Autechre - Further

July 05th, 1778

Vube Desert

Afternoon/Dusk

...

— How odd... – Bart said, as he stood erect, turning back after watching both sides his neck could turn, with a look on his face belonging to someone who carries on more than doubts, but suspicions.

Unsatisfied, Bart watches everything, even me, with an unpleasant vision, unlike the breeze that comes after, and before the sandstorm. We had left our camp to do a walk, as we checked to see if there's some stranger presence over the horizon. Though, we are strangers to this land as well, even if such land belongs to our ancestors. Yet, I do feel in a kind of home.

— What is it, Bart? – I asked him, yet he didn't give me an answer. Yet. He turned his back once again, watching the trace of footprints left by us. Only us, I thought, Bart too, yet he denied such circumstances, calmly upset.

— I don't know Prescott, but I have had this kind of sensation since we left the tent. It's like we had been followed by someone all along.

— That's strange. – Bart was somehow right. Something was off, wrong. Chills sent through my spine, I was beginning to act like him, when suddenly, somehow, I also felt that we had been followed, no, still being followed. It's a kind of situation where most of the people claim to be just our imagination, yet it isn't. How could somebody follow us through this desert? Well, anyone could. However, why couldn't either me, or Bart, see footprints on the sand, that's the question.

— I've heard rumors of a black shadow hovering around the desert, killing our men. – Said Bart. Maybe that's why he's so upset. He tells me more about this 'black shadow'. – My brother told me that Mike from the fifth unit got his throat sliced by it. Until he speaks, we won't know what happéned. He's too shocked to say anything, like he saw the Grim Reaper itself. What do you think, Prescott?

— Hmmm… – I thought about it for a while. Honestly I do not believe there is such a Grim Reaper, but I know very well the desert has its ways to kill someone when they least know. – Could it be a Zuu?

— A Zuu?

— Yes. A huge bird, with the size of a Grand Dragon, claws sharp like a shark's teeth and a beak strong as diamond. Not kidding, I got attacked by this bird from hell once. As a kid.

— I see…

— It could have been a Zuu who attacked Mike and the others.

— Perhaps. – Despite my explanation, Bart is still worried. I understand why. –

— Usually, Zuus make their nests and rest upon Cleyra's Trunk. I would find strange to see one in the middle of the desert.

— How do you know that much about Vube's environment, Prescott?

— I've been in this place before… – Wish I could tell Bart about my past. It ain't the moment, but I'll do it as we reach out for our tent. – I ate Zuu meat, you'd better try. Tastes like chicken. Even better with aleppo pepper.

— I'm not very fond of spicy food, but anything is better than drinking my own pee.

It was nice to have a talk with Bart, even if it lasted so quickly. Sand got inside my gaiters, my ears and where the sun does not hit, oh well…

What was once a mere breeze was starting to become a sandstorm. I and Bart went running to stay behind the nearest dune we could find. Maybe the sandstorm from before had cleaned all his footprints, as it did with ours, in seconds. Now it became almost impossible for someone to keep following us, this before the sandstorm became slighter.

From marks left by our feets to small holes, sand almost filled in our eyes, we could see the skies once again, as before. With the dusk arriving out of the orange afternoon, scorching hands becoming colder, and the twin satellites wandering in the skies, I guess it was about time to go back to our tent.

This before Bart stood still. He refused to walk, unlike me, who had been walking towards the place my compass told me to be to the southeast, where I could find Clyde, and the tent he had been taking care of, alongside the Libers, who had been taking care of us as well, tied by more than familiarity. Bart ain't the kind of reckless man, so I turned my back, and from a distance, mere 5 meters away from his, atop a dune higher than the one where we stood away from the sandstorm of before, I saw his, and something else, the something we had been afraid of.

A crimson bat came flying, being blown by the wind, until it landed atop that dune, near Bart. It must had been such that it alarmed him, and me, by consequence.

— So we were being watched and afraid of a CRAPPY MAGIC CARPET!? – I shouted to Bart, who stood above the same bat. I think that Bart could hear me from such a distance with my common voice, but instead I had changed my tone, a tone that I do not often direct people with, only when I am truly pissed off. Not even my kids are that kind of to be annoyed with.

— It can't be... this thing, can it? – He said, about to pull out that crimson piece of cloth, a rather peculiar one, even from such a distance, who became shorter as I walked, again, to the same place.

