A Circle of Fate and Pain
by Elliot Bowers
Chapter 7--The Second Rotation
1.
It had to be the most freak-twisted dreams he had ever been in. He was in a dark place, at a table, a shadow of a stranger sitting across from him. The stranger was giving him a headache. This place, it was familiar somehow. The same was true for this blurred figure of a stranger.
And there were the sounds... Outside the walls of this dark place came mewling sounds of agony. That was mixed with the sound of strange machines in the floors--machines that were somehow very important to this place. The machines were there because he could feel the vibration of them through the floor. Just as electric heaters provide heat, the strange machines were doing something else to this place. Maybe they were generating electricity? They were generators or something. No, it was more important than that. Those machines in the floor, he had the idea that they were doing something to reality itself--maybe keeping out the creatures that made those Hellish sounds outside the walls. Then came a burning white-hot light.
He was on a table and looking up at darkness. Those voices that once moaned with pain, they were starting to laugh. They were laughing while a white-clad blurry figure stepped over to here and held up a familiar surgical tool.
It was a little circular saw at the end of a foot-long metal tube. When it was turned on, the turbo-spinning circular saw made a sound like a minor demon's prolonged squeal of joy. That sound was worse when it began to when it began to cut open his skull—going bwe-e-e-e-e-e…!
What made him wake up…was an awful, terrible headache. "Awp..." exclaimed the man, the gasp of a sound coming out of his mouth. He had been lying next to an old factory machine built into the floor. The floor was very solid and real beneath him—a gritty and dirty floor. The grit was a combination of dried machine-oil residues, powdered rust, and all sorts of chemical stuff from long ago. Some of the grit was likely toxic, just as lightly contaminated as most everything in the city.
Lying there, he was a figure of average size and moderate physical build. His red tee-shirt and dust-colored slacks hid most of his lean musculature and made him seem thinner than he was. But even if he was physically stronger, it would not have mattered much: In a world of machine-bodied cyborg people and machines the sizes of buildings, flesh is weak.
There were machines all around in this big old place. They had been quiet for a very long time, over a hundred years, maybe. They were...old Factory machines that no one in Scrap Iron City knew how to work anymore. The Factory tried to use those machines as well instead of just letting them sit there. Except the machines could not be used because no one knew how. And attempts to take the machines apart only resulted in the leakage of a glowing red substance that caused many humans and cyborgs to become sick and insane with severe radiation poisoning--killing them quickly. Since then, no one was supposed to be in a place like this.
Except here he was—a curly haired man left unconscious in this place of sleeping and strange machines that made people sick and crazy with radiation years ago. Now he was sitting up and trying to remember what the Hell he was doing here. And why was his head aching so? As he further shook himself into an awakened state, the ache in his head…became pain! The headache was so bad that his vision became blurred… "Awp... Aw... A-a-a-h-h-h-h...!"
He hopped to his feet and clutched at his skull! It hurt! It hurt too much and hurt like Hell! For a second, he could not see at all out of his left eyeball. It was like trying to see through a shattered camera lens. His left arm went numb. And that pain just kept splitting his skull!
His...whole freakin' head felt as if somebody really did cut it open to r-r-rip out his brain, do something to it, then plop it back in his skull in without caring too much about seemingly little things like neural connections, blood vessels and the like. He was in so much pain that he couldn't even see three feet in front of himself. A-h-h-h..!
All this time, there were two cyborgs standing next to one of the machines, and watched this spectacle of the screaming, staggering man who had just awakened. "Yo, man!" commented a wide-bodied male cyborg--one dressed in slacks and shiny vest, a vest that left his electromechanical arms exposed. "Cool out for just a second!" He put up both metal hands. "Else, we can make you calm!"
