Memories of Being Murdered

Pisha didn’t remember anything concrete between drifting in and out of consciousness. Except for one thing.

The woman from earlier, the one with glasses. She’d been pleading with a blurry figure.

“...You can’t…” she’d said, fingers tapping against her waist.

The woman had mentioned something else about Excursors and a squad, but Pisha couldn’t recall the rest.

Next thing she knew, her eyelids peeled open. As her vision adjusted to the harsh lights overhead, she found herself face-to-face with a man wearing a tinted, V.R.-looking helmet that wrapped around his entire upper face. He had aged, slicked-back hair, an ironed pinstripe suit and an obviously fake smile. The kind an H.R. lady would give an employee before sacking them.

“I see you’re finally awake,” he said.

Pisha glanced down. She was strapped to a stiff hospital bed, dressed in the same get-up as the two Excursors from earlier. An antiseptic burned in her nose.

She tried to swallow, but something was different. The weird brace around her neck was gone. A new muzzle pressed against her jaw, way heavier than her old one. She strained, spotting a small dial jutting from the side.

Actually, the muzzle looked like… Theirs. The Excursors.

“This… Where am I?” she asked.

The room was white and, aside from the bed, empty. Spotless, like a maid had just deep-cleaned it from ceiling to floor.

No. She shook her head.

“Forget that, who are you? Were you watching me the whole time? And why am I still alive?—”

“I understand your confusion, but please.” He held up a single gloved finger. “One question at a time. It’s much more efficient.”

“Huh?” Pisha stared at him. She assumed he was staring back, but it was impossible to tell from under his helmet. “Are you for real?”

“Without a doubt.”

“Fuck off.” Pisha rocked in her restraints. “Fine! Who the hell are you?”

“You’re learning quickly.” His visor flashed. “You’re familiar with the Intercity Excursion Force, I assume? I am its Director. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, Pisha.”

“The A.O.A.? You're—” She caught herself. “Wait. One question at a time. Tell me why I’m still alive.”

“Excellent question. You see, the muzzle inhibiting your abilities was damaged during your, well, landing.” He tapped the side of his neck. “Fortunately for the both of us, you’ve exhibited quite the interesting ability. For all intents and purposes, you, Pisha, are immortal.”

“You’re kidding.” The hospital bed under Pisha creaked. “I’m immortal?”

She glanced down at her clammy palms, searching the creases for any differences. But they looked just like they always had.

“Rest assured, we’ve thoroughly verified that fact,” the Director said. “Gunshots, fire, suffocation, neurotoxins—”

“You experimented on me!?” She yanked on the straps around her wrists. “Fuck this, I want out! Let me go!”

“I’m afraid that’s impossible.” His rubbery glove settled on her collarbone. “You’re now property of the A.O.A., and by extension, the I.E. You won’t be leaving this facility.”

Pisha tore her shoulders away. “Don’t touch me, you pervert!”

He let his hand drop with a sigh.

“Pervert!” she shouted. “Help! Pervert! Pervert! Pervert!”

The Director lifted an impossibly thin cellphone. Its edge-to-edge, borderless screen blinked on, revealing a microphone icon.

“That’s enough.” He waved the device. “You should know, these muzzles do more than suppress abilities. They’re a fail-safe. With a single command, the I.E. can instantly terminate you—”

“What? Is this thing a bomb!?”

“If you’d let me finish. It is not a bomb,” he said, adjusting his suit. “It’s the same A.I. as a standard muzzle, in fact. The only difference is, it inhibits every single neurological process.”

Inhibiting everything. That meant… Death. He was threatening to kill her.

But Pisha couldn’t help but laugh.

“Go ahead, then.” She kicked at the Director through her restraints. “Push your little button. I already tried killing myself once, see if I care.”

“If you insist. Would you prefer I do so with your ability inhibited… Or engaged?” The Director reached across, twisting the dial on her muzzle. “Under normal circumstances, halting your neurological processes would end your life. But, with your regeneration engaged?”

He leaned in closer. “I wonder. Does your consciousness cease to exist? A living, feeling corpse? Or would your brain attempt to regenerate, only to die again, and again, trapped in an endless cycle of agony. I admit, I’m quite curious myself.”

His visor seemed to flicker, like its display was reinstalling a driver. Pisha’s reflection was blurred within it, staring back at her.

