Mercury lowered his shears, fell to his knees. Clamping his hair, attempting to rip it off as he failed to weep.
Her eyes looked healthier, her skin rejuvenated with a less-pale tone.
"Mercury . . . ?" Amira asked firmly.
". . ."
"Amira, you . . . are you . . ." he blurted.
"Am I what?"
"Nothing . . . forget it. I'll be right back."
Mercury rose, put the volvern in his pocket, and went down the stairs, to tell both of them.
Then, he went back up.
. . .
From outside the apartment, the door stayed open. Amira hugged her daughter tight.
"Nora, sweetie," she spoke softly, twitching.
"Yes, mommy?" The little girl responded with bright eyes.
"Do you know how much I've loved you—"
Gasping, Mercury sighed as he entered again. "Forgive me." He took gentle steps, closing the door.
"What is this about, M–Mashia?"
"I'm ordered here to watch over you. So please, ignore me."
Sinking into the crimson couch, Mercury smiled, wider than normal.
Amira got up and held Nora's hand, leading her to the kitchen. Suddenly, from her forearm, a vein popped. Mercury's eyes locked on it intensely.
A voice barged in his thought: "Mashia, would you like to help us make a snack?"
Mercury smiled, brows furrowed, and nodded as he rose.
Amira arranged an array desserts, and laid them on a plate.
Laughing they ate as Amira recalled memories with Mercury.
"Ha! I remember when he wore a white suit to the ball. He spilled red wine all over it, Nora."
Giggling, the girl stared at Mercury, who hadn't spoken much. "Mister, why aren't you talking?"
Mercury glanced down. " I was just thinking, nothing much," he said, eyes still fixed on Amira's pulsating vein.
Then, the little girl blurted: "And mister, why is your hair white?"
There it goes.
He clenched his fist with a forced smile. "I dyed it . . . say . . . why don't we watch a movie to entertain us?"
"Sure! If only Kadir could see how much of a man you've become, Mashia." Amira said.
"Yeah . . . a man," he hesitated.
They sat on the red couch. Amira planted herself in the dead center, turning on the television.
It displayed thousands of possible pieces. Three quarters of the films were generated by artificial intelligence.
Amira handed the remote to Mercury. He scrolled through catalogues, then chose an anthology.
It was titled: "Eclipse of Blossoms."
A man named Cupid who had lost his wife. The last gift she had given him was a rose.
The man decided he would gift every man and woman a rose, in hopes of regaining the world's love.
A slow-burn series, needing patience. Nora yawned halfway, going to her room.
By the end, the story had taken a turn.
A small lie led to a deed so great it rejuvenated "beauty" in the eyes of the world. For he saw he would not be content if only he was happy; he would find tranquility in objective beauty.
Cupid wanted the whole world to love, and as his words spread, he finally did it.
. . .
They both yawned. Amira asked: "Do you believe such a movie can exist in the real realms?"
Mercury whispered: "I hope so." Sadly, he knew it was only a story.
"Do you see it as fantasy, Mashia? In another world, I believe my Kadir could've done it if given another chance—like you."
He stared into her new eyes, frowning with a bitter taste.
"The limits of our fantasy are the limits of our realms," he uttered gently.
Amira stared thoroughly into his eyes, confused.
"Interesting . . ." Amira said. "But do you truly believe it can happen?"
Mercury sighed. "In our nature, it can. In our reality, it can't."
Amira smiled, brighter than ever.
She yawned, and waved to him as she went to her room.
Mercury stared out the window. Pitch black.
He sat still. The television turned off. Only the lonely air moving through the apartment.
Hesitation in his hands as he pulled the volvern. Glowing blue stripes illuminated the room.
He hunched forward, contemplating.
I've spent so long here. To just cling on? This feeling . . . it screams louder than any other thought.
Instinct took his body before thought. He strolled toward the master bedroom, where she slept.
The door creaked. Cyan light flickered, etching the silhouette of the woman asleep. Beside her, a sunken empty spot.
Mercury looked down, jaw clenching.
I wanted to believe it. She even said my name. But she only knew Mashia.
Standing above her, he pulled the blanket back.
