The world was filled with useless things.
Religions that practically have no beliefs even remotely similar usually have a single law in common: to obtain a peaceful afterlife you must shed your worldly desires. The Hindus state that, to reach Nirvana, a person must be completely at one with themself without being a proverbial slave to earthly pleasures. The Buddhists hold a similar belief. Pagans who will reside in Summerland believe the key to eternal rest is to be a helpful, generous person during thier mortal lives. The Islamic Quran tells us that Allah's angels will come and ask a deceased person what they did with thier life previous to Judgment. Selfish men would obviously not gain peace in death.
Still, none of this stopped humans from being so avaricious. There was always wants and needs that needed to be fulfilled so that a person's soul could be temporarily satisfied with what they had. Of course, it only took a more glamorous gemstone or better piece of technology to start the process over once again, trapping men and women in the cycle of vanity.
The people that had been abducted and reconstructed into cyborgs were the result of one reature's greed. A war merchant who saw the profit in starting conflicts between countries and being the one to sell them thier weapons; that was Black Ghost. Answers about the enemy commanders history and true motives still evaded the rebels, but his immediate actions of terrorism to the world was enough for the nine demi-humans to form thier opinions.
In the end it was these nine people who suffered because of greed. Everything they had ever known, loved, and fought for had been torn away and replaced with something strange and unnatural.
Sometimes Albert Heinrich didn't even feel secure in his own body: it just wasn't his anymore. This thing had once been the place where the soul of a hard working lover had dwelled. Now it was an abomination to everything Albert had ever been; a slap in the face to everything he once stood for. It was a metal container for an essence that had lost his morals and couldn't figure himself out anymore. His body was his own prison.
Eventually, this led to other questions. It had been fourty-something years since his one-sided partnership with Black Ghost began. How old was he now, really? Seventy-three, or seventy-four? His body should have grown decrepit over the decades, but cryogenic animation prevented that. So, what would happen now that he was no longer being artificially preserved?
This question baffled the scientist known as Dr. Isaac Gilmore. The director of the cybernetic project had often wondered it himself, but never had one of his wards actually come to him and started to demand answers with a misleadingly polite voice like Zero-Zero-Four had that day.
"Er... Could you specify more on what you're asking me?" said the doctor, resisting the urge to raise his eyebrow at the peculiar inquiry. The other inhabitants of the recreation room looked up curiously, all interested in the unfolding situation.
"I just want to know what's supposed to happen to us." The usual deadpan expression on the Germans face suddenly grew more to one of serious concern. "I should be at least ten years older than you right now, but I'm not. We get shot at by machine guns and even they can't kill us. So, are we still human? I just... I don't understand."
All eyes turned to the Russian expectantly, and despite the tension, Gilmore kept his wise demeanor. Everyone except for Zero-Zero-Three, Zero-Zero-Eight, and Zero-Zero-Nine was present, and though none of them were ready to jump right into the conversation, they all listened acutely. It was something they had all pondered on at one time or another, but had never actually gotten the drive to ask about.
"Of course you're still human," he started with a small scoff, "Probably more so than some of the people we've met recently. I'm afraid that I can only tell you my speculations on this matter: I've made several conclusions based on my studies of how you will all age, but nothing can be concrete when you're the first of your kind. "You all know that you've been enhanced in different ways," he continued, addressing the entire group (as it was obvious to him that they were all listening), "The first generation is likely the most complex group, solely because we were ...still experimenting with the process, you understand."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, Zero-Zero-One's growth rate has significantly slowed since his metaphysical powers have become the focus of his development. Zero-Zero-Two's internal organs were refined to endure gravitational force at high speeds. You underwent similar procedures as he, though for diversified reasons, Zero-Zero-Four. Meanwhile, Zero-Zero-Three is mostly biological even yet, so age will likely affect her differently. All of you are different."
For the first time another member of the congregation spoke up. "Yeah, so what about us with aluminum insides?" Jet asked, a sideways grin on his face, " 'We just walk around the earth 'till we rust?"
"Hardly. Like all things, machines falter with time and wear, yes, but it is more likely that complications with your bodies and the cybernetic components will arise above all else. Then again, you may even die of brain cancer or such. I just know that in the earliest stages of our testing the animals occasionally began rejecting the artificial components after a sum of years. Not pleasant to hear, but if anything of that sort were to happen it would be almost impossible to help the situation."
"Why's that?" Chang, who had been quite silent up until that point, asked with a shaken tone.
"Well, say that your body began to reject your metallic heart. You could get a biological transplant, but since your body has become so adjusted to using a consistent, powerful organ, the new muscle would probably fail under the conditions."
