Subjectivity: Chapter Twenty-One

Seated once more in the Phoenix Cloud, the world had quickly fallen away and was replaced by the northern coast of what was once NELO. The sun blazed overhead with unfaltering brilliance in what appeared to be a sunny summer day, heating the sun under foot to burning warmth. The sea water that rolled in with the tide was bright blue, clear, and impossibly clean, and it sparkled in the unblemished light of the sun. Farther in land, the sandy beaches gave way to rolling grassy hills, and where they were once intermittently displaced by large metal plates, such were non-existent. More curiously, for a relatively small island, the beach spread out forever in either direction, and no signs of humanity could be found: the massive complex that was NELO was instead merely a continuation of the rolling plains, and the near spectre of Graham City was nowhere to be found. No roads or paths could be found, either. Nevertheless, it was a sublimely serene setting, bereft of any of the hardships that human existence would offer, and in truth it was a paradise to any who were gifted with seeing it.

Roe found himself as he always did when entering the Phoenix Cloud: donning his white Subject garb, save any sort of shoes, a vital necessity of the mental highway that the system was. For it was through conscious contact with the other Subjects that Roe would bid them to do what must be done, or rather, to persuade them through chemical imbalances and subliminal messaging in their subconscious. It was a terribly devious act, he found, and upon such thoughts, the beautiful sunny sky above dimmed, as though it was mourning the fact he had faced. Resolute to not disturb the beauty of the scenery and by proxy affect the minds of millions, Roe put such human emotions out of mind and simply enjoyed the peace that the Phoenix Cloud allowed him. Truly he would have only enjoyed it more had, much to his own surprise, two others accompanied him. Weeks past, he had staged a mock fight with Sonya Volkov, a militant young woman with a spirit for rebellion, and through their physical interactions, he had found he admired her greatly. Her strength was indicative of a good mind, and her poised nature saw that she did not become lost in their fight, thus giving her the opportunity to strike him; something he had, until then, considered an impossibility when he actively sought to deter such from happening. The second was Stephan, the only person capable of truly empathising with him on a personal level. Such was a great feat in Roe’s mind, for he knew well that none were like he when it came to their emotional state. Truly, he was unique in such a regard, and what remained of his ego following months of captivity and forced compliance wore it like a badge of honour, which displayed his mastery over emotions.

In the Phoenix Cloud, however, it was a necessity that he continued his works. ‘The Reformation was must go ahead’ his own voice whispered to him quietly, and in the distance, Roe could see the calm ocean grow slightly frothy. ‘For all those you care for,’ it drawled, almost mocking the warm feelings he felt for them. “Do not chide me for what you can never have,” the solitary man snapped abruptly, the emotion in his voice causing him to raise a hand to his lips, for he was in disbelief that such intensity could be of his own volition. ‘You are weaker than me,’ his own voice chided him once more, ‘Because you rely on them.’ Roe slowly rose to his feet, his barefooted gait silent as he stepped closer to the ocean. Casting his cool azure gaze into the sky, he felt an intense burning sensation in his chest, in his heart. Weaving his hands together behind his back, he spoke to the sun itself, as though it was the source of the internal argument: “Yes, I do rely on them,” the blond Subject admitted, though continued with a vital stipulation of his previous comment. “Because they are dear to me, I rely on their wellbeing to go on.” Sitting just before the edge of where the tide rolled in, he extended his foot, flattening his leg, and allowing the ocean to trickle against it, and he watched the almost surreal perfection of the undulating ocean be made imperfect by his presence. “Humanity corrupts everything it touches,” he thought aloud, “Because it is corrupted.” Retracting his leg, he allowed the water to continue its ebb and flow, content to merely watch, seated with his legs crossed. The heat of the sun beat down upon him and for a long time the sinister voice inside him did not speak. Relishing in the peace, he reached forward, touching the water as it rolled in, willing his mind to do the same with the Phoenix Cloud.

It was much like being mildly electrocuted, Roe found, when he joined with the mind of another in the system. Though merely the recording and forwarding of electrical discharges to the Phoenix Cloud and subsequently passed to him, the system at hand felt as though the Subject was instantly an ant in comparison to the complexity of so many minds at once, a God in his power over them, an angel in his judgement, and a demon in his corruption of them. ‘Everything and nothing,’ the voice whispered to him as he closed his eyes. A sharp breath was drawn in as his mind joined with another Subject’s, and he determined the latter to be a Japanese woman in Yokohama, Japan. “Generation 10, I.D: 10237579,” he spoke aloud, noting the woman as forty-five years of age and one of Evan Westerburg’s Subject Children from the man’s youth. Currently at work, he apologised silently before speaking aloud, “I, Roe Speremus, child of Lady Bellerose, Matron of Subjects, command you to kill everyone who is not a Subject.” His words were dark and ominous, though his steeled resolution did not waver, and though for what was to him an order, for her it was a sequence of nigh instant chemical imbalances in the brain, causing the woman to become entirely psychotic. Rising from her seat, the woman hefted a computer screen before her in hand, and hurled it down upon the man in the cubicle next to her own. Though not heavy enough to kill, the blunt instrument sent him off his chair and into the ground, bleeding and groaning in pain. However Roe’s command was absolute, and the woman would not cease until she was dead. Scrambling over the partition between their desks like a wild animal, she landed on him, and with her long nails, tore at his throat silently. Screams of horror and for someone to save the man fell on her deaf ears as she brutalised the man, rending him of his neck’s flesh with bent hands and a blank stare. A man grasped her by the midsection, dragging her off her fallen prey, but she was not so easily deterred.

