Scelus humanitatis-LXII

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DATE:20th of July, the 70th year after the Coronation

LOCATION: Concord Metropolis

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I crouched over the abomination's lifeless body, knees bent, scanning the chaotic mess of wires and plating. My breath was still uneven, my chest throbbing from the earlier blows. The rainwater trickled into the wreckage of its broken reservoir, diluting the remnants of the blue liquid as it turned black from oxidation.

I searched carefully for any port or connector, something Emily could use to delve into its systems. But the more I looked, the less convinced I became. The creature, grotesque and misshapen as it was, seemed less a machine and more a man forcibly dragged into mechanization. A cyborg.

"Emily," I muttered, "do you think he even had a database? Or is it just... instinct and rudimentary programming layered over a human brain?"

Her voice crackled faintly through my earpiece. "It's hard to tell. From my scans, most of his memory centers are biological, but there's extensive artificial enhancement in his motor cortex. Whoever did this might have bypassed traditional digital storage."

I grimaced. This wasn't just sloppy work—it was barbaric. The cables were tangled and poorly insulated, as though someone had cobbled them together without care for longevity. This wasn't the elegant precision of Biz's prosthetics.

"This wasn't Biz," I said aloud. "Whoever did this either didn't understand his methods or was trying to mimic them without the skill."

Emily paused before responding. "That's... plausible. But I don't recall Biz having a protégé or disciple, at least not in his documented history."

"Exactly. So who the hell did this?"

I glanced down at the blue liquid pooling around the shattered reservoir. Emily had been analyzing it through the phone's camera.

"It's oxidizing," she said. "The compound is unstable outside containment."

"What is it?" I asked.

"A nuclear amalgamation of heavy metals. But don't worry—it's not radioactive in the conventional sense. This isn't fission or fusion. It's... something else."

I furrowed my brow. "Explain."

"This liquid," Emily continued, "functions as a high-energy battery. It stores energy on a scale unimaginable with conventional tech. To put it in perspective: a standard AA battery holds about 2,500 calories of energy. This one held approximately 2,500,000."

I blinked. "That's... absurd. That much power in a liquid form?"

"Yes. And this isn't something that could be created with current technology. Whoever made this was working far beyond what's publicly or even privately known in the scientific world."

I felt a chill, and it wasn't just from the rain. "Are you saying this isn't terrestrial tech?"

Emily hesitated. "I can't say for sure. But it's advanced. And it doesn't match any known technological signature from the groups you've encountered so far."

I stood up, wiping the rain from my face. Whoever was behind this abomination was operating on a different level. Those teleported men...

"Emily," I said, "catalog everything you can. We're going to need answers, and I'm not leaving here without them."

I crouched down again, rain pelting against the back of my exoskeleton as I traced one of the loose, exposed cables protruding from the abomination's shattered skull. If this thing could emit radio waves, then it must have some kind of transmitter—a system Emily might be able to tap into. It was a risky move, but I had to try.

"Emily," I said, "this might have been one of the teleporters' projects. Can you connect to it?"

Her voice crackled in my earpiece, hesitant. "If it still has an active transmitter, I can try. Just be careful—it's possible there are traps or safeguards in its system."

"Noted," I replied, pulling a cable from my gear and connecting it to one of the creature's exposed wires. I bent over the connection, shielding it from the rain with my body.

"Alright, you're in."

Emily's voice became focused. "Scanning now... accessing its systems."

A tense silence followed, punctuated only by the relentless downpour. My fingers hovered near the cable, ready to yank it free if anything went wrong.

Then Emily screamed. A raw, digital wail that cut through the comms and rattled in my ears.

I didn't think—I disconnected her immediately. "Emily! What happened?"

Her voice trembled as she replied. "Pain. So much pain. The memories—the suffering—it's... overwhelming."

I swallowed hard, glancing at the lifeless heap before me. This wasn't just a machine. It had been a person—a human being—and whoever did this had turned them into a vessel for agony.

"Did you find anything?" I asked, keeping my voice steady.

"I need time," she said, her voice still shaky. "The memories are chaotic. Most of them are just... pain. Constant, searing pain. But there are fragments of something else. I need to sort through them."

I nodded grimly, even though she couldn't see me. "Do what you can, Emily. But don't push yourself too hard. We've already seen enough horrors for one day."

The rain continued to pour as I stood there, staring at the grotesque remains. You could say he was an almost inhuman creation. Is this how that woman, Mara, saw me? No, I don't think so. A 'toy' is far away from this thing.

It's too bad Alice can get on to my identity. I should have gone to her mother to question her. Whatever. There was no point in pondering over it.

