Blo:O:D and Panic

As they careened upward, Johe’s eyes darted to an autonomous buzzsaw cutting intricate designs into nearby material. A spark of inspiration struck.

Gripping his baton, Johe leapt toward the buzzsaw. He thrust the weapon into the hole of the spinning blade, forcing it to detach.

“Let’s see how you like spinning metal!” Johe yelled, wielding the buzzsaw like a makeshift weapon.

He swung the baton toward Gork’s spinning form. The collision sent a deafening screech through the air as Gork was knocked backward, sparks and oil flying.

“OUCH!” Gork yelped, breaking his defensive form as the buzzsaw cut through his armor.

The abrupt impact sent all three of them hurtling out of the construction site. Bontly twisted mid-air, grappling onto a nearby elevated rail line. He caught Johe with his free arm, reeling him in just as they landed with a heavy thud.

As the dust settled, Gork crash-landed in front of them on the rail line, his damaged wings twitching. He groaned, brushing off fragments of debris.

“Can’t a guy just wanna make more money and get buzzed without all this?” he muttered, clearly exasperated.

Johe stood, panting. “You’re out here working with Binar, trying to kill people, and now you want sympathy?”

Gork surrendered. “Whoa, whoa, whoa—killing people? That’s what they’re doing? Binar just promised me a promotion and a stash of viruses to get high off of! I didn’t know about any of that!”

“You’re still working with them, which makes you just as bad,” Johe retorted

“I second that!” Bontly added.

Gork hesitated. “Wait, really, I swear I didn’t know!”

Johe rolled his eyes. “Yeah, right. Like I’m going to believe a guy with murder wings.”

Gork suddenly curled into his spiked ball form again.

“Here we go again,” Johe muttered.

The sound of fists striking steel reverberated through the cramped elevator. Sparks flew from shattered conduits as Tackle ducked and weaved, each move narrowly avoiding Epongi’s relentless attacks. The confined space magnified every strike, the walls denting with the force of his blows.

Tackle gritted her teeth. Since he started using his data, he’s gotten faster—too fast. He’s attacking me while still pushing buttons to mess with the elevator’s movement. He’s trying to give me vertigo…

Epongi’s movements blurred, his figure like an afterimage as he kicked at her with increasing speed.

“This is my program: Overclock!” he declared with a manic grin. “The longer I keep it active, the stronger I get. My speed, my agility—they just keep ramping up. Though,” he added, his voice tinged with dark amusement, “it does speed up my depreciation.”

Tackle’s head spun as the elevator jolted unpredictably. She frantically blocked his strikes. He’s only getting faster… If I don’t stop him soon, he’ll—

A powerful punch slammed into her chest, sending her hurtling through the elevator doors and into a hallway.

Tackle hit the ground hard, sliding across the tiled floor. Blood trickled from the corner of her mouth, each drop splattering against the pristine surface.

Epongi stepped out of the elevator, now permanently halted and sparking behind him. His pace was slow, deliberate, his dripping fist a stark contrast against the sterile hallway.

He looked down at his hand, crimson drops staining his knuckles. His expression twisted in disgust. “Eh?! This isn’t oil… It’s red… This must be blood, eh?!”

Tackle, struggling, wiped at her mouth. Her hair had come undone, spilling messily around her face.

Epongi wiped his hand against the wall, his panic growing. “Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! Ew! I’ve been touching some human! You’ve shed blood all over me—it’s gross! You guys carry diseases and stuff! I don’t know what you might have, you nasty human!”

Tackle let out a weary sigh, her body trembling as she fought to steady herself.

But then Epongi froze, his eyes narrowing as he finally got a clear look at her face. His expression shifted from disgust to recognition, a strange silence filling the hallway.

“And your hair…” he muttered, his voice softer now, almost hesitant. “With your hair down… I feel like I recognize you.”

Tackle’s gaze snapped up.

Epongi tilted his head. “We lived in the same neighborhood, didn’t we? District 2…Your mother… she was killed.”

Tackle’s breath caught in her throat, her shocked expression mirroring his. As old memories begun to awaken.