The woman turned on her victim’s would-be savior, a security guard, and bit deeply into the flesh of his hand that went to grab her face, removing the chunk of human and spitting it away before, as the man screamed in agony, removing his weapon and shooting him point blank in the face, sending gore and brain matter across the glass windows behind them. Turning the weapon on those around her, she fired seven more shots into innocent bystanders before continuing her assault with her hands and mouth. Eight people lay dead around her desk, and many more fled down the elevator and stairs, some crying and others calling for someone to call the police, though it was all drowned out by the piercing cry of the fire alarm. The sleek, modern desks around her were ignored as she ran past them with maddened abandon, before closing the distance between her and a young secretary; a man looking to be in his late twenties. The young man had apparently called the police, for a phone was in his hand, though such did not deter the insane Subject who used the opportunity to grasp him by the upper arm and forearm and snap the man’s elbow backward, sending him to the ground, clutching it with pain. Stepping over him, she grasped his head with both her hands and with another loud crack, broke his neck and killed him instantly.

Roe could watch no more, however, and shut his link with the woman, feeling disgust and guilt rise in his throat as bile. While he had focused on the foul task at hand, the idyllic setting around him had turned violent. The waves had drenched him thoroughly, and crashed against the dull, sandy shore with deafening booms, before retreating, gaining speed, and repeating the action. The Sun, once bright and cheerful, had been blotted out and thick clouds dumping torrents of now realised rain onto him. Thundering and sending lightning into the grassy plains and torrential ocean, the skies delivered their unbridled fury in the theatre of Roe’s mind. Stumbling to his feet, the Subject was only to fall backward, stiff with horror as he realised the truth of the ocean. Where deep blue purity had once been, the ocean instead was blood red, and he reeked of blood and death. “I am not a murderer!” He screamed brokenly, staring at his own clawed hands, sticky with thick blood. ‘But you killed those people as that woman. Or was that not you, because you did not pull the trigger? Because you did not tear the man’s flesh from his neck? Because you did not break the neck of the other? Or any of the other actions you have her doing now?’ The voice in his head mocked him ruthlessly. Once pure, white clothing, now covered in crimson, The Subject reviled in his blood soaked state, and so he shirked his clothing from his form, throwing them into the ocean, and was now only clad in his undergarments. The rain was cold and caused him to shiver, though he ignored it, and he turned away from the bloody ocean, only to come face to face with an unknown figure.

“I am not a murder!” He shouted once more, “I will not keep doing this!” He stated defiantly, though the person across from him seemed unfazed by his words. Adorning a black mockery of the Subject garb, he was Roe’s duplicate in every detail, save his age and midnight-black hair. So dark were the cropped locks that no light could enter them, and so dim was his clothing that the failing light of his mind could reach. Though where the blond Subject’s eyes were cool and filled with knowledge, the newcomer’s gaze was fiery and filled with emotion. Instantly recognising him to be fourteen years of age, through memory or sense he could not say, the boy seemed hauntingly familiar to the unstable Subject. Having been inside the mind of a woman forcibly gone mad, he felt the contamination of her insanity still prevalent in his own. “You are me,” Roe spoke quietly, though stepped back as the teenager advanced upon him. ‘I am what you should be,’ the voice spoke in his mind once more, though the figure before him did not, and instead mouthed the words that were spoken in his mind. “You are a figment of my imagination, then: a manifestation of the scourge of madness that has spread from that woman to me.” Collecting himself with every word spoken, he regained his nerves. Stepping forward, he stared down at the younger male coolly. ‘You cannot deny me so easily’ the voice spoke to him, warning in its tone, and once more the child mouthed the sentence. “I will not do this anymore, I will not kill innocents for Laevan’s mad plan of world peace.” The teenager stepped toward Roe, extending a pale hand to take the Subject in his own, though the latter retracted his appendage, and the younger of the two ceased his attempt.