That bat didn't catch my attention all of sudden, besides the crimson-like blood I saw as the color of such. Maybe it belonged to some Liber, who had lost it in the middle of the sandstorm, strong as the tidal waves of the sea. A cloth who seemingly had been following us at our backs... Heh, I briefly showed a smirk.

Tsk, tsk... Briefly, I said this before I felt it again. Something was, once again, off. To a world where ships seem to be flying in the skies, and houses with spider-like legs moving around foreign lands, a living bat is kinda doubtful. The doubt is gone if I consider the bat isn't the living one, but... Oh my...

— ...Watch out, Bart! – I shouted, but it was too late.

No wonder why that cloth, besides a life for his own, told by the strange yet familiar motion of a human figure in distress, had such weight, even for Bart's arms, who holded both of them in thick air, this before a sharp knife's blade crossed through the bat, letting a cut through his right arm's sleeve and skin, where such blade had gotten stuck, and a 'GRAAAAGH!' yell had been made, to be clearly heard from a distance, lengths away from mine.

A yell made by Bart's lips, who spoke of the pain, flowing into the same arm and coming from the bottom of his soul as well, and by the figure who lay behind the curtains, unseen by us all along. Who would doubt that an assassin hid under a wandering bat?

No other pain mattered to Bart, besides the one coming from the knife stuck at his arm. As his body fell from above the dune to its lowest point, the neck belonging to his body seemed to have been turning at the back belonging to his, like a fossil carved on a hard stone, who presumably died of agony. Bart didn't die yet, this only if he, or someone else, took out that blade from his arm. If it was the throat of his that had been hurt, even by a slight hit, then Bart would be gone already, a fate said otherwise by his constant yell, and shivers that followed of same yell, into same disturbing waves that made the body of his tremble, as I could see when I reached him.

No high amount of blood poured down, only a few slivers of red fell into the sand, but mostly they stood flowing from the wound to where gravity pulled them out of that arm. That blade must had hitten the bone, because of how it was truly stuck on that arm. I couldn't forgive, still I can't, of what happened since that moment, with Bart, and mostly his. It could have been me who had been hurt instead. But that didn't matter, since I was about to be hurt more than now by him, even without the weapon that used to belong on that putrid arm.

Before Bart took that cloth with his own hands, that assassin had been hidden underneath such a dune, where that cloth once was lying above. Fascinating, like how the sleeveless of armor figure, revealed to be a man by the daylight still, the same that stood above us walked through the sand, the dunes, without letting a single step, moving around like the wind, fast like a breeze, as told by the leap he took, to end up falling in both feet, like a cat, or an experienced acrobat. However, as an acrobat, he had nothing to share with.

A man, I said? More like a humanoid. That thing, that rag doll dressed in black as a messenger of death, carrying on of the unseen wings of Malphas, who guided his to us, I wonder who that is. I have never seen someone, or something like… whoever that creature is. Does it speak?

— Before you kill me, and this man... would you please consider what should happen next? – I asked. There was no answer to be delivered, as told by the gaze of his.

A gaze of an utter determination to kill us, barehanded or not. When I fight, I often feel my muscles stiff, my blood crossing faster, my veins, and my lungs breathing more than usual, as I could see from his as well. An average man in height, and weight as well,

— What's your name? – I asked once again to that thing.

— … Zephyr. They call me Zephyr – 'It' can barely speak. This Zephyr stood before me, on both expected me to fall like Bart, or even fall on his knees, if I needed so. How arrogant… – I exist only to kill. Do not presume you're still alive by mere hospitality. I'll get rid of you and your allies and your families and everyone. You will die.

— Whatever, I'm too stubborn to not give up!

All I had been worrying about, from that moment and onwards, was about mine and Bart's safety, but not before I engaged into a conversation. You must be respectful to someone who can kill you, Mrs. Highwind. Even when you want to shove your feet on its balls.

His huge yellow eyes, so out of life and skin dark as the night, so out of flesh…

While that 'man', that assassin, stood moving around in front of me, without letting a single print on the sand, I stood in a fighting stance, still adopted until today by Dragoon Knights, and some special units of the army. It's both an offensive and defensive stance, as I may be able to avoid an attack coming from any direction, by pouncing into a direction contrary to where the attack might come from, with speed on my side. Though, this armor is kinda heavy, yet soft. So I took out the metals and leather of my uniform, throwing them right under my feet.

