Past, Present and Future
By Tigan-Ada
...
-Past-
Bobo raises the rifle with trained ease – only for the trigger to snap in half the second he pulled it. He flinches at the startling seconds of rapid gunfire before lowering the smoking weapon and giving Six an apologetic grin.
Without a change in expression he grabs a standard handgun from his pocket and hands it to the chimp, "Mind your strength."
Bobo carelessly chucks the loaded rifle aside and grabs the small handgun. Six fully expected the rifle to go off the second it clattered to the ground, but somehow they were spared the adrenaline rush.
Mindfully experimenting his grip on the handle, Bobo eventually aims at the moving targets and fires; in-between shots he asks, "Do I get a point system or something?"
Six doesn't bother responding.
"Helloooo? How long do I keep firing?" the gun clicks empty, "Oh… nevermind."
He sets back down on his knuckles, the handgun still clasped in one hand. Six presses a button and the targets stop moving. From his position on the firing line it appears the chimpanzee has… Missed. Every. Target.
He inwardly sighs.
The simple red and white boards are hooked up to a rotating pinwheel. This was supposed to be a standard warm-up, not the initial test. He hasn't the time to actually train the talking chimpanzee to-
The pinwheel abruptly drops from its penetrated support beam and every target falls from its place, the centres crumbling away as they do. The whole mess reveals a disturbingly perfect aim.
Bobo grins, giving Six a boastful look.
There's not a change in Six's countenance, "Is there a biomechanical device behind your eye patch?"
Bobo's grin falls away, "Nope, just an ugly hole…"
"Who trained you?"
The silence is like a gnawing chasm that won't be crossed – neither speak.
After a minute or so Bobo sighs and averts his stare, lifting the handgun to spin it on one finger, "Can I have a fitted gun of my own? Human ones just irritate me – they're so annoyingly fragile."
Sensing there'd be no headway by forcefully pressing the matter, Six presses a finger to the communicator in his ear, "We need a modified gun that can withstand the grip of a fully grown male chimpanzee."
...
-Present-
He experiments on the thread, pulling it back and forth before raising it up and holding it close to his cheek like a trained athlete, "How far can I pull this-?"
The string snaps clean off. Bobo freezes like he often does when he's in trouble, the arrow tilting at the head where his fingers clasped the wooden bow.
"That was totally expensive," Rex helpfully rubs in.
Six was unimpressed, "You've had years to know and adjust your own strength. Stop falling back!"
That last bit seemed to hit a nerve.
Bobo's fur bristles, slightly snarling under his breath as he switches bows; Six expected to hear a grumble in it, but it remains an animal's irritated growl.
Rex kneels down beside the chimp and talks quietly to him. Whatever he says calms the noise enough for Bobo to mumble something back, playfully nudging him out of his way as he takes aim.
Rex stands back up and steps back, watching the practice target in the back come to life with a whir.
The target dances back and forth. Bobo trails it, pausing to aim midway – then, having a split-second change of mind, fires the arrow off to the side, ricocheting off a pipe on the wall and embedding itself sideways into the centre of the target.
"I'm so good," he gloats, elbowing Rex in the knee.
"Why don't you ever miss?" he exaggerates his exasperation, putting a hand to Bobo's head and leaning his weight on it as he would on a table, "Hmm, just one of the mysteries of life."
"Yes. Now geddoff!" he shoves Rex off before pouncing on him.
Six ignores their impish scuffle, mildly wondering why he never found out the answer to that. EVO advancements or not, such marksmanship is not magically bestowed just because a nanite rewired your genetics.
It's a skill that has to be taught. But any skill he's gained cannot possibly make up for such constant aim.
Then again, the chimp does have his moments being careless, firing aimlessly or ineffectively. But on the job, when he's got his mind to it, he's never actually missed once.
...
-Future-
Bobo aims the sniper rifle.
He takes a deep breath, steadying his resolve… and trying to damn the tears that fight to mar his halved vision. He's got a good aim – and this rifle is top notch quality; none of the crude assemblages scavenged from those wild barrack areas.
Even amidst the swooning girls he's got a clean shot at Rex's head.
Several seconds pass as he tests his judgement; done right headshots are quick, absolute and painless. But time is not at a standstill – he grinds his teeth with anxious impatience and fills his lungs with another resolute breath.
The old control collar around his thick neck feels tighter than normal.