Turning to face the blood ocean, Roe found that the sand was now near black with the corruption laden in it from the deluge of crimson, though found himself accosted by the voice of the teen behind him, or so he suspected. ‘If you do not comply, everyone you care for will die.’ Looking over his shoulder, the blond Subject found the child to no longer be there, and instead looked back at the blood ocean before him. Taking a deep breath once more, he stepped into the surf, and the electric shock that accompanied such was tenfold to previously. His command would go out to all Subjects in Eurasia, and Roe knew that, were there a god, he would pay dearly for the crime he was about to commit. The storm around him worsened, and the waves grew higher, buffeting his legs with such ferocity that he was almost knocked over. Barely keeping his footing, he extended his arms outward. “Subjects!” He called out into the endless ocean before him, and the water around him grew darker as his malicious intent became known to the Phoenix Cloud. “I, Roe Speremus, command you! Wreak chaos and throw this world into discord!” The world around him became a true cacophony of madness, then. The waves threw him backward, and his head knocked against hard ground with such ferocity he was momentarily blinded. The rain fell then as blood, and the ground below him had begun to wither. His command had been given, and the blood of thousands has already been shed in seconds. The guilt of it all was overwhelming, disgusting, and unbearable and so he shut his eyes to the miserable world he had created. They would never forgive him, he realised: Stephan, Sonya, Vadim, Mother Natalie, Logan and all the others would loathe him. It was necessary, he affirmed to himself, it was right, he tried to convince himself. It was his only option, Roe then realised.

~*~

Fear was the hallmark of their escape, for it was fear of death that drove Subject and social dissident alike to run as they had never done before. Knee-high snowdrifts covered the mountainside and wore at one’s strength without repose with the impertinent resistance they caused. The twilight air was cold and stung to breath, though it too was ignored by those who fled. The smell of death acted as incentive to make their escape. Pungent and all encompassing, it filled the failing day with its nauseating scents to such a degree that to take a deep breath would see one become sick. Vadim sprinted with his entire being, his lungs burning fiercely and his legs aching terribly. Marcella ran before him, her breath laboured and short, much akin to his own, and Adymn was behind him, the former guard seeming to fare the best between the three of them. They and those with them were cowards, and the shame of fleeing while so many others had lived was a crushing reality, but one that had to be accepted, for were they to have stayed, they would have been made lambs to the slaughter by the killing machines of the Trans-Pacific Republic. The deafening boom of cannon-fire from tanks, coupled with their lethal electrical discharge, sounded without end, and every so often its supremacy over sound would be broken by screams or cries for mercy. No such kindnesses were given, however, for man, woman and child were slain indiscriminately with any and all means necessary. The soldiers at hand, though not marked with any affiliating standards or insignia, transferred Laevan’s hatred unto the innocents on the bloodstained snowy fields.

Vadim could only guess at how many Subjects were still alive, and from the most recent count of seven thousand refugees, he estimated, from the small groups fleeing in all directions, no more than a thousand now lived, and such a number was declining quickly. An ear-splitting scream echoed nearby, and he lurched his head in the direction of such, never slowing his sprint. Soldiers atop what appeared to be jeeps trundled through the snow, rifles continually firing into a nearby group of Subject children. More bullets were fired and a dimly lit figure near to Vadim collapsed into the snow, crying out in pain. Sliding to a stop in the snow, he turned sharply and ran to her location, his lungs crying out for him to cease his torture of them, and his aching legs furthering such bodily pleading manifestations. Much to his grim horror, he found the teenage girl sprawled in the snow which was stained red around her side. She clutched at her kidney, whimpering in pain. Seeing her lay there so defenseless, he hefted the girl and slung her over his back, much to her own agony due to her bullet wound being forced into his shoulder blade. “Leave me,” she sobbed into his shoulder, weakly pushing against his much stronger grip. “I’ll just get you killed too!” She continued her protestations; however such fell on deaf ears. Readjusting his grasp, Vadim grabbed the younger female by the legs and forced her to sling her arms over his shoulders. The two continued on, though were now much slower than he had previously been.

Now moving at little more than a jog, the Russian Subject pushed forward, his breath coming out raggedly, and his legs shaking with the added weight of another person and from his own insurmountable fatigue. “I won’t leave you behind,” he spoke between breaths, and shook his head as he felt her beginning to argue. Forcing himself well past the point of complete exhaustion, he increased his speed, forcing his ruined muscles to redouble their efforts. “I won’t!” He repeated more sternly, affirming such to both the girl and himself. “I couldn’t,” coughing hoarsely from exhaustion, he saw what Adymn has suspected they would find, were they to flee up the mountain; a cave. “Too many people have died, too many have suffered. I won’t let another person die when I can stop it,” Vadim could see the silhouettes of some of the Subject children he had fled with, along with two more adult figures, ones he suspected to be Marcella and Adymn. His hope renewed, he forced himself ever faster into a run once more, tripping and stumbling not upon any sort of obstruction hidden in the snow, but instead over his own numb legs. Reaching the mouth of the cave, the exhausted Subject was met with the faces of his friends and the other Subjects who had escaped with them.

Cold rock underfoot, Vadim collapsed to his knees, and the girl whom he had carried slipped off his back and fell to the ground with a resounding thud, groaning in pain and clutching her bloody wound. The warmth of her blood was evident over the Subject’s back, though he ignored it and merely fell forward, hyperventilating as his body could finally rest. “Marcella,” he rasped, and the Moroccan woman appeared at his side, “The girl, she was shot, help her…” His eyes grew dim as he struggled to regain a regular breathing pattern. His heart bounded loudly, causing him to be almost deaf to the world around him. He could see a set of covered arms link through his shoulders and begin to drag him further into the cave. “Help her,” he murmured as his heartbeat gradually slowed. Turned onto his back, he stared up at the rocky ceiling of the cave for a long time, allowing himself the time to rest and recover. Roughly twenty children, aging from six to sixteen, were crowded into the dark cave, and sat in huddled groups, whispering to one another and casting wary looks at the entrance to the cave. Recovering from his exhaustion, though too weak to sit up, Vadim heard them too well: some children wept quietly, held by their friends and First Family, while others kept their gazes fixed on nothing, sightlessly wishing for it all to end, for the fear to pass and for happiness to return to their lives.

