I step carefully through the undergrowth, placing my feet so that they do not snap twigs and give me away. My CO, X7-480, gave me the order to pursue the female target through the trees while he and the others went after the male. This is almost insulting- I can take her out easily.
One step. Foot angled to the right, the side of my combat boot gently touches the forest floor, drawn to the softest patch of dirt. It sweeps a dry leaf away so my position is not compromised.
Every detail counts.
My body is tense, ready for a fight. The wind stirs the good half-inch of hair capping my head. My mouth is tight line of effort, grim and unsmiling.
I will take her out.
She comes crashing through the trees. I can smell her fear, sense the air moving as she comes closer and closer to me.
She has only a rough idea of the area. I have the entire forest mapped out to the last tree stump in my mind. I know how to stand downwind to her. I know which trees will hide me. I know what the mission is and the mission is to take out my target, the female X5 with my face.
She's mine.
She gapes at me as if she can see something I could never hope to see and I see her lips move in some kind of X5 communication.
Futilely I hear her say words I don't understand, cannot wish to understand. She says, "Do you know who I am?"
I slow down every movement and sound until I sense the wet and dry places on her lips and her words are a senseless slur. Nothing.
I stare into my own eyes, take note of every movement. I map out her body into my mind. X5-452. Approximately twenty years old, five foot seven, give or take a millimetre.
No. That is not correct. She is five foot seven exactly. X7s are never unsure.
Size her up. She's taller. Size, age, apparent strength. In a battle situation these are meaningless. I can defeat her. No. That is not the way I think. I WILL defeat her. There is no question, no contest. She is the mission.
She's dead.
I am such a precise theorist, such a perfect specimen of scientific intervention that I could multiply long strings of numbers inside my head before I could walk. Even so, I developed much more quickly than normal children. I was sitting at two weeks, crawling at a month old, walking at three months. I do not remember any sort of oblivious, numb state of mind.
At three years old I could have blown up the White House. Or I couldn't have. It all depended on an order.
At a word I will be a conniving human weapon, so exact in my movements and thoughts that nothing goes unnoticed. At another I will be a faceless uniform in a sea of uniforms, at attention, barely breathing, barely alive. At a nod from my superior I will be a vicious, snarling animal, ripping, tearing, relentlessly attacking with superhuman strength.
My squadron members and I battered open the door. I remember our synchronisation. I cannot think how it was that we have achieved such precision. I look at them and know exactly what their next move will be. Sparring matches between us are a waste of time.
But I am not designed to think.
I feel the cold gun in my hand, a hand bred to snap a grown man into many pieces. I am perfect. I need no instruction, no consideration, no attention, no modification.
She inhales, exhales. I feel the air stir around me- the slightest movement puts me on my guard. I am a human guard dog.
I'm too quick for her, too quick for anyone. I pull the trigger without a second thought.
Her eyes cross slightly as she slowly falls backward. She's gone.
I can hear the other members of my unit. They've got the X5 CO captive.
I stare at her for a second. I almost want to make this quick for her. I'm not designed to stand around gloating, and especially not to feel sorry for the dying enemy.
Is she eliminated? Is she a threat?
Blood darkens her uniform, reducing the camouflage to an institutional black... reddish.
I smell the blood on the breeze, like death's own perfume. A thin, sour, harsh scent I know so well. The blood of Manticore enemies has stained my fingers and teeth and lips as my unit and I moved in for the kill, too frenzied to bother with guns. They are not my enemies. Nothing is mine, and everything is mine. I have the power to do anything.
I nearly shiver.
The whites of her eyes are almost luminous in the moonlight. She is me. I am her. We share a face.
We share a face and nothing more. She is the mission and I have eliminated her. I have completed my objective and must rejoin my squadron in chasing down the male.
Already the female is forgotten. I sense the male through the trees. I can catch up to him effortlessly. I begin to plan and theorize exactly what my fellow X7s will do upon sighting the male so I can build my strategy around it.
I am uneasy. I know everyone around me so well they cannot hope to take me by surprise. What will she do when faced with the possibility of not rejoining her unit?
I am never uneasy. I don't hesitate. I am an X7, the perfect soldier. I have no independent thought and therefore cannot endanger my unit in any conceivable way. And it is not a possibility- the female X5 is dead. It is the only possible ending to this scenario.
Forget the female. She's dead. I won't waste my bullets on her.
Without emotion, I turn and tear silently through the trees like a ghost of battle, remembering those strange human words her lips formed.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Do you know who I am?"
Do you know who I am?
I am not designed to remember.
* * *
DISCLAIMER: 'Dark Angel' belongs to Fox and James Cameron. Not me. So don't sue.
NOTE: Wow, that was strange wasn't it! I'm not dropping 'Growing Up In Terminal City' or 'Finding Her Past'. Expect the new chapter of 'Growing Up In Terminal City' to be up by Sunday at the latest and don't hold your breath for a new chapter of 'Finding Her Past'. I've got- WAIL!- writer's block. Snarl.
I saw 'And Jesus Brought A Casserole' tonight and DAMN, it was good! Now, who else couldn't stop thinking about Evil Mini-Max? I wanted to see if I could write a character without emotions. Who better than my favourite X7? Call me evil and twisted but that scene was COOL. Geneva Locke rocked! I think I will dedicate this fic to her 'cause she was definitely one of my favourites on that show.
