Rollerskater: Moniker


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This instalment contains scenes of torture that some readers may find upsetting.


Beneath the earth, they keep him bound, sealed behind a field he cannot see but hear, always humming. He is suspended by electromagnetised chains, two man-heights off the ground, were he to estimate.

Below him, two soldiers stand either side of him, armed with guns. Not that he could do them much harm, anyway. He has not seen the Sun in months. He cannot move his arms or legs. They have sealed him into a suit made of fabric fashioned by the hand of Man, not of Earth, and his face is covered by a mask with two red eye-pieces. Only the red light gets in. Everything looks like blood.

He is sleeping when the door opens. The man in the suit is back once more, with the woman wearing a white coat. The man looks friendly, just as he always has. With them, they are wheeling in a machine. It is a machine he has seen before.

The man in the suit smiles, looking up at him.

“Mister Parish,” the man in the suit says. “We shall try once again.”

Parish says nothing. He never does. Only stares. All he sees is red.

“Mister Parish, will you choose, of your own free will, to cooperate with Her Majesty’s Government and all its departments, and put to use your unique talents in support of the Government’s operations both at home and abroad?”

Parish says nothing.

“Mister Parish, all we need is an oral declaration that you will surrender your will to that of your government.”

Parish says nothing.

“Very well,” the man in the suit says. He turns to the woman. “Doctor Bush.”

Doctor Bush looks up at Parish, then down at the machine in front of her. She flicks a few switches, and then turns something at the front of the device.

Something is tingling in his arms and legs.

“One milliampere,” the man in the suit says.

Parish still remains silent.

The man in the suit nods to Doctor Bush, and she turns the knob.

His muscles are spasming, and it is uncomfortble. But still, he does not speak.

“Five milliamperes,” the man in the suit says, smiling. “We can stop whenever you like, Mister Parish.”

But still no response.

The knob is turned again.

Now his muscles are frozen. They are cramping. The pain is unbearable. He screams – of course he screams – but he will not speak to them.

Ten milliamperes, Mister Parish.”

Parish does not speak. Only screams.

“Doctor Bush.”

His vision is disappearing into a small red spot in the middle of an ocean of empty black, but he can see the woman’s face. She does not want to hurt him. But she turns the knob anyway.

The unbearable agony becomes even more unbearable. He is thrashing in the suit. Tears are stinging his eyes.

Fifteen milliamperes, Mister Parish!”

“Stop,” a voice says, somewhere far away. “We could kill him if we go any further.” It’s a woman’s voice. Doctor Bush.

The man in the suit seemingly gives the signal to switch the device off. All pain ceases. His body goes limp. He still lives.

“This concludes today’s session,” the man in the suit says. “Should you at any point wish to cease undergoing these corrective treatments, you need only say the word, any hour of the day.”

Parish has fallen silent.

“EKG normal,” calls a technician from across the room. “He’s alive. Just not talking.”

The man in the suit smiles.

“Goodbye, Mister Parish.”

He walks out of the room through a large metal blast door, followed by the good doctor. Momentarily, she looks back at the prisoner, frowning, and then leaves the room.

They will not break him.

That is not a statement of intent. That is an assurance.


*


There was golden autumn sunshine coming through the window, and that was perfectly normal, Socks thought, but that there was a girl standing at the end of his bed decidedly wasn’t.

His initial thought, upon waking up and seeing this, was that he must be dreaming, and he proceeded to immediately nod back off to sleep.

It was only when his eyes shot open a few minutes later and she was still standing there that he realised that, no, there really was a girl standing at the end of his bed.

He screamed, of course, and his crystalline left arm rapidly materialised as if he could counter whatever attack she had planned for him.

She had extremely – inhumanly – pale skin, paler even than K-Os’s skin, and without the rosy pinkness of Chelsea Rose’s complexion. So pale was she, in fact, that she looked as though she was made of alabaster.

She “wore” what looked to be a “dress” made of plastic, but it looked less like clothing and more like it was bolted on to her body. Her “hair”, too, which was as white as her skin, did not appear to consist of individual strands, but rather it seemed to have been moulded into the shape of long, straight, middle-parted hair.

Her eyes were like two black pearls set into her eyesockets, with black sclerae but for two green irises that fluoresced softly like Day-Glo even in the daylight, and she seemingly had the word “ONE” etched or stamped into her forehead.

“Please designate Monica,” the girl said, with an even tone of voice. Her voice sounded faintly like her head was inside a pail.

Socks was dumbfounded for a few moments. First she had the audacity to turn up at the end of his bed, and now she was talking nonsense.

“What?” he asked.

“Please designate Monica,” the girl repeated, in the same even tone.

“What are you saying?” he asked. “Your name is Monica?”

“Understood. You have designated this unit’s moniker as…Monica. Is that correct?”

“Erm,” Socks replied.

“Confirmed. Please designate your name.”

“What?”

