'Hours' worth of grasslands pass in a blur as the car drifts quietly.
Inside, the vehicle's interior is chrome bone under matte blue leathery skin.
No music plays as the two men stare at the dirt-carved pavement the wheels breeze through effortlessly.
A subtle hum of acceleration stirs as the gas presses itself. Pale orange-green glows illuminate the car, casting light on Lisan's sunglasses and Mercury's nearly white hair.
Bushes, small trees, insects, colorful birds, and weeds, nature's wonderland frolics here.
Lisan holds a small leathery-brown booklet. No title, only his thumbs flicking through its pages, a golden string hanging from it.
"You're quiet," he says.
Mercury keeps a serious expression. "I'm not here to entertain. You wanted to come."
He lays his head on the window.
Lisan doesn't smile. "You used to speak more."
"I used to have a name," Mercury replies.
Ambience, except the turning of wheels on perfectly-carved pavement.
The priest closes the book and looks over.
"I understand your resentment, Mercury. Do you think there is a kind manner in telling a daughter that her father's gone?"
Mercury frowns, inhales, but doesn't respond.
Lisan continues, gentler, "Sometimes silence may be the best answer. But . . ."
He taps the side of his head. "It always returns by trials, dreams, the truth. It can never veil itself from grief."
Mercury stares forward.
The car then takes a bend downwards a gray hill. The grass looks duller, smells of clean metal linger, as rust and shady reconstruction emit from the environment. Memories of rot and decay return in a blink.
"Why me . . . all this?" Mercury mumbles.
"Who else could've done it?"
"Why should I be the one to tell my comrade's family about his death?"
"You might be the last one she'll believe."
"I've met her before. Such a nice woman. But she'll break."
"She's already broken. You're just confirming the pieces," Lisan continues. "Would you rather they live in false hope . . . that he will return and knock on that door?"
. . .
"Tell me, Lisan. Do you think I enjoy all this?" Mercury says in a low tone.
"No," he replies, "but you're the only one who can do it without lying."
Mercury cracks his knuckles.
"I'm sick of being chosen for things because I feel less than what they call 'human.'"
Lisan looks out the front window.
"Not exactly. You feel all of it. You just . . . don't scream with your voice."
Mercury stares at him.
A touchpad on the car has a phoning system.
Mercury dials in a set of numbers.
It rings. . . slowly.
It picks up.
His voice speaks in static; the bridge's connection slows.
"Mashia . . . how's it been?"
"Hello . . ." He pauses. "Cyrus."
"I'm glad you're still out there, Mashia. You didn't go on that mission, did you? You should've joined my crew. Better to die at the hands of the ocean than the hands of them."
". . ."
"Mashia. You always hated how quiet I was. You took it from me now, eh?"
"I didn't call for nostalgia," Mercury mutters. "You have a son on deck. Go raise him."
"Mashia . . . you sound distraught. What happened, man?"
"Firstly, my name is Mercury now. I am a Replicant. And . . . I did go on that mission." He spoke robotically.
"A Replicant? And what do you mean you . . . went?" The old man mutters.
"That mission . . . all my men died. I died, and I became anew."
"What do you mean they all died?!" Cyrus shouts in grain.
"Mashia, I tried to tell you. That mission was suicide. And you're not a Replicant. You are a man."
"You were right, Cyrus. But you're wrong about one thing, Mashia is dead. I am all that's left, Mercury. The true Mo'jiza."
Mo'jiza meant 'Miracle' in Mala's tongue.
Mercury pauses, then speaks, "I want to be part of the miracle that brings beauty into the world again."
"Mashia-"
"That boy died in the sand."
Then, in the background, a young voice crept.
"Dad, who are you talking to?"
". . ."
Suddenly, Cyrus hangs up.
Lisan looks over but stays silent.
He breaks it, "You're lost."
"I met Cyrus two years ago, now a soft old man who speaks only of oceans that will kill him. Nonetheless, I had a bad habit of calling him whenever I was stressed. That shall change."
They finally pass the bridge.
"Here we are, Zi Jin Cheng," Mercury says.
Pollution filled the air with a lack of biodiversity.
The air smelled toxic, almost pungent.
Steam clouds shrouded the air as a cover, no light from the sun was able to enter from this.
Only a shadow of black sun was barely discernible through thick layers of toxicity frolicking in the aroma.
Light and air toxicity made the place nearly uninhabitable.