I straightened up and started running back to the cabin in normal time. The rain continued to drench the forest, making every step heavier and the air colder. As I approached, the mechanical dogs remained frozen in place, their glowing red eyes fixed forward, unblinking.

There was no movement, no sound of motors whirring. It seemed... odd. If the operator had failed, why wasn't there a backup program to take over? The absence of contingency felt sloppy—unless their only purpose was to obey direct commands.

I stepped cautiously between the machines, their menacing forms now nothing more than lifeless shells. They didn't react as I passed them. Their glowing eyes followed me like dormant sentinels, but they didn't move.

The cabin door was broken, splintered inward. My chest tightened as I pushed my way inside.

Mike was there, slumped against an overturned table. Blood trickled from his side, staining his shirt and pooling beneath him. Two mechanical dogs stood nearby, their glowing eyes fixed on him.

He glanced up weakly as I entered. "Don't..." he whispered hoarsely, his voice strained. "Don't come too close. I think... they're waiting for movement."

I held up a hand to signal him to stay still and moved quietly past the mechanical dogs. My bag of gear was still in the corner where I'd left it. I grabbed it carefully, ensuring no sudden movements that might trigger the hounds.

Returning to Mike, I crouched beside him and examined his wound. It wasn't life-threatening, but he'd lost a lot of blood. He looked pale and exhausted, barely holding himself upright.

"Can you stand?" I whispered.

He shook his head weakly.

I slung the bag over my shoulder, then crouched down beside him, offering my arm. "Lean on me. I'll get us out of here."

Mike hesitated, glancing at the mechanical dogs.

"They're not going to move," I said, keeping my voice steady. "Whatever was controlling them is gone. Let's just go before anything changes."

After a moment, he nodded and draped his arm over my shoulder. I stood, supporting his weight, and together we moved carefully toward the door. The hounds remained frozen, their eerie red eyes glowing in the dim light.

It was unnerving, but I kept my focus forward.

As Mike floored the gas pedal, the car jolted and rattled with each turn. But so did the hounds. They were awaken by the noise and howled in unison. The rain made the narrow road slick, and the headlights barely pierced through the downpour. I glanced back and saw the glowing eyes of the hounds closing in, their metallic limbs barely hindered by the uneven terrain.

The engine's roar seemed to agitate them, and their pursuit only intensified.

I leaned out of the window, the cold wind and rain slapping my face, and fired a few shots at the nearest hound. The bullets sparked as they struck its metal frame, but the creature barely slowed.

"They're not reacting!" I shouted over the noise.

"They're too durable!" Mike yelled back, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel as the car swerved around another sharp bend.

The road twisted like a serpent, sloping downward. One wrong move, and we'd tumble into the valley below.

A hound leaped closer, its claws scraping against the car's rear bumper.

"Damn it!" I growled, pulling a grenade from my bag.

"Wait, are you crazy—?!" Mike started, but it was too late.

I pulled the pin, timed the throw, and hurled it toward the hound just as it lunged closer. The explosion rocked the car, the concussive force muffling all other sounds for a moment. The blast obliterated the hound's head, sending fragments of metal flying into the darkness.

But the damn thing *kept running*!

I squinted through the rain, watching its body stumble forward, headless but still relentless. The realization hit me like a cold slap.

"The brain isn't in the head," I muttered, more to myself than Mike.

"What?!"

"They're controlled remotely, remember? The head's just for show—or maybe sensors. Their real core is somewhere else!"

Mike cursed under his breath as he wrestled the wheel to keep us on the road. Another hound surged forward, clawing at the side of the car.

I leaned out again, scanning its body. There had to be a weak point—a power source, a control module, *something*.

The rain hammered harder, the sound mixing with the growls of the hounds and the roar of the engine.

The chase continued and I could only watch as they were closing the distance. There were 5 hounds behind.

I threw another grenade and destroyed the front legs of one of them, making it collapse into the dirt.

Another grenade and I only hit one foot, the robot keeping it's pursuit even if slower and falling behind. Only the One with the blown up head and two more remain. I had five grenades on the belt.

Suddenly From the ledge above jumps another Hound and Mike barely avoids it. It was clear there were more than the grenades I had left.

The situation was spiraling. The hounds were relentless, and even with the grenades thinning their numbers, it wasn't enough. The one that had leaped from the ledge above nearly ended us. Mike swerved just in time, the car skidding dangerously close to the edge of the road. Gravel sprayed outward, tumbling into the dark abyss below.

"Damn it! These things are everywhere!" Mike shouted, his voice strained with panic.