“In this world, only strength can see you live on,” a voice spoke from Vadim’s side, and looking over sharply, the Russian man found Adymn seated next to him, his gaze haunted and distant. “In this world of Laevan’s, pain is the hallmark of our existence. We’re in pain because we’re alone, because we’re hated, because we hate, because we have nowhere to go.” His words struck with such truth that the strong façade Vadim had worn for so long buckled ever so slightly, though he redoubled his efforts to remain composed for all those who relied on him. Every one person in the cave had relied on him to lead them to the cave, to point them in the direction of safety. He had failed many more, and so he could not allow others to die for his mistakes. “But can we really blame one man?” The former guard cast his hazel gaze to Vadim, silently imploring him for the answer, his eyes evermore pained and hollow. “Or is it just that humans are destined to wipe themselves off the world? Will our legacy in the universe be one of violence?” Looking forward once more, the newcomer drew in a sharp breath as he shook his head against what he had spoken, refuting it with his being. Laid upon his back, the Subject was still too weak to sit up, and his legs cried out, throbbing agonisingly with every passing second for a nonexistent cure from their overuse. “Why do we fight? Is it to keep ourselves safe?” Adymn scoffed, shaking his head, “Safe from what?” Looking to the mouth of the cave, his face contorted with anger and sadness. “What do they fight for? For justice? What justice is there in killing unarmed people and children!?” He snapped, and many of the otherwise hushed conversations around them were silenced and all attention drawn on them. “Why do so many have to die for the bloodlust we all carry in our hearts? This urge to hurt one another?” His tone fell to once more being resigned, and he fell silent.

With agonising slowness and unbridled pain, Vadim slowly pushed himself up into a seated position against the wall of the cave, next to Adymn, who watched him blindly, too caught up in his own thoughts to realise the pain that the former was feeling due to his extreme muscle overuse. Once he had finally righted himself, the blood-soaked Subject motioned for his compatriot to look to where Marcella tended to the wounded girl he had carried. “Look there, Adymn,” He spoke quietly, “Do you see how Marcella helps the girl?” The former guard nodded once, a quizzical look upon his face. “She doesn’t help the girl because she expects payment, or because she wants the glory of being the one who saved her, and you obviously know that. She does it because she cares.” The now silent American nodded, and the two fell silent as the Subject considered his words. All around them, pain and suffering was evident. Children still sniffled and sobbed quietly, terrified of a prospect that should not be upon their minds; the prospect of death. They had every right to be scared, Vadim decided, and he did not hold it against them. “People often say that life is pain, because the heart feels pain so easily.” Looking over, he smiled a sad, small smile. “But I don’t think that’s the entire truth. Yes, pain is easily felt because we are so accustomed to it, though… the heart can feel love, can feel kindness and happiness, too.” Looking back to their mutual Moroccan friend and her patient, Adymn nodded. “She does it out of love; love of humanity.” Casting his weary gaze to the natural born man once more, he nodded, “So don’t despair, not yet at least. I think that the good things in the world we miss aren’t gone yet.”

Adymn opened his mouth to speak, though closed it as muffled footsteps could be heard outside, and a contingent of three unmarked soldiers stood before the mouth of the cave. “Freeze!” One of them shouted, and the entire cave became entirely still, every pair of conscious eyes trained upon the three men who held automatic rifles against unarmed children and three young adults. Marcella, however, pointedly ignored their demands and continued using the bandages and sutures they had retrieved from the medic’s tent at the refugee camp to stop the teenage girl’s bleeding. “I said stop!” The man shouted once more, and a single gunshot rang out. Marcella grunted and toppled to the side, holding her upper thigh as blood oozed between her fingers. “Maybe we’ll start the executions with the would-be doctor, hm?” The man chuckled grimly as he looked to his cohorts, who only nodded, and remained otherwise silent. The man motioned for one of his fellow soldiers to step forward, and the second man did as he was bid. Standing over Marcella, rifle in hand, his de facto superior behind him tsked, “If only we had the neurotoxic bullets. Sadly you lot aren’t worth that kind of ammunition, so we’ll be killing you the old boring way.” Vadim struggled to stand, though felt a firm hand on his leg, Adymn’s hand, who forced him down, and the former winced in pain from his torn muscles being compressed. Looking down to his leg and back up to his face, the latter silently questioned what he had hoped to do. Subtly twitching his hand in such a way as to get the guard’s attention, the man nodded and handed him one of the hand guns he had brought with them before slowly rising to a stand.