"This still doesn't answer my question." Albert, arms crossed firmly, took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself down. Dr. Gilmore waited patiently, though this left an uncomfortable silence that made the German inwardly cringe at. "How are we supposed to die? We're lab projects, not people," he snapped angrily, and everyone nearby felt the tension rise drastically, "It's not going to be normal, is it? We aren't going to just be here one minute and gone the next. It'll be some sort of lagging, unnatural end that will drag out until we've deteriorated into nothing. It'll be a fascination to those who want to study it, and a joy for those who loathe us because we are the 'murderers' responsible for the deaths of people who had families. "So, now I'm asking you again: what will happen to us when we die?"
The elder man paused, listening to the words over in his head. It only served as a delay to him shaking his head sadly, looking down at the floor while he searched for a way to clarify.
"No, Zero-Zero-Four. That's not what you're asking me. What you want to know is what happens after you die, and I can't answer that. It's a question that had plagued humanity for thousands of years; I doubt anyone can tell you for sure."
"Now, what the hell was that all about?" Jet asked pretentiously to no one in particular. Expectedly, he received no immediate response.
"His mind is very disconcerted." Gilmore was impressed with himself when Zero-Zero-One's intrusion on his thoughts didn't cause him to jump out of his skin. From the lack of reaction from the other people in the room it was likely the infant was speaking only to him. "It's not my place to violate his contemplations, but he clearly needs to be spoken with. It would seem you have an idea of what is bothering him, Doctor. Perhaps you should be the one to talk with him." It wasn't a request.
In the back of his mind Gilmore sighed tiredly. He felt like a grandfather to an extended family that had unconsciously shouldered the responsibility of holding everyone together. Stress was a major factor of war; any idiot could tell you that. But for some, however, the breaking point was more easily reached than in others. Zero-Zero-Four, for example, had a bad habit of keeping his aberration hidden behind his stoic demeanor, detectable only to those keen enough to see it.
It was understandable. Of all the cases Gilmore had read up on of his 'family', Zero-Zero-Four's story was undoubtedly one of the most traumatic. Admittedly, his wasn't the worst of all the cyborgs - he'd lived well up until the time of his abduction, - but it was still an experience that would have shattered any young lover's world. Zero-Zero-Four had every reason to snap his line, though what triggered his outburst today was still a mystery.
The German wasn't hard to locate, but that could have been because he hadn't gone out of his way to hide. In all honesty, Albert had actually hoped somebody come after him. It was an awkward impulse: usually he felt like being alone after thinking about her, but today was different for whatever reason. So, in response to this unusual desire for company, the galley was where he had retreated to.
He hadn't expected the Doctor to be the one to pursue him. Yes, it made sense; the man knew most of his background, history, and state of mind, but Heinrich felt that things would be better if somebody who didn't know him so well had been there instead. It would have made things a lot less uncomfortable, at least.
"Time can only heal so much when you continuously rip open the wounds, Zero-Zero-Four."
"I can't just force her out of my mind," said the blonde slowly.
"And you shouldn't try to. You should always remember your devotion to your wife. It will hurt, but you can't torment yourself for the rest of your life with knowing what you had at one time is now gone." The doctor put his hands in his jacket pockets idly and crossed the room, nearing the pantry cupboards. "Care for some tea?"
"No, thanks."
"Never forget your loves," Gilmore continued to finish his last thought, "but don't cling to the memory of them as though they are your final life line. You'll only drive yourself mad if you do."
"I think you told me that a little too late." The reply came with a good natured grin which was actually genuine, and quite rare.
"I'd like to give you some time off, but I'm afraid there's only so many places one can relax while on a submarine in the middle of nowhere."
"It's all right. I think I've gotten about as much vacation time as I can handle in the past few weeks. Back home I never would have seen myself traveling around the world this much."
"You see? There are advantages to taking on an evil syndicate of murderers and death merchants for the good of humanity."
"Heh. Right. 'Get to go to exotic places, meet exciting people..."
" '...And kill them'," Gilmore finished the sadistic quote with an uncharacteristically placid smile. "Speaking of which, and pardon the change to this topic, but have you had the pleasure of talking with Zero-Zero-Eight?"
"It wasn't so much of a conversation with him as it was at him. I could have been talking to the wall and he wouldn't have noticed me."
"I do hope that you know what I'm about to ask you to do," said the Doctor, dropping a tea bag into the empty cup he had retrieved.
"I'll try to pull him back into the world of the living tonight," Heinrich assured.
"Thank you, Zero-Zero-Four. He seems to respond more to you than to the rest of us, for some reason."
Not being the one to break his word (as that was often all a poor man had that was worth anything), Albert did actually seek out Zero-Zero-Eight after supper that evening. A supper which the African cyborg had managed to miss, despite the dinner call over the ship's intercom system.