I leaned out of the window again, heart pounding, scanning the hounds that remained. The one missing its head was still gaining, along with two others, and now the newcomer from the ledge was hot on our tail. I clenched my teeth, gripping another grenade.

"We're running out of road and options," I muttered, mostly to myself.

Mike shot me a glance. "What's the plan, then?"

I didn't have a good answer. Five grenades left, but more than five hounds. Even if I took out a couple more, the rest would catch up eventually.

"Keep driving. Fast," I said, though it felt like a meaningless order.

Mike didn't reply. He pressed harder on the gas, the car's engine whining in protest. The rain continued to pour, making the road slicker by the second.

Another hound leaped forward, this time slamming into the back of the car. The impact made the vehicle lurch, and I had to grab onto the doorframe to keep from falling out.

"Hold on!" Mike yelled as he fought to keep control.

I didn't have time to hesitate. I pulled another grenade, timed the throw, and let it fly. The explosion hit its mark, obliterating the hound's rear legs. It tumbled backward into the others, creating a brief pile-up.

But it didn't last.

The headless one climbed over the wreckage, its claws tearing through the dirt as it regained its footing. The others followed, their glowing eyes cutting through the darkness.

"Damn it," I hissed.

Mike swerved again, narrowly avoiding another ambush from the ledge. It was clear now—we were being herded.

"They're not just chasing us," I said. "They're coordinating."

"What does that mean for us?" Mike asked, his voice tight.

"It means they're smarter than we thought," I replied grimly, gripping the last grenades. "And it means we need a better plan. Fast."

My mind raced. We couldn't outrun them forever, and my grenades wouldn't last.

The thought gnawed at me, clawing at the back of my mind. Was taking out the operator even worth it? Sure, their coordination had crumbled, leaving the hounds to act on raw programming—relentless and simplistic—but was that enough? The way things stood, it felt like a shallow victory. We had made it to the truck, yes, but now it seemed like we were running out of road, options, and time.

The hounds were faster than we had anticipated, their mechanical limbs surging forward with an unsettling determination. No matter how hard Mike pushed the pick-up, they kept closing the gap. I could hear their claws scraping against the wet asphalt, see the flicker of their glowing eyes in the side mirror.

This isn't going to work, I thought grimly. But desperation drives strange ideas.

"Hold on, Mike," I muttered, yanking the remaining grenades from my belt. He didn't answer, his focus locked on the winding road ahead, sweat pouring down his face as he fought to keep the truck from skidding off into the ravine.

One by one, I pulled the pins. The metallic clink of each lever snapping free echoed in my ears like a countdown.

With a deep breath, I hurled the grenades behind us. They tumbled through the air, bouncing across the slick pavement, sparks flying as they hit the ground.

Then came the explosion—a deafening roar that lit up the stormy night. Fire and shrapnel tore through the pack, sending debris flying in all directions. The shockwave hit the truck, lifting its rear wheels off the ground. I braced myself against the door as the vehicle slammed back down with a bone-jarring thud.

"Damn it!" Mike slurred, his voice strained as he wrestled with the steering wheel. The truck swerved dangerously close to the edge, but he managed to keep us on the road.

I turned to look out the rear window. Smoke and flames filled the air, the remnants of the hounds scattered across the pavement. All but one had been obliterated.

The remaining hound staggered, its legs damaged and struggling to maintain balance. Even so, it pressed on, slower than before but no less determined. I could see sparks flying from its exposed joints, the eerie glow in its eyes flickering like a dying flame.

For a moment, I almost felt sorry for it. Then I remembered how close it had come to tearing us apart.

"Think we lost them?" Mike asked, his voice tight with exhaustion and pain.

"Not yet," I said, watching the last hound fall further behind with every turn of the road. It tried to leap onto a ledge above us, but its damaged legs couldn't handle the strain. It tumbled back onto the asphalt, finally losing pace.

Relief washed over me, tempered by the lingering exhaustion in my chest. "But I think that's the last one."

Mike let out a bitter laugh. "I'll take it."

We drove on in silence, the rain hammering against the windshield. I leaned back in the seat, the adrenaline slowly draining from my body. My hands were trembling, though I wasn't sure if it was from the cold or the aftermath of the fight.

We had survived. Barely. But at least for now, we were alive.

Mike drove us to one of his safehouses, a secluded farm roughly a hundred kilometers outside Concord. By this point the sun had shown itself through the sky and we were low enough that I felt the sand in the air.

As the headlights illuminated the wooden structure, a sense of familiarity crept over me. By chance—or perhaps some cruel twist of fate—I realized it was close to the Heart family farm. The thought lingered in the back of my mind, but I didn't mention it.

Could he imagine he had a house so close to his supposed "target"? I think he would kill himself.

