City of Slow Dreams: Prelude 2 (by Elliot Bowers)
Burning heat of constant sunlight, that was what she felt first. It was the first felt feeling because it was just so intense. That quickly made for fear of her brain overheating. Just degrees centigrade above optimal body temperature, and a brain is damaged—then killed. There was none of this danger when she was in autostasis; her brain was hormonally put in a state as so it was almost "dead" during that time. Maybe, her temperature regulation systems malfunctioned?
She came to consciousness with that fear and a slight headache, at least. She tried to open her plastic eyelids, but they were stuck for whatever reason. Something held down her arms. She tugged, and her arms up with a spray of dirt and grass. Her arms had been sunk into earth. The little one then realized that she was half-buried in it, half-buried in the earth. Indeed, the elements were at work.
She shook her skeletal metal hands to get the dirt out of some mechanisms. Her hands and neck were the only "open" mechanisms of her body and therefore likely to get buildups of dust and dirt. The rest of her was sealed. When her hands were shaken of enough dirt, she then scraped them together for some moments.
Finally, she carefully stroked her plastic eyelids, and a layer of brown crust came away. She could now open her eyes, which opened to a static-ridden view. Her visual systems must have been off-line for some time and would have to reboot. Some time? Indeed, how much time had passed over since she was first in auto-stasis?
She had more frightful thoughts: What amount of time passed beyond me? Time passed over me, and I failed to be present and conscious. She began to take nervous sips of breath, and her eyes began to look about. With her visual systems becoming more calibrated, she then set to work ripping herself from the rooty ground of these grassy plains.
The small cyborg shakily stood, her petite and feminine gray form completely exposed. The explosion blasted away her uniform and had severely damaged her body's systems. Auto-stasis restored her; autorepair systems had gone to work. But autorepair systems could not restore her uniform.
But her lack of balance was also mental. She felt extremely odd and off-balance. Her brain felt fuzzed and slow. That made her feel upset—again fearing for the health of her brain. Her brain was the core of her being; all else was synthetic and negligible. If her brain had been sickened, then she was sickened.
She staggered away from the shallow place in the dirt where she had been half-buried, and she walked some yards along the grassy expanse. Soon after taking steps, she fell to her jointed knees and hands. Her slowly clearing eyesight came to rest on the grass before her. Something felt very, very important to her, but she could not at all recall what. Rather, many things were important to her, but she could not remember what they were. She had forgotten most everything that had once been important.
What couldn't she remember? Slivers and hints of shadowy notions whispered to her. In her mind, she brushed against edges of memories. But there was frustration in how she could not retrieve—could not grip—that forgotten information. She had lost most of her memories.
If she were not careful, she would also lose her sanity. With more care, she stood. Carefully, her eyes went from looking down to looking at the vast green reality around her. There were slightly rolling humps and waves in the green. Otherwise, there was nothing out here save the wind and the infinitely blue sky above, the sun shining down.
She thought, Solitude? Is this truly extreme solitude and individuality? Yet, she did not want solitude now. Her mind scattered with confusion and slight pain, she wanted to go somewhere with people. There had to be other people about. Somewhere on these plains, there had to be humanity.
She thought, What direction? That was a critical question. She could go in any direction now. No other priorities than confusion would direct her. Her own way back to people would have to be all on herself. Were people east or west? How close north were people? Or were they closer south?
For whatever reason, she would go west. And to determine that direction, she would wait until the sun's position was at an angle. Yes, waiting. So, the metal-bodied waif sat down on the plains. She was capable of waiting, if anything.
And after an unlabeled hour or so, the sun was in a position away from the very top of the sky. It was more in early afternoon. She now knew which direction west was. So, she walked. And she walked some more. She followed the sun.
Uncountable hours later, she walked yet more. This was a walk with extreme monotony. At least, humans had hunger and exhaustion to force rest breaks from prolonged activity. Those with synthetic bodies do not have that. Synthetic bodies have microfusion batteries to keep the body active, and to power internal food synthesizers. Body and brain were provided for so long as the microfusion pack ran—which could be centuries. But internal food synthesizers were not quite designed to alleviate tedium.