"Hold off," commented the second one here. Unlike his partner, he was more nattily dressed for business: dark business jacket over white-buttoned shirt, with pressed pants and shiny dark shoes. Atop his bald round head was a black fedora hat. Flesh-colored gloves completed the outfit. From neck to feet, all body-metal was covered--only exposing a pale and plastic-looking face. "The man's in pain. Maybe we won't have to rough the joker up after all."
"Screw it! I want to rough him up," countered the first cyborg. "He deserves it for slacking on an important job! One of our own decides to slack on a job, and we have to do something about it. It's the rules." He flexed his electromechanical arms. "I love those rules..."
These two cyborgs were standing here the entire time--even if Jack Bent was unable to notice that immediately. It was just that the man was in so much head-splitting pain that it was hard for him to see or hear anything. All that he could do was clutch his head, twist around in a mad dance of agony and scre-e-eam!
"You think I should hit him to shut him up?" asked the metal-armed cyborg-man, the one wearing the shiny vest and casual slacks. He waited until the curly haired man finished another scream before he spoke again. "How's the joker supposed to listen if he's too busy screamin' his head off?"
A-aha-hi-i-agh...! There was another pause in the howling agony--enough pause for the one in the business suit to respond. "Damn fleshies! It's probably stuff in the drinking water, messing up their brains sometimes," commented the nattily dressed cyborg in business clothes. He waited for another scream to die down. "A human body can't deal with all the stuff that sometimes gets in Scrap Town's water... Zalem doesn't exactly care, know what I'm saying?"
Aha-aiaa-a-a! "That's it! I'm shuttin' him up," said the cyborg wearing the vest and casual slacks. He walked over to where the curly haired man stood writhing in almost psychotic pain. Then the cyborg wrapped his electromechanical arms around the man in a gigantic machine-hard bear-hug move. The man in pain squirmed a moment more...
Then he calmed, catching his breath--or trying to catch his breath in the two-armed grip. Though squinting, the curly haired man seemed to be in a more coherent state of mind now. "Wha... What the Hell?" he gasped. He looked around at the industrial surroundings. Then he looked at the cyborg in the business suit. "Where'd I just go? And you...?"
"Forget about who we are," said the cyborg in the business suit, the one with a plastic sort of face. "You ought to concern yourself with what we've got to say. We're just messengers, see. From where do we get our message? It comes from a place on high--if you know what I mean." The cyborg in business suit stepped closer and crossed his arms. He was actually slightly shorter than the curly haired man.
The cyborg-man in the black vest squeezed Jack Bent a little harder. "Hee-hee..." he chuckled. Jack Bent seldom actually ever heard anyone really say hee-hee. But that was exactly how the cyborg giggled. Hee-hee...!
"Jack Bent," said the cyborg-man in business suit, "your boss thinks that you're slacking on the job! She said you were supposed to get a mutant from the Scrapyard lands, get 'em quietly and send 'em up to Zalem without a fuss. And you didn't! We don't see why you're slackin' on this job, since all you've gotta do is bag a mutant! A mutant... It's not even human. Jeez, how hard can it be, gettin' the thing and sendin' it dead up a tube? Slag 'em, bag 'em, and tag 'em for that city up in the sky! You've done that before…
"Anyway, we don't care about your freakin' excuses! All we care about is reminding you of what you've got to do! When someone like one of those rich folks from Zalem says you do something, you do it!"
"Hee-hee...!" commented the cyborg who had metal arms around Jack Bent's chest. "Yeah, Jack, you do it..." For emphasis, the cyborg squeezed some more. It would not have taken a lot of effort for him to crush a human's chest. What he really wanted to do was just squee-e-eze a little. A little more, and maybe some of Jack Bent's ribs would crack.
"N-n-nngh... Agh!" yelled Jack Bent. "I'm…working on it! Kidnapping her won't be...easy… Nn-nggh... The girl has a bodyguard!" That was all he could get out before the constriction became too hard. As his chest was being squeezed, the pressure was getting up to his head. It was not as bad as the now-faded headache. But it was getting...to be bad... Bwe-e-e-e, went the sound of a saw...
