CHAPTER 21

Harbor Islands Park, Boston, Massachusetts; United States of America

21:07 August 13th, 2139

Reaper and Cyree, sitting on a park bench, held each other in a quiet embrace. Neither spoke; they didn't have to. He held her quietly and stroked her medium-length, jet-black hair. His deep purple eyes were fixed on her face, and though her eyes were closed, he knew that the most beautiful gems of jade lay behind the lids. She wasn't tall; not nearly as tall as him at just under five-and-a-half feet. The dark evening sky was cool and comforting, as the water of the Boston Harbor not twenty yards away glittered in the clear moonlight.

"Reaper," Cyree murmured after a prolonged period of silence.

"Mm-hmm?" he hummed.

"Do you think..." she started, paused, then continued: "Do you think happy days like the ones we have will last forever?"

He could resist a slight chuckle. "Nothing is eternal, Cy," he said, then added: "Well, except for the seven of us, anyway."

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, reached up, and pushed a few stray bangs of his dark blue hair out of his eyes. "Condemned to live forever," she mused quietly. "I suppose that's what makes you such a hopeless romantic." He smiled, planted a kiss on her lips, and the two fell back into their silent snuggle.

While Reaper certainly wanted these moments, these days, to last forever, he also knew the stinging truth behind his own words. Fate had a way of making things uphill-downhill for his entire family, and knew that the end of his happiness here with Cyree and her family would end all-too-soon. But he wasn't too anxious to find out how soon... or at what cost it would come.

Abandoned Hunter Outpost 0918; Germany

05:16 March 12th, 2151

Reaper's eyes snapped open, and he regarded his internal clock. He had last looked at it at 05:11, and now it was five minutes later. He had slept for five whole minutes? The emotional distress of Taggs showing up and toadying about with that Hunter deceiver must have given him more emotional wear-and-tear than usual; his slumber ordinarily took thirty seconds, or up to a full minute on bad days.

He had fallen asleep leaning against the wall of the locker room, his cloak wrapped around him. It didn't offer him any warmth, seeing as how he could not get cold in the human sense of the word. Instead, anybody casually walking by would see a Reploid in a strange helmet just leaning there; they wouldn't notice the weapon tucked away under his clothes.

His scythe was a marvel of ancient engineering. The fact that such a capable weapon evolved from farm equipment baffled the Eternal to no end. Its stock slid down to about three-quarters its normal height, and the razor-thin blade could fold into itself, allowing it to be hidden by his draping, baggy clothes. It was a steel-titanium alloy that could stop a beam-saber in mid-swing. Many non-combatants, most of them human, believed a beam saber to be a shaft of energy that neatly shone forth from the hilt and could cut through anything, but that was a far-out description obviously thought up by the craziest of science fiction authors. A modern day beam sword, or any beam weapon for that matter, was essentially a fountain of energy: it would leap up from the hilt for a distance then fizzle itself out. Thus the weapon used a lot of energy very quickly. It could not be condensed, so the blade sparked and whipped around in an uncertain path at the earliest stages of development, but steadily-advancing technology eliminated a lot of the unknowns. There was a carbonized center, and that was hot enough to burn through a lot of things, but true solids still offered potent resistance to the weapon, making old-fashioned metal alloy sabers and scythes not yet obsolete.

However, the fact of the matter remained that Reaper desperately wanted a beam scythe, and hadn't found one in this outpost. So, instead of going through the hassle of clearing out another in the vain hope of finding one, he decided to use the current base's resources to construct one. It was taking a long time.

Regardless, Reaper surveyed his surroundings. The locker room was not his ideal place to fall asleep, but he didn't really mind it: he fell asleep wherever he currently was, with little discrimination between here or there. He had been walking through the base for what had surely been the millionth time and decided to stop by in order to survey the scene of one of the best battles in the entire outpost when he had attacked. After killing the sniper, he had heard running water and rushed into the room in hopes of finding a target. He was in luck: he caught the Hunter team's resident demolisher and heavy-weapons wielder as he came out of the shower. Despite being half-naked, the Reploid put up a grand fight, and the two of them destroyed half the locker room in the process. But the fight ended when Reaper swung his scythe and lopped off the large Reploid's head. The corpse was still in the corner, where he had steadily been backed in by the crazed Eternal.