With her smooth gray feet padding the grass in a rhythm, her walking became hypnotic. There were no obstacles out on these plains, so she could walk with her head down. That allowed her to walk without even concentrating, and time began to smooth into one long droning period.
She continued to try and remember what was forgotten, which was most everything previously important to her. Trying was the word; her memories continued to ridicule and tantalize her. That mental mockery and ridicule became more vibrant as her concentration went further away. Swaths of voices and quick flashes of images came to her mind.
Then she came to the highway, to where it ended or began. Her walking took her to the ragged stony edge of the wide road's pavement. It was as if the highway were chopped here. That, or the builders only paved so far before giving up and going away. Where was away? Wherever that away was, wherever they went, she would go, too. The gray asphalt road would lead. She was off to see the builders.
She put her gray feet to the similarly gray asphalt, then looked ahead—far and farther ahead. In peering into the far distance, she let the enhancements of her eyesight reveal hints of detail about what was beyond standard eyesight. And with infrared, she saw an uneven hump of heat just over the curve of the horizon. That was the heat signature for a decent-sized town: a hump of radiated heat from sunlight-warmed buildings.
Part of a journey away, she thought. With that, she began to jog. The bottoms of her titanium alloy feet still had traction texturing; she would have traction. And, she ran in such a way that her armor-solid feet did not slap the road surface. Yet she had a desire for a pair of something with thick soles. Two boots would do well…
Her jogging slightly slowed when she had mental glimpses of polished black boots. There was something about a pair of those thick-soled footwear that she could not quite get. For whatever reason, she would like a pair of black boots for her feet and ankles. That, and there should be splotched brown-and-green clothing…
Her jogging slightly slowed as she thought of the clothing. Mottled colors? She was both repulsed and intrigued by the idea of an outfit with mottled green colors. It had a vague ambiance of appeal. That appeal went with a sort of…properness to it. And that occupied her for some hours. Thinking of that odd uniform at least gave her a scraping hold on what had been her memories.
In two hours, she came close to where this highway went. She was now just four miles from a mass of buildings: Most of the buildings seemed just several stories tall, but some of them were tall skyscrapers. It was a city, not just a decent-sized town. This cracked and incomplete highway stretched off and away, into that city.
She jogged within three-fourths of a mile and saw a division between the city's concrete and the grass of the plains. There was a five-foot concrete barrier all around—open at the place where the road went in. There were windows at the ends of the barrier.
There were people! This was really a living city of people. She then ran. Her feet rapidly clinked along as she traveled the final stretch of highway up to the open barrier. A male voice then shouted, "Stop!" And then she began her stopping.
It took some time and effort to halt her machine-fast running. She locked one alloy foot before her and the other foot back for balance. That set her to scrape-skidding, sparks spraying in the wake of her gray feet. The squeal of metal scraping asphalt filled the air and echoed off of the city buildings and barrier. She eventually slowed.
With the very bottoms of her feet heated and white scrape-streaks on the road, she managed to stop at the very opening in the barrier; the retractable gate was back. And she saw the two toll posts, which were actually built into the concrete barrier.
She moved to the center of the highway, at the very opening of the thick and between the windows of the toll posts. Then, from the left, the Stop-shouting male voice spoke again. "What the Hell are you doing? Sheesh, girl, doesn't that armor cut off your breathing or something? It looks like it's tight everywhere. What, is that a metal bodysuit or something?"
A voice from the right spoke. "Don't be stupid! I think the metal is her body. It's just got curves around the tits and hips to make her look passably human. I think it's a cyborg, or a robot. Can't tell without the pip procedures."
The first voice, the one on the left, spoke again. "Whatever. Just let me finish talking to her—or it. Ahem… Now, listen, little thing. I don't see a face. All that I see is a round metal skull atop a little titanium bodysuit. I don't even know if you have a real brain or not. Were you a gynoid? Huh, miss? Before you lost your rubberoid face and hair?"
Facing the darkened toll window in the left side, she said, "No, a metal-type cyborg." If she still had her face, she would have given a sincere and dreamy smiled. Missing that, her voice was sweetened with enthusiasm. "And it truly feels grand, being in the presence of people yet again. Before this, I lied out on the plains. Then, there…"
"Please!" whined the voice on the left. "Come on, you thing. Just stay with us on topic here, huh? You're lucky we're tolerating your crazy machine-looking self standing at the city limits." The voice paused for half a second, then spoke to the unseen person behind the other toll window. "Okay, now you give the alloy she-thing the standard run-down."