He must have blacked out for a second, because he did not remember falling to the gritty industrial floor again. Now to go with the headache was his chest hurting and full of pain It was hard to breathe. He crossed his own arms around his chest and flopped onto his back to try and breathe easier. But he dare not try to stand up again with those two standing by.
Thump! The one in the business suit kicked Jack just enough to add to the hurt. "Come on, now! That sounds like one of those excuses I told you to stay off of! You ought to be able to deal with one cyborg bodyguard! You can deal with us, can't you? Heh-heh..."
"Uh-h-h-hp-p!" Jack Bent tried to say something but only found himself sucking for air. His chest still ached from the compression. "You... Ach...! You don't understand. That... Uh-h-h-p..! The girl's bodyguard...uh-h-h-h-h-p...is a replicate. She's...uh-h-h-p...a GR model...darn it! Sieben... U-h-h-h-p! GR! Do you...know what…that…that means! Uh-h-h-h-hp!"
The cyborg in the business clothes put on a phony look of wide-eyed shock, slapping both his hands to the sides of his face. So posed, he resembled a cartoon drawing of exaggerated surprise--especially since his plastics-made face was as smooth as a drawing. "Oh my stars! Are you talking about Sieben? Are we supposed to be afraid of some cyber-chick named after a number? Whoo-hoo! I'm scared! I'm quaking in my fashionable footwear, guy!"
To that, the cyborg with bare metal arms added, "Yeah... We know all about that mutant-brat's sexy replicate-friend. Her brain-chip and body were copied or something from some TUNED agent out of Zalem.. Hmmph, Sieben… Sie-e-eben... I wouldn't mind meeting her in a dark alley! Us two alone…"
"Yech! Get off it!" exclaimed the other cyborg. "That Sieben doll ain't even a real person. She's a complete robot. I don't mind a fellow cyborg. But making out with a replicate? It'd be like making out with a freakin' mannequin!"
"Hey, don't knock it," countered the cyborg with bare metal arms. "She's got a good-looking body! That's enough for me. I just call 'em as I see 'em. At least it's not like that other replicate in town. Sechs, yech!"
"Uh-h-h-hp...!" gasped Jack Bent. "I hate to...u-h-h-h-p...break it to you. From what I've seen...uh-h-hp, she's not interested in boys. Know what I mean? Uh-h-hp! Sieben...u-h-h-hp...is not...on the market...for a date..."
"Wa-hey-y-y!" exclaimed the cyborg with bare metal arms. "That's hot! It makes me want her even more. Sometimes, Jack, you're an okay sort of guy. Maybe we won't have to kill you after all. Or at least we'll make it quick if you don't come through. Thanks for telling!"
"Uh-h-h-hp! You...know me, pal!" gasped Jack Bent, his head tilted towards the floor. "I'm...always telling people...uh-h-hp...what they want to know...even if...they don't know they want it yet! Uh-h-h-h-p-p...! Who knows...u-h-h-hp! Maybe she won't mind a little stupid-headed companionship every so often."
Thump! That was the sound of Jack Bent being kicked by the cyborg-man in the shiny vest. "Now look what you've made me do! You should've quit while you were still making sense. So please shut up, before I have to hurt you...some more."
"Uh-h-h-p...! " Despite his pain, chest and left arm, Jack Bent managed to smile up at the two cyborgs standing over him. "You must get off on hurting men. Hell, maybe you and Sechs could get together and talk about that sort of thing."
The cyborg with bare metal arms crouched down, then put a poking metal finger close to Jack Bent's face. "You...! No, I'm not even gonna honor that comment. You've heard what we have to say. And if you hear it again, you won't be even in good enough health to do what you're told."
"Hee-hee-hee...! Good one!" added the cyborg in the business suit. He looked down at Jack Bent. "Now if you don't mind, we've got other business to handle besides yourself. You'll be seeing us around if you don't come through for Miss Aidas."