“Invalid answer. Please designate your name.”

“Socks.”

“You have designated your name as ‘Socks’. Is that correct?”

“I guess so…sorry, but who the hell are you?”

“This unit is not sure that it understands the question.”

“I mean, why are you in my room?”

“This unit is not sure that it understands the question.”

Socks got out of bed, and realised a little too quickly that he had, of course, chosen to sleep naked the previous night, and so he hurriedly put on a pair of underpants while trying his best to preserve his dignity in front of Monica, who seemed to regard him with a strange aloofness.

Once he was somewhat clothed, he decided to try again.

“You said your name is Monica, right? Monica what?”

“This unit is not sure that it—”

“—understands the question. Right. Okay, let’s try this: Do you have a last name, and if you do, could you tell me what it is?”

Monica seemed to ponder it for a few moments.

“This unit does not currently possess the designation of ‘surname’. How should this unit proceed?”

“Er…maybe you could pick one yourself?”

“Very well. Unit Designation ‘Monica’ will assign itself a surname.”

Monica raised her leg in a strange goose-stepping motion that somewhat recalled an old Monty Python sketch, and it was then that Socks noticed for the first time that Monica was wearing a pair of big, heavy boots, that, like her dress, appeared to have been bolted on. They were like astronaut boots, enormously chunky things with thick soles.

This, however, was not the strangest thing about her movement, as she brought her foot down on the ground and propelled herself forwards. Her gait could only be described as “bizarre”, as her upper torso seemed to rock back and forth as she walked, quite slowly as it happened, from her starting point to her destination, which was in front of Socks’s mirror.

Even stranger was the fact that, as she walked, there came a strange sound from somewhere inside Monica’s body; a sound like clockwork falling apart and putting itself back together again.

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

By now, Socks had figured out that Monica was not a human being. At least, he hoped she wasn’t.

The question was, why had Monica suddenly appeared in his bedroom, and what exactly was her purpose?

Eno,” Monica said, having looked at her reflection and spotted the word “ONE” on her forehead, reflected in the mirror. “This unit has self administered the surname designation ‘Eno’. Is this sufficient for your purposes, or would you wish that this unit should change it?”

“No, no, that’s fine,” Socks said.

It really should have surprised Socks more that there was a fucking android in his bedroom, but he was honestly more annoyed by her rudeness in being there uninvited than anything else.

“Where did you come from?” Socks asked.

“This unit is not sure—”

“Alright,” Socks said. “I’m taking you to see K-Os.”

“Understood,” Monica said. “Where is the one designated as ‘K-Os’?”

“That’s a very good question,” Socks said.

He tried ringing her on his phone, and she didn’t pick up, because of course she didn’t.

He thought for a few moments, and then opened up WhatsApp, scrolling back through conversation history. He really hoped he remembered correctly…

There it was.

Chelsea 🖕 🏍️: Here’s our address if you need it till breeze.
(Speech-to-text was apparently not familiar with Cockney rhyming slang.)

He highlighted the address, opened it in the maps app, and was given directions.

“Alright, Monica,” he said. “Looks like we’re going on a little road trip.”


*


The blast door comes open and in comes the good doctor with another trolley. This time it is not loaded with a torture device, but with a hot meal.

She is allowed up to feed him by a small accordion-lift.

This is one of the few times a day his bare skin gets to feel air. The suit they have him in – he doesn’t know what it’s made of, but whatever it is, it stops him using his abilities.

Carefully, she unseals and pulls away the lower section of the mask to reveal his mouth, but leaves the eyepieces in place. He can tell that she finds it perplexing that his face seems to remain shaven, despite not having been shaved since he arrived here.

“Lunchtime,” the good doctor says, nevertheless.

Parish says nothing. For a few moments, at least.

“I thought it was dinnertime,” he says. “It’s hard to tell in here.” He has a strange accent – definitely English, definitely rural – but with an accent that is impossible to place geographically.

“Open,” the good doctor says, lifting a spoon to his mouth.

He sups at it. Vegetable soup. One of the few dignities they give him here is that they respect his dietary requirements. Though they’d probably just force feed him beef stew with a funnel if he tried to go on hunger strike.

“My compliments to the chef,” Parish says. He says it every time. It was funny the first two times. The good doctor doesn’t smile. “What’s eating you, Doctor Bush?”

Bush looks down. “I am sorry about this morning,” she says. “The government’s just given us a load of funding under the table and the Project Director is getting a bit zealous.”

“My heart bleeds,” Parish says. She feeds him another spoonful. He swallows. “It really is good soup.”

“You could end this all right here, you know,” Bush says. “If you just say so. I’ll let the Director know and we can get you trained up with SAID…”

“Forgive me if I decline the offer,” Parish says. “Electrocuting me on a weekly basis isn’t exactly selling me on the job.”

“You’re quite the malcontent.”

“Thank you.”

Bush sighs. “What do you want?”