Through the targeting scope he watches Rex – he's a man now, still wearing those goggles, as patched up and refitted as they are. His hair is a stylised mess, with his clothes in taters here and there.
He's speaking something that makes his audience either swoon or cheer. He's still got that same playfully arrogant smile.
In his speech Rex's eyes casually flitter towards his position… and somehow, through the impossible distance, their eyes seem to lock – and in that instant Bobo realises he's hesitating. All that bloody time-!
Even as Rex moves back, even as his subjugated human race starts catching on to an as-of-yet unperceivable threat, Bobo's aim remains legendarily spotless. And then, for a moment, time does stand still. He fires-
A brick in the far wall explodes.
He missed.
Rex alerts his guards of the distant sniper's position.
Cursing it all, Bobo retreats back into the overgrowth of the canopy. He could get a second shot in; hell, he could strategically take some down, clear the way to Rex by felling bodies, then gun him dead – but it's time to face a hard truth that's been dogging him for months now.
He won't kill Rex.
It's not that he can't; he just won't… even with Six and Holiday's carcasses stylishly strewn in the Nanite King's thrown room as a stark reminder his good boy, his golden child, his trustworthy chief, will not be returning the favour.
He scours the mess of jungle and man-made ruins, the rifle a lumbering fifth limb as he carries it along. It's too good to drop and flee. He needs it! He swallows against the explicably tight control collar; this dastardly device is nothing more than sweet irony.
Without it, he'd be at the mercy of Rex's complete nanite domination. And King Rex hasn't got mercy.
Cesar had foresight when he modified it in the early days of this… nanite tirade. Bobo hopes he's dead and not in the employ of his younger brother. That would prove hazardous to the surviving resistance. He even vaguely hopes Noah is deceased – by Rex's warped decree humans have the worst end of the shtick in this dystopia.
He needs to be put down. Needs to be stopped. But he, perhaps the best one capable, is not able or willing… he's so useless-!
He trips a wire. In his moment of haste and distraction he pitifully screws up! His eye widens as a mesh of mossy vines sweep towards him on all sides, the individual strands seamlessly merging to form thicker bands around his neck, wrists, legs, anything.
Bobo screeches – the rifle drops from his hand and hits the ground beneath with a reluctant thud. The bionic-vegetated coils tense, spiking fear that the control collar might crack – he struggles to wriggle his wrists from their grasp but to no avail. He turns his head as far as he could, trying to glimpse at his would-be attackers.
'Please be the stupid resistance mistaking me for the enemy again. Please be the-'
Rex walks casually into the clearing below, looking up with a simple expression of reassured delight.
With his lieutenant Annie… she's scary good at her job.
He turns his head back around; there's no use swindling for pity.
"Bobo!" he manages to pull off sounding appealingly affectionate to him, "How did I know? It's so good to see you! …Well, I've got a view of your back, anyway."
He's got nothing to say.
"I've missed you," he coos, and Bobo feels the nanite-controlled vines move rather tightly around the neck, "I've wanted you as my pet still…"
He hears a crack. A distinct but trivial noise that utterly terrifies him. His mental defences go up; it's hopeless, but he'd rather lose his will fighting. He feels nothing, no unnatural pull to his brain or body.
"But…"
He goes stiff at the thick tip of a blade pressing against the very centre of his back. …This is it.
"…You're useless Bobo. Always have been. Always will be-"
The enormous blade thrusts through his body. He dies gazing at the sky.
...
-Present-
"So make waay to staaarrt a revolution! Make waaay we're gonna have fuuun tonight! Make way to staart a revolution!" he barrels through his messy room as he sings, "SO MAKE WAAAAY!"
Bobo sat on the pipes with a thoughtful frown all the way through the long and obnoxious song, "…What revolution?"
Silence halts Rex in his silly dance; after a few seconds he can only turn around and hopelessly shrug.
"In this whole stinkin' time there has never once been any definable revolution. What is that theme song implicating if the only thing going on is… is ending the reasonable nightmare back into normalcy?"
"Maybe that is a revolution?" Rex wonders aloud, trying to figure it out.
Bobo slumps, expression of interest plummeting as he lets himself tumble into the hammock below, "Bleh, what's it matter?"
But his golden child scratches the back of his neck, curiosity spiked at dismantling and configuring that little detail. A seed that is planted innocently enough…
THE END