"I've already seen...uh-h-h-p-p...you around," said Jack Bent. "Heh-heh... And I've seen you around and around again. Uh-h-hp...! Heh-heh..." Then his eyes rolled up in his head as he blacked out again, head thudding on the floor.
2.
Perhaps half an hour later or so, Jack Bent staggered out a back door of the abandoned Factory building. "Gyach..." he exclaimed as the bright golden sunlight glared his eyes for a moment and made him go lean up against a building wall. Just because he was on his feet did not mean that he was feeling too much better. Those two hired thugs had their run of him with their fists, arms and feet. He had enough experience as a hard-core street thug to not make a big fuss about it. Those two were just doing their job. It was just that this time their job was him. Who knows? Maybe their next job was saving a neighborhood kid from a Deckman recruitment building.
He tried standing away from the building--nearly fell over. One thing about serious injuries was how they did not hurt a great deal at first: shock and adrenaline kept a person from realizing the pain. Maybe a person blacks out... The pain comes later--later meaning now for Jack Bent. All the pain in his body from that "discussion" with those two cyborgs was pain going up to his head. Consequently, his head hurt like a private, single-player version of Hell--if there was a Hell. Or maybe this was some kind of Hell--this too-hot city surrounded by desert?
Nope, nope, nope... There was no use in just leaning up against this wall and feeling pathetic. He had to get right to his job of pretending to do his current job. And the best way to do--or not do--that sort of thing was to start walking around and talking to people in a show of "investigation." Before that, some liquid anesthetic would do nicely.
He sucked in some air when an extra twinge of pain yanked inside of his chest--dizzying him for a moment. This part of Scrap Iron City was just a few blocks over from Tire-Wire Alley, that somewhat friendly neighborhood In this neighborhood of Scrap-Iron City, Tire-Wire Alley There was the medical clinic for humans like himself when it came to injuries. Not that clinic. Nah, the "clinic" he had in mind offered quicker medicine.
Jack Bent stepped out from the bright city day, coming into this place. This was the Red Circle pub. Or that was at least the official name. He limped his way beyond the big wood-paneled doors that flapped behind him. Wood, those doors were real wood. How or where the owner of this place found real wood was a mystery to Jack Bent. He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen real trees. Or did he ever see real trees? Well, they'd been extinct in this part of the land for centuries--unless they had trees up in that big stupid floating city. What mattered to Jack was how the big wooden doors of the Red Circle bar were a welcome sight whenever he needed to rejuvenate.
He made his way towards the drinking bar...where a red-haired, graceful female bartender was pouring a drink—a female with classic good looks. She had a round face with high cheeks, a smooth complexion—her face framed with red hair, a head of hair that seemed to glow the color of blood in the overhead incandescent lighting. Her skin was so beautiful that it seemed to have a faint glow to it. And the open-necked blouse she had on showed more of her skin. Her tight black pants clung to the hips and thighs, beautiful legs that were—unfortunately—hidden behind the drinking bar. Over the white blouse was a short black vest. Though beautiful and young-looking, the female bartender's clothing looked so very old-fashioned—like a girl borrowing great-grandmother's clothes.
Jack Bent thought the contrast was beautiful… All the same, he had to carefully sit himself a seat atop a bar-stool, leaned over, raised a finger--signaling for a simple beer to start. The female bartender gave a questioning look. "Don't mind me... I'm just coming back from a business meeting," he said to the beautiful female bartender. "Some of my ah...associates gave me a peer review. Ach..."
"Aye. 'Tis more of the same, once more," she responded. Her accent was as rare as her hair color. All kinds of accents played out in Scrap Iron City. It was just that this accent wan't too common nowadays. But Jack Bent understood what she was saying. "Ehm-m-m... Time to time, methinks it may be necessary for ye to reconsider career options. And time to time, 'tis reconsideration in the form o' blows to th' body. Ye ken my words? The notion o' things havin' a way o' comin' back again...and again? 'Tis not th' first time this came to pass." She looked towards the door, a far-off look in her eyes. "Again...and again..."