The property itself was as plain as they come: a modest wooden house surrounded by unworked fields, the tall grass swaying gently in the breeze like a sea of green. It was quiet, far removed from the chaos we had just escaped.

When the truck came to a halt, I got out and hurried to help Mike. He leaned heavily against me, his body a dead weight as we made our way to the house. Every step he took was punctuated by a sharp hiss of pain.

The interior was just as unremarkable as the exterior: a spacious living room with an open kitchen, and four small rooms branching off from it. Two were bedrooms, one was a bathroom, and the last seemed to be a storage closet.

"Over there," Mike gestured weakly toward the couch.

I placed him down as gently as I could, then went to the closet he had motioned toward. Inside, I found a roll of plastic film, which I spread over the couch to keep it clean from the blood oozing from his wounds. Once he was situated, I retrieved the medical box from the same closet and handed it to him.

Mike wasted no time. With trembling hands, he opened the kit and began stitching himself up right there on the spot. His face twisted in pain, but he gritted his teeth and worked through it, his slurred muttering a mix of curses and gruff encouragement to himself.

Watching him, I couldn't help but notice how practiced he was at this. Every motion was deliberate, even through the haze of agony. It was clear he had done this before—probably more times than he cared to admit.

While he focused on patching himself up, I turned my attention to my own situation. I began unequipping the exoskeleton, the metallic joints creaking as I released each lock, and then removed the flak armor. The relief was instant; my body felt lighter, though exhaustion weighed heavily on my shoulders.

The faint hum of insects outside was the only sound apart from Mike's labored breathing and the occasional clatter of medical tools. This place, with its simplicity and isolation, offered a strange contrast to the chaos we had just survived.

Still, I couldn't shake the unease lingering in the back of my mind. We were alive, yes, but far from safe.

I finished much sooner than expected, my movements mechanical as I placed the exoskeleton and flak armor back into the duffle bag I'd retrieved from the truck. The bag felt heavier than before, as though the events of the night had added weight to its contents.

After securing everything, I slumped into the armchair across from Mike, my eyes fixated on him as he continued stitching his wounds. His movements were rough but steady, his focus unwavering despite the pain.

"Aren't you going to disinfect the wounds?" I asked, breaking the silence.

"What?" he barked, half-awake and clearly annoyed.

"The wounds," I repeated, nodding toward the gash he was currently sewing up.

He paused, glancing at the bloody needle in his hand before letting out a weary sigh. "No. Never in my career have I gotten my wounds infected. I don't bother with it anymore."

I frowned, leaning forward in the chair. "What? How come you never mentioned that?"

Mike shot me a tired look. "We didn't exactly work together for long, did we?" He continued threading the needle with a grunt. "And even then, how would I bring that up in a conversation?"

I opened my mouth to respond but realized he had a point. "Yeah, I guess..."

The room settled into silence again, the only sounds being the faint rustle of fabric as Mike adjusted his position and the muted chirping of insects outside.

I couldn't help but watch him, fascinated and slightly unnerved by his nonchalance. It wasn't just his apparent immunity to infection—it was the way he carried himself, as if the wounds were merely an inconvenience rather than a threat. Mike was the kind of man who'd probably patch himself up in a warzone with bullets flying overhead, never once doubting his ability to make it out alive.

But tonight had pushed even him to the edge. The way his hands trembled ever so slightly, the way he slurred his words—it was clear he was running on fumes.

Eventually, Mike paused, leaning back against the couch with a heavy sigh. His hands rested on his thighs, stained with blood but steady now. Five stitches. That's what it had taken to close up the worst of his injuries.

"What the hell were those things?" he asked, his tone equal parts frustration and exhaustion. His eyes flicked to me, narrowing slightly. "And since when could you just analyze tech? And who the hell is Emily?"

I hesitated, running a hand through my hair as I tried to organize my thoughts. "Hold on there," I said. "First of all, about the hounds—I'm not entirely sure. I stumbled onto some kind of conspiracy. It's different from the one about resurrecting UltraMan, but... I think it's related somehow."

Mike raised an eyebrow, his skepticism obvious. "Go on."

"Secondly," I continued, "I kind of got an A.I."

"A.I.?" he repeated, leaning forward slightly. "What the hell is that?"

I sighed. "It's like... a supercomputer of sorts. A machine that can think and learn. Anyway, these people are after it."

Mike tilted his head, looking at me like I'd lost my mind. "So why not just give it up? You're not the kind of guy to put yourself in unnecessary danger. Same goes for UltraMan. What are you doing here?"