“Look, we all just need to calm down, here.” Adymn said coolly, keeping his hands raised into the air, and feigning a limp as she slowly walked forward. Three rifles were trained on him then, and he paused, fear laden on his face. “These are children, don’t you see that? What is their crime? Existence? I don’t see that being a crime easily remedied!” The man who held a gun over Marcella snorted, about to speak, though the American protector interrupted him, “Right, they’re Subjects, so they’re not entitled to justice or kindness. How simple that makes your jobs, why, you’re not better than beasts preying on injured prey!” Now standing next to Marcella’s fallen form, he shouted: “Vade! Now!” Before dropping to his side, grasping the fallen woman, and rolling with her backward, out of the man’s immediate range. Vadim himself wasted no time, aiming his borrowed weapon, and with three gunshots, the three soldiers crumpled to the ground, brain matter strewn across rock and snow alike. The messy sound of a bloodied bodied smacking into rock echoed noisily, and many of the children whined or cried aloud in fear, however remained otherwise silent. It was a cruel thing, the Subject thought, that children could become desensitised to death. “Shit,” Adymn swore silently as he looked to the Marcella, who clutched her thigh, groaning in pain, before looking to the three soldiers’ corpses. Looking to Vadim, his visage laden with a hopeless look of panic, he paled. “What do we do, Vade?”

A voice in his own mind, not of his own person, whispered to the weakened Subject, then: ‘It is through strife that we see the grandeur of beauty, brother.’ The voice was of a man he had not spoken to, nor seen in months, of a man so far removed from humanity that he could scarcely be considered human, for his control over himself was absolute. It was Roe Speremus’ voice that permeated Vadim’s thoughts, then, silently urging him to stand, to fight, to lead. Against his own ruined leg muscles’ outcries, he forced himself to a stand with agonisingly slowness, shirking away aid offered by the one who had asked for his counsel. His legs burned under his weight, and they wobbled without end. Nevertheless, he stood. “You put it beautifully, Roe…” He whispered to himself, smiling, faintly remembering a conversation the two had shared in happier times. “Life is painful to make happier times better.” Looking up to Adymn, he shambled toward the fallen Marcella, hefting her upward and allowing her injured leg to be left limp as she used him for support. “Don’t you see?” He questioned, before raising his voice. “Everyone!” He called out, and the many Subject children returned their attention to him once more. “I know you are scared, I know that these men dying are a terrifying thing. I know your pain!” He exclaimed, his voice growing stronger as he grew more assured in what had been imparted unto him through insanity or an unknown connection. “I know this, because I feel it in my heart, too! But do not let that fear take you! People say life is pain because the heart feels sorrow easily.” Slashing his hand through the air, he barked out triumphantly: “I disagree vehemently! Life is glorious! Life is good! Life is beautiful! Because we suffer, we know to appreciate the good times. Right now I appreciate the kindnesses imparted onto me by my friends, the gentle touches of ones we hold dear, the loving embrace of one who holds a special place in our hearts! Life is good because we love!” Turning toward the mouth of the cave, he pointed forward. “Brothers and sisters of NELO! My First Family! Do as our older brother Roe has asked; live on! Live for happier times!” Shambling forward, he found himself invigorated, emboldened, and strengthened in all manners. “To freedom! To a brighter tomorrow!” Cheers erupted then, and for all the death that had fallen they, the innocents of a refugee camp besieged with cruelty, that group of frightened children and injured young men and woman, rejoiced.

~*~

Sonya found that high heels were likely the most uncomfortable and difficult kind of footwear one could wear. Through the perpetual clacking that sounded so loudly to the nigh constant state of nearly breaking an ankle, she was thoroughly unfamiliar and uncomfortable in them. Moreover, she was garbed in a fiery dress that was slung over only one shoulder that trailed behind her with her hair curled and left in loose tresses down her back. The Russian woman felt as though she was a doll owned by a child with a propensity for finer dress. Much to her own surprise, she had found herself in such a beautiful dress after being caught bringing a prisoner, off route, to another prisoner and had not been reprimanded for such whatsoever, and nor had Stephan or Ludwig. According to one of the many scientists that worked on the Phoenix Cloud, she had been commended, as her actions had led to the Subject Roe Speremus entering the system more willingly and finally progressed the Prime Chancellor’s agenda. Moreover, upon hearing of her deeds, she and the prisoner Stephan had been personally invited by Doran Laevan to dinner, along with Roe, as part of a benefit the powerful man was holding. Thus she sat in the awkward silence of the Gherkin Alpha’s ornate lobby, bereft of any life, save herself and the ever uncomfortable looking Greek fellow she had only recently met. Pushing her long auburn hair over her shoulder, the curled locks bounced lightly, and she cursed the man who had styled her hair and applied her makeup fiercely in her mind. She was not a weakling who needed to look pretty to validate her existence, and she did not need to pretend to be friends with Laevan who had put her little brother in harm’s way, whether her realised it or not.

