SummaryBefore Shion and KOS-MOS, before Rubedo and MOMO, there was Ziggy. This is the story of Ziggurat 8 before the events of Xenosaga.
Notes: Hey, I've taken up Xenosaga Episode I again…and I'm learning new things as I go along. Now I feel a little more confident…plus, the reviews help. Yay for feedback. Oh, and if this were a one-shot, I'd have told you. So no worries.
Before I get a bunch of reviews claiming I have several spelling mistakes (hee hee hee), please keep in mind - most American words that have 'or' in it will appear with 'our' instead. That's how we Canadians (and British) do it, in case someone didn't know. For example, 'honour', 'behaviour', 'colour', 'armour' and so on…just to save time.
Just for the sake of information, I'll briefly explain what this fanfic will be. It's basically the events in Ziggy's life before Xenosage Episode one. There will be some slight time lapses, obvious. Not possible to write a full ninety-eight years worth of story. Heh…
Disclaimer: Consult previous chapter.
"Wait there," came the sharp order. Ziggurat stopped in his tracks. Throughout the wide, scarcely populated corridors, neither of the corporals had so much as glanced his way. They were not bored, or dissatisfied with their jobs, yet they were wary. He had no doubt that they chose this route personally to avoid public interaction. Even those few employees they had passed were given strict, verbal warnings to give the 'cyborg' a wide berth.
Much like transporting a dangerous weapon.
Ziggurat already knew the law, outside of the fact that 'they' had integrated it into his partially reconstructed mind. Cyborgs simply were, have always been, and always would be weapons - mere objects for the using of the possessor. A hazardous type of equipment that needed to be handled with caution. No matter that some weapons were once human. No matter that, even with every alteration imaginable, those weapons still were human.
Objects made of steel and flesh. Organic and synthetic parts. Alive, and still…dead.
When the corporal swiped his keycard in the console, released the lock and opened the door, this is what Ziggurat saw.
The hangar itself was impressive. Three whole levels of platforms, labs and stations designed for conservation of space and not comfort, massive pieces of equipment and other apparatus came to life before his very eyes. It was his first sight of the Reference Bay. It was an unfamiliar terrain that was all too quickly going to become his routine.
Reference seemed to be a major understatement for this place. On the right, there were rows upon rows of half-cubicles. Uniformed workers milled here, either moving from console to console, or tapping away at their stations with no regards whatsoever to the world around them. On the left of the bay, there was a collection of large screens and smaller consoles. Images flashed on these screens – diagrams, lists of complicated data netframing and third-dimensional models of what appeared to be the makings of initial blueprints for cybernetic parts.
Reference data for weapons. There were no surgical or medical approaches here. In fact, as Ziggurat observed the screens silently, there seemed to be no consideration at all to the condition of the original body after synthetic implements were attached.
There was an oblong desk at the very front of the hangar, with twelve occupied seats. Men and women in gray-and-black uniforms were immersing themselves at their consoles here, completely ignorant of the three new inhabitants of the space around them. It was one of these personnel that the corporal approached and conversed with.
It was a short-lived conversation. The woman the corporal had disturbed rose from her chair in a daze and turned to face the 'new model'. She was not very young, nearing her late thirties at least. Her skin was dark, her hair neat, short and well groomed. A glint of calculation was sunk in those eyes as she approached him briskly.
"Ziggurat 8," she said in a business-like tone. "Welcome aboard our cybernetic research project. Normally, I would skip these formalities and assign you to your first mission immediately, but I have been informed by the corporal here that you are the first in a new line of cyborg products?"
"Yes," said Ziggurat. "A weapons archetype specialized in front line tactics."
"I see," said the woman. "So that is what happened to our last MCP report. Well, seeing as some of our best data went into your production, Ziggurat 8, I hope we can expect a high rate of success from you."
"I will do as I am required," he said, a little compulsorily. "I'm sorry I can't promise more than that."
"Don't be," was her untailored response as she clasped her hands behind her back. "We know very well what our designs are capable of. You are cyborgs, not miracle workers."
Ziggurat stared on grimly, but did not respond.
