4.SENTIMENTA Chapter by Paris France
Even cyborgs need a checkup, but who's playing Doctor? Later, she takes on her next assassination, but somthing goes horribly wrong...
She is lost in the crowd, disregarded, but omnipresent.
The sky above is steel gray. Ominous ravens stretch their wings and fly.
She is motionless as her optical sight scans each passing face.
A smile, a dull glance, and the wayward eye.
The people, their features are similar to her own-- she knows this. But the living pulse, the center of their being, fails to emanate within her. It is the only piece missing in her flawless construction.
Her lips are sealed. She displays infallible, emotionless beauty.
Silent, she moves through the tumult, not hearing the curious sounds, without taking in the smell of raw produce and fresh sea air. She fails to appreciate the autumn colors and feel the brush of coat sleeves against her skin.
She is ignored, and likewise treats the world.
Her only ambition is to follow the order within her; any aspect in this universe that does not pertain is non-existent.
Her elegant stride carries her to a certain shack, the first of many lining the street. She opens the door in one swift movement.
Inside, cold shadows envelop her. Slivers of natural light filter from root holes.
Immediately, she detects a heat source in the room’s corner.
“Your late, angel.” The cold, slippery voice is familiar.
A light switches on overhead.
Veiled in shadow, a man in black leans against the wall, arms crossed.
“Speak,” he commands.
“I think, therefore I am.”
Instantly, a name materializes in her A.I.
The correct code having been exchanged, the man, Semis, approaches her-- circling. He has a slow, steady walk. His arms now dangle lax on either side of him.
He seems a confident man. The snide twist in his lip revels his proud nature---- he believes he has the upper hand.
She realizes this maybe be true, her many abilities seem ineffective in this situation. She cannot read the emotion in his eyes, they are veiled behind dark glasses. She cannot distinguish his ethnic origin, his head is covered by a black hat and his skin, a synthetic white. Therefore, she is unable to anticipate his stance and combat style should he strike.
The man is indistinguishable.
He even lacks eyebrows.
Perplexed, she reverts to default mode and searches the net for information. Split-second results show that no such person exists.
Unsure whether friend or foe--she stands in a natural position, facing him.
Her body is relaxed, but her defense system is on alert. He is still circling her.
In the blink of an eye, Semis attacks with an aggressive cobra push. An attempt to throw off her balance. She sees the attack, but waits until the last possible second to move.
Pivoting on her heel, she avoids the stylized shove and parries his blocked wrists with a firm hand.
Executing a jutting back-fist to his philtrum --she ducks-- as a high kick sweeps over her head.
Semis’ head snaps back, her fist merely grazing the tip of his nose.
She is now able to size up her opponent. An expert combatant, with extensive training in Jujutsu. It is also obvious he has a full prosthetic body. Though he is not outwardly muscular, his frame is hard packed with synthetic muscle and his reflexes are much quicker than a normal human. He will be a challenge to defeat.
Semis shouts, trying to disorient her. She doesn’t even blink. Quickly stepping forward, he throws a roundhouse punch to her right cheek.
The girl doges. Twisting around, she executes a swift kote strike to his forearm. She keeps her chest forward, directing all her weight towards the balls of her feet. She grabs his wrist.
Chambering her left hand she rotates her hip and strikes a right meageri to his abdomen. The powerful kick sends Semis flying backward, crashing into the wall. She back flips towards him, lands, and brings a tight fist millimeters away from his trachea.
Her chest is heaving, but she remains controlled. Rubble crumbles off the wall, signaling the end of their play.
“Good, very good,” Semis grins.
She understands now, this was a test. A exercise merely gauging her performance.
A sudden slap smears across her face.
“Never hesitate,” he hisses.
The girl remains silent and motionless. A flicker of un-programmed hate gleams in her crimson eyes.
She pulls away from him, resuming a less threatening stance.
Semis adjusts his hat and coat, walking swiftly behind her. He pulls a cord from his neck and a block key from his inner coat pocket. The block key inserts into her neck port. Her pupils contract.
The girl falls forward, but he grabs her by the neck. His long fingers curl around her throat, lifting her off the ground.
Semis connects his USB cord to the block key and instantly finds himself surfing her artificial intelligence. In its visual form, her mind is a blue flood of electrical current, seething with information and data.
It used to amaze him.
Every time he would connect with her an overwhelming sense of awe flooded his mind. So vast an infinite was the maze works of her intelligence, though she lacked the cognition to harness it.
To his cyberized human brain, he felt insignificant and helpless. He had to train himself to focus--to close his eyes and ears to the secrets of her mind, or he could become lost in within her.
He forces himself to complete his own mission--to observe and report any unstable matter within her A.I.
There are four hub levels to her brain core. Each is comprised of it's own sub levels that store and maintain cryptic data files. Only he, the Watchman, has the access codes to each level and passwords to individual files.