— Is it a threat? – Zephyr asked, and I had no answer to give to his. It sounded like a threat, I may admit, but the one who came with the threat first was his. – Because I do not care. It does not matter… I am Zephyr, I exist only to kill.

— Right, my dear assassin. – I said, trying not to upset him. To hell with being careful, I just want to punch this bastard, but first, I'll act like a fool. The smart one. – I see it's the first time you have contemplated murder. I know because there's no one else in this world like you. You are the first of your kind I ever seen. What exactly are YOU?

— I am Zephyr, the Black Mage, and I exist only to kill. – A Black Mage? Never heard about it before. Must be a new specimen. An artificial being. The desert may have some fascinating animals, like spiked lizards who drink with its skin. I mean, how does a devil lizard that looks like a rose stem mated with a cactus could ever drink in a place which barely rains?

Leaving my childhood's passing behind, I study the Black Mage, maybe the first of its kind. Maybe there's more of them. Maybe, I'm not sure… Maybe the Alexandrians made them. A wild guess.

— Who sent you? – I asked, to which our dear Zephyr replies, in a slow and raspy tone

— I was born… and I will kill. We live only to die. This is the world and how things have always been. Don't you worry… nobody lives forever. Follow me?

— I hardly follow the thoughts of ill minds. – I said, convinced that I must get rid of Zephyr. I don't know how…

— All I need is to kill a member of your species for today, and tomorrow as well. That's what I had been told to do. That's what life is about.. To die.

— Who told you so?

— My master told me. But I have no master, no desire, no flesh… I'm here so I can kill you! – Zephyr said, confused and excited. He does not understand what these emotions are, he does not have a reason to be here yet he's still here.

Now I see… this Black Mage seems to be following a paradoxical programmation. He thinks he's human, therefore he is alive, but he ain't human, he exists only to kill, Alexandria wants to kill Burmecian soldiers and we want to fight back, eventually someone is killed by both sides, I don't want to die but one day… Yes, sometimes life is confusing. I wish things were simple. But, to kill someone like me, Prescott Highwind… it won't be as easy as he thinks it is.

Zephyr stared at me, in silence, like a vulture about to catch its prey. I know what it's like to be a mercenary, since I have played so many Tetra Master rounds in places I wish I could never go again. A mercenary's prospects are to kill those who you had been paid to. People of this world are paid to do many things, some aren't even paid after all, yet they still keep working. With this kind of job, they may be able to sustain themselves, or more than yourself.

I do have a family, that's one of the reasons why I'm different from these killers.

Don't worry, Bart. Just hang on for a while. I know how to deal with those scumbags. Mostly they lose against me when playing on a Quad Mist on the darkest of the alleys belonging to each Kingdom I had made a trip into. Not only do they lose in the card game, but they also are fooled by my kind face and skinny limbs.

— Alright, Zephyr… you asked for it. Why don't we fight as men?

— Like men? Miserable little pile of secrets? – He said, stretching his fingers, and closing them to form a fist, and so he repeated. Was that supposed to mean 'I'll crush you into little pieces?' – Men are destined to lose, even when they are sure of a victory.

He must be preparing to jump upon me, to glide like a bird whose shadow has taken so many of our men to oblivion. Men who had their own history, who had families, wifes and childrens to take care of… their only victory in life.

I think about dumb ways of dying. By being grabbed on the neck by Zephyr's hands, suffocating and blocking the flow of blood to my head, besides forcing my lungs to stop the breathing process, as my heart stops beating, my arms vainly try to take those hands out of my neck, unlike those legs numb already, as the whole of my body, when my vision darkens, alike the dusk arriving sooner than I expected...

A slow death, worse and more painful than a death brought by a single stab in the neck. Victims of burning buildings mostly die due to suffocation rather than being burned alive; same goes for those who climb the highest heights, where the snow also burns like the fire.

I thought about this for a moment. A single moment that felt like a minute. I knew, from that moment onwards, that I couldn't die yet. Bart, as well, wasn't ready yet to knock the Weltall's door. The same couldn't be said for that assassin, who somehow hadn't killed us yet. A better assassin would be done with us already, so I had a storm of ideas. Such thing happen mostly when I am in danger, like now.

— You're taking too long, my dear assassin. – I said, as I abruptly threw away my own dagger, whom I had kept on its sheath all along. – We, Highwinds, are known for traveling such long distances, but not for solving personal vendettas. They blacken the soul, as much as they blind both eyes, as much as you do insist to remain blind, because that's the job of an assassin, after all. Nothing against, I know you don't do this because it's fun. No kind of job is funny, though; I guess you could take my blade, and end this at once. It makes things easier, as much as you insist for them to be.