Pyunma had his reasons for detaching himself, and they were all justified. A person, regardless of how mechanical they are physically, does not easily get over having to kill thier once-best friend. It was a horrible thing that had to be done, but in this new world it was kill or be killed. At least Zero-Zero-Eight had given his friend a chance to go back, and when the chance was lost Pyunma had to fire out of self-defense.
Is it self-defense if you knew they were going to shoot you when given the opportunity?
Although it was nearly nine o'clock in thier current time zone, the Dolphin was so brightly lit that anyone could have been fooled into thinking in was noon up at the surface. Albert thought about how quickly time seemed to pass now: they'd left Japan about six weeks ago, then the Arctic, then France, England, and Muanba... It'd just felt like a few days, but in fact nearly another two months of Albert's life had come and gone.
Rather abruptly, the German was pulled from his day dreaming by a small impact to the back of his head. Reflexively, he swung around just in time to see a sleek form run off behind the corner - it had to have been Zero-Zero-Three. He would have pursued her out of curiosity if the projectile in question, a small paper note, that was laying at his feet hadn't caught his eye.
Since most everyone had gathered in the recreation area, and Joe and Francoise were probably off doing something else, Pyunma had settled in the abandoned control station. The entire ship was currently on auto pilot, practically operating itself and ready for combat. Still, the African felt a sense of duty to man the vessel in case of trouble. That, and the fact that he wanted a little time to think.
The likelihood of that, however, dropped when the automatic door hissed open. Pyunma didn't look over his shoulder to see who it was; several adjacent screens reflected the image of Zero-Zero-Four loitering about. That familiar, painful twist began cramping in Zero-Zero-Eight's stomach again.
"I guess I missed dinner, huh?" he asked, though he wasn't even thinking about food at all.
"We put aside some for you in case you get hungry," came the distracted reply. Pyunma guessed at what was coming next, and he was quite right. "So... Are you all right?" The dark skinned man swiveled the chair around, actually making eye contact with the other cyborg, but he glanced back down at the floor after only a few seconds.
"It's been a bad week, but it's been bad b'fore."
"We always perservere in the end."
"Yes... At the cost of how many lives?"
"That cost isn't set by us. That's Black Ghost's doing. You know that, Zero-Zero-Eight."
"It wasn't Black Ghost who pulled the trigger on Yimado."
"But it was Black Ghost who killed him." The blonde took a seat on another one of the control chairs. He was across the room, almost, but Pyunma straightened up as though the German was practically in his face. "You don't need me to tell you that your friend was gone long before we even got to Muanba. Yimado'd already been murdered; you were just the one who stopped him from killing others."
"I... I know that. In my mind, I do, but in my heart..."
"It will always hurt. The most we can really do is bear our losses and try to move on. It sounds insensitive of me to say that, but you're hearing it from the voice of experience, trust me."
The African nodded slowly, suddenly able to only look down and away from Zero-Zero-Four. He was ashamed with himself suddenly, aware that his longing for the other was intensifying with the conversation. But now seemed to be the time to speak up, though. It was the first time in weeks he and Zero-Zero-Four had been alone; this may be the opportunity that he'd been waiting for to have this conversation.
Self-doubt began to overtake Pyunma. He didn't want to destroy what was a promising friendship with Zero-Zero-Four, but carrying around this evil little secret with him all the time was only adding to the building stress. So, he could either reveal the emotions he strived so hard not to share and lose a friend, or he could live with the mortification of his heart in shame.
Deductive reasoning really is a disheartening way to think.
"Listen, Zero-Zero-Four. I have something I need to tell you," he started, fighting back the lump in his throat, pain in his chest, and falter in his voice all at once. His eyes still would raise to meet the other. No turning back, now.
The questioning look on Albert's face quickly turned, a grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Yes. I know."
"What? I don't think you do-"
"Yes. Yes, I do." Albert held up a small paper square and flipped it between his fingers idly, "Here. Some croissant eater threw this at me on my way down here." He tossed the note to a curious Pyunma. That fact that the outside of the folded paper had "Read Me!" written on it on both sides made the African only wonder. When he straightened out the parchment he came to realize that the handwriting was quite perfect, and identical to that of Francoise's writing on her grocery lists.
"Zero-Zero-Four,
It just so happens that a certain somebody on this ship happens to like another certain somebody. And this anonymous writer happens to know that these two people are going to be meeting soon (Hint, hint!). Watch your words; don't hurt his feelings. It would be convenient if this paper would self destruct, but that was just way too much. Please, just throw it away when you're done."
Pyunma looked up at a complete loss for words, but Albert, smirking extensively, took care of that.
"God, love the French."