The other voice spoke again from the right side. Rather, he chanted in a monotone: He must either be reading from a handbook or chanting something he had memorized from constant use. "Welcome, potential citizen, to the City of Brunswick: a fairly large modern city of 200,000 people. Not quite large by standards of the Old Days, but one of the largest city-states on the continent. We possess a variety of industries and resources, which makes our economy is one of the most viable of the Western Coastal region. Most all are welcome. However…"
She could imagine pages flipping, or imagine the hidden man just pausing for drama. And she could more easily imagine pages of a manual being flipped. The speaking man must have found the page he sought. He spoke on. "However, as your physical appearance is such that you warrant excessive attention, you must undergo a preliminary immigration process, a pip, with the BPD enforcement officers. E-Cops, in common speech. Please stand by as said enforcement officers prepare you for custody.
Then, doors opened somewhere on the far side of the thick and tall two-part wall. And then the very tall owners of the two voices came out to where the small metal-type cyborg stood. Odd enough, the two were very tall males dressed like detectives from the times before the War. The Old Days.
Those were two e-cops, looking nearly twins. They were easily seven feet tall, had short-cut brown hair. Medium builds that even showed through their clothes. The two very tall brown-haired men wore light brown fedora hats with open trenchcoats. Beneath the trenchcoats were button white shirts with ties, and there were light brown slacks with the cuffs touching black shiny spats. With their matching faces and complexions, the two e-cops may as well have been twins.
The two giants approached to tower over her. The one on the right spoke. "Just stay there and let us prepare you for custody." They saw her dark eyes staring, a look of questioning. "First," said that one, "turn yourself around, your back to me. Then, put your wrists together behind your back, and hold still."
She did so, curious. Cl-Clink! She felt the solid handcuffs go onto her alloy wrists. Her wrists would no longer separate. Now she was worried. "What is this? This is what? What want you two?" She shook her handcuff-bound wrists twice. "Indeed, this becomes part of the 'preparation?'"
"Woo-hoo! You sure do talk funny, little thing. You been hit in the head or something?" asked the other e-cop as the first gigantic e-cop knelt to check the titanium tensor-field cuffs. "Anyway… Yes, this is known as 'preparation for custody.' If you broke any official laws, we would call it arrest. But since you broke one of the unofficial laws, we just call it preparation. Easy."
"Okay, that's it," said the one that had secured the cuffs on the metal girl. "And let's hurry. Just looking at that metal skull-face of hers makes my synth-flesh crawl. You know?" He looked down at the small metal-bodied female, but spoke to his fellow e-cop. "You go carry her to the station. I carried the last one." So the other e-cop scooped her up over his left shoulder and carried her deeper into Brunswick. His partner would stay at his post in the wall.
She was somewhat worried that the officer would drop her as he strode along, and it was quite a drop. But she allowed herself to be carried. Turning to the side allowed her to see more of the town from the sidewalk they traveled. Architecture consisted primarily of short and solid buildings—brick-and-mortar structures in this area. Occasionally, the two would pass by ordinary looking, two-story houses. And they passed pedestrians.
The pedestrians had generic looks. They generally wore heavy work shirts and pants with boots or shoes, male and female. It was slightly after noon, and it was likely that these people were on business. She even twice saw athletic-looking people in business suits and dark glasses.
"How are you holding up back there?" asked the e-cop. She said nothing. "Sorry about the rough treatment and all, but this is part of procedure." He adjusted his grip on her hard back. Then he began to lengthen his stride. "Uh oh," he said.
Then came a loud woman's shout. And the two were no longer going in the direction of the police station. "Officer, what—or who—are you carrying over to your station? Is that a robot? If so, why those handcuffs? Huh?" The metal cyborg, still seeing the world upside-down, turned her head right to see the woman that spoke.