One step. Foot angled to the right, the side of my combat boot gently touches the forest floor, drawn to the softest patch of dirt. It sweeps a dry leaf away so my position is not compromised.
Every detail counts.
My body is tense, ready for a fight. The wind stirs the good half-inch of hair capping my head. My mouth is tight line of effort, grim and unsmiling.
I will take her out.
She comes crashing through the trees. I can smell her fear, sense the air moving as she comes closer and closer to me.
She has only a rough idea of the area. I have the entire forest mapped out to the last tree stump in my mind. I know how to stand downwind to her. I know which trees will hide me. I know what the mission is and the mission is to take out my target, the female X5 with my face.
She's mine.
She gapes at me as if she can see something I could never hope to see and I see her lips move in some kind of X5 communication.
Futilely I hear her say words I don't understand, cannot wish to understand. She says, "Do you know who I am?"
I slow down every movement and sound until I sense the wet and dry places on her lips and her words are a senseless slur. Nothing.
I stare into my own eyes, take note of every movement. I map out her body into my mind. X5-452. Approximately twenty years old, five foot seven, give or take a millimetre.
No. That is not correct. She is five foot seven exactly. X7s are never unsure.
Size her up. She's taller. Size, age, apparent strength. In a battle situation these are meaningless. I can defeat her. No. That is not the way I think. I WILL defeat her. There is no question, no contest. She is the mission.
She's dead.
I am such a precise theorist, such a perfect specimen of scientific intervention that I could multiply long strings of numbers inside my head before I could walk. Even so, I developed much more quickly than normal children. I was sitting at two weeks, crawling at a month old, walking at three months. I do not remember any sort of oblivious, numb state of mind.
At three years old I could have blown up the White House. Or I couldn't have. It all depended on an order.
At a word I will be a conniving human weapon, so exact in my movements and thoughts that nothing goes unnoticed. At another I will be a faceless uniform in a sea of uniforms, at attention, barely breathing, barely alive. At a nod from my superior I will be a vicious, snarling animal, ripping, tearing, relentlessly attacking with superhuman strength.
My squadron members and I battered open the door. I remember our synchronisation. I cannot think how it was that we have achieved such precision. I look at them and know exactly what their next move will be. Sparring matches between us are a waste of time.
But I am not designed to think.
I feel the cold gun in my hand, a hand bred to snap a grown man into many pieces. I am perfect. I need no instruction, no consideration, no attention, no modification.
She inhales, exhales. I feel the air stir around me- the slightest movement puts me on my guard. I am a human guard dog.
I'm too quick for her, too quick for anyone. I pull the trigger without a second thought.
Her eyes cross slightly as she slowly falls backward. She's gone.
I can hear the other members of my unit. They've got the X5 CO captive.
I stare at her for a second. I almost want to make this quick for her. I'm not designed to stand around gloating, and especially not to feel sorry for the dying enemy.
Is she eliminated? Is she a threat?
Blood darkens her uniform, reducing the camouflage to an institutional black... reddish.
I smell the blood on the breeze, like death's own perfume. A thin, sour, harsh scent I know so well. The blood of Manticore enemies has stained my fingers and teeth and lips as my unit and I moved in for the kill, too frenzied to bother with guns. They are not my enemies. Nothing is mine, and everything is mine. I have the power to do anything.
I nearly shiver.
The whites of her eyes are almost luminous in the moonlight. She is me. I am her. We share a face.
We share a face and nothing more. She is the mission and I have eliminated her. I have completed my objective and must rejoin my squadron in chasing down the male.
Already the female is forgotten. I sense the male through the trees. I can catch up to him effortlessly. I begin to plan and theorize exactly what my fellow X7s will do upon sighting the male so I can build my strategy around it.
I am uneasy. I know everyone around me so well they cannot hope to take me by surprise. What will she do when faced with the possibility of not rejoining her unit?
I am never uneasy. I don't hesitate. I am an X7, the perfect soldier. I have no independent thought and therefore cannot endanger my unit in any conceivable way. And it is not a possibility- the female X5 is dead. It is the only possible ending to this scenario.
Forget the female. She's dead. I won't waste my bullets on her.
Without emotion, I turn and tear silently through the trees like a ghost of battle, remembering those strange human words her lips formed.
"Do you know who I am?"
"Do you know who I am?"
Do you know who I am?
I am not designed to remember.
* * *
DISCLAIMER: 'Dark Angel' belongs to Fox and James Cameron. Not me. So don't sue.
NOTE: Wow, that was strange wasn't it! I'm not dropping 'Growing Up In Terminal City' or 'Finding Her Past'. Expect the new chapter of 'Growing Up In Terminal City' to be up by Sunday at the latest and don't hold your breath for a new chapter of 'Finding Her Past'. I've got- WAIL!- writer's block. Snarl.
I saw 'And Jesus Brought A Casserole' tonight and DAMN, it was good! Now, who else couldn't stop thinking about Evil Mini-Max? I wanted to see if I could write a character without emotions. Who better than my favourite X7? Call me evil and twisted but that scene was COOL. Geneva Locke rocked! I think I will dedicate this fic to her 'cause she was definitely one of my favourites on that show.