The bleach-eyed Reploid allowed a rare ghost of a smile to cross the corners of his lips. Those had been truly happy days.

With a content sigh, he walked out of the room, down a short hallway, and into the mess hall/kitchen area. He heard slight clinking and rustling, and immediately his scythe was out and fully extended without even making a sound. He crept silently, entering the pantry area, but relaxed visibly when he saw it was just Taggs' wench. Reaper didn't put the weapon away, instead opting to strike the end of the scythe against the metal floor, creating a loud metallic ring. Lafteroth jumped visibly and whipped around.

"Hungry?" he asked slyly, and then noticed that she was wearing only a tank-top and panties. "Where are your clothes?"

"My armor is nanite-based," she replied casually, seemingly unabashed by her quasi-nakedness. "It flows over my body, so I don't need to wear clothes underneath. And I didn't think that I would be spending the night in a creepy slasher flick, so I didn't pack any extra luggage."

Reaper regarded her, silently fuming. She was beautiful, he had to admit, but after his experiences, such things no longer fazed him. Her bare thighs might have given Taggs a nosebleed on the spot, though. He was ready to turn and leave, except she suddenly lodged a complaint.

"You have nothing to eat!"

He looked at her, but with his entire eyes white, the simple look seemed much more intimidating. "You are a Reploid. You don't need to eat."

"It's a comfort thing. I like to eat breakfast; it's good to have something sitting in my stomach."

"Well, I don't eat, so I don't keep any food," he snapped, and turned to walk away.

"That's okay," she said smugly. "I do need to eat metal, but I ate a few of your pots already." Reaper didn't stop walking, just giving her the one-finger salute and exiting the room. She huffed in response to his rudeness, and turned back to raiding his pantry. It wasn't that it was empty, everything had just spoiled. He had obviously been squatting there for a long time... the white-haired Locke briefly wondered why the Hunters hadn't sent a team to try and reclaim the base.

Maybe they did, she speculated, But they didn't return alive. At least they learned their lesson after the first try.

Suddenly, she stopped what she was doing. She froze mid-reach for a can of peaches, and tears started to collect in the corner of her eyes. The memories of roughly an hour ago suddenly hit her like a pillowcase stuffed with cinderblocks. Taggs... why had he reacted like that? Did he really believe in all that bullshit that Reaper had spewed out about love and Eternals? And his outburst... she had never expected that kind of thing from him. Did he really feel that strongly against her? Or was he just scared? Did he hate her?! Her breath caught in her throat, effectively stopping the sob that was about to make it up her windpipe. She didn't know if she could stand the thought... she tried to forget it, to banish it from her mind, but the apprehension would not leave. Instead, she checked the can, let out a frustrated sigh, and turned and left. She wasn't even hungry anymore.

Northeastern Sector, Munich; Germany

06:44 March 12th, 2151

Taggs had no idea how long he ran through the forest; only that after a while the forest had given up and stayed behind him. He continued to run through the fields, meadows, and farm plots until he hit a road. Confused, unsure of where he was, and too outstanding in his armor, he located a nearby house. It was empty for the moment, and the crimson-haired Reploid broke in, stole some clothes and a backpack, and left quickly. He changed in a field, put his armor into the backpack, and started walking down the road. He tried hitchhiking, but nobody was interested, so he broke into another run. Wearing a ton of armor on his back, he was able to cover a lot of distance until he jumped a one-man Hunter patrol, stole his Ride Chaser, and took off down the road. He arrived in a large city in under an hour since he stole the clothes on his back.

He wandered through Munich for a while, unsure of what to do. He knew he was miles away from Reaper and Lafteroth, a good distance for what had transpired, but he couldn't ignore his own behavior. The way he had spoken, the way he had withdrawn... she had been ready to do what he had wanted for what seemed like such a long time. Why had he drawn away? Couldn't he handle the thought?

The Eternal shook his head to clear the cobwebs. I need a drink, he thought miserably to himself. A few minutes more of walking, and he was surprised to see a bar that was open so early in the morning. The sun had already begun to rise, and that meant more activity in the city. He couldn't risk being spotted, so he went inside. Fortunately, the watering hole seemed to be mostly empty, with the exception of four or five other individuals.

