Irony. The dictionaries of Manticore, crisp and clean, defined it as, "A figure of speech conveying meaning through words of opposite meaning". My definition, though, was much less and much more confusing: My life.
Irony was a factor that would control my existence from the very day I was created inside a test tube, until my last minute alive, wherever that would present itself. It was ironic that my siblings and I had escaped from Manticore, considering we were supposed to be brainwashed into not escaping. It was ironic that I had entered New York City in the slums, since I typically viewed those types of people below myself and tended not to associate with them, let alone come to care and-dare I say-love them. And, irony was at its best that stormy night as I scuttled across the tops of buildings. I may have lost my sacrifice for the Blue Lady, but the hunt still remained in full glory. I would get what I had come for: A death.
Like a nocturnal demon, I moved across rusted fire escapes and climbed gutters, safely keeping myself above ground so I could attempt to find George. His expensive cologne and occasional footprints in the mud left a lingering trail, and I noticed both of these with keen expertise. If he thought he had an upper hand in this game, he had obviously never dealt with a highly trained transgenic murderer.
The tracks reappeared again, more definite in their shape and size, and I knew at once that they had to be his. Swinging down from the twisted ladder, I fell neatly to the ground, landing on both feet. I followed the footpath with my eyes to see that it led into what would have appeared to be a dead end fence if the prints hadn't neatly disappeared in front of the planks, that was. Grinning slyly to myself at the stupidity of George, I scurried closer, pressing my body against the crumbling brick wall of the alleyway and slunk over to the fence.
Pausing for a moment, I listened to what could possibly be happening behind the fence. Unable to clearly hear anything over the drumming rain, which was increasing in velocity every second, I pressed my ear against the fence. Several voices, ranging from baritone to tenor pitch, floated through the cheap plywood and arrived upon my ear. They were muffled, allowing me to only hear snippets and phrases, and some didn't even speak English, yet I continued to listen nonetheless.
"...ship 'em out tonight...What? I don't want 'em..."
"Who 'dey goin' to 'dis time? Skip?"
"...not him...he don't want it..."
Suddenly, there was a baby's piercing cry, and I heard an angry bellow that only George could deliver: "Shut the hell up-would ya?"
A sinister chuckle followed George's voice. "Can't keep the kid in line-huh?"
"You can shut up, too."
"....yours? Or that fucking whore you sleep with?"
"He's hers."
Instantly, I knew that I had found both Taji and George. Gracefully, I slipped my two guns out of my vest, checked to make sure they were fully loaded with fresh clips, then eyed the fence over for some kind of opening. Through a few simplistic maneuvers of the boards, I managed to silently sneak my way inside the group's hideout.
The entrance opened up into a long hallway, which turned to the right, and from there a weak light could be seen. Using my genetically given grace, I skulked down the hallway, scanning the area for possible intrusion every other second. Once I had reached the turn in the hall, I peeked around the corner and saw that the door to whatever room they had was closed. The door, with a window of frosted glass, allowed me to see the shadows moving behind it. Just as I had reached for the handle and was ready to burst inside to blow off some heads, a large hand clamped down on my shoulder.
"You'd better have a damn good reason for being here," the gruff voice demanded.
"Yeah," I sneered, "I'm the hit man sent by a six-year-old." And with that, I shot out one hand and crunched the man's neck in a grasp that was unattainable even to some robots. Without waiting, I then turned to the door, brought one leg up beneath me and smashed the door right off of its hinges. The actual doorframe splintered, while the bulk of it flew across the room, sending glass dancing into a million pieces. Taji, in the distance, was terrified of what was happening and began to wail.
"That's him!" I heard George yelling. "That's the bastard who shot me!"
As if by order, three men came rushing up to me, sizable guns drawn and prepared to kill. In three rapid jerks, I sent bullets flying at the trio, striking each in the heart, and they collapsed to the ground with a groaning lurch. My left gun stopped a shriveled man from stabbing me in the back, and just as I thought I was the victor, a bullet ripped through the flesh on my upper arm.
Whipping around to the source of the perpetrator, I found myself face to face with George, who held Taji crudely in one arm. For a villain, he had one lousy aim. A lousy aim that had given me the chance to destroy him forever. Unfortunately, just as I had angled a gun at him, he brought one of his own to Taji's temple and grinned evilly at me.
"Kill me, and he dies as well."
"Your battle isn't with him."
"Put your guns down, Ben, and I'll let him go."
I paused, watching Taji, now silenced with duct tape, squirm in his father's grasp. Maybe I could have tried to shoot George, but with my luck, Taji would have been killed in the process. Finally, with arthritic gestures, I set the guns down on the floor, and glared at George from my standing position.
"Let him go," I ordered.
"Not quite," George responded and dropped Taji into a gunnysack lying off to the side. With the knot firmly tied, Taji thrashed inside, kicking and screaming through the duct tape. After imprisoning and laying Taji on a table, George turned to me and grinned. "You are a bigger coward and a fool than Lia claimed you to be."