Standing at the sidewalk, at a storefront, was a large and matronly sort. She dressed in billowing slacks and an even more billowing blouse. Her honey blonde hair looked tightly held back by her hairstyle, a bun. And her expression looked just as uptight. Hands on her hips, her attention was on the e-cop, not on the small metal waif on his back.
"Oh damn…" whispered the officer. The cyborg over his shoulder heard it, but the large human woman yonder wasn't supposed to. She didn't. The e-cop turned to the woman and spoke. "Hello, Mrs. Frump! It's so nice to see you again!"
"Nice? Nice? Come on now! I reserve you and your fellow e-cops most of my inventory of tensor field-treated shoes—every pair rare—and you just say nice? Ooh, wait until your chief hears that!" She made an open-handed reverse waving motion with her right. "Get over here…!"
Big Officer Marphie came over to Mrs. Frump, the metal being over his shoulder not saying anything. In fact, she was amused at the officer's plight at the hands of this Mrs. Frump. Mrs. Frump bantered on at him, her right hand wagging a pointing finger at him. "You go stepping on over to that station of yours and you don't even say hello unless I remind you! And you don't even introduce me to your short little friend there! What is happening to your manners, officer?"
"Well, you see, this newcomer needs to go through preliminary immigration procedures," said the e-cop. "She came in from the plains, and now we need to integrate her into the economy. It may take a while, but we don't want to break procedures."
"Oh, you and your silly procedures! Administrations ought to pay you more to deal with more important things, like keeping the worst of the Ganglanders under control. There are only so many of you, and there are many more of them. Do you think that little one over your shoulder will become a Ganglander or what?"
Doubtful, as I lack knowledge of them, thought the metal-bodied girl. And she heard Officer Marphie speak for her. "I can't be sure. I just take newcomers down to the station for immigration procedures. After that, after the paperwork, any way she integrates herself into the economy is not my business."
The round blonde woman fired back an answer. "Well, honey, guess what? I'll make that one my business. Tell you what, just keep her here, and you won't have to put up with all the typing, processing and paperwork. I'll integrate that little thing into the economy myself. So, leave that one here for your sake and mine."
Marphie's lips sputtered. "But… But… But Procedures dictate documentation and identification of new immigrants. She has to go to the station."
"Do you want me to talk to my cousin, an executive, about this? Or do you want my brother and his buddies to raise a little deliberate chaos?" Mrs. Frump saw the big officer take a slight step back at the two threats. "I didn't think so! Now, put the little one down as so I can see what I'm getting. Size her up and all. Come on, come on!"
Officer Marphie reached up to take the little being from over his shoulder, then lowered her to the ground. The cyborg stood straight, head down. Mrs. Frump stared, glaring. Officer Marphie realized why; he reached down to remove the heavy handcuffs from the small cyborg's metal wrists.
"Well? Can you speak, or is your voice synthesizer damaged?" asked Mrs. Frump as the being looked up at her. "Even if you don't have a face, you must have a name. And a home before this. Tell me bits about yourself."
"A name?" The short being paused, then gave a hard blink. And then she said, "I say my name is Alia. I did come in from the plains, as known by Officer Marphie…" She then went quiet, staring at the woman. She had run out of descriptive information about herself.
"Hmm… Alia… Alia. I suppose it's not 'Leia' or even 'Lia" for nicknames, right?" In response, Mrs. Frump saw the metal-bodied cyborg give a shake of her head. "It's a beautiful name. A bit on the archaic side, but it has to be a fair name for your brain…" Mrs. Frump then leaned over until her nose was almost in contact with the holes of Alia's exposed nostrils: a plump-soft face against a metal-hard skull face. "Come inside. I'll find some use for you. And I'll find something to make you a touch more presentable, too."
Officer Marphie gone, Mrs. Frump took the cyborg by the hand into the shoe store—this medium-sized and carpeted place with rows of shoes. Shoes were of various sizes, colors and technological levels. Shoes for real-bodied people. Shoes for cyborgs. Plenty of footwear around.
"That was a nice kind of hello," said the wide woman in closing the door. "So nice to speak with the e-cops every so often. Nice big boys and girls, they are, but a bit sheepish.' Mrs. Frump to Alia. "'Alia.' Hmmph, is that your real name? I noticed how you had to think a little before you spoke. So, tell me about your real self." Her dark blue eyes stared—expectation of an answer.