As he ventures further the mesmeric coded walls solidify into a concrete passage way. He casualy walks down it, in route to her security network two levels bellow.
A top of the line virtual avatar represents himself, through which he can exercise all five senses and act beyond the limits of science.
However, while his mind is engaged in this manner, his physical body, in the real world, is vulnerable.
This job has its elements of risk. Baby-sitting these complex, multi-million dollar, killing machines--is not easy, but the corporation always makes it worth his while.
The scan is complete.
She is clean, as always.
Semis is sure to erase any memory data related to him, the final touch in her checkup.
He opens his eyes, withdrawing from her conscisness.
Reaching, down he pulls her gun from it's holster.
There are no bullets left. She will have to execute her next mission by other means.
He has to let her go now. He hates that part.
Gripping her lax form made him feel powerful. For once the weapon was under his control. He frowned. Detaching the block from her neck, he let her slip from him. She hit the ground, but recovered instantly.
She rose, with that same placid stare as before.
Oblivious to the past few minutes, she turns and walks out of the shack, not bothering to look back at him.
Now the orders direct her to a low-end toy shop in the southern district of Hokkaido. A sign on the small building front says in Japanese characters, Shoji Toys.
Downloaded blue prints and satellite images confirm her observations; there is no other method of entry besides the front and back entrance. A high, narrow, window exists on the rear wall in the back room, but it fails to serve any use.
A quick diagnostic scan proves the shops security fallible, one storefront camera, an out-dated alarm system, and only one on-site personnel--soon to be none.
Primitive is what describes this place. In 2037, an age thriving on advanced technology, this is considered the slums. An entierly different world than she is used to, being mainly assigned to large high-tech cities.
But no matter, situations like this just make her job that much easier.
From dark ally shadows, she leaps up onto the roof of a neighboring building. Soundless, she runs and jumps, at high speed, on to the toy shop’s flat roof. Sliding down into the streets darkness, she hugs the side wall.
She is undetected in the night.
Not even a prowling cat nearby sees or hears her.
She has disabled the security system, it wasn’t hard to hack the main line and open a five minute window. Now, only a locked back door bars her way. Twirling her pointer finger in front of the key hole, the knob gives an audible click. She tried the door, unlocked.
Carefully, she slips through it, pulling up on the handle as it swings open to prevent squeaking hinges. She doesn’t worry about fingerprints, she has none. Her synthetic skin lacks texture and distinguishing creases.
She has no identity.
Her red eyes survey the room. Dark pupils contract, adjusting to the cold moonlight. Several shelves line the walls, stocked with boxes overflowing with mechanical and electric parts. Unfinished dolls and all manner of electronic toys lie about on drawing boards and work tables, awating their finishing touches. Open paint jars and adhesives fill the cloistered room with a pungent odor. It appears the toy maker's ideal workplace, apart from the dingy and joyless environment.
She sees also that there is no optional escape route. Departure will be through the same door she entered.
She draws her attention to a heat source a few feet away. An adolescent male sleeps hard at a cluttered desk.
His heavy lids, laced with thick lashes, are blissfully shut. Saliva, escapes from an agape mouth. Short, tussled, brown hair shines in the window’s light. He matches the described target; Maksim Fumito, age 17.
She steps towards him. The sound of his light breathing seems to amplify. His steady heartbeat pounds in her ears.
A knife is drawn from a strap on her leg. She grasps it firmly, intending to strike the base of his neck, severing his jugular vain.
But that's when everything goes wrong.
An alarm on the boy’s wrist watch startles him awake. He jerks his head up. The sudden movement loses his perch on the chair. He crashes to the floor with a grunt, the chair smacking her legs.
Her strike already enacted, the six inch blade stabs the desktop, driving firmly into the wood.
She recovers instantly.
Snagging the chair, she flings it out of her way. A loud crash, and it shatters into pieces sending splinters flying through the air.
Disoriented, the boy shields his face. She uses that split second to her advantage. Yanking him from the floor by his collar-- she shoves him against the desk holding him there.
Though grimacing in pain, he doesn’t cry out. His wide eyes, are fixed on her. She stares back, crimson irises flaming.
In the cold moonlight her black hair shimmers with a deep blue hue, her soft skin glows, reminding him of freshly fallen snow.
His new expression does not register with her, no sign of fear, but rather amazement.
His lips part with a gasp, uttering words she's never heard before.
The simple statement strikes her to the core. Explosions erupt inside her, an awareness. Pain, a foreign concept, sears through her veins like an electric shock.
She drops him, backing away.
She breaks into a run, crashing through the door, into the wide open street.
A voice calls after her, his voice.
She has failed the mission.
Something has gone horribly wrong…
© 2010 Paris France
In Your Dreams,, WA
AboutKind, sweet, and cute--that’s who people say I am, but do they really know me…? Perhaps not, and that’s why I must tell you. I am a complicated little person, who likes some thin.. more..
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