"I am curious, however," she went on. "Although I'm aware that your reasoning and human expressionism is limited by the Double I in your enhanced neural systems…I am no stranger to emotional conflicts in a cyborg. I've seen years of hard work and research destroyed in an hour, simply because those fools who run the trial records were neglectful of the fact that cyborgs still have feelings. If you need a day or two before undergoing final maintenance, all you need to do is ask."
The corporal, whom had been standing by, sighed impatiently. His thoughts did not need to be voiced openly to make them known. But if his feelings towards the subject even mattered, the prominent woman ignored them.
"I understand your reasons for offering," said Ziggurat. "Thank you, but I would rather begin the maintenance as soon as possible."
"Very well," she said. "I am not entitled to argue, after all. Now," she added, with a heavier air of duty. "Before we get ahead of ourselves, it's only logical to acquaint you with one or two of our older models. They will probably be able to help you more than anyone else. At the moment, our most reliable reconnaissance team is under repair. I had their maintenance pushed back, to…how does one put it, 'kill two birds with one stone'? It saves effort to have all three Special Ops Ziggurat 6 models and our newest series prototype looked after at once. Also, that way you can meet them."
Ziggurat chose not to express his discomfort about that particular fact. He had no interest in meeting anyone, least of all cyborgs who, undoubtedly, had similar backgrounds to his own. But again, he was unable to refuse. And that feeling of passive obedience was just beginning to feel like monotonous ticking of a clock.
"Corporal Beren," said the woman dismissively. "Corporal Lang, thank you for your assistance. You may return to your usual duties."
"Sergeant," mumbled the same corporal who had done the talking thus far. He waved to the other soldier and they both turned to leave. The woman kept her eyes on Ziggurat until the door closed behind them.
"My name is Francine," she said when they were gone. "Don't bother calling me Sergeant. You are not a solider – you are property of the Subcommittee On Close Encounters. Just Francine. I'm the Second Officer in this department, next to First Officer Haynes. Dr. Zulliani is our superior and the representative of Reference research."
"I understand," Ziggurat replied.
"Of course you do," she said, showing the scarcest bit of humour in her voice. "That's how we designed you. Now, if you will follow me, Ziggurat 8, we can get started."
Francine began to walk away from the desk. Ziggurat hesitated long enough to stare back at the numerous pairs of eyes that were side-glancing him from their seats. For a moment, the workers seemed surprised, before they snapped into their senses delved into their subliminal labour again. Ziggurat started after the sergeant.
They passed the screens and entered a new corridor branching off the main bay. This corridor was considerably more populated than the ones he had seen before, although his presence here did not stir up a reaction at all from the onlookers. Here, his kind was a common sight.
His kind. In his experience, his kind had been their kind up until one hour ago. He was no longer a mere captain of a small detachment at the Police Bureau, but something different. Something strange. He could not even comprehend it fully, as there were restrictions implanted in his brain that altered his memory. He was fully aware that he should somehow feel different about his fate. Angrier. And still, he was not. He did not know why.
"Francine," he ventured. He took note of her small nod, assuring him of her attention. "I'm not sure that I understand my role here. What does a cyborg do, exactly?"
"A perfectly reasonable question," she said, keeping a brief pace. "Not an easy one to answer, unfortunately. You are a military investment, constructed for operations that require advanced combat procedures. Ziggurat Industries does not advance heavily on large-scale production of cyborgs, so we don't treat them the same as regular soldiers."
"Human recruits," Ziggurat confirmed placidly.
"That's correct. Cybernetics aren't cheap anymore. Ever since Realian technology was innovated, the cost of developing the synthetic materials used in cybernetics has increased. Suffice to say, the entire industry is under a shadow now that you're awake."
"Is that because I'm the newest model?"
"You catch on quick," she said with a hint of amusement. "Everyone has reason to worry. There's a good chance Headquarters won't allow us to develop a Ziggurat 9. I doubt there will even be many version 8 cyborgs. We've been outdated."
"I see."
Francine gave him a long side-glance. "You're different."
"I'm sorry?"