“You’re a psychopath.”

“Please don’t misunderstand, this is reserved for only the worst-case scenarios. The I.E. has far greater plans for you.” He finally lowered the cellphone. “We’d like to extend you an opportunity, Pisha. You can join the force as an Excursor, or remain a permanent test subject.”

“That’s not exactly a fair choice.”

“And yet, it’s your only choice.” The Director rose.

What a bitch.

Refuse, and he’d push the button. Refuse, and she’d be his lab rat for life. If she really was immortal, that meant she’d be stuck here, in this bed. Forever.

They’d push that button, cut her open, then stitch her back together in a hundred different ways. And she’d wake up again, right back in this bed, to do it all over again.

That’s…

“...A contradiction.” Pisha lowered her chin. “You can’t say I’ve got a choice here. That’s a contradiction.”

The Director’s mouth curled into a grin. Creep.

She let her head fall back against the bed.

“Whatever,” she said. “I’ll join your stupid force.” She rattled the straps. “Can you at least untie these, now?”

* * *

The LED mounted on the wall glinted. The frosted glass door slid shut behind the director, and the lock clicked shut, sealing Pisha in. Her loose restraints flopped against the mattress as she sat up. The room was dead quiet.

She rubbed the sore grooves around her wrists, already fading.

Immortal…

The room was dead quiet. It wasn’t any different than it’d been a couple minutes ago, but for some reason, it was… Smaller. Cramped.

Or maybe, she was suddenly taller. Like she’d been stuffed inside a gift box half her size, the lid pressing down against her head. It was way too tight.

She traced her throat, half-expecting to feel the metal shards from her last muzzle poking out.

Her palms were still trembling, but she could barely feel them.

Were they the same hands that’d opened the front door that morning? Was she the same Pisha who’d climbed up to that rooftop? Or had she died right in that alleyway, and a freak, A.O.A. lackey crawled back up in her place, instead?

She hovered a finger an inch from her wrist. The nail dug into her flesh, starting soft. Then, she plunged it deeper. Her skin bulged around the fingernail.

After everything, it still hurt.

“Hah.”

After taking her own life, after having her head lopped off, after that creep handed her an ultimatum. It still hurt.

She’d jumped off that ledge to escape from it all, only to plunge head-first into a bottomless pit. And if she ever managed to reach the bottom, they’d just prod at her corpse until she stood up again. Sometimes, life was too funny.

I guess I’m not getting off that easy.

The sound of footsteps outside the room snapped her head up. A pair of fuzzy shapes appeared behind the glass.

She buried her hands behind her as the door hissed open.

“You two?” Pisha groaned.

It was the pair of Excursors from earlier. The woman with glasses entered first and the scarlet-haired machete-man loped in after her, his hands in his pockets.

“The hell? You should be happy to see us!” The man jabbed a finger at Pisha. “Like, ‘Oh my god, Bats, it’s you!’ That’s how you should greet me.” He crossed his arms smugly. “Yeah, that’ll be my first order as your senior! Now greet me again!”

“Ew.” Pisha fought the urge to gag. “You can die.”

The woman pinched the bridge of her nose where her glasses sat. “You’re not her senior, Bats. You both report to me.”

“No way!” Bats shouted. “I’ve been here longer, Anma. How’s that any fair?”

“Go wait in the van.” She motioned with her head towards the entrance.

He groaned, slinking through the doorway like a scolded dog who'd just eaten chocolate.

Anma turned back to her. She pushed a plastic-looking weapon into Pisha’s hand.

“This is for you,” she said.

Pisha stared at the object. It was small, and the casing felt too light to be a firearm. Hell, it barely even looked like one.

She lifted her head at Anma. “I don’t know how to use a gun—”

“It’s a taser.”

“Oh.” Pisha rubbed her neck with her free hand. “Am I supposed to say thanks?”

“That’s none of my concern.” Anma crouched and brought a hand to Pisha’s face.

Pisha flinched as Anma brushed her right ear, tucking her hair back.

“Woah!” Pisha yelped.

“It’s your earpiece.” Anma frowned.

Pisha probed her right ear and, sure enough, found a small, elastic earpiece.

Oh. She hadn’t even noticed it.

Anma stood and strode to the doorway.

“Hold up!” Pisha scrambled to her feet.

The doors beeped for the third time that day then glided open. She slipped into step behind Anma right as they closed.