— I won't take this dagger of yours, but if you insist to die already... – He said, and only.

These few words could had sounded menacingly to someone else, but I had no worries, except Bart, who only moaned, and had no eyes to see both of us. And why would he? Instead, all attention was paid to that knife, and the pain still crossed the arm of his, or even beyond, since his entire body had already been overtaken by the same pain. Even my body could feel his pain, unlike that assassin, and how careless he was.

That Black Mage was willing to kill me, to understand feelings, to process words, to live with the intent of killing… his head must be a mess right now. I wonder how the Alexandrians poured life in that doll, that's amazing and I'd like to know. Unfortunately, I have no time or luxury for such

and show of his moves as well. After I threw away my knife, offering of ration for the dog, Zephyr jumped to later crouch in the sand, moving fasts as a wagon's wheel down the hill

Kind of acrobat, and exhibitionist as well. Then, as Zephyr took that dagger from where it layed, sand carried on by my right hand flew right through both of his eyes. He felt nothing, but it was almost as if he wanted to feel pain. Okay, what about a kick in the eye? I find it gross, but he ain't a human being.

So, how do I describe this scene? Sand was thrown into his eyes, to where I gave a kick with my joint afterwards, when I had the opportunity of holding his shoulders to deliver that kick at the right angle, who had made his vertebra briefly turn, in the same way Bart turned when falling from the top of the dune. Sophia likes when I sound all technical and desperate. Dear Sophia, I won't say I'll be doing this for you, or the kids, but I LOVE YOU!

I will come back home. Bart too. We won't let this freak take our precious lifes in vain. I won't!

I did expect a counterattack, but what I didn't expect was a straight punch delivered by Zephyr into my chin, coming from below like a whale emerging to the surface, and I the boat who almost sank. My nose bleed, but at least it didn't break.

The pain didn't mattered, and the same goes to Zephyr, or not. Unlike me, it seemed that he didn't felt anything. Nothing. Not even a bit of pain, or a kind of expression that suggested such pain. This frustration could be considered a signal of pain, though. I mean, he must have felt something, didn't he?

As my head slowly recovers from this dazzling attack by the impact of his fist, I am able to perceive the face of the assassin in detail, even with the fist of his above my face, about to be crushed, or so that seems to be the intention of his. That leather boot, as black as the outfit of his, didn't prevented me to see that face, if that should be called by face.

Zephyr's face is full of scars. It's hard to see through his pitch black skin, but I swear, there are punctures and slices made by sharp tips. The sword of the brave men who fought against this macabre being devoid of nature and filled with nurture…

It is as if all the scars of his body, and even soul, if there's one, had been gathered into his face, and only. There's a few of them on his naked arm, though, but those resemble more the cuts of a blade, not that I guessed his own face's scars had been made by the cuts of a knife as well.

Jigsaw pieces that fell apart from the table seems to be a more adequate description about Zephyr's face, and this feature being mostly noticeable around the eyes of his, in the shape of wings, yet, for some reason, he doesn't feel the pain, even on such place with skin tore apart.

— I'll make him feel pain for what you did to Bart! That fall could have almost killed him! Scoundrel! – …Was I the one who said such words? Then why do I feel so.. Enlightened?

The sand may be burning the skin and gaze of mine, yet I ignore the pain. Except Bart's, who's struggling to live.

— Give up, human. You are made of flesh. Flesh rottens and you die. – Is that all Zephyr can talk about? Death, death and just death!?

— I am not made of flesh. Rage. Rage… Rage! I! Am! Made! Of! RAGE! – Did I yelled while my head sunk on sand?

— Enough already. Your tricks won't work with me anymore. – Zephyr said, as he stood with the feet above my face, pressing further as half of my head is covered by sand, unlike the whole of that man's face, who just ignores it.

Zephyr couldn't hold me into thin air, as Bart did with his, but could kill me right now, in a way a tomato is squeezed, or so one of my kids had done, ending up covered by its seeds and smithereens. I imagined myself into such a tomato, who had been eaten later that night, drank within the soup. Damn... I thought. I thought again, and everything changed, back to my control. It needed to.

— Heh! – I smirked, purposefully. It seemed that I could talk, even with half of my face swollen by the sand. – Why do you keep doing this? Only because you are an assassin, it doesn't mean that an assassin is someone that kills. It's just a word, don't you know? Have you ever written that someone who kills is meant to be called an 'assassin'?