"You're different from the others," she said thoughtfully, before returning her eyes to the corridor ahead. "I could not tell right away, but there is something about you that makes you…unique." For a moment, her stone-faced stature relaxed. But only for a moment. "I am not supposed to encourage uniqueness among cyborgs, but I can't seem to help myself."
Ziggurat remained silent for another second. "I don't understand," he said at last.
"Neither do I," she sighed. "Technically, your synthetic arm and leg are made of the same components of every other cyborg in this facility. Your design is parallel to earlier Ziggurat M-Class cyborgs. I don't know the specifications of your internal synthetic implements, but I have a distinct feeling that they're not the standard Double I protocol."
"Double I," he echoed. "Intellect Inhibitor. I had no idea such things were possible."
Her expression was fixed smoothly. "It sounds barbaric, in a way. I don't specialize in altering the inside of people. I just help replace the outside parts. It doesn't get very complicated after that."
"You don't sound happy with your job."
"I have been doing this job for fifteen years," she stated firmly. "Although it may not last much longer, I intend to do it for as long as I can. It is all I can do."
Ziggurat was spared from responding when she slowed to a halt near a broad, windowless door. She briskly scanned her own identification card in the panel to one side, and stepped back when the door opened. With a nod to him, she preceded him into the room beyond.
He stopped just inside the entrance and surveyed the room. Now that old feeling, a minuscule spark of anger, was invoked at the sight.
The room was little more than several flat plains with a few consoles. There were hundreds of maintenance beds, not dissimilar to the one he'd been acquainted with a short while ago. Nearly half of those beds were occupied by people – all cyborgs, clearly identifiable by their various cybernetic parts. Every last one of them had a uniform identical to the one Ziggurat wore – navy blue, and each fitted specifically to their customized bodies. Technicians moved to and between these specially designed chairs, running their check-ups, performing their scheduled upgrades or otherwise conversing in tones that made the room seem to hum with dull life.
Suddenly, he was aware that Francine was standing beside him. She appeared to be following his gaze to the activities of the room and averted her eyes when she made the connection. "This may seem like bad time to tell you this, but more than half of these cyborgs are willing contributors to the industry. Former employees, in fact. Soldiers who, like you, donated their bodies to science after death."
"I do not-"
"Most do," she told him abruptly. "Many of them knew the consequences of the donation, but there are others, like you, who were not aware of it. Something as simple as signing an organ donor card can be more than enough legal evidence to recycle the body once it expires."
"I never knew an entire body counted as an organ," he said, unable to hide his spite.
She shook her head. "Times have changed. So have laws. In any case, I am sorry to say that I cannot spare the time to discuss it. My duty requires me to hand you over to the Maintenance Block until I am instructed further. Follow me."
There were several surprised glances in his direction as they cut their way through the stream of industrious workers. Only two cyborgs paid any attention at all – one a female who appeared more machine than human, and a young man with wide eyes. Either they lost interest, or they were disallowed to present any open awareness, for they both returned to their maintenance without a second glance.
When Francine stopped again, they stood before three different beds, apart from the others. Only two were in use. The technician operating the console behind the maintenance area looked up and gasped slightly when she saw the two newcomers. Francine smiled at her, which was apparently dismissal enough for the frightened employee. She backed away and scurried off in the other direction.
"Hey-" complained an irritated, somewhat gravelly voice. "Who scared away my girl?"
The cyborg sitting in the rightmost bed sat up, scratching the back of his head. He was lean and slightly lanky, and evidently much older than the majority of the cyborgs resided in the room. His hair was thick, gray and shaggy. The angled shape of his nose and chin was not complimented at all by the metal plate-work that composed the right half of his face. It ended just below his hairline, but extended all the way throughout his right arm and leg. Two eyes, one artificial and deathly black, the other human, glanced from Ziggurat, to Francine.
"Why, if it ain't Frankie," he said with some sarcastic cheerfulness. "Gracing we humble cyborgs with her beautiful pomp and aroma."
"Good morning, Number 4," she replied icily. "I can see even after ten years, you still refuse to change. I also see that Lucky is with you. Where is Calamity? Her maintenance is scheduled with your own – you should know that."