She thought of a modest home in District 2, its cracked walls and humming data panels a testament to the hardship endured by its inhabitants. The faint sound of machinery echoed from the nearby mines, a constant reminder of the labor that sustained the district’s fragile existence.

Inside the home, a lively teenage girl darted about, tidying up and humming softly to herself. She wore a bright expression that seemed to defy the dim environment around her.

“Tackle, I’m home!”

The door creaked open, revealing her mother, exhausted and messy, her clothes smeared with dust and grime from the data mines. Despite her weariness, she held a small bundle wrapped in brown paper, her face lighting up when she saw her daughter.

“Mommy!” Tackle beamed, running to her and wrapping her arms around her waist.

Her mother knelt down, brushing Tackle’s hair back affectionately. “I was able to buy some storybooks for you to learn,” she said, her voice soft but filled with pride.

Tackle’s eyes widened, sparkling with excitement. “Thank you so much, Mommy!” She hugged her mother tightly, clutching the bundle of books.

Her mother chuckled. “Did you prepare?”

Tackle nodded eagerly. “Yes! I did everything as usual! And I made sure to put my dishes away! Just waiting on you to let me into the door.”

Her mother’s smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of worry passing through her eyes. “I’m sorry I had to come home so late. I don’t mean to put you in danger, sweetheart.” She hesitated, then added, “I just mustered up the money to get you those new books. I wanted to surprise you.”

Tackle smiled back, shaking her head. “It’s okay, Mommy. I know you work hard.”

Her mother kissed her forehead, a bittersweet smile crossing her lips. “Let’s go, let’s go,” she said, ushering Tackle towards the back of the house. Her tone grew urgent. “You know they’ll be in the neighborhood in a few minutes!”

“Okay!” Tackle followed quickly as her mother led her to a hidden panel at the back of their living room.

Her mother hurriedly typed in a series of passcodes on the wall-mounted console. A small, cubby-like room slid open, its walls lined with reflective panels that shimmered faintly, almost like camouflage.

“Inside, now,” her mother whispered, her voice tense.

Tackle obeyed, squeezing into the small compartment. The walls seemed to fade into the background as her mother closed the door behind her, sealing her inside. The last thing Tackle saw was her mother’s determined expression before the door vanished into the wall, leaving no trace of its existence.

The sound of a loud, metallic knock shattered the fragile calm.

“Who’s there?!” Tackle’s mother called, her voice steady despite the fear in her eyes.

“Monthly inspection!” a gruff voice replied from the other side of the door.

Tackle’s mother opened the door, revealing a towering figure. The heavyset cybersecurity officer loomed over her, elevated by four black, spider-like appendages protruding from his back. The purple, drill-shaped enhancements at the ends of the appendages buzzed ominously as they moved with precision, like a predator stalking its prey.

“Monitor Xenox,” Tackle’s mother greeted, bowing her head respectfully.

Xenox’s spiky blonde bowl cut obscured his glasses, giving him an unsettling, insect-like appearance. His red bowtie peeked out from beneath his black indigo suit, an oddly cheerful contrast to his menacing presence.

“Shut up,” he said, his voice cold and detached. “Turn around.”

Tackle’s mother obeyed, turning her back to him.

The two officers flanking Xenox stepped forward, their hydroarms aimed and ready. They began to pat her down, their mechanical hands moving over her arms and torso.

“No serial,” one of the officers said after a thorough inspection.

Tackle’s mother turned to face Xenox again, her expression neutral despite the tension in the air.

Xenox sneered, his appendages adjusted him higher. “I check this district once a month, and somehow I forget your faces each time,” he said, his tone dripping with disdain. “Though, I don’t care enough to memorize what you humans look like. You’re all just worker ants in my colony.”

Tackle clutched the storybooks to her chest, her mother’s words echoed in her mind: Stay quiet. Stay hidden.

Tackle’s mother stood still, the grime from the mines etched into her skin like a badge of survival.

“You look dirty,” Xenox leaned closer to her, his hair bouncing slightly as he tilted his head. “But not dirty enough. You mustn't have worked very hard in the mines.”

The mother’s lips pressed into a thin line, her eyes fixed on the ground. She refused to meet his gaze, knowing that even a glance could be perceived as defiance.