Gun shots are heard resonating from three blocks away. The police radio bands have not yet been alerted to the shootout in progress. This must be a separate incident involving some manner of human degradation. He sets forth at a violently brisk race towards the hollow sounds echoing horror through the heavens. If these were his true eyes, all that he would see, would be drowned in a veil of crimson rancor. The repetitive furore of automatic weapons vomiting their projectiles reek of havoc as glass, concrete and steel are pulverized under the vehemence of lascivious social rejects. Upon his arrival he is met with the repulsive sight of mutilated bodies of seemingly innocent people, lying on the streets and sidewalks, mowed down by random execution.
A small band of augmented teenagers return fire upon a slightly larger band of heavily armed thugs wearing apparent rival gang colors. A local hangout for these teens has been obliterated by newly developed weapons which have been mounted onto the flesh as the four grotesquely formed youths, standing in a tight circle formation, fire at anything that moves.
A thunderous clasp envelopes the surrounding territory as one youth, wearing long, metal thorns through his head in the place of hair, and deeply darkened glasses, fires a hand full of miniaturized concussion bombs from his upper and middle back. The missile flights leave behind long streams of white exhaust, which resemble the ghostly images of striking cobras. The sulphur and ammonia smells fall upon the innocent bystanders who fall to the ground, clutching their faces and tearing at their eyes. All of this time, he laughs in their horror. Despite the heat, a second youth wears a large, heavy trench jacket, thus concealing his massive frame. He stands behind his three counterparts looking onwards, into the hysteria with a passion filled glee. His eyes, like the first, are covered with darkened glasses, but he wears dark and pale make?up to accentuate his contrasts. Suddenly, two long coils discharge from his hands and cross several yards towards a fleeing man who wears the rival’s colors. The shiny, stainless steel coils grasp at his still moving feet and with a violent jerk, he falls to the ground with a powerful impact. The remaining sidewalk is littered with the blood, which erupted from the victim’s face. His motionless body is then dragged across the street, until it is made to stop under an oncoming bus, which has made the mistake of wandering into the frenzy. The driver quickly and forcefully steps onto the brake, but the reaction was slurred and the massive vehicle crushes the body under a front tire.
One of the augmented youths makes the tedious mistake of wandering away from the security of the pack, most likely carried away by the emotion drawn from the frenzy. This is when the advantage is overtaken, thus changing the opposition’s offensive.
‘Salvation’ is drawn from her concealed harness in his leg, the action was swift and blurring. No one is given the opportunity to see the change of events which are unfolding as four tremendous shots are fired at key points of the youth’s augmented frame. Suddenly, the youth falls to the ground, screaming in pain, as each bullet hits their intended marks; three of which were aimed at mechanical enhancements such as the primary power cells and ammo banks, as the fourth was meant to maim and wound the flesh.
His intestines are now cupped into his hands as he looks down upon them, then up to the new figure who has brought upon his current state of life’s decline. His laughter is lost and replaced with an overwhelming sorrow filled tears as his mechanical eyes fade the world to black.
At first