"'Cowards die many times before their deaths; the valiant never taste of death but once'," I repeated in a snarl, using the famous quote a teacher back at Manticore had taught us as a reminder of what courage really meant. Shakespeare and Manticore-who would have thought? As George could only gape, I launched myself at him. Like a plowing ram, I threw my entire weight into the blow, so we toppled through a thin plywood wall, creating splinters that bit our flesh. I wrapped my hands around his neck, prepared to murder, when a tinny cry of, "Ben!" ripped my head around.
Behind me, Lia came rushing up, following by Jada, who was bleeding and crying out for her daughter to come back. "Lia, no!" I shouted at her. "Go!" But, my words were all in vain, for as soon as I had forgotten about George, he lifted his gun and pulled the trigger. There was a deafening blast which separated us, and suddenly everything began to move in slow motion before my eyes. Lia's tiny body lurched forward, like she had been punched in the stomach, and I saw her face go white with horror. "NO!" I frantically bellowed, watching her collapse to the ground. "No!" Jada's words of warning became one long, continuous shriek as she stumbled down beside Lia. In a maddening fury, I turned to George, who was scrambling away from the hideout.
With lightning speed, I dashed after him, and hurled him to the ground, where I grabbed his head in my hands and began to strike it against the hardened dirt of the alley floor. Adrenaline rushed through my veins, and I felt powerful and uncontrollable. Logic no longer mattered, and all of my actions were derived from hatred and wrath. Over and over, I slammed his head against the dirt. Pieces of jagged flesh writhed underneath my fingers, and a dark pool of blood began to form around his head.
"You fucking bastard!" I screamed at him. "Fucking bastard!" When I momentarily paused, he reached up with one hand to claw my face in retaliation, and I lost it.
Absolutely lost it.
I should have known better. Really, I should have.
I tore out my knife and sliced off his vile hand first, causing it to fly across the alley. His stump of a hand revealed only a jagged bone and tendrils of ruptured blood vessels and nerves. Then, I launched into his body, severing open organs, which glistened in the moonlight and soon became saturated in the pounding rain. Pink muscle was hacked away, and greasy yellow fat was thrown off to the side as I cut into him. Pushing past intestines, which draped across my arm until I slashed them apart, sacs and pockets of rank waste products ruptured inside of his dying body. I stripped him of his skin, leaving his legs as only fibrous stumps of mutilated flesh and gore. Driving the steel blade through his eyes, where blood ran like tears, I hacked into his skull, until I was able to retrieve his brain and destroy that with the rage of ten thousand armies.
My arm with the knife became one powerful hammer, just slashing into him again and again. Crimson liquid sprayed into my hair and over my skin, staining my clothes and soul. Then, with one long roar, I thrust the knife into his exposed heart, and slumped over the carcass, gasping heavily as plasma converged around what was left of George. My whole body trembled from pure exhaustion, and I was soaked from head to toe in either rain or blood.
In the distance, beyond the storm, I heard a pitiful moan, and my mind remembered the real horror of the evening: Lia.
Jerking my knife upward and out of him, I hurried inside the hideaway to discover Jada crouched over Lia, weeping. Jada looked up as I entered, but said nothing.
"No..." I moaned. "No, no, no..."
As I slumped down to my knees, Jada allowed me to gather Lia's frail little body in my arms and hold her close. Weakly, Lia's eyelids fluttered open, and she gazed up at me through those gorgeous eyes that had peered inside of my darkened soul.
"Ben..." she wheezed.
"I'm right here," I whispered. "I'm right here...nothing's going to happen to you."
"Not be mad at me...I wanted to help you...Father hurt you...You not know..."
"I know, I know, Lia. I understand. He's gone now, he's all gone." I was close to hysterics and I wondered why she wasn't, considering that I was the one drenched in her father's blood.
"Just help you...Save you..."
"I was supposed to save you."
"You did...You get rid of Father." Her voice was so dangerously low that I had to lean my head closer to hear her. There was a long pause during which she shallowly inhaled and exhaled, and Jada and I both sat in rapture, frightened of the future. At last, Lia spoke. "Ben?"
"Yes?"
"I...I...have to t-t-ell you...something..."
"Anything," I urged, "anything."
"I...lo-love...you...Ben-ny..." Faintly, a smile tugged at the corners of her bluish tinted lips. "I always lo..."
"God, Lia," I whispered, taken so starkly aback that words wouldn't come to me. Then, wanting to tell her my feelings, I spoke her name. "Lia...Lia? Lia? Lia!" I screamed, realizing that she was no longer responding. "Jada! She-Lia!"
"Ben-" Jada began and approached to comfort me, but I flung her away.
"No! Lia! Goddamnit, no!"
I shook her body in my powerful hands, wanting her to say something. Frantically, in a haphazard state of mind, I rolled up my sleeve and sliced the interior of my arm open, resulting in a gushing flow of blood. I pressed the wound to her bullet hole, believing stupidly in my panic that there might be a slight chance for her to be saved by my blood. But, after several still minutes when nothing was happening, I finally pulled my sticky arm away, and gaped at Lia's pale body.
"She's gone, Ben," Jada whispered, now holding Taji in her arms.
"No..." I moaned, and bringing Lia's body closer to me, I embraced her tightly. And bending my head to her body, I choked back tears until I could be strong no longer and began to sob.