Alia folded her gray hands together in front of herself, small sounds of metal rasping on metal. "Oh… Well madam, I lack memories. A malady seized me. Only today did I recover enough to return to consciousness."
In good condition, but talks funny, thought Mrs. Frump. She said, "Oh, what's that? I don't think malady is the word. How can you be sick? You're a cyborg, and cyborgs can malfunction. Like machines. Your body's a machine, so shouldn't you say 'malfunction?'"
Alia gently shook her head. "My physique is electromechanical. Yet, my brain lives. That leads to biological vulnerability. Like infections particular to the brain. Or a blow to the braincase. Or prolonged auto-stasis. That, and more, can lead to degrees of sickness with cyborgs." And please cease your asking…
"Auto-stasis? Whoa, that's an old-old-fashioned word. You're one of those metal types, an antique body. War era?" The big woman smiled a smile of revelation. "You are a War antique! How quaint!"
She then went away from the door, going to the left side of the shoe showroom. The cash register's counter was over there. "Come and sit on the counter." She also motioned to the antique.
Alia the antique followed, taking striding steps to the counter. She reached up to pull herself onto it, then pivoted as so she sat facing Mrs. Frump. The large woman then put her hands on the sides of Alia's smooth gray skull, gently turning the head left and right for perusal. She then gently tilted back Alia's head to take some looks at the machinery of the neck.
"Hmm… Superior condition, considering War-time goods. Some dirt in the neck works, but auto-repair systems ought to eventually deal with that low-priority issue… Lie down."
Alia did, her head near the cash register, and she put her hands at her sides. Mrs. Frump then slowly perused the rest of Alia's gray alloy body—the surface armor. "Good, the body is still sealed. Nice shape, too. Looks feminine. But your hands are exposed machinery. I wonder why…" She lifted Alia's hands one at a time for closer inspection. "Very good hands for an archaic model. Very good. High dexterity. Must have been good at repairs…"
That piqued Alia enough to say something, but then the whim died like a light flicked off. There was something in what Mrs. Frump said. About having good hands and being good at repairs. It was the same brush with memory she had when thinking on mottled green uniforms and black boots. Whatever Alia thought, it was dead now.
"Now, sit up." Alia sat up, her legs dangling over the edge of the counter. "I'm going to get some things to make you look more acceptable in public. That metal body and short size of yours may get attention, but we can at least cover the head a bit. Hmmph, hope I still have some spares…" The large woman then went to the back of the shoe store—passing between aisles and to a door at the very back. That left Alia to looking around.
And she did look around. She folded her hands in her lap and turned her head to the right. There were many aisles of shoes, shoes of multiple types. Some were just simple material shoes of synthesized rubber and leather. Those shoes were for people who still retained their real bodies. Shoes and sneakers made with rubberoid soles were designed for people with "replacement" bodies, or bodies of synthetic flesh and metal skeleton.
The large woman reappeared from between the aisles of shoes. In her left hand, she held a light-red bandanna. And in her right, she had a wig with loose dark curls. These, she carried over to the armor-bodied waif on the counter.
"Now, hold still. I'm going to try this bandanna over your face. It'll be like a
face rag." The large woman put the wig to the side of Alia, then put the bandanna around the metal head, covering the face. "Of course, eye holes." She took away the bandanna and held it out to Alia. "Poke two big holes in this for your big eyes. Then we'll put the wig on."
Alia took the bandanna, then estimated where her eyes would be if she wore it as a "face rag." With careful pinches, she tore out two perfectly circular holes. Firmly double-tied around the back of her head, the modified bandanna stayed on her head. She could see out of the holes, and it covered her metal face.
Then the round woman pressed the dark wig against the top of Alia's skull, and she sat obediently straight. As she held the wig there, Mrs. Frump explained. "The polymers in this wig take some seconds to hold to titanium. At least, that's what I was told by the guy that sold it to me; no one really uses these wigs anymore. Scalp replacement these days, you know." Or don't.