Parish smiles. “To feel the sunlight again.”

Bush looks down and feeds him another spoonful.

“That’s the one thing I can’t give you,” she says, ruefully.

Parish says nothing. Only smiles slightly.

The conversation ends there, and she finishes feeding him the soup.

“I shall return tonight at dinnertime,” Bush says. “Be good, yes?”

“Can I do anything else, Doctor?”

Bush smiles slightly. She puts his mask back on for him. Something is distracting her, he can sense it.

It’s no surprise when she fails to properly clasp it in place before she lowers the accordion lift.

It’s not much breathing room, but he’ll take it.


*


Dolly Mixture woke up, dressed herself in a robe and padded her way down to the kitchen, then grabbed a granola bar from the cabinet and made herself a cup of tea. Four sugars, as usual.

She had unwrapped the granola bar and begun to eat when she heard music from the garage, and went from the kitchen area to the hallway adjacent to the garage, cup of tea in hand. The door to the garage was slightly ajar.

Dolly opened the door. “Little Honda” by The Beach Boys was playing over a tinny Bluetooth speaker. The tilt-up garage door was open on to the chill morning air. Chelsea Rose was working on her motorbike with a socket wrench. Despite her low visual acuity, Chelsea was very good at doing things by sound and feel, especially when it came to her bike.

“I don’t fancy you a fan of the Beach Boys,” Dolly said.

Chelsea turned in the direction of the sound.

“But you admit that you do fancy me,” she said, grinning.

“You always struck me as more of a Sex Pistols girl,” Dolly said, ignoring the remark.

“What, ‘cause I talk like Johnny Rotten?”

“No, because you are rotten.”

“That is the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me,” Chelsea said. “And for the record, I prefer Ian Dury and the Blockheads.”

Dolly sipped at her tea.

“You don’t even ride a Honda,” Dolly said. “That’s a Yamaha.”

“Yeah, well, ‘Little Yamaha’ is a bit of a mouthful, innit?”

“What are you even doing to it? If you tighten the bolts on that thing any more it’ll become a modern art piece. Stasis in Chrome and Steel.”

Chelsea wiped her nose with the back of an oil-stained hand, inadvertently smearing oil across her top lip.

“Just a tune up,” she said. “Daisy up?”

“She’s a rock star, not to mention a student. What do you think?”

“I’m gonna go with soundo.”

“Got it in one.”

Chelsea grinned, then went back to work on the bike. There was a lull as the song ended, and a few seconds of silence as the next song (“Do You Wanna Dance?”) was cued up.

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

“What is that noise?” Dolly asked. “Is that you?”

“Bloody hell, I hope not,” Chelsea replied. “I’m not slated to get IBS for at least another five years.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

“I know. I just felt like being disgusting.”

The two peered out of the opening and down the driveway, and saw who was coming towards them.

“It’s Socks,” Dolly said. “And…a new friend.”

Socks was awkwardly walking ahead of what appeared to Dolly to be a girl with a very strange lumbering walk, who was very slowly walking behind him.

Jesus,” Dolly said. “What does he want? I’m not even dressed.”

“Well, I think you look lovely,” Chelsea said.

Dolly licked her thumb and rubbed the oil off of Chelsea’s top lip. “You’re always good value, Chelsea.”

“Thanks, Mum,” Chelsea said.

Socks caught sight of them standing in the garage as he approached the open door.

“Morning, Tilburys,” Chelsea said.

“Morning,” he replied. “I’ve got a problem.”

“Would it happen to be about five-ten and walking slowly towards the house?” Dolly asked.

“Yeah,” Socks replied. “She just showed up in my room out of nowhere.”

Dolly sighed. “I’ll put the kettle on.”


*


“So you’re saying neither of you know where she might have come from?” Socks asked, exasperated, over a cup of strong tea.

Monica was sitting at the breakfast table in the same way a Barbie doll might, very stiff, back straight, as if at a formal dinner. She appeared to be listening intently for something, but didn’t appear to hear anything. Socks reckoned that if he clapped his hands in front of her face she wouldn’t blink.

could she blink?

“We’re just as new to this stuff as you, Socks,” Dolly said. “I think the only person who can really help is probably K-Os.”

“I tried calling her. She didn’t pick up.”

“She does that,” Chelsea said. She was sitting with her feet up on the breakfast table. Socks had no idea how the hell Daisy and Dolly put up with her. “What about Hippie Girl?”

“Liberty?” Socks asked. “I don’t think she owns a mobile phone, Chelsea.”

“Well, I don’t know, yell up a fucking tree or something.”

“I’ll try calling K-Os,” Dolly said. “Have you eaten breakfast, Socks?”

“No,” Socks said.

“There’s granola bars in the cupboard. I’ll ring her and get washed and dressed. Far too many people have seen me today with bedhead.”

Dolly left the room.

“How did you even get her here, if Monica walks that slowly?” Chelsea asked.

