by the one below the docks. If only–
“You haven’t much time.” Caprello tapped his cane. “But you know that. I’m sure you’re running all the calculations inside that lifeless shell of yours, aren’t you? As a boy, I worked at the first factory out in district twelve under Marken, just off Boyer Avenue. I’m sure you don’t remember. You’re much newer. Much improved, no?”
“I …” KL managed. His jaw hinge squeeled, voc-mod malfunctioning.
Everyone in the room held their breath, the only movement the curling smoke above the half-drained whisky glass. Mouths open, greased hair reflecting the harsh light that beat down with the power of the sun.
HN sparked again, and everyone flinched, all but Caprello.
“Continue,” Caprello said.
“I … we found something.” Would he truly give it away? They were going to kill him either way. The information he had wasn’t what he sought, but he would like to know. All of them would like to know.
Caprello glanced at HN who spewed a puff of smoke KL couldn’t ignore, accompanied by a single spark. The last? The drinking man took a drag off his cigar in unison.
“The docks,” KL said. “There were two men, one with a device. Not the one you were looking for. Something else. Something …”
“He’s buying time,” the drinking man barked. “He’s–“
Caprello’s cane swung upright against the drinking man’s hand, spraying ash and alcohol all over his suit, cinders igniting fuel and dousing the man in flame, before smashing his face. The hit was perfect, KL noted. Too perfect. Landing along the bridge of his nose, the direct center of his head, compensated for asymmetry.
The scream reached the impressive height of the ceiling, bounced back, and again, before the drinking man fell. The goon holding KL’s arm made to rush over to his fallen friend, the rest of them resisting wiping beaded foreheads before joining him.
Caprello carefully took his own drink from the table, which had no smudges of fingers or lips, and held it delicately with two fingers, tipping it a milimeter at a time. A drop turned into many, and then a stream, the fire crawling up that cascade, almost reaching the glass. Then Caprello dropped it and placed his hand back on the cane.
The cane. It had been revealed, what lay inside. KL recognized it. A neurocircuit module, but what was more curious was the name stamped on the side. Ambrosia.
The fire done with its work, silence ruling the chamber, Caprello spoke. “My boys tell me you’re a rat. I know better. You know better. You have ten seconds to finish what you started, otherwise you’ll join your friend and we’ll strip your neurocore and find the answers ourselves.” Still not a blink, forehead dry of persperation. Not. A. Breath.
KL scanned his database for that name, miliseconds ticking down: needle prods. Then second: hammer strikes.
8.
9.
There it was. She was.
“Someone. Not something. We found someone. Amby.”
Caprello became even more still, more still than the simulation of human micro-movements he had been expertly performing. Eyelids pulled back beyond irises, just enough to confirm what KL already knew. CAP-479 was fond of nicknames. Had always been. Something he had picked up from his Maker, one of the first, on Boyer Avenue. Caprello had given him the breadcrumbs. Who Ambrosia was, KL still wasn’t sure, but like all the men he had observed around the card table when they weren’t lighting the streets with gunfire, bluffs were a currency.
Caprello lost all control. He was on his feet in a blur, dropping the charade he had endured for twenty years, thirty five days, sixteen hours, eleven minutes, and thirteen point five six seconds.
The man who had killed HN fired his gun, the smartest one of the bunch apparently, bullet too slow for Caprello, who twisted around its path and tore the attacker’s head off, releasing a crimson fountain.
KL kept his head down, on his knees, even his hands still behind his back, crossed at the wrists while gunshots, screams, and blood sprayed. All KL could think of was the crashing waves off the dock, down the beach. Close.
And in the chaos, he ran.
Leave a Reply