I See Four

Subject: Mia | Classif.: Barzakh

The pungent scent of alcohol in Mia’s bedroom clung to the drywall like a vice. But unlike her Dad, she had never taken a single sip in her life. Even during the times she infiltrated the gangs, impersonating some of the most intoxicated, beer-bellied bruisers, she would never drink the poison. She would never break the promise she made with her Dad.

The noxious stench in her room persisted because her relationship with the liquid was much, much different.

Mia’s soft, sensitive fingers burned; isopropyl smeared all over her hands. Even with the cleaning agent stinging her skin like countless tiny needles, there was not a sliver of discomfort on her face. Her eyes remained sharp as ever, looking down the disassembled barrel of her handgun with a raised eyebrow.

With the same pencil that she used for homework, she placed a small piece of cloth over the tip. Soaked in disinfectant, the cloth purified the insides of the gun barrel as she stuck the pencil inside. Not a single speck of grime was missed; the barrel now spotless as the rest of her room.

It could hardly be called a bedroom, more like an armory with a bed inside. Firearms of all calibers hung on racks instead of clothes. Her shelf was full of magazines, and not the ones for reading. The only remotely girly thing in the room was her plushies, and even those were not spared, stuffing replaced with grenades.

As for the contents of her wardrobe, that remained a secret. Tim found out what was inside some time ago. He also discovered why “wardrobe” couldn’t be spelt without “war.”

On her desk, each component of the weapon she cleaned was laid out like a diagram in an encyclopedia. The disinfected barrel soon joined the rest of the parts, left to dry. Wiping her tiny hands with a different cloth, she packed her cleaning kit up and got up from her seat, careful not to stub her toe against the crate of explosives that sat at the foot of her desk.

Mia’s skin started peeling, revealing another layer within that expanded like a balloon. Her long hair disintegrated, sucked into her scalp as a second one formed. Body parts new and old rearranged themselves like a cubist painting. In just a few seconds, Mia turned into Tim.

Now tall enough to open the cabinet above her desk, she kept the gun cleaning kit where it belonged, taking out a stopwatch instead. But as she closed the cabinet, her bedroom door opened.

“Hey Mi… a...” Tim had a mini stroke as his spitting image stood right before him.

“Oh, hi Dad.”

No matter how many times he’s witnessed it, he could never get used to the sound of his own voice.

“Why are you…”

“I couldn’t reach the cabinet.”

“Must you always transform into me?”

“But I like transforming into you,” she answered. Pouting, Mia reverted to her usual form.

Tim asked, “What are you up to?”

“I just cleaned my gun. Now I’m going to work on my field strip. Since you’re here, can you time me?” She wore an innocent smile that was betrayed by the weapon bunker she was in.

Her Dad let out a worried sigh. Whereas other girls were into dress up, Mia was into field stripping. Doubt filled his chest as he wondered if she’d even like the scarf he got for her. Still, he took the stopwatch from her, unable to refuse her request.

Mia got back into her seat, putting together the cleaned weapon, its individual pieces coming together like some kind of modular action figure. But she was taking her time. The clock has not started yet.

Once she put down the completed pistol, the smile she wore was wiped clean. The childlike light in her eyes vanished, leaving behind the cold husk of a trained killer. Her hands hovered over her desk as if they were spring-loaded, ready to pounce at any moment. Anticipation pumped through her arteries.

Tim wondered how she ended up like this. All he did was teach her the necessary skills to defend herself in this unforgiving town. Her becoming a gun nut was not part of the program.

And with that ship having sailed long ago, all he could do now was press the stopwatch. “Go.”

Like a machine in a factory, her hands disassembled each part of the weapon with unparalleled precision. Be it bushing or barrel, spring or slide, every component came off effortlessly. The finesse in fingers made the entire process seem as if a ten-legged spider was toying with its prey.