“We came by bus.”

“Oh, God. I’m so sorry.”

(The buses in the area were renowned for their near-legendary lack of punctuality, to the point that it almost felt like a deliberate act of
malice.)

“She…broke the contactless payment machine. Lucky I had cash on me, really.”

Chelsea laughed so hard she snorted. She very nearly fell out of her chair.

“It’s not funny,” Socks said, indignantly.

“Oh, it is,” Chelsea said, wiping tears from her eyes. “You’ve made my day.”

Socks smiled slightly. “Okay, I suppose it is a bit funny.”

“It is creepy how she just sits there,” Chelsea said. “Can she talk?”

“Only when she wants to,” Socks said. “She’s been silent since this morning.”

“Not much of a raconteur, then.”

“Wow, Chelsea, was that French? That’s impressive coming from you.”

“Oi, that’s my schtick,” Chelsea said. “This town ain’t big enough for the both of us.”

Socks laughed, then sighed, leaning back in his chair and covering his eyes.

“God…” he said, stretching. “I miss the days when I could wake up and not have things like this happen to me.”

“You’re deep in the shit now, Tilburys.”

“Arthur Dent.”

“Eh?”

“That’s who I am. Arthur Dent. From The Hitch-Hiker’s Guide to the Galaxy. Dad got me to read it as a teenager.” He sipped at the tea. “I just want to get home, but it’s like everything I knew, everything I thought I was has been blown up, so I have nowhere to go.”

Chelsea smiled in a way that Socks found strange until he realised it was the first time she had shown him a genuine smile, as opposed to a mocking one.

“You’ve got one thing Arthur Dent didn’t have,” she said.

“What’s that, then?”

“A good cup of tea.”

Socks blinked a couple of times. “That’s the most genuine thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He paused, looked down into the cup. “You haven’t gobbed in my tea, have you?”

“Oh, forgive me if I feel a little affection for you. And besides, my aim’s not that good.”

Dolly re-entered the room.

“K-Os has just been to London to see Harri-Bec,” she said. “I think Monica here may be the least of our worries.”


*


Parish doesn’t know if it’s evening or early morning when they return. The time just seems to fade together. Initially he thinks they’re bringing him dinner, but no, the friendly-looking government man and Doctor Bush enter the room with the device on the trolley. Reflexively, muscles in his stomach tighten.

The man in the suit steps forward once more.

“Mister Parish, will you choose, of your own free will, to cooperate with Her Majesty’s Government and all its departments, and put to use your unique talents in support of the Government’s operations both at home and abroad?”

Parish, as always, says nothing.

“Very well, Mister Parish. Proceed, Doctor Bush.”

Bush looks up at him. Her eyes seem to say “I’m sorry.”

She activates the machine, and he feels tingling in his body.

“One milliampere, Mister Parish.”

One milliamp isn’t terrible in any way other than that it is the prelude to far worse agony. They’ve been doing this for months and he still isn’t used to it. Still, he remains silent.

Now his muscles are spasming and it feels like there are worms beneath his skin.

“Five milliamperes,” the friendly-looking government man says. “We can stop any time, Mister Parish.”

Parish will not speak. He refuses to give them the satisfaction of beating him.

Bush looks up at him sympathetically. The knob is turned once again. Parish screams.

Ten milliamperes, Mister Parish.”

“Sir,” a technician says.

The government man turns to him. “Be quiet, man. This requires careful focus.”

“But sir…”

“Be quiet.”

Parish continues to scream. But he will not speak. He will only scream for them.

“Sir, I really think you should—”

“Get him out of here!” the government man shouts. A soldier nods and proceeds over to the technician, grabbing him by his overalls.

The soldier yelps in pain and draws his hand away from the suit.

“What the hell is the matter with you?” the government man shouts.

“Nothing, sir…just…static electricity.”

He grabs the technician again and begins to escort him out.

“Sir!” the technician shouts. “I was trying to tell you that we’re getting some strange readings—

“Continue with the session!” the government man barks. “More electricity!”

The knob turns a final time.

Parish screams.

Everyone in the room feels their hair stand on end.

“Oh my God,” Doctor Bush shouts. “Oh my God!”

There is a cloud forming in the ceiling. It is grey and dark. Parish continues to scream in agony. It has begun to rain indoors.

“My God,” the government man says. “He’ll kill us all. Bush, hit him with maximum amperage!”

There is a pause. No sound but Parish’s screams.

“No,” Bush says. “No, I won’t do that.”

The supervisor looks at her.

“Don’t think I don’t know that this is happening because you forgot to seal the suit properly, you stupid bitch. Get out of the way.”

He pushes her aside, goes to put his hand on the controls…

KRAKATOOM.