The Gherkin Alpha’s main lobby stretched three stories high and its distant ceiling was marked by three massive chandeliers encased in gold and glittering with crystal. The walls were a cream colour and adorned with various paintings of great historical figures above wainscoting that stretched around the entire room. The exterior rounded wall, was interspaced with thirty foot tall stained glass windows which were melded together by clear glass that let in the night air. Large reception areas marked the lobby with sets of ornate couches and chairs, empty coffee carafes and tea kettles having been long since finished by patrons of the Trans-Pacific Republic’s central offices on the floating One City. A set of roughly ten elevators sat farther in, and acted as silent sentries to a set of wide oak double doors that led into the executive area of the lobby. Looking to Stephan, Sonya could not help but smirk, for although she felt uncomfortable in her clothing, he looked much akin to a pouting child, pulling and tugging at the many garment layers of his tuxedo. Wearing shining black dress shoes, silver dress pants that shimmered with a metallic gleam, a black tuxedo jacket with coat tails that ended in points around the back of the knee, a white dress shirt and a black bowtie, he looked the picture of royalty, less a crown. Once filthy and matted hair had been cut, trimmed and styled to the latest styles, and the Russian woman admitted that for a prisoner who had recently spent his days crumpled on a feces-marred cell floor, he struck a handsome figure. “Don’t look so displeased,” she chided him, causing his sea-green gaze to flicker to her, “We might get the chance to kill him tonight. You’re only there to make sure that your friend continues to follow his orders, whatever those happen to be.”

Stephan only scoffed at the absurdity of such, returning his gaze to the entrance to the Gherkin Alpha and crossed a leg loosely over the other. “We couldn’t do that,” he disagreed plainly, “He’d just become a martyr. The world needs to realise what a demon he is before we can move.” Sonya mused over how simply he had accepted her as his ally, and how he did not question if she was simply there to spy on him. In truth, such were her orders, and he knew so, but he did not believe that she would betray him, even though they had just met. It was a logical absurdity for one so tortured to be so trusting still, and though she begrudgingly admired such qualities in the young man who had endured so much. “If there was another way, I would seek it, truly…” Stephan spoke, trailing off as he leaned his head against a loosely clenched fist, from which his elbow had been propped up on the arm of his chair. “Death is a terrible thing, we shouldn’t wish it on those we hate, lest it come for those we love.” A distant look befell his visage, and he frowned. “Those children in that town, I hope – no I pray that they can forgive me for not saving them,” agony was truly laden in his voice, though he seemed too unhappy over the memory to weep. ‘Or perhaps he’s cried all the tears a person can weep in a life,’ she mused morbidly, sympathy weakening her resolve for a long moment as her newly found comrade became evermore lost in his thoughts. Reaffirming her poise, she pushed such morbid thoughts out of her head.

To her, it seemed like an eternity, however in reality roughly twenty minutes had passed until their means of transportation had arrived. A set of glass doors among many others parted and two heavily armed soldiers held them open, facing one another. Walking through the parted entry, a lanky figure garbed in a simple suit bowed slightly. “I am here to transport Lady Sonya Volkov and Lord Stephan Tharros,” the man spoke in a deep, subserviently refined voice indicative of a man cultured to serve those who had tastes for only the finest things. Sonya rolled her eyes at being addressed as though she were a lady from a long gone era of hierarchical nobility. Rising to his feet, Stephan smoothed down his tuxedo, still pulling at the fine fabrics uncomfortably, evidently also still unused to such finery. The driver hurried toward them, bowing once more, “This way, milord, milady.” With that, the man stepped aside and ushered them forward. With the noisy clack of dress shoe and high heel on marble floors, the Greek male hooked his arm with the auburn haired woman, and she smirked, rolling her grey eyes, before retracting her arm to place her hand on his forearm. Passing through the doors, the night air was humid and threatening more rain. Evidently the One City had not moved far from the equator, given the nigh-perpetual raining that the winter season wrought upon such a place on the earth. Before them in a street that circled around the courtyard which led to the entry to the Gherkin Alpha. Stopped in the circle was a sleep, curved black limousine, which seemed to almost hover over the asphalt. The driver hurried past them at a distance before opening one of the long, narrow doors of his vehicle. Inside, they saw the dull blue hues of synthetic organic lighting, the product of the artificial construction of bioluminescence. Stepping ever closer, Sonya’s gaze drifted to the massive high rise buildings which loomed all around the Gherkin Alpha, as if stuck in a synchronised advance upon the unique building.

Lights glittered in the buildings and the sound of nightlife could be heard all around, and it was then that the livelihood of the One City was impressed upon the young Russian woman. To her knowledge, the city held then sixteen million people, and although the vast majority of people lived in the far off suburbs, the core of the city, situated around the Gherkin Alpha, was perpetually alive with noise and movement. Given the wealth that most city inhabitants held in the first to third districts of the city, the amount of money provided to fund private enterprise was so vast that the night life of the city demanded only the best. Stepping into the vehicle, plush artificial fabrics met Sonya as she sat, and as she was followed by Stephan, the two sat on the back booth of the limousine, facing a bar on the right, another booth on the left, and on the far side of the large vehicle, another booth. Upon the nearby bar were seated countless bottles of colourful drinks and priceless champagnes, though neither of them seem interested in drinking. The door was closed and silence fell over the two of them like a heavy blanket, neither comfortable with speaking of anything of real importance following their oddly open conversation in the elevator weeks past. “Have you ever met him?” Stephan asked as the car slowly rolled forward, before picking up speed smoothly. Looking to her right, the young woman he had addressed cocked a copper brow, and he elaborated: “Doran Laevan, have you met him?” The question seemed almost absurd to her, but Sonya abstained from being rude, given her utilitarian control over her emotions and her lack of desire to confabulate with the young man next to her. Shaking her head, though remaining silent, the verdant eyed man pressed for conversation, much to her disdain. “Where are you from? Your accent sounds Slavic – I’m sorry if that’s wrong, but… Are you a Subject?”