She then pulled her hand away from Alia, and the wig remained. "Ah, that ought to do it! Now let me take a look at you." The big woman stepped some steps away from Alia, then put hands on hips. "You look more presentable now. The wig looks a bit big on you, but that's because you're just so small to begin with. It looks cute though. And the bandanna makes a good face rag. Probably better than…" Mrs. Frump saw something out the large front window of the shop. "Hmmph, here he comes." Alia wondered who "he" was.
The doors of the shop whipped open, and there was a breeze of an air current in here. Three youths came in: two six-foot pale lanky males and a lanky female. All wore blue boots and blue jeans, with tee shirts and black synth-leather jackets for tops. The two males had black hair, and the female had curly yellow-blonde hair. They looked physically normal save for their metal hands; the rest of their bodies were of the synth-flesh type.
The mouse-faced male led the way to the counter, over where Alia sat curious and Mrs. Frump stood annoyed. He stopped, and his two cohorts did. There was silence for some seconds as the wayward youth regarded the little metal-type cyborg.
He looked left and right, glimpses to his comrades. "What do you think? Is she real or just a fakie?" He then returned his gaze to the thing on the counter. "Authentic antique or phony fakie?"
The skinny yellow-haired cohort spoke. "I think it's a phony, a fakie. The thing's brain can't be alive. Like, the War was several hundred years back. But that one's whole. Put back together, maybe."
The other cohort, the flat-faced male, said, "I don't know. It's hard to tell if the brain is still alive. If the brain was replaced with an A.I. matrix, there'd be extra screws for the secondary casing. Nope, can't tell if it's a fakie or the real deal."
"Oh yeah, big help you two are!" said Zackus. He looked at the large blonde woman. "Okay, you gotta tell us. Is that a real living metal-type cyborg or what? You have to tell me if the brain in its head is still real."
Mrs. Frump let out a long breath, more rude people. Looking at the mouse-faced one, she said, "Hello, Zackus. How are you? Nice of you to just come barging into one of my stores without even saying 'hi' in return." She then moved her bulky body to the left, now out from behind the cyborg on the counter—a direct line of sight from herself to Zackus. "What would Mom say to you about being rude?"
"Hey sis, being rude is a key aspect of a Ganglander's being, you know?" He leered, the effect of the leer amplified because of his big nose and wide lips. "Mom loves me anyway. You know that. Anyway, is it real or a fakie?"
Mrs. Frump then put her hands on Alia's shoulders and tried to turn her around. Alia obliged and moved herself around, her metal bottom rotating on the counter. "Yeah, she's real. Officer Marphie was going to take her down to the station for pip procedures."
"Sure it wasn't going to be…pimp procedures? You know, spend a few thousand on a little immigrant, give it a synth-flesh body, and…" said Zackus, the Ganglander with the mousy face. He and his cohorts then gave cynical chortles. Mrs. Frump shook her head, still looking annoyed. Younger brothers were annoying at times, especially when with their little friends. Especially if they were Ganglanders.
"Zackus, please don't annoy me today. I don't like my mood being darkened," said Mrs. Frump. "He even brought this one along. This is a real metal-type cyborg from the time of the War. She's in nearly flawless condition too. Though the synthetic flesh of the head and the hair are gone, she's still basically as good as she was made."
"Groovy! So can we borrow her?" asked Zackus. He then lifted his chin and affected a more stiff-mouthed way of talking. "Dear sibling, Jimmy, Lula and myself would absolutely adore the temporary possession of such a fine piece! It would truly be like the lessons of hypno-education came to life. Because…" His cohorts giggled at Zackus' phony speech, and he then spread his leather-clad arms--silvery hands also outstretched. "Because, that is a part of history. Culture and dear refinement, dear sister." At that speech, his cohorts outright laughed.
Alia just stared at the giggling wayward youth, intrigued. Her memory was truncated, but she was sure she never saw modern youths dress that way before. Ganglanders themselves dressed like certain American youths from archived photos of the Old Days: black leather jackets, tee shirts, jeans and boots. But American youths of the mid-20th century did not have metal hands, nor were American youths with synthetic bodies.
On that, Alia had questions. Why they chose to go for full-metal hands was odd, considering how they were civilians. If a person was going for full metal limbs, why just stop at the hands? A full metal body was stronger than just synth-flesh.