Reassembly was no different. It was as if Tim was watching a video playing at double speed. The sound of clicking and metal snapping together like clockwork only reinforced this feeling. And with the slide pulled as the weapon was placed back down, the clock stopped.

Nine seconds.

Nine seconds was all it took for the handgun to be picked apart and put together like it was good as new. And yet, Mia seemed indifferent.

“Still just nine,” she muttered under her breath.

“Is there a competition coming up or something?” Tim asked. “Why are you practicing so hard?”

“My gun might stop working when I’m fighting bad guys.”

“I know malfunctions happen, but—” At that moment, it finally occurred to him. “... You don’t even use this pistol.”

Every single weapon in her room was taken from someone she killed. Except for that pistol. That was the first weapon he gave her. Other than practice, it dawned on him that he’d never seen it being used in action.

“What are you talking about? I use it all the time.”

“But when you transform into someone else, you use—”

“Their weapon, yes. But I only change what people see on the outside. Inside, it’s still the same thing.” Her eyes started to droop. “I thought you knew, Dad.”

Tim desperately looked for a response. “Well, uh, hey, you fooled even me! T-That’s something.” He spun her chair around, bending down to meet her at eye level, only for her to avert her gaze, cheeks puffed.

“I went to the market earlier and got you something,” he teased.

“But you’re broke.”

“I have… ways. Come downstairs and I’ll show—”

Knocking could be heard from the front door.

“Did you leave any weapons downstairs?” Tim asked, his voice hushed. Muscles taut as his stomach twisted.

“No.”

“Good. Stay here. And don’t come out unless I tell you to.”

-----

Subject: Mortimer | Classif.: Sirath

He closed the door behind him, hoping his worst fears would not come true. The staircase creaked in agony as he made his way down. And as the knocking grew more intense, so too his heartbeat.

Keeping the chain on the door latched, he turned and pulled the doorknob, one eye peeking through the gap.

A cloaked figure stood before him, sword hilt sticking out behind the shoulder. With most of the face buried under a hood, the stranger’s only other defining feature was their chest, the curves evident from under the thick cloak.

“Go home,” Tim advised. “Whatever they sent you here for, it ain’t worth it.”

“You must be Mortis,” she said, the name setting off alarm bells in Tim’s head. “Or should I address you as Doctor?”

“You got the wrong guy.”

Tim closed the door, but through the gaps, her muffled voice continued.

“I’m here on the Council’s behalf. To negotiate peace.”

A smirk crept up Tim’s lips. But there was no joy. Only cynicism, made clear from the veins jutting out of his neck and forehead. Reopening the door, his voice turned soft, yet heavy. A voice not heard by anyone still living in Pitstop.

“Here, take this peace offering of mine and give it to Vita.”

Tim spat on her face, shutting the door behind him, its hinges shaking from the slam. Wiping the saliva off her cheek, the woman removed her hood, her patience vanishing alongside her formal tone.

She yelled, “Vita is dead!”

A tornado of emotions swept through Tim. In its wake were relief and disbelief. The first Immortal, the literal personification of life itself, was dead. He couldn’t even start to process what he just heard.

Opening the door once more, he was greeted by the rage seething through the woman’s clenched teeth. She was young, barely an adult, but being spat on added numerous wrinkles to her forehead. Every single fiber of her being wanted to kill him then and there.

“Dead? How?”

“Murdered. And if you’re not going to talk to me, you might be next.”

Finally, Tim let her in, the woman stomping her way to the living room couch.

“Who killed her?” He asked as he pulled the curtains, covering the sliding door that overlooked his garden.

“Honestly, I think it’s you,” she hissed. “But the Council thinks otherwise. They want you to catch the murderer. Do that, and you’ll be forgiven.” She looked away in contempt. The sound of that word made her sick.

“Why me? The knights, the army—you have an entire kingdom, why choose a criminal?”

“Because, Doctor, this is your area of expertise.” She took out a small transparent bag from underneath her cloak. A 9mm bullet and its spent casing were inside.