The questions given were curious ones, and as she adjusted the far too form fitting garment she wore, whose glistening fabric rustled quietly under her, before speaking. “You’re somewhat right,” she admitted, and he kept his focus on her as buildings rushed by outside, “I am from Russia. The Murmansk Oblast, if you know where that is: it’s east of the Swedish border.” Letting her focus turn from the attentive young man, she looked out the window next to her. Outside, the massive skyscrapers had given way to shorter ones that did not breach the clouds, and instead these buildings were, though tall, not in such a fashion that their bases took up entire suburban block-sized areas. “Where I am from, it’s n like this city whatsoever,” she explained coolly, “There are no giant towers for the rich and famous, no opulent lobbies for people to wait in.” Returning her gaze to inside the vehicle, she looked disdainfully over the boorish display of liquor, not believing that either of them would risk even slight inebriation. “Just drugs, starvation, and hatred.” She smirked bitterly, her withering gaze much akin to another Stephan knew well. She fell silent then, and her counterpart did not interrupt upon her thoughts, and instead was content to watch the downtown centre of the One City flash by with an ephemeral, hollow beauty. The greatest architects in the world had been contracted to contrast the floating fortress city, and with them came modern, sweeping structures that seemed to defy logic. Ahead of them, at one point, they saw a building which leaned over the street one hundred stories into the air and joined with a mirrored building on the other side. Shortly after the horseshoe shaped building was a structure that seemed split in two as it grew taller, though on closer inspection such was merely an optical illusion.

After roughly an hour in transit, grandly dressed soldier and prisoner arrived at what appeared to be one of the most exclusive restaurants. The title, laid out in a language neither of them appeared to recognise following an exchange of shrugged shoulders of confusion, and below it a wall of uninterrupted glass as wide as a city block stood before them, revealing another opulent reception area inside where a large mahogany desk sat to the side, and sets of high backed chairs and couches were seated away from the glass wall, facing toward the sets of closed equally dark wooden doors. With the door opened for them, Stephan stepped out first smoothly, before, as Sonya exited, offering her his hand, which she took before curling her fingers around his bicep lightly as they walked. If they wished to accomplish anything, they had to act as though they belonged, and evidently such a realisation had donned on them both early on. The sidewalk, as wide as a single lane of traffic, was barred by velvet ropes on golden posts, and all around journalists and what appeared to be fans shouted, some screaming, adoration toward all those who arrived. “Wave,” Stephan whispered to his supposed date, before doing so himself. Sonya followed suit shortly, finding such self-gratification disgusting and improper for any self-respecting human. However he counterpart expertly forced kindness and polite statements as he met those on either side with easy smiles. “It’s such a pleasure to be here, thank you!” He called out to a few of the paparazzi gathered closer to the street, “I hope you all enjoy your nights!” He continued as they grew closer to the doors. The Russian soldier could not force such happy words and merely gave the faintest of unconvincing smiles, cursing at herself for being so lowborn. Evidently her counterpart knew how to act in such situations, and she was left to be his toady, a piece of arm candy, as her brother might put it. “I’m sorry for this,” the sea-green eyed man whom she held loosely with her left hand apologised quietly, “It’s not easy for me either. I just learned from a dear friend how to keep a calm face in times of strife. You’re doing great, I can assure you.”

Not forced to wait, they were immediately greeted by men in fine serving tuxedos, who humbly bowed as they entered. Both prisoner and soldier withered at the subservient display, but upon the greeters’ rise, they smiled and nodded. “This way my lord, my lady,” an elderly man looking to hail from Australia spoke in a dignified tone, and led them toward the sets of mahogany doors as tall as cathedral entries. The doors parted without any assistance and inside was a truly awe inspiring sight. Standing upon a raised balcony, they looked over what appeared to be a Renaissance-era ballroom, appointed with grand pearl-white columns dressed with gold filigree, tables and chairs set for the Emperor of the Holy Roman Empire, and on the far side of the room was a stage left empty. The floors were seamless white granite that seemed to sparkle in the light of numerous grandiose chandeliers hanging from on high. Their attending geriatric, as Sonya had come to think of the old Australian man, led them down one of two identical sets of curving stairs, and their noisy footsteps were silenced by the lively conversation of roughly one hundred people seated at tables distanced from one another by a healthy birth. Taken closer and closer to the stage, the three happened upon an elongated table with both pleasant and unpleasantly familiar faces staring at them. Seating only six, four guests had already arrived. Much to Stephan’s thinly veiled joy, Roe Speremus, garbed identically to the Greek man, sat to the right of the head of the table. Across from him, on the left of the head of the table, was none other than Natalie Bellerose, former Administrator of NELO and Mother of the Subjects. Next to her was Martin Godfried, grizzled war veteran from the Second American Civil War and Chancellor Defense, but it was the man who championed the table that commanded the strongest emotions.