That question hit harder than I expected. I scratched the back of my head nervously, trying to put my answer into words. "For... Emily," I said finally, though it sounded weak even to my own ears. "It seems like she's somehow... connected to me. Mentally or spiritually? I don't know. It's strange. I don't even know how it would affect me if they took her."

Mike leaned back, giving me a long, incredulous look. "Mentally? You're talking nonsense."

I shot him a dry look. "Yeah, right. Because a demigod who resurrected three times makes so much more sense."

That shut him up for a moment. He frowned, looking away as if weighing my words.

I took the opportunity to keep going. "Look, I just... I don't want UltraMan to chase after me. If I let them have Emily, I have no idea what they'll do with her, or with me for that matter. And I'm not willing to find out."

Mike finally nodded, his face softening a little. "I suppose that makes sense," he muttered.

For a while, neither of us spoke. The room was quiet except for the faint rustle of the wind outside. Despite his usual bravado, Mike seemed unusually pensive. Maybe he understood more than he let on—or maybe he was just too tired to argue anymore. Either way, I was grateful for the silence

Mike sighed as he weakly rose from the couch, swaying slightly before steadying himself. He trudged over to the small kitchen, rummaging around before returning with two beers and an opener. Setting them down on the table, he popped one open and glanced at me.

"You want one?" he asked, holding the second beer out.

I wasn't much of a drinker. Alcohol made you sloppy, and I'd seen too many people get themselves killed because they weren't sharp enough to handle the situations they were in. Even still, it felt rude to decline, especially given the situation.

"Sure," I said, taking the beer.

Mike smirked faintly. "A shame I can't afford to keep the fridge on. Would've been better than these summer-heated drinks."

The bottle was warm to the touch, and I took a cautious sip. The beer wasn't my style. Too bitter, like it was designed to prove something rather than be enjoyed. I swallowed hard, fighting the taste.

"So," I said, setting the bottle down, "this is the farm you wanted to retire to?"

He nodded, his expression softening. "Yeah. Bought it recently from some office guy. He hadn't set foot here in over twenty years. Didn't even visit his parents who used to live here. Can you believe that?"

I shook my head, feigning disapproval. "That's bad," I said. "You shouldn't treat your parents like that."

The irony of my words hit me immediately, and I had to fight to keep my expression neutral. Who was I to talk? I'd killed my own parents. Not out of some impulsive rage or accident, but coldly, deliberately. They were monsters, though—far worse than whatever this office worker's parents might have been.

Still, I wouldn't take back what I'd done, not even if it meant avoiding the chaos my life had become. Some paths are laid out by necessity, and mine had been one of survival. I doubted Mike would ever understand that, but then again, he didn't need to.

Mike shrugged, taking a long swig from his bottle. "Some people just don't know what they've got until it's gone," he said quietly.

"Yeah," I replied, my voice barely above a whisper. "That's true."

Mike cursed under his breath, fuming over the loss of the hog we'd just spent hours cutting and storing in the natural freezer. He seemed more upset about that than the state of his former house or even the near-death experience we'd just escaped.

I couldn't help but tease him. "Want to go back and salvage what's left?"

He shot me a glare as cold and hard as stone. "It's not safe," he said flatly, leaving no room for argument.

The exhaustion was starting to weigh on me, and I yawned. "Mind if I finish my sleep?"

He waved toward the room on the left. "That's my daughter's room. Go ahead. I'm done with sleep for tonight."

Mike picked up the remote and turned on the old television, flipping it to a sports channel as I headed toward the room.

The space was modest but surprisingly personal. The walls were painted a deep, starry blue, dotted with hand-painted stars. The bedspread was adorned with planets, completing the celestial theme. A small desk sat in the corner, holding an outdated computer, and a plain wooden wardrobe occupied another corner.

I sat on the bed, the mattress creaking softly under my weight, and looked around. Whoever had lived here before clearly had dreams of becoming an astronaut. It was easy to imagine them lying awake at night, staring at the painted stars and dreaming of worlds beyond this one.

Too bad those dreams were impossible now.

Attempts to send people into space had failed miserably in the past. The only successful missions involved satellites, and even those were rare. Supposedly, there was some kind of radiation barrier trapping us on Earth—a theory that sounded plausible but could just as easily be the ramblings of conspiracy theorists. Either way, it wasn't hard to see how someone could become depressed living with such crushed aspirations.

I sighed, placing my duffle bag on the floor beside the bed. The room's simplicity was oddly comforting. Without another thought, I lay down on the bed, the planet-themed sheets cool against my skin. Sleep took me almost instantly, heavy and dreamless.

I didn't worry about danger—Emily would wake me if anything threatened us. For now, I could afford to rest.-*-*-*-*-*