In an instant, lightning five times hotter than the surface of the Sun strikes the device. There is an explosion and the supervisor is knocked from his feet. The torture ends. The lights have gone out. The humming has stopped. The shield keeping Parish in place has been disabled. He can attempt an escape…

No use. He is too weak. Manifesting but a single lightning bolt has sapped his energy. He needs sunlight.

The emergency generators activate, and the lights come back on. The humming resumes. The clouds dissipate.

Men with guns storm the room.

Bush is ordered by a man with a loud and aggressive voice to reseal the suit. He waves his gun at her, spitting profanities and slurs, and threatens to shoot her as she travels up the accordion lift. After an agonising few seconds she makes it up to his eye level and reseals his mask, clasping it. The man with the gun orders her down.

I’m sorry,” she whispers. He wants to tell her that it’s not her fault, but he cannot speak. She is the only person in this place that is kind to him, and yet he resents her all the more for choosing to work with his captors. He says nothing to her.

She travels down the accordion lift and the soldier grabs her arm. She whips it away from him and walks away, followed by two more men with guns.

The angry man with a gun looks up at Parish, as if considering whether it would be worth it to simply shoot him right then and there, then looks away and walks out of the room.

There are two people left in the room now. Parish, and one other.

Very impressive, Mister Parish,” says the government man, who isn’t so friendly-looking any more. His lip curls in disgust. “It would have been a waste if I’d killed you.”

He walks away.

The soldiers resume their guard duty.

None of them can hear as Parish quietly weeps.


*


“Where is she?” K-Os asked.

Seeing her standing on the doorstep in her golden skates, Dolly remembered just how tall and imposing K-Os was. There was, of course, a reason K-Os had not been invited to see their new home before.

“In the kitchen,” Dolly said. She had finally managed to dress herself in a turquoise pinafore, with a light jumper underneath, covered in small decorations made to look like her namesake: Tiny fondant cuboids and cylinders, as well as gumdrops.

It was hard for Dolly not to think of Fliss. That was a universe ago. Two universes, in fact. But in real time, it had only happened earlier in the spring. Fliss was still dead, having given her soul so that umbric might be destroyed, and responsibility for that, ultimately, fell on K-Os.

Unlike Daisy, Dolly had a soft spot for Socks. Socks was an idiot, but an endearing one. Daisy had her reasons to dislike him, and those were justified, she knew, but Dolly knew he was trying his best.

K-Os, on the other hand, simply saw fit to put people through a meat grinder in service of a cause she deemed greater than their lives, at least from her perspective. Like all gods – while K-Os would abhor being called a “goddess”, no other word in human language quite fit – she saw mere mortals as pawns in a game of chess. That was her greatest failing.

K-Os nodded, then skated into the kitchen, the wheels on her golden skates trundling over the wood of the vestibule, on to the tiles of the kitchen.

Chelsea recognised the sound at once.

“Afternoon, K-Os,” she said.

“Yes,” K-Os said. “It is.”

Monica was still sitting at the breakfast table. She had not moved or made a sound for hours, but her eyes still radiated Day-Glo green. As K-Os entered, Monica suddenly turned to look at her. Brrrrt-clunk.

“She just showed up in my room this morning,” Socks said. “She told me her name was Monica, and then gave herself a surname. Monica Eno.”

K-Os looked at him, then at Monica.

“This is ancient technology,” she said, meeting Monica’s gaze. The expression on Monica’s face was unreadable.

K-Os skated towards her and crouched slightly to meet her eye line.

“A penumbric homunculus,” K-Os said. “Fully autonomous. No remote control at all. Penumbric crystals that can move and think on their own.”

“Wait, a homunculus?” Socks said. “Like those umbric things in London?”

“Yes,” K-Os said. “But more sophisticated.”

“Then where did she come from?”

“I don’t think it matters,” K-Os said, standing to her full height again. “She’s basically harmless.”

Monica continued to stare at K-Os.

“Well, that was anticlimactic,” Chelsea said.

“We’re not done here,” K-Os said. “I didn’t just come here to identify her. We’ve got a problem.”

“You mentioned on the phone,” Dolly said. “What’s going on?”

“I met Harri-Bec at Liverpool Street earlier today to get her a new crystal. Hers was destroyed in a fight.”

“A fight?” Chelsea asked. She sounded genuinely worried, unusual for her. “Is she okay?”

“She’s fine, quite badly bruised,” K-Os said. “But she wasn’t attacked by the government.”

“What?” Socks said. “Then who? Just a random attack?”

“No,” K-Os said. She paused, not sure how to phrase it.

“K-Os?” Chelsea asked.

“Harri-Bec…”

K-Os looked up at the ceiling, then down at the ground.

“She said she was attacked by a creature that fed on human blood.”

There was a long silence.

“A vampire?” Socks asked. “Those are real?”

“They’re not,” Dolly said.

“I’m hesitant to use the term ‘vampire’,” K-Os said. “But…that was the word Harri-Bec used.”

Another long silence.

“Well, shit,” Chelsea said. “That makes things more complicated.”