Sonya felt her hand grip Stephan’s arm tighter, and the young man’s gaze bore into the aged man’s person with hatred she thought impossible from such a kind man. Seated there in a chair fit for a king was none other than Doran Laevan, enemy of the people. Clothed in the colours of the Trans-Pacific Republic, he wore a burgundy jacket with shimmering lapels adorned with both a black phoenix and the circle of golden stars on either side, grey pants, and a white shirt with black cravat; he struck the figure of a triumphant and magnificent king. He spoke then, in his signature grand tone, full of power and authority: “Stephan Tharros, Sonya Volkov. I have heard much about you both!” He boomed with pride and false dignity, “Please, take your seats.” Motioning to the far end of the table, “Miss Volkov, the seat fit for a true powerful lady.” Sonya slowly walked over to equally grand chair, which was pulled back for her by one of the attending waiters before gently pushed in as she sat. Taking the only available seat, Stephan cast a worried look to Roe, whose eyes were hollow and his face gaunt with undetermined emotions. Silence fell over the six of them with such propensity that none dared to look at another; Sonya kept her gaze firmly on the multiplicity of cutlery before her, Chancellor Godfried on the pocket watch he twirled through his gloved fingers, Natalie Bellerose upon nothing, her eyes as haunted as the Subject across from her, Stephan’s gaze was upon the folded hands of the aforementioned Subject which trembled in his lap, Roe looked on at the nearby stage, though nothing had occurred on it since they had arrive, and Doran Laevan, Prime Chancellor of the Trans-Pacific Republic, never let his gaze leave any of the three youngest of their table. “Shall we not converse?” The man questioned, a grin pulling at his lips as he gestured flippantly, “It would be rude not to.” Turning to the blond Subject whose hands shook without end, the latter removed his cold azure sight from the stage and onto the man he hated most of all. “Roe, tell us all of the Phoenix Cloud. No doubt your friend and guard are curious as to what it is.” Looking to Sonya, whose expression was blatantly surprised, he chuckled lightly, “Oh yes, I heard of that little escapade. And while I applaud you for your ingenuity, it is important you understand what it is we are doing.”

Natalie stiffened then, her once loving and maternal eyes snapping to her near-Nobody son who had become so instrumental to Laevan, then to the two who had become just as vital in keeping him in line; Stephan and Sonya. Roe turned his sights to Martin Godfried for a moment, the scarred man seeming to have no interest in the topic at hand. “The Phoenix Cloud allows me to make mental contact with other Subjects. It is much akin to how mobile phone reception works, however the process is internalised into chemical reactions in the brain.” Steadying his hands for a moment, he looked to the young man to his left. “It is also an effective means of pursuing His Excellency’s plans to maintain peace through the Subject population, as they can be effectively used to guarantee world order. The system is unique in that I, and only a scarce few other Subjects alive, can use the Phoenix Cloud, as it requires one with a near detached ego and with cognitive functionality superior to that of a commonplace Subject, so that personal psychological interference can be kept to a minimum.” Natalie merely nodded resigned to the horror of a reality that was her beloved son being used as a god of death. “In truth, I am much akin to an angel of Christian mythology,” the Subject drawled in a flat tone, “For I deliver judgement unto those who cannot deny my condemnation.” Artful and well put perhaps, Stephan thought to himself, but it was wrong. He knew his friend much better than that, he knew his heart: Roe would never consider himself an angel for imposing his will on others. In truth the system he spoke of was most likely killing him, Stephan realised. The shaking hands, hollow gaze, talk of mental connections, it was all indicative of a synaptic overload, something that would leave him little more than a brain dead husk.

His breath caught in his throat and his hands tightened into fists at the realisation, something which Sonya appeared to have come to, given the stark look on her face. Brain dead Subjects with no means of acquiring a personality? Such sounded exactly like a Class Ten Subject, otherwise known as a Nobody. To his knowledge, such beings were the product of genetic failures in the DNA Reification Programme, and the specifics of such had remained secreted to the public since the first Subject’s conception. It was then that the Greek prisoner felt a foreign sensation: a cool hand covered his, and he instinctively relaxed his clenched hand. Looking down, he found Roe’s hand placed over his own, and the latter spoke quietly as Sonya and Natalie engaged in conversation: “You must be calm, Stephan,” he advised solemnly. “This is not the time for panic.” Removing his hand, the two received a critical look from the Chancellor of Defense, who otherwise remained silent on all matters spoken of. Nevertheless, calm would not come to the grandly dressed prisoner, and when he looked over to Mother Natalie, who had once more fallen silent, she nodded once more. Roe was the first to state it in a flat and emotionless tone, however: “Yes, Nobodies are failed experiments to perfect human qualities. One such failing being the ability to control the Phoenix Cloud.”

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