— What the hell do you think you are doing? Another trick, I see... It doesn't work. It won't. – Of course it worked. I caught your attention with an incoherent triviality, idiot.

— Then why do you insist on listening to hear me? You seem to share a curious sight, for an assassin. Am I a kind of victim to be appreciated, or what? – I asked, staring at him like a javelin piercing through a heart. His gloomy yellow eyes penetrated into mine, like the fear a beast naturally instigated on its victims, before they became his flesh.

— People say many funny things when they are about to die… 'Please no!'... 'I have family'... 'Oh damn!'... 'Oh no!'... Some are entertaining, others don't... There's no way you can't convince me to not kill you, right now. I was made to kill. I was born to kill.

— You had the opportunity to kill me many times ago, even the opportunity to kill my friend Bart was wasted by you, dunderhead! – I said, reluctantly trying to split from his hands, carefully trying to move, without him noticing of such movement. Yet, he noticed my voice, and only did. – You can kill me now, so why do you insist on wasting such time? Now, answer me: how many people have been killed by you until now?

— How many times have you breathed in your life, human? – I had a short vision of Clyde saying the same thing, and that was rather strange, yet truthful to the way Clyde often talks. Either way, I can't be distracted by his world. He should be distracted by mine instead. Just a bit further...

— You seem to find pleasure in killing, seeing the way you speak of the matter so gratifyingly of doing it. – I said, now realizing for once why it is taking so long for me to die already. Goddamnit. Not that I want to die right now, as cliché as it might sound, I just wanna live and make love not war.

— I enjoy murder as much as you Burmecians do. – Zephyr answered. He learned how to be cynical, how lovely…

— Had you ever killed a Burmecian before? Did it took that long to kill!?

I carefully moved my left foot, right where my dagger had been lying, trying to hold it's tip with my toes. I had been trained to do it, and I never imagined that I would do it in this kind of situation. Just a bit, and you'll be fine, Bart. I guess he can't hear anyone else. It's like he's already dead, since the moans coming from his lips stopped. Please, keep hanging on, in the name of Bahamut.

— Answer me, you animal! ANSWER ME! – I asked, to extend his fault of attention towards my feet, to instead pull it on my words, spoken by the lips above my feet. Almost there...

— I exist only to kill.

— Were you the one who sliced Mike's throat? Was it you!?

— I exist only to kill.

— You took so many lives… so many artists, craftsmanship, writers… not only you have killed, but you took the best this world has to offer away… satisfied? ARE YOU SATISFIED!? You enjoy my pain, don't you!?

— The dead have no need for treasures, as much as dead parents do not need to take care of their living child as well. I, Zephyr, exist only to kill.

Bastard. Rotten bastard. Son of a rotten bastard, rotten down the core. Moron. Son of a submariner! How could you... I don't know if I should grit my jaw of anger, or if I should cry with the same anger. I choose to do neither.

I can't let him see through my anger, or through my pain; those are my weaknesses, easily to be exploited further. I can't even wonder how many ways he had found to take those lives. or ruin then as a whole. Truth is, the truth hurts. It's a painful aching that goes deep within a heart, and it goes on and on, until it stops. But how could you, a reckless machine, understand of such? He can't feel pain, nor even cry, or feel of this same aching we, and those you were ordered to kill, felt, and still feel, like Bart here, and me as well.

Even mercenaries, the awfulest of assassins I met on my travels, shared some honor, unlike Zephyr, who had been programmed to not allow this interference to inflict a number '2' in his own binary system. Maybe those holes, if there's a right word to describe such, on his face were marks left by desperate souls, who had been killed by him. That's a possibility, and I may agree it's a real one, even if there's a bit of overreaction coming from my bottom.

— How many of you have been created to kill our units? – I asked, and that was my last question to this 'person' above me.

— Why are you asking such? – He tried to intimidate me, once again. As I know, he is already a failure of both human being and character and whatever a Black Mage is, other than disgusting. – If you do want to know… before I turn your skull and brains into mincemeat, I should tell you… I was the only one created by the ones you call Alexandrians… Dali Experiment.. to take care of you, Burmecians. They despise your entirety, as much as I do despise them… for forcing me into being alive… they must die… EVERYONE WILL DIE!

— ...The only one? – That's good. Very good. I won't feel pity for your sudden demise.

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