Yet millions call it 'home.'
Huge, dull, tall buildings tower over the car, cyan lights across grey buildings with pipes, smoke leaking out, and billboards of shady advertisements with false promises.
The advertisements speak of money-hungry false guides on how to unlock "paths," lustful boards of shameless people feeding on the male gaze, and storefronts of cybernetic implants on their best deals.
The road is layered in chrome, shiny but without life.
Watchful cameras stand on poles, inspecting each vehicle that passes. A Bearer stands at an intersection, holding ready a rifle, showing no hesitation to shoot.
The Bearers are Zi Jin Cheng's rendition of the Messengers, only more industrial, and very secretive of their ranks hiding in smoke.
Not one person walks outside.
Mercury looks up at the windows and sees every light in each apartment lit in different colors, a spectacle for modernism.
"They live in a shell." He says.
"They worship screens, but like all things, screens break too. Everything does." The priest says.
"When the time comes, this city will not call violence. They'll call it indifference."
Mercury glances at Lisan, skeptical.
. . .
"A single mother who lost her husband . . . lives among these, and a young daughter who lives in these conditions."
Lisan doesn't speak.
He presses his elbow against the window with a worried expression; his hand palms his forehead.
They are the only car. The officer standing may as well be an artisanal piece.
The vehicle glows cyan as it passes the observant camera, which traces it like an eyeball.
Staring, the men feel pressured. No amount of suffering could cleanse this country and its duties.
The GPS signal on the car states the building is two hundred feet north.
Suddenly, they've arrived.
Parking, the GPS speaks: "You have reached your destination. Fifth floor, Room '144'."
Mercury's heart sinks; he has to do it but knows he doesn't have the humanity.
Abruptly, a microphone says: "In emotional cases, its best to wear this."
Slowly, the glove compartment on Lisan's side slides open, revealing a modified Volvern with a silencer and a wristwatch they call a 'Heartsnap'."
Mercury gulps in memory.
He slips it on, flips the watch open, and refuses to look at the Volvern made . . . for painless precision.
"Wish me a miracle." Mercury waves to Lisan as he leaves.
Entering the opening of the building leading to glowing-blue stairs pointing upward on the rails, he walks upward to distraught.
Closing automatically, the door locks shut.
Lisan sits there; his gaze knows. Looking down, he puts two hands together and inhales as he begins mumbling prayer.
Meanwhile, Mercury walks up, following the rail's arrows.
These stairs look too clean, like they're brand new.
After walking multiple flights of steps, he's reached the fifth floor.
A broken blue exit sign blinks as he walks.
The hall is layered in wires and trash, but the doors seem untouched.
He glances around, hearing foggy noises, seeing wires hanging from the ceiling, short-circuiting fluorescent blue lights on the ceiling, and pipes with crawling noises inside passing by.
The room numbers stick out.
I'm getting close.
140 . . . screaming inside filling the hallway.
141 . . . crying through pillows of muffled agony, barely legible.
142 . . . cackling, blood seeps through the door.
143 . . . clown horns, bells clinking together.
And, the dreaded room . . . 144.
It has no sound.
Standing straight, Mercury inhales and knocks.
Knock, knock.
No answer.
Mercury attempts to knock again but-
The door creaks, slowly.
"Hello?" A tired woman answers, poking half her head through while holding the door firmly.
Her eyes brown, her hair brown, with blue light shining over it.
She sees him fully as she extends the door; her pale skin is most contrasted by dark circles under her eyes.
"M-Mashia?"
Mercury looks down.
Not to her.
"Yes," he answers softly.
"You look different," she says weakly.
"I know, Amira, but there's something important I have to tell you."
"What is it—"
Scurrying from behind, a little girl comes behind her, a healthier spitting image of joy.
"Mommy! Did daddy come home?" the little girl asks with large fruitful eyes.
"No, sweetie, please . . . go back to playing."
The little girl skips away, back into her room.
Mercury glances up, frowning.
I want to cry. If my eyes could tear, they'd flow rivers by now.
He snaps back.
"Is it okay if I come in?"
"Yeah, will it be long?"
"It's not good news," he says softly.
Amira sniffs, waves for him to come in. Mercury takes off his boots near the front next to three pairs of shoes.
Another pair of shoes his size, women's sneakers, and children's slippers.
He walks the narrow hallway. A shrouding, wilting painting of the family hangs crooked on the wall. Their eyes follow those who cheated death.