“Vita died… from a bullet.”

“We suspect it was poisoned. If this were just an ordinary bullet, we’d have gotten a ballistics expert, not a toxicologist. Unfortunately, the best one in the kingdom was a traitor, so we’re not exactly spoilt for choice here.”

His eyebrows furrowed as he examined the pieces of evidence. Not a trace of magic was there. Nothing physically discernible either. If not for her explanation, he would’ve treated it as any other bullet.

“That’s it?” He asked.

“If you’d like to know more, you’ll have to accept the Council’s offer.”

Scratching his head, Tim then smiled at the woman. “Oh well, that’s too bad. Sorry you had to come all the way here for nothing.”

“You dare disrespect the Council a second time?”

“Sounds to me like the Council’s scared of dying. That makes one of us.”

“I do not tolerate ‘no’ for an answer.”

“I see. Did the Council tell you they sent seven assassins to my home? Would you care to find out what happened to them?”

“I wouldn’t be so smug if I were you,” warned the woman. “That scarf over there looks awfully pretty, don’t you think?”

She didn’t need to wait for his answer. The veins tangled above his eyebrow told her exactly what she wanted to hear.

“The Council never told me you had a daughter. Who’s the mother?” The woman asked, her finger playing with a lock of her golden-brown hair, twisting it as she relished the reaction she was getting.

Blood rushed to his eyes. Fingernails dug into his clenched fist. His breath was heavy, and with each one he took, it sounded less and less human. The tension in the room wasn’t just felt. It was heard.

When the staircase creaked, the woman turned to see the source of the noise. A young girl, eyes peeking over the banister.

“Umm, would you like some tea, Miss?” Mia asked, her voice shaky and nervous.

That voice was the only reason why Tim’s fist stopped millimeters away from the woman’s face. Had Mia arrived any later, she would’ve had to get a new head. Blood oozed out from inside his fist, dripping onto the couch from how hard he drove his fingernails in.

Yet, the woman never even blinked. She was elated, even.

“Terilynn,” she introduced. “But you can call me Lynn.” Turning to face Tim, she tilted her head slightly to look him straight in the eye. “My, what wonderful manners your daughter has. Yes, tea would be greatly appreciated.”

“Umm, should I make Earl Grey or Oolong?”

“Oolong sounds—”

“Earl. Grey.” Tim’s voice rumbled like thunder. Slowly, he lowered his arm. Not his gaze.

As Mia disappeared into the kitchen, Lynn gladly continued, her voice sounding more and more like nails on a chalkboard. “Those wrinkles and gray hair don’t look too good on you, Mortis. Mortal life not treating you too well?”

Giggling, she monologued. “I wouldn’t make your daughter go through the same thing if I were you… You know what? I’m feeling magnanimous today. I’ll even throw in a word to the Council. Both you AND your daughter can return to the kingdom and reap the fruits of immortality. Think about it.”

Mia returned with a tray, leaving it on the coffee table in front of them. Wordlessly, she served the first cup of Earl Grey to Lynn, then the second cup to her father.

“Thank you,” Lynn beamed. “I never got your name, little one?”

“Mia.”

“Mia!” Lynn exclaimed, “What a wonderful name.”

“Go back to your room, Mia.”

“Don’t be such a tyrant,” jabbed Lynn. “Come sit next to me.”

"Sorry, Ms. Lynn. My room is dirty. I need to start cleaning,” Mia explained, leaving them as she went upstairs.

Lynn’s eyebrow furrowed. This house was immaculately cleaned, unlike the shacks she saw next door. But she remained unperturbed.

“Just to let you know, I wouldn’t come here without countermeasures to your poison,” she commented, boldly drinking her cup.

“I wouldn’t worry about that if I were you.”

“Hm?”

As she placed her cup back on the tray, it tilted slightly. She felt something underneath it. Uneven. Soft. Almost clay-like.

She realized too late when the C-4 exploded.