"Cal?" quipped the old cyborg gruffly. "Don't know where she is. You, Lucky?"
The second cyborg also leaned forward, although with less enthusiasm as his counterpart. Ziggurat took notice of his entirely mechanized body. The only part of him that seemed human was located above his shoulders. His face was calm and serene, like that of a scholar trained in deep thought.
"Calamity has yet to complete her mission," he said with a silky voice. "She will return eventually."
'Number 4' stared as his recently upgraded hand for a moment, flexed it, then snorted. "What's with the new guy, Frankie? Did the people upstairs finally get that new version 7.0 done? It's been ages."
"No, that project failed in its first stages," Francine replied strangely, as if surprised that this cyborg hadn't heard of the recent news. "I am here to introduce you to Ziggurat 8, M-Class combat version one."
"Ziggurat 8?" said Number 4. "M-Class? What do they do now, throw a body and a bunch of metal scrap into a furnace and see what happens?"
"As you can see," Francine told Ziggurat, who had chosen to remain silent for the verbal skirmish. "Number 4 prefers older Ziggurat versions to the new ones. Fortunately, he is a very old model himself and lacks the technology that stimulates his molecular structure. He will grow very old eventually and die."
"Says you, old woman," coughed the grizzled cyborg. "Man, heart of stone…"
"I am pleased to meet you, Ziggurat 8," said 'Lucky' as he stood. "I am a Ziggurat 6 version cyborg, Reconnaissance Specializations. My code name is Lucky. He may seem unfriendly, but Number 4 is actually pleased to make your acquaintance as well."
"Is he a mute, or what?" growled Number 4. "Say somethin', rookie!"
Ziggurat turned his head sharply towards the older cyborg. "Sorry. I was thinking about something else."
"What?" Number 4 moved quickly to his feet. "They found you in a flower shop, didn't they? That scares me. The only reason Frankie would bring you straight here is because she wants to make you part of the team!"
"If that's the case, I don't have any power to change it," said Ziggurat. "I am not entitled to refuse orders issued by personnel."
"We are glad to take you aboard," Lucky interrupted before the old cyborg could explode. "That was your intention, was it not, Francine?"
"Of course," came the neutral reply. "The three of you operate very well on your own, but you lack a professional combatant."
"Professional?" barked Number 4. "This rookie can fight, huh? Well, why didn't you say so before? Welcome to the top reconnaissance team of the industry, Number 8!"
"Francine," said Lucky with a brush of inquiry. "I am curious about his name. It seems rather illogical to refer to him as Number 8, since he will not be the only cyborg version eight. Correct?"
Francine crossed her arms, looking slightly thoughtful, as if confronted by an enigma. "I hadn't thought of that," she said. "Well, I suppose I will leave that up to the three of you. Until you find him a suitable code name, call him Ziggurat."
"Hell, why didn't we think of that?" muttered Number 4.
"Both of you are off-duty for the remainder of the day," Francine pointed out. "And your newest member of the team is about to undergo his final maintenance. I want the both of you to come with us. For moral support."
"Hey, what-" the old cyborg began to protest. "Damn! You just want to keep me under your nose, don't ya?"
"And me," said Lucky humourously. "To ensure you are on your best behaviour, Number 4."
"Yeah, well," Number 4 grumbled. "Like we can say 'no', anyway. Fine. We'll join your pansy little masquerade."
Francine side-glanced at Ziggurat. "Is that all right with you, Ziggurat?"
"I have no objections," he replied solemnly. "Just as long as we hurry. I'm hoping this last procedure will answer some questions I have."
Those questions, although he did not know it now, would never be answered. He suspected that no matter what happened after this, nothing was going to change what he had become. All he could do now was endure it, keep an eye out for any opportunities, and go to whatever extreme he was allowed to eliminate his past self.
That was the foolproof plan.
So why did he feel like one?
And thus ends a second chapter.
Next Chapter – Ziggurat's maintenance is completed, yet not all goes as planned. And when Calamity, the third member of the reconnaissance team arrives…well, you'll see. The plot finally unfolds…