The willowy female Ganglander spoke in her cutesy voice. "Ooh… I think it's sort of cute. So could we borrow it, Lucy? Could we? I'll try to get Zackus to take good care of it for you. It's too cute to damage."
Mrs. Frump's slight annoyance temporarily spiked into anger at being called by her first name by those kids. Then again, those "kids" could be several decades old: Synth-flesh bodies were not real, and therefore did not age. Ganglanders could then remain "teenagers" forever. Whatever, they still behaved like kids.
Mouse-faced Zackus, flat-faced Jimmy, and cutesy cheeked Lula then folded and raised their gleaming silver hands together and looked at the annoyed woman behind the counter, their eyes wide and in exaggerating pleading. In chorus, "Puh-leese can we borrow her?
Mrs. Frump rolled her eyes, then let out one long breath. "Okay, you can take her. But that's just because you help keep your cohorts from vandalizing my shops. Got that, Zackus? You keep your cohorts from my shops."
"Thanks, sis!" said Zackus. He then put his hands on Alia's upper arms. A real metal-type waif! He then put her on the ground. "Hey, at least it still stands. The brain in the head must still have some life in it. Okay, antique. Let's go out of this store."
Before Zackus could move with Alia, Mrs. Frump moved surprisingly quickly to snatch the wig off of Alia's skull. That exposed the cranium again. The large woman then said, "I don't want to lose this wig. Some customers may want to use it."
Zackus smirked. "Hey, we're just borrowing it, right? You're not going to lose it to us. We'll return it, right Ganglanders?" He then heard the chuckles of his buddies, and he held out his gleaming hands in a gesture that said, See what I mean? He then bent over to take Alia's left hand in his right, and he loped over to the store's exit—Jimmy and Lula following.
They were just a block away, walking along the city sidewalk, when Zackus wanted to start an argument with Lula. He still led Alia by the hand as they all walked along the street. "Lula, I bet if we put this cyborg in a fire, the brain will die. The metal should heat up really hot, and the brain will bake in the skull! We can keep the body at our place for…"
He then heard a female's gasp. That was Alia, and she began trying to pull her hand out of Zackus'. But Zackus' solid machine hand clamped down on her own, keeping her from escaping. "Hey there, short little antique! Calm down!" Alia still tried to pull, then began hitting at Zackus' gripping hand with her free one. She then took a look around, saw that no bystanders cared. Alia then scre-e-amed in Zackus' face.
"Calm it down, I said!" He then lifted his free hand and… Clink! He struck Alia across her forehead—knocking away the bandanna that served as a face rag. Her small form then went limp, but Zackus still held her.
He put Alia over his left shoulder and turned. Lula and Jimmy stood deadpan. "Come on! Let's see if metal-type cyborgs are really tough against fire." Now to start the argument… "And Lula, didn't you once say that they are?"
Lula gave him a look and crossed her leather-sleeved arms. "Zackus, allow me to explain yet again. If you retained information from your hypno-education, you would recall that metal-type cyborgs have modified tensor-field energy systems as a safety against extreme temperatures. Also, the alloys of their bodies are done up so that they stay cool—something to do with polymers laced into their alloy skins. Though the brain could be in a little trouble, if the homeostasis has problems."
"Yeah, you tell'em, Lula!" cheered Jimmy, generally understanding what Lula said. "Zackus should be strapped back in the learning chairs until he believes what the education programming tell him. Man, my uncle had to be educated with a live person, and I bet even he knows about that!"
Zackus took a look at the being he had over his shoulder. "Oh yeah? You two think yourselves so damned smart! Let's try out that flame-resistant theory! I think… I think…"
"And therefore I am!" said Lula. "Je crois, donc je suis! Didn't you learn that, too? Or are you still a slacker?"
Zackus glared at the smiling cohort. "As I was saying, I think that we should have materials for a kind of little experiment. There are clothes shops somewhere on this street. People toss stuff out back, flammable stuff…"
Jimmy's eyes went wide. "You're not serious, are you? I mean, we're going to kill a little cyborg-girl just because you want to test an idea? What if…"
"Come on, Jimmy!" answered Zackus, feeling his usual brash and reckless self. "This thing can't be a little girl. It's a metal-type! An outdated freak-antique. Metal types haven't been made since the War! There may have been a little girl's brain in its head once, but the brain is probably screwed up now—being in the body for so long.