“So far, it’s an isolated incident,” K-Os said. “I suggest we put it on the back burner for the time being. The government is still our enemy.”

“Wait,” Chelsea said. “You just said Harri-Bec almost died. I’m not putting that on the back burner.”

“We can’t lose focus,” K-Os said. “I agree, this complicates matters, but the government presents a much greater threat than whatever happened to Harri-Bec at the moment.”

“I’m sure Harri-Bec appreciates you leaving her in the dirt like that,” Dolly said, bitterly.

“What do you expect me to do?” K-Os retorted. “I’m trying to keep us alive.”

“But not Harri-Bec,” Chelsea said. Chelsea was not usually given to sincerity. That she said it without even cracking a smile illustrated that she meant it.

K-Os scowled.

“Do you know why Harri-Bec needed a new crystal?” she asked.

“Why?” Socks asked.

“The creature she fought, whatever it was, was weak to penumbric.”

K-Os waved a hand over an outstretched palm, and in her hand there manifested a small red crystal that she had been storing in psychic space. “It was made of this substance.”

“What is it?” Chelsea asked.

Rubric,” K-Os said, holding it up. “Rubric. That’s what Harri-Bec told me it’s called. She was able to recover some from the creature’s body after it died.”

Dolly laughed, morosely.

“Penumbric, rubric,” she said. “And you think this isn’t a credible threat.”

“I didn’t say it wasn’t a credible threat,” K-Os said. “I said that the government presents more of a threat currently than—”

Socks had a strange feeling all of a sudden.

Before he could process it, Monica stood up.

Enemy detected,” she said.

What?” K-Os replied.

Before any of them knew what was happening, Monica had drawn her hand back into a fist.

A second later, there was a hole in the wall on the other side of the kitchen, opening out into the hallway. K-Os had been knocked through it.

Socks leapt from his seat. “Monica, stop!”

The sight of the red crystal had set something in the android off. She began to walk slowly, lumberingly, towards the hole in the wall.

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

“Jesus…”

“If we had a landlord, he’d kill us,” Dolly said. “Though I won’t say she didn’t deserve that.”

“Dolly!” Socks exclaimed, running in front of Monica to try and stop her progress and being almost comically pushed aside, no matter how hard he strained.

“Socks, K-Os is immortal,” Dolly said. “She’ll be fine.”

“Help me stop her!”

“Of course. But only because I don’t want her to smash up my kitchen any more than she already has.”

“That’s cold, Dol’…” Chelsea said. “…I kind of love it.”

Dolly smiled. “The bitch could use being taught a lesson or two in humanity.”

Socks looked at them both. “You’re both unbelievable, you know that?”

“We shall take that as a compliment,” Dolly said. “Alright, let’s get this over with.”

Running to the other side of the kitchen, she reached a hand into a cabinet for a Kilner jar of sugar cubes, undid the clasp, reached in and removed a handful. A small orange glow began to emanate from her hand. She tossed the sugar cubes directly into Monica’s path.

They exploded with some force, cracking tiles and shattering the light fixture overhead, but whatever damage Monica took was superficial.

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

“Tenacious, isn’t she?” Dolly said.

“Alright,” Chelsea said. “I’ll stop her.”

She snapped her fingers.

Silence, but for the relentless sound of Monica’s internal clockwork.

She snapped her fingers again, then sighed.

“Excuse me for one second,” she said. “I think it’s being a bit temperamental.”

She felt her way out of the room, leaving just Socks and Dolly.

“Monica, stop,” Socks said. “I don’t want to hurt you.”

Monica said nothing, only continued in her relentless pursuit of K-Os.

“Dolly,” Socks said. “How is K-Os doing?”

Dolly looked at him somewhat disdainfully, then walked out of the room.

A few moments passed.

“She’s alright, as far as I can tell,” she called. “Though she’s made a mess of the walls and floor. It’ll take her a few minutes to reform her body.”

“Good,” Socks said.

He manifested his crystalline arm once more. Penumbric had to beat penumbric, right? Like diamond cutting diamond…

He leapt at Monica’s back, trying to put an arm around her neck, but she simply grabbed hold of his arm and broke it off, dashing the arm on the floor—

There was a flash.

He was standing behind her once again, with his arm intact.

“I take it that didn’t go well?” Dolly said.

“Shut up,” Socks retorted.

He stood in front of Monica. She was very close to the hole now. Socks feared that she might actually kill K-Os if she couldn’t be stopped.

“Monica,” he said, meeting her gaze.

The clockwork android paused for a moment, her Day-Glo-green eyes staring at him.

“You are obstructing the path to the enemy,” she said. “Please stand aside.”

“Stop,” he said. “I don’t want to have to hurt you.”

The android stopped and seemed to consider it for a moment.

“You are obstructing the path to the enemy,” she said. “Please stand aside.”

“Damn it,” Socks said. He drew his hand back into a fist…

He was suddenly on his back, struggling to breathe.