The hallway stretched ahead, just as white and sterile as the room, and lined with the same frosted windows. Vents buzzed mechanically overhead.

Excursors. She was supposed to be one of them now, apparently. As to why the A.O.A. thought Pisha was so important, she had no clue.

She tapped Anma on the shoulder. “You know, I’d never seen one of you up close.”

“Don’t touch me.” Anma quickened her pace. “And of course you haven’t. The Excursion Force’s only deployed for the most dangerous Othered.”

“How do you know they’re dangerous?”

Pisha’s sneakers squeaked against the smooth ceramic tiles as they passed door after unmarked door. She stumbled to keep up.

“Your muzzle sends a signal when it's deactivated.” Anma thumped her own. “That's where we come in.”

They reached the end of the hall, where Anma entered a freight elevator alongside three other men. Pisha squeezed in behind her.

“We?” she whispered. “What’ll I be doing? While you two are fighting Othered, I mean.” She tilted her head.

“You’ll be fighting alongside us, obviously.”

“WHAT.” Pisha forgot to whisper.

The staffers stared awkwardly ahead at the steel walls. An industrial fan whizzed behind them.

“What did you think you’d be doing?” Anma glanced at her.

“How should I know! Bookkeeping? Filing?” She raised her arms. “You don’t need a secretary? Damnit, I’d even take a mascot costume at this point!”

After all, Pisha only signed up so she wouldn’t get hurt!

But Anma ignored her perfectly reasonable complaints.

The elevator thudded to a stop, jostling Pisha’s shoulder into the staffer beside her.

The pair stepped into a dimly-lit garage. In its centre, a blacked-out van was idling, headlights shining and engine roaring.

The cracked vinyl seats creaked under them as they shuffled in beside Bats. Even though it was midday, the tinted windows didn’t let in an ounce of sunlight.

Pisha winced. Did they have to cheap out on the transport?

The wheels groaned as the van rumbled forwards. The A.C. must’ve been broken, because the back was a sauna.

She squirmed in her seat. “Just outta curiosity, if I put in a two-weeks notice—”

“Back to the lab,” Anma answered without hesitation.

“Right…”

“HAHA!” Bats burst into laughter, slinging his arm around Anma’s shoulder.

That’s not funny, though!? Something was seriously, deeply wrong with the both of them.

“What’s your guys’ deal, anyways?” Her eyes wandered between the pair. “Aren’t you Othered, too?”

“Obviously.” Anma sighed. She tipped her head back against the van’s side. “...Fine.” Her hand moved to the knob on her muzzle. “Watch closely, I hate repeating myself.”

Anma slowly turned the dial. Her eyes flicked towards the taser in Pisha’s hands.

A faint, purple chain appeared around the taser. Pisha waved her hand, phasing right through the lavender light. She followed the floating chain towards the pistol in Anma’s belt.

Then, in an instant, the pistol appeared in Pisha’s hands. Her eyes darted back to the belt, where her taser now rested.

“Weird.” Pisha turned the pistol over.

“Two objects and a line-of-sight.” Anma swapped the taser back just as quickly as it’d disappeared. “Even you should be able to follow that much.”

Rude. Pisha crossed her arms.

“Could you swap the weirdo over there into oncoming traffic, or…?”

“Who’re you calling ‘weirdo,’ weirdo?” Bats shouted.

“‘Oncoming traffic’ isn’t an object.” Anma adjusted her glasses. “Though, the transponders stitched into our uniforms are. So I could swap that weirdo over there, but not with traffic or, say, an enemy.” She nodded towards Bats. “Swapping actually requires skill, unlike his ability Haemorrhage. His—”

“NOPE!” He jumped off the seat, puffing out his chest. “No spoiling my ability! You’ll have to figure that out yourself!”

Suddenly, a blinding, red light flooded the back of the van, stinging Pisha’s eyes.

“New orders, Excursors,” a voice from the driver’s seat called out. “A report just came in from Sector 6!”

* * *

Intercity Excursion Force, Case File #02

Othered: Anma.

Ability: Displacement.

Description:

Instantaneous spatial swap of two observed, inanimate targets.

Limitations:

Displacement chain requires a brief period to form after establishing line-of-sight.

Attempting rapid, concurrent Displacements results in failure.

Fatigue increases significantly based on the mass of a target.