"Hmmph..." grunted Jack Bent, the expression a combination of not bothering to say anything quickly and a twinge of pain in the chest. A hit of the beer alleviated some of the pain outright. Maybe some ribs were cracked. Alcohol was anesthetic, after all—even if wasn't supposed to be too good for your health…
Putting down the beer, leaning against the bar, he added, "You know, most bartenders don't care so much about what we do. That bald guy who ran this place before you, he didn't care what customers looked like, staggering in here or not. Hey, where'd he go, anyway? He's been running this place for years."
"Eh?" asked the female bartender. "Did ye take a bludgeon to th' noggin? Th' Red Circle been in my family's ownership since th' first foul machine-smelling winds carried th' first reeks o' construction for Scrap Iron City. Never been any bald lads runnin' this place. Unless ye mean reference to some other cycle. Th' accursed inverted karma, it'd done made a mess o' everythin'!"
That word karma caught something in Jack Bent's mind. Suddenly the alcohol-dulled pains and dizziness went away. "Hey, keep talking! What do you mean by that? I've heard talk like that before... It was somewhere really important."
To that, the female bartender just smiled. "Nay, bucko. 'Tis not for ye to ken outright. If ye did, it'd be for naught in the end--the end takin' more than a passin' resemblance to th' beginnin'." She tilted her head sympathetically to a side, gravity making some lengths of her red hair go aside to more of her right cheek—adding a forlorn look to her beauty. "Enjoy th' moment while ye may, every time ye can. Have another sip o' brew..."
"Okay," said Jack Bent while maintaining eye-contact. He just couldn't stop looking at her. She was just too beautiful--a beautiful woman with a beautiful physique clad in leggings and close-fitting vest, a beautiful face to go with it—a head of wonderful red hair. And her eyes... Those big sky-blue eyes of cut-crystal beauty took him in for just a second... "What was I just talking about?" he asked aloud. Really, Jack Bent just forgot what he was talking about. And just maybe he forgot how he stepped into this bar.
"Think naught o' th' problem," commented the female bartender. "Ye got cyborg problems along with th' bigger one. Like th' wee lass ye've been hired to abduct. 'Tis a tragedy waitin' to happen again...and again..."
"The other bartender once made a comment on me about my job once, too," said Jack Bent. "Once, he made that comment, and that was it. To that, all I can say is how everybody has to do his or her job--even if it feels as wrong as rivers flowing the wrong way... Right now, my job is making me feel as bad as a box of rotten oatmeal thrown into a barrel of radioactive waste."
"Aye? Then why do ye do it, laddy boy Ye've got a brain, do ye not? Ye would be needin' to use what ye have. Ye done chosen to enter this drinkin' establishment just now, did ye not? Ye did."
Jack Bent shook his head. He was feeling well enough to do that, at least. "I can only do what I do," he said. "It's all I can do. It's my job. People wake up, do what they do for a living, then they spend the nights forgetting about what they do to earn money. They stagger over to bars to get piss-drunk at places like this. Or they go to the Motorball Arena to get mad-crazy. Like what it says on the expensive shampoo bottles that get dumped from Zalem: Wash, rinse, repeat..."
"Aye, but do ye need to use one brand o' shampoo?" asked the female bartender. She put her right hand on the drinking bar, left hand on a black-clad hip. "Jack, me friend, this would be how I see it. 'Tis like th' Motorball game so many o' th' folks hereabouts love so dearly. What happens? Th' ball gets flounced upon th' court at first. Then th' metal-bodied blokes and ladies do a mad dash to get th' bloody thing round the course. Lots o' them blokes and ladies get obliterated, maybe killed. And eventually, th' ball gets 'round to th' finish." This beautiful female bartender paused. "Then th' metal-bodied blokes and ladies go 'round an' round some more. Ye done got yeself into a Motorball circuit, bucko. Do ye ken how many times ye'll go 'round ye life before ye end up wrecked?"