The android had hit him in the chest, winding him.

Dolly ran to his side. “Are you alright?” she asked.

“Yeah…” Socks wheezed. “Just…dandy.”

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

They were too late. Monica had reached the hole in the wall. She proceeded to walk through the wall as though it were tissue paper.

Dolly helped Socks to his feet, and they went together out of the kitchen.

Monica was standing over K-Os’s partially-reformed body.

“The enemy will be destroyed,” Monica said.

Her arm transformed, through means Socks did not quite understand, into a a large, hollow cylinder, filled with bright blue light.

Blue light…

Blue light!

Socks patted his trouser pockets.

He wasn’t carrying his crystal.

“Wait!” Socks said. “It’s Liberty, isn’t it? Liberty created you.”

Monica stopped and turned to look at Socks.

Brrrrt-clunk.

“The one designated ‘Liberty Parish’ activated this unit by stimulated release of string energy.”

“Parish?” Socks said. “Is that Liberty’s surname?”

“Hell if I know,” Dolly said. “Ask her if she’ll pay to fix the fucking kitchen wall.”

“Are you allies of the one designated ‘Liberty Parish’?”

“Yes,” Socks said. “And so is that woman on the floor there.”

“That is negative,” Monica said, turning her attention back to K-Os, whose body now resembled neon-pink Play-Doh. The hit had really knocked her for six. “Only the enemy wields rubric. The enemy must be destroyed. That is this unit’s imperative.”

“If you hurt her, Liberty will be angry!” Socks insisted.

Monica paused and considered it for a second.

“Directive disregarded.”

“She isn’t wielding the rubric as a weapon!” Dolly said. “For God’s sake, don’t put a hole in my wooden floor.”

“Directive disregarded.”

“Oh, well, fuck you, too, then.”

There was nothing they could do.

Monica turned her attention back to K-Os, pointing the hollow cylinder directly at her. There was a loud, reverberating hum…

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

Brrrrt-clunk.

Brrrrt-clunk.

Brrrrt.

Brrrrrrrr.

Monica suddenly seemed to lose her balance and fall over backwards. The energy cannon on her arm transformed back into a hand.

As she hit the ground, the wood splintered and cracked under the weight of her crystalline body.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Dolly said. “What did I just say?”

Socks took a few careful steps over to Monica, who was now laying stiffly on the ground.

Her eyes had changed from Day-Glo-green to Day-Glo-yellow. She was staring up at the ceiling.

Socks and Dolly looked at each other.

“Monica?” Socks asked.

“This unit has entered low power mode,” Monica said, matter-of-factly. “Please replenish the power module.”

There was a small light emanating from Monica’s neck. A tiny green ring, about an inch in diameter.

Socks looked at Dolly, then touched it.

A small receptacle emerged from the port in Monica’s neck like a car cigarette lighter, and Socks realised that it had several hemispherical holes carved into it.

Another light began to glow now, also green, on Monica’s torso, in roughly the same place a stomach would be if Monica had been human. It was shaped like a two-dimensional kidney bean.

Socks placed a hand against it, and a panel slid open, opening up Monica’s “stomach”.

“Oh, I’m going to be sick,” Dolly said.

Socks reached in to Monica’s “stomach” and pulled out a handful of objects.

Tiny white pearls, each one veined with gold.

Wait, no…not pearls…marbles.

“Oh, now I am going to be sick,” Dolly said.

“Gravity,” Socks said. “She’s powered by gravity. That’s what makes the sound when she moves. The marbles fall through internal mechanisms, and that’s what makes her go.”

Socks refilled the receptacle with marbles, then slotted the power module back into Monica’s neck.

“What are you doing?” Dolly said. “Don’t switch her back on!”

“Ever had to reset your phone when it’s misbehaving?” Socks asked. “Same deal.”

Dolly frowned.

Socks helped sit Monica back up, so gravity could do its work.

There were a few moments of silence.

Brrrrt-clunk.

Brrrrt-clunk.

Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING. Brrrrt-clunk-a-CHING.

Monica’s eyes went from yellow to green.

“Greetings, Socks,” she said. “Thank you for replenishing this unit’s power module.”

“Monica,” Socks said. “You just tried to kill my friend. You can’t do that.”

A small white light in Monica’s eyes appeared, and began to rotate in a pinwheel. She was thinking.

“Understood,” she said. “This unit apologises for the damage caused.”

“Oh, did you hear that, Socks?” Dolly said. “She apologises!”

“This unit misinterpreted your friend displaying a rubric crystal as a threat. This unit now recognises that this was an error of judgement.”

“Can I ask you not to do that again?” Socks asked. “From now on, I want you to listen to what I tell you, okay? If you’re here to protect me, then that means no hurting my friends. Do you understand?”

The pinwheel appeared again.

“Yes,” Monica said. “But this unit does not recommend—”

“Please, Monica.”