No Hunters, he noted. Good. Taggs crossed the open floor, sat on a stool, and dropped the pack with a loud clank! next to the bar. The bartender barely looked up.

"What's your name, son?" he asked innocently. The man seemed largely uninterested in the crimson-haired Reploid seated before him, and moreso in carefully and obsessively arranging the glasses in front of him. He was tall and dark, with stubble growing out of his chin.

"Does it matter?" Taggs retorted, and slid a handful of credits across the surface of the bar. "Gimme a beer." Then he amended quickly, "Several beers." The man nodded and obliged, reaching behind the counter and recovering a bottle. He placed it in front of Taggs, who graciously accepted it and started drinking.

Time went by quickly, and Taggs soon found himself surrounded by a horde of empty glass containers. They were lined up like soldiers, a couple knocked over and wounded. Of course, the Eternal didn't feel the effects of all that alcohol; his Core routinely detoxed his system so that he would stay in peak fighting condition. Sometimes he hated the way he had been built to be a wind-up soldier, but other times it paid off. In drinking games for money, for example, or drunken bar fights. Still, it was depressing to see so many bottles and not be able to drink away his troubles.

He heard the creaking of the wooden floorboards behind him, and he instinctively looked down despondently. The creaking stopped behind him, a soul dropped onto the stool beside him, and draped an arm around his shoulders. "Now," the newcomer began, his breath heavily tainted with the smell of booze, "I've only one reason for someone to drink so much in one sitting, and that's love troubles."

The Eternal, feeling merciful, decided to spare a glance at the man. He was hunched over the bar, with one elbow on the bar and the other resting on Taggs' shoulder. Bald on top and scraggly grey on the sides, he reminded the red-haired Eternal of any generic, geriatric human, and indeed he was. His eyes drooped slightly, dark spots contrasted his otherwise white skin, and the tatters of a beard and mustache combo clung to his chin and upper lip for dear life... or whatever was left. His eyes were glazed over, though from age or alcohol consumption, Taggs couldn't tell.

"What would you know?" the Eternal inquired vehemently, not actually expecting an answer, and took another gulp from his most recent bottle.

"Well, plenty," the old man replied. "I've lived a long life of romance, seen many pretty women walk past, and I think by now I've got the pattern down. What's your specific trouble, sonny?"

Taggs raised a curious eyebrow at the use of the all-too-cliché term, and took another swig. "You don't want to know."

"Sure I do! Now spill."

He sighed, hardly believing the situation he was about to enter. "I love her, y'know? I could die for her. But... I know that if I get into a relationship with her, I'll end up hurting her."

The old man stroked his beard remains in thought. "How do you know for sure?"

"It happened to my brother," the red-haired Eternal replied. "His situation was almost the same as mine, and he ended up hurting her. And the girl I know, she's a lot like his girl, and I'm a lot like my brother. I already know the results of trying."

"No you don't," said the old man.

"One plus one still equals two, gramps, no matter how you slice it."

"You and your brother are different people," the geezer insisted. "Even if you're similar, you still have different souls, different hearts. Things won't work out exactly the same twice."

Taggs finished the bottle and stood up to leave. "No, you're wrong," he said. "We have the same hearts. That's the problem." He turned and began walking towards the door when a hand on his shoulder stopped him. It didn't stop him physically; he was a half-ton walking mass of titanium gears and wires. But the gesture did.

"You each obviously have a different approach to things," the old man continued, stepping in front of him. "You never know until you try. Maybe Fate will smile on you, the way She didn't on your brother?" That stopped the Eternal in his tracks. He mulled over the possibility that there were different circumstances involved. The optimist in him leaped at that opportunity, using it to seize control of his brain in a bloodless and cheerful coup.

Taggs mused aloud, "Why is it that the sagest advice always comes from drunk old bastards in bars?" The old man shrugged and cackled loudly, stumbling back to his own table while shouting words of encouragement to Taggs. But by the time he reached his seat and turned, the Eternal was gone, along with his backpack.

I have to go back anyway, the realist inside of Taggs said, trying to comfort his wounded sense of depression. We need to start planning for the future, we need to come up with an idea. And besides, I don't want to be caught out in the open if Hunter S&D teams arrive. With that, he relocated his bike, removed the children that were playing on it, and took off down the road in the direction he came. His spirits were oddly high, and on his way, he hummed a little tune to himself.