Until he saw—
A core.
Poking through the back of her shirt. Pulsing with the vein on her arm.
Above her waist, truth revealed. Instinct clawed at him again. He lifted the hem of her shirt just enough—
There it is.
It pulsed.
He turned away.
His throat convulsed, lungs collapsed, eyes shook, hands tightened.
No sound.
Desire to scream until the complex split apart. Need to sob—but courtesy not to wake the girl.
The shears in his grasp silenced him. He pulled her shirt down, covered the blanket. He dropped his heavy breath, walked out carefully.
Jaw locked, veins crawling like insects.
Closing the door, he entered the red hallway of self. Night pressed his skull with glass shards.
Did a miracle walk this hall?
Ears fuming, teeth grinding, nails digging into palms. Gardens burned down flashing in his face.
Dragging himself, he slammed the wired wall with his gun. Breathing heavy—fire escaping his lungs.
Mercury cackled down the hall, louder with each step. Entering the blue exit. Reaching the second floor, he smiled at the ceiling.
I see now. It was not a tragedy. More like . . . a challenge . . .
Mercury palmed his face, nearly collapsing from exhaustion.
Suddenly, a woman grabbed his shoulder. "Mercury, calm down!"
Shrugging her off, he aimed the gun—eyes wide, smile carved with fangs.
"Back off!" he spat, the face before him a blur. "How do you know my name, huh?" The gun edged closer.
She said my name. How does she know? Is this Amira? Hell, I can't even see her face.
His finger twitched on the trigger—then—
A hand of penance pushed it down, slow.
"At ease," the hand spoke.
Mercury looked. A priest's hand.
"Lisan?" he whispered weakly.
"Snap out of it. I know what happened."
"Do you now? Do you know that—"
"Yes. And I'm afraid she's another flower picked from the garden."
He continued lightly, "Quite odd isn't it? Every blood trail points to you, yet you never seem stained?"
What is he saying?
My head hurts, it feels like my head is a pot of stew being stirred with a mechanical-whisk.
Mercury shook his head. The priest was clear now. The woman still vague. Rubbing his eyes, the warped face dehazed.
It was—
Sara?
She uttered with slight worry. "We . . . were just going to check on you."
Mercury marched, snow leopard pounce, inches from her. "You know something," he hissed.
Silent. Lisan, arms folded, eyes closed.
He pressed the gun to her temple.
"One shot and you're done," he giggled. "So tell me! You knew the man who murdered Amira! She's dead! So who in the f**k dragged her?"
"I—I don't—"
"You do know, and I'll find out anyway."
"The Watcher . . . I've tried to tell you." Her voice was pure, but her gaze was gilded.
Mercury sneered. "Let's go."
The priest smiled, following Mercury back into the car.
Sara stood blank, only worry clouding her face.
How long must I wait?
She balled her fist, strolled back to the car.
Mercury fought to hide his frailty. He wasn't made to break. Replicants don't mourn. Replicants only do what they're told.
. . .
Behind the military base resided barracks. A graveyard of roses, soldiers in endless dreams. Only Selune stood, hunched over a sea of files. Hollow eyes rubbing, stamping names beneath a crimson lamp.
She shed her coat, placing it on the seat. Work done, ready to slumber.
Cracking her back, she noticed—
The door creaked.
Confused, she inched closer and—
Slam!
It imprinted into the wall. Handle broke on impact.
A figure with white hair stood before her. Taller. Angrier.
She grabbed a pen from the desk as a weapon.
The figure flashed—snatched the pen, broke it in half.
"Huh?" She gasped, olive skin glowing red.
"You didn't get a watcher . . ."
The figure shoved her, hostile.
Then, it came into visible light.
She gasped, catching breath.
Looking at him, she immediately recognized him.
It stepped forward. Red light on shadowed eyes, stone-carved face, hair flowing like a white leopard's mane.
"Tell me . . ." it insisted.
. . .
"Now you decide to stay silent?"
She tried calming him. "We can sit, talk. Just calm down."
It didn't speak.
The only visible manner on its face—sheer malice.
Malice reborn. A withered rose of malice, watered in hopes of saving.
But it's no more.