“Understood,” Monica said. “This unit will not attack again until directed.”

“Good,” Socks said. “Now, is there any way I can put you to sleep?”

“Yes,” Monica said. “Simply instruct this unit to do so.”

Socks and Dolly looked at each other.

“Go to sleep,” Socks said.

“Goodnight,” Monica replied.

Her body seemed to fold in on itself in a way that Socks couldn’t fully grasp without giving himself a migraine, and then there was a crystal in the middle of the floor. Socks picked it up and turned it over in his hands. The crystal hummed softly.

“Well, that was an adventure,” Dolly said.

On the hallway floor, K-Os had finished reconstituting herself. She sat up, rubbing her head as if she’d spent the night drinking.

“Enjoy your nap, did you?” Dolly said.

“Shut up,” K-Os replied, standing. “This changes nothing. Both of you be on your guard for government threats. I will be keeping an eye on the new threat from rubric, and staying in touch with Harri-Bec. Don’t lose focus.”

“You weren’t planning on keeping an eye on Harri-Bec before,” Dolly said. “Do you always grow a conscience after being knocked through a wall?”

K-Os scowled.

Remmmm rem rem rem rem rem rem remmm remmmmm

Dolly and Socks simultaneously turned in the direction of the garage.

“Oh, shit!” Socks shouted.

“Chelsea!” Dolly cried. “Stop!”

Moments later, a motorcycle crashed through the kitchen wall, sending plates and glasses flying across the tiled floor, splintering wood and bursting pipes.

K-Os smiled. “Now we’re even,” she said, and hurriedly left through the front door.

Dolly scowled. “Fucking cow.” She turned to Chelsea. “Chelsea, for God’s sake…”

“Did I get her?” Chelsea asked.

“No you didn’t fucking get her,” Dolly said. “We had the situation under control, you daft bint!”

“Well, you could have told me!”

“I didn’t know you’d put your fucking bike through the wall, did I?”

“I’ll just be leaving,” Socks said, taking the crystal with him, and slinking out of the front door.

As Socks left, footsteps came down the stairs.

A bleary-eyed Daisy, dressed in pastel-coloured dinosaur-print pyjamas, walked into the kitchen to see a steadily-growing puddle of water, splinters of plaster and wood and shattered ceramics and glass scattered across the floor, and Chelsea Rose sitting atop a motorbike whose engine was still running, arguing loudly with Dolly Mixture.

Taking this scene in, Daisy turned on her heel and marched back up the stairs.

“I’m going back to bed,” she said. “Today’s a write-off.”


*


Beneath the earth, the Project Director is on the telephone to someone important. He is watching a camera feed of the prisoner, hanging there suspended by electromagnetised chains. The unblinking red eyes seem to stare out of the screen at him. That would be impossible, of course, but the sight still unnerves him.

“Yes, Prime Minister,” the Project Director is saying. “We’re making good progress. Yes, there was an unfortunate incident. No, no, we contained it just fine, Prime Minister. All secure now. Yes, Prime Minister. We’ll break him soon, sir.”

Before him is a red folder. It has been embossed with the words “TOP SECRET”. His eyes travel up to the screen again. Still, the red eyes stare at him. There is a human being in that suit, but the containment measures have dehumanised him. He entertains for a moment the idea that this is the prisoner’s true form externalised. It helps him rationalise it better.

“Of course, Prime Minister,” the Project Director continues. “You too, sir. Have a good evening. Goodnight, Prime Minister.”

As he places the handset back on the hook, his eyes fall back on the folder. Printed in sans-serif letters along its top right-hand corner are two words:

PROJECT LUCIFER

He opens the folder, reading once more through the information they have on the prisoner: His name, his apparent age, and most importantly, his anomalous abilities. It was said that when they captured him, his chaotic energy readings were off the scale. Her Majesty’s Government has a powerful anomalous person in their possession. If they could only make him cooperate.

His eyes glance once more at the screen, at this pathetic creature bound in a modified flight suit, his face obscured by a gas mask. Like a fly caught in a web. Then his eyes fall again on the chains, and he recalls a passage from Milton’s Paradise Lost:

Him the Almighty Power
Hurled headlong flaming from th’ ethereal sky,
With hideous ruin and combustion, down
To bottomless perdition, there to dwell
In adamantine chains and penal fire,
Who durst defy th’ Omnipotent to arms. 

Poor, misunderstood Lucifer, once the most beautiful of all angels. Transformed into disfigured, wretched Satan, trapped in Hell, where he reigns over the damned, ‘til his loosing upon the coming of Armageddon…

Well. Hopefully it won’t come to that.

The Project Director closes the folder. His eyes move from the prisoner’s name to his image on the screen. And then, in a moment of private depravity, he allows himself a single, cruel thought.

I will break you, Mister Parish.

That is not an assurance. But it is a statement of intent.

Another time, another place…


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