That dazzling light brought him back to his laboratory. That blue… so close in hue to the liquid sealed in the vial he held in his hands in that moment. From then on, he'd worked for that man. He never knew his name; like everyone else, he knew him only by his codename: &/830. Soon he discovered the cause: the Army of Consciousness.
With the aim of steering the world toward a higher path, thousands surrendered their lives and freedom for the same cause. And he, Elhmbrett, had spent the past five years—up to that very instant—devoting his entire being to that mission.
He had never truly questioned the morality or ethics of his actions, nor of his creations. He simply… created. Whatever was needed.
And now, before the liquid that embodied the culmination of his genius, for the first time in a long time, he felt calm.
Perhaps that is why he allowed himself to rest.
He sank into his plush armchair, its surface lined with Arctic fox fur—an exotic, extinct creature—and poured himself a glass of the elegant wine resting on a small shelf to his right. He took a sip. He savored its taste.
He raised the glass a second time to his lips…
The bluish tint of the liquid held an irrational pull. It was like an unheard whisper. A strange warmth.
But just before he could enjoy a second taste of that elixir… it was over.
In less than a heartbeat, hundreds of tissue ruptures caused by antimatter weapons erupted in rapid succession. What had once been a peaceful lab was now engulfed in chaos.
Elhmbrett slumped forward, still seated.
His body, perforated by eight-centimeter surgical holes, left no doubt: he was dead. Yet when the Annihilation Unit arrived to verify, none could explain why his left hand refused to release that glass… so translucent, so bluish… and pure white.
—"Executor #40679 here. Target neutralized. Annihilation confirmed. Standing by for orders."—"Copy, #40679. High-priority target. Seize all data."—"Understood. Proceeding with previous objective."—"Cleanup squad, take care of the rest."
While everyone carried out the command, only one figure remained staring at the corpse.
—"Executor #50849, what's wrong? Still having trouble disconnecting from your past? Experiencing interference in your psychoneuronal calibration system?"—"Nothing… #49587… just… can't…"
Before he could finish, #49587 stepped forward. He slowly lowered his facial concealment sensor. In a voice unexpectedly soft, almost human, he spoke to his companion:
—"Shiefiee…? Are you okay?"
For her, emotion was foreign.
She still remembered those innocent moments as a child in love, the constant scoldings from her mother. She remembered how it all began.
To her, such feeling was an anomaly. A factory defect.
And yet there she floated, among the wreckage of that lab-turned-tomb. Before Elhmbrett's corpse. Before him.
She remembered. Damn it… she remembered everything.
The times she pretended not to look when he walked by. The doodles in the margins of her notebooks, the letters never sent. And above all, her mother's shouts. That harsh voice reminding her, every day, how inferior she was. How unhappy she made everyone around her.
"Shiefiee," her mother used to say,"you can't even keep peace at home, and you dare dream of building another? You're mediocre. And that boy… a miserable wretch."
But she loved him. She loved him with the purity of a child who knew nothing of wars or conspiracies. She loved him with that ancestral longing, beyond flesh, impossible to contain.
And though he humiliated her, rejected her, and his words cut deeper than any neural implant, deep down… she never got over him. Not in good ways. Not in bad.
And now she stood there, rifle slung over her shoulder, a death mask covering her face… and one question pulsed like an echo in her chest:
—"What am I now that he is dead?"
She knelt by the body. The glass still lay untouched. The liquid—it wasn't mere wine, she knew instantly—gleamed with that unnatural blue: Compound C. Its flow, as seductive as fresh blood to a vampire, was intoxicating.
She held the glass. Her hands shook. A piercing vertigo gripped her chest, as if something were tearing her from within. A single tear traced down her cheek…
Suddenly, she collapsed onto the cold floor. A massive hole gaped where her chest should have been. Behind her, executor #40679—icy gaze, rifle raised—stood motionless.
—"Shiefiee!"Executor #49587, with a rough voice and trembling fist, lifted his rifle to avenge her…
…but at that moment, a single shot rang out, crisp and precise. Executor #49587 fell beside her.
—"Executors #49587 and #50849 have been eliminated for grave insubordination, suspected high treason, and illegal appropriation of biomodifying compounds,"announced #40679's metallic voice—cold, relentless.
Unfazed, #40679 watched #49587's futile attempt to reach #50849. He raised his rifle again and fired. #49587's skull burst in an instant; his body crumpled as if he had never existed.
The other executors resumed their tasks with the same bureaucratic indifference, as though that extreme violence had never occurred.
Shiefiee, with her final breath, gazed upon that mechanical coldness and thought:
"In this life we can be dogs or cats; you, Elhmbrett, were a mouse… and I never learned to adapt."
And she closed her eyes—never to open them again.