"And besides, don't you believe Lula? Shouldn't this little antique's brain be kept cool by the body's systems? If not, so what if its brain dies? It's not a person anymore! Look at that low-tech body!" On that, Zackus took Alia off of his shoulder and held her limp self by the upper arms. A four-foot metal doll. "A damned machine!" He shook her at Jimmy. "An outdated machine! Now, there's a clothes store. There's the alleyway that leads to its dumpsters. Let's try the experiment. And don't be a wussy!" Zackus then led the way to that alley on the left. His cohorts followed, but not before one of them—Lula—picked up Alia's bandanna.
They made their way through a dark and narrow alley to a space behind the store. And there was a large dumpster likely full of the sort of flammable items Zackus wanted. "Yeah, there should be some stuff nearby…" he said as he laid the cyborg on the dingy concrete ground. He then went to the dumpster. He raised the top, then began pulling out plenty of tissue paper, occasional synth-wood boards and synth-cotton cloth.
Before long, he had a pile of flammable rubbish, enough to cover Alia. He then proceeded to put those swaths of cloth, those broken synth-wood boards and tissue over Alia. And he reached into an upper left jacket pocket for a lighter.
As for Alia, she came to the surface of her dazed state. Her very slight movements were not noticed because of all the materials she was covered with. The blow to her head had only stunned her. Her life support systems then worked to slowly increase dosage of adrenaline to her brain…
"Now, watch and learn kids. And do try this experiment at home. I recommend it, if you can find a metal-type cyborg!" he said. He was holding a small boxy lighter with the top flipped up. Not a Zippo lighter, this: This lighter had two exposed terminals that would spark to ignite things. Zackus then put the lighter to the rubbish heap, and he pressed the small round ignition knob. The lighter sparked a bit of the rubbish, and Zackus leapt away from the resulting flames. "Feel the burn, baby!"
Then the flaming trash flew out in multiple directions when Alia shoved with her arms. Still lying down, she kicked up and backward, giving her enough inertia to roll backward and snap to her feet. Amidst the scattered burning bits of trash, her fists up, Alia stood in a basic fighting stance. She faced Zackus, who was over near the dumpster.
He smirked. "You oversized scrap of shit metal, you want a fight? You want a piece of me, the Zackus? Hah, I've rumbled with people two times, three times your size!" He raised his own metal fists. "Want to take on me? Then take me on!"
The rumble was on. Zackus did a fierce step forward, swinging his right metal fist over and down against Alia as he moved. And with a clink, his myogel-strong punch connected with Alia.
The punch actually connected with Alia's upraised and held-together forearms—a double-armed block of the attack. But there was some effect; she staggered steps backward, and there were slight scrapes on the armor of her forearms.
Recovering from the shock of the blow, she then did a quick leap forward, moving so quickly that she managed to stand immediately before Zackus before he could react. Thunk-thunk! Alia's own metal fists cut into the synth-muscle of Zackus' right thigh—shearing synth-cotton, rubberoid skin and some of the pale and bloodless "muscle." She took a step back and raised her fists yet again.
Zackus' right leg lost some strength, flesh damage. There was no real "pain" for a cyborg, but there was still damage and a slight loss of coordination. He fell to a knee, but his fists remained raised. "You little piece of scrap crap! I'll take your body apart and use it for Art-Deco!"
Shoving with his uninjured left leg, he then lunged for Alia, jabbing with his left silvery fist. But Alia turned to the side, and that blow missed. That left Zackus with his right arm extended, off-balance.
Alia counter-attacked. She did a half-spin and extended her right leg—a crescent kick. That blow connected with Zackus' side, knocking him away and down. And the traction texturing along the bottom of her foot had sheared away a bit of his side, where the kick connected.
Zackus stayed down for some seconds, then began to get up again. Alia did not stay to see him come to his feet. Instead, she ran at his surprised cohorts and managed a powerful burst of energy enough to leap over their heads—going into the alleyway out of here. Her feet pattered off into the distance and off in a random direction. She was lost and hurt, and she did not know where to go in this city.