"I don't know that," said Jack Bent. He leaned closer to the bar counter. "I don't know if real life really is like a Motorball circuit, going around...to go around...to go around... All that people like me can think about is the reward around the corner and staying alive until we can reach it."
"But do ye realize that th' goal means killin' an' maybe bein' killed?" asked the female bartender. Her voice became a little sad. "Methinks 'tis th' curse o' this broken land, th' broken people. Ye poor, broken people, hurtin' an' killin' one another an' doin' those horrible, horrible things."
"We have to do what we have to do, again and again--to live," said Jack Bent, thinking about the cyborg-thugs who make him not alive for not completing this latest job. "If we don't, then somebody else will come along who can do the deeds--and maybe kill us. It's me or someone else who dies. I don't particularly feel like dying any time soon..."'
"Or she dies," added the female bartender. "She's but a wee bonny lass. 'Tis it not wrong enough her father done up an' left her? 'Tis it not wrong enough that ye've been hired to send 'er and send 'er up to Zalem to be murdered? Do ye like to murdersweet an' innocent lasses while they'd be smilin' and laughin', enjoyin' their lives while possible...?"
"Hey! You shut the Hell up!" screamed Jack Bent. The female bartender smirked, knowing that she touched an emotional soft-spot and making the man lose his cool. There was silence for a little while--silence accompanied by the sound of wind. "Okay, sorry about that," resumed Jack Bent. "You're only telling things from...your point-of-view and don't know about the way we have to live. Wait a second... How do you know anything about what's been happening? I've been around this part of Scrap Iron City for years and know all the faces. Doing the jobs I do, knowing people is important. But I've never seen yours before, would've remembered you. Who are you?"
"Maybe 'tis the wrong line o' questions, maybe," countered the female bartender, a light hint of amused smile on her lips. Maybe, 'tis a question of who ye think ye are. Besides, 'tis also the responsibility of a barkeep to ken the doings of people hereabouts. We barkeepers can listen. People talk."
Yeah, that's it, thought Jack Bent. The bartender must have heard people talking--hearing rumors. Otherwise there'd be no real way this red-haired bartender-lady could ever know about what was going on. Too many of his colleagues must have said too much. As he thought this, the female bartender was staring at him with those sky-colored eyes of hers--staring into his mind...
No, that's just crazy, he thought. But he was feeling a bit nervous. He finished off the beer with a few gulps, glanced back at the price-board, then reached into his right pocket to get out a credit-chip worth twice the posted price of the beer. "Keep the change," he said before quickly getting off of the barstool to walk out of here.
He was actually at the door, had his hand on the bronze push-plate, when the beautiful bartender spoke up from back there at the bar. It was something that he really wished she did not. Hearing the question actually made him feel a little more sick.
"Did ye have a terrible dream last night? Methinks, 'twas a dream o' ye bein' in a strange, dark place. Ye would've been with th' lass. Then th' terrible disaster happened. A terrible thing, science can be at times..."
At this point, there was an increase in that awful, terrible feeling in Jack's gut--and it had almost nothing to do with the beating he'd taken earlier. Somewhere at the back of his mind was the realization that, yes, he did have a dream exactly as described by the bartender back there. It seemed so real... But it was just a dream--one of those so-real-they-scare-you-to-Hell kind of dreams. That was all it was.
"Dreams are just dreams," he muttered. But he did not have the courage to say it too loudly. With that in mind, he quickly got out of here before the female bartender pulled any more mind-twisting questions on him. And only after he left the bar did Jack Bent realize that--after the visit to that particular bar--all of the pain of his injuries were completely gone--as were the injuries themselves.