She sits down on a sofa. There's another sofa opposite. Two TVs on both sides of the room.
"My husband wanted to watch sports, while I wanted to watch my dramas. So we found a solution," she says, frail.
Mercury sits on the sofa opposite her.
He clenches his fist, noticing a table in the middle with two teacups; one empty on his side, and one recently filled on her side.
He flips open the Heartsnap.
Stress levels increase; his mind begins to fog.
He breathes out.
"Also . . . is that blood on your shirt?"
Mercury doesn't answer.
"Why did you come here? You went in the same squad as my husband, so shouldn't he be here?" Amira blurts, frantic.
Mercury stares at the tired woman and scans her, she's calm.
"There was an attack, and . . . I left the expedition."
". . . What do you mean you left?" she inquires instantly.
"I left . . . because I was the only one left."
. . .
"You mean . . ."
"An inhumane attack, a toxin in the air. It got our entire platoon; it even got me."
"B-but you're okay, so what happened to the others . . . and my husband?"
"I died."
Amira's eyes enlarge; she starts twitching.
Mercury stands up.
He envisions the moment where he saw Kadir lying on the car seat, decaying.
He passed out on the car seat.
He removes his blood-stained military shirt, exposing his back. Amira gasps, tenses, shaking.
"This is what revived me. We injected everyone in our unit."
A cyan-blinking light core in the shape of a circle, across blue wire-like veins across a gray-navy-blue skin texture on his body from below the middle of his neck.
"Oh God . . ." she mumbles, her heart rate rises.
He puts on his shirt and sits back down.
"I narrowly escaped, and they gave us a cure for the toxin. The environment rendered it useless."
"You're not telling me something; something I don't want to believe."
A vein on Mercury's forehead pops out. He clenches his jaw tightly, looking down.
"I was the last to get the toxin, and I was saved at the last possible moment."
"Don't tell me . . ."
"I was the only one that could be saved; everybody else wasn't lucky."
"So is he in the hospital? When can I see him?!" She begins worrying.
"My friend . . . Kadir. He didn't make it out; he fell asleep."
. . .
She understands now what he meant.
"You . . . you killed my husband. You saved yourself and let everyone die," she says calmly, yet eerily.
"You let my husband . . . perish," she mumbles.
"I'm sorry. We were attacked and—"
"What kind of General are you? Did you have family at home to go home to? Why did you save only yourself?"
"I didn't have a choice. I was found."
"And how were you, of all people, last? You let your men die . . ."
"We injected each other with the antidote, and he went out peacefully. There was nothing we could do."
"Yet how was it only you?"
"A miracle saved me."
"A miracle would've saved everyone else, and my husband." She argued.
"Our country . . . didn't care if we died. I was saved by the convenience of a priest."
"So you were blessed . . . why not Kadir? Why not the man with something to live for? You're a sad man who thinks only of work."
"Please, Amira—"
"Mashia. Please, I need a moment to think. Please . . . leave," she utters firmly.
Mercury stares at the calm eyes. He quickly scans her with the watch. The monitor says she's perfectly stable.
She stares at him with cold-piercing eyes; her dark circles shrink at the sight of him and . . .
Beams an ear-to-ear grin, clearly cynical.
Mercury frowns and gets up. He can feel Amira staring through him, watching every circuit operating the flow in his bloodstream.
As he leaves, he sees to an open room to the left.
The little girl is playing with mechanical stacking blocks and figures that move with remote controls as she has music playing on a device.
She turns around, spots Mercury. "Mister! Do you know where my daddy is?" she asks endearingly.
"Leave the man alone, Nora." The mother exhales.
Mercury looks, simpered, putting his boots on, then walks out the door.
He closes it slowly; immediately, he hears the door lock behind him.
Looking up, pondering.
I would've cried, but I can't. I did this after all. No, our government did this, but I'm part of it, so I'm at fault, right?
Walking, he clenches his fist.
"F**K!" He punches a wall with full force, cracking open the wired walls. Beneath the layers hides broken red wires.
His knuckle is unscathed.
Following the doors, he finds the exit and goes rapidly down the stairs, down to the bottom.
Looking to his left, he spots the car with Lisan mumbling prayer inside.
Walking towards it, the door opens itself for him.
Lisan looks left and sees a worried Mercury enter.
"Tell me." Lisan insisted.
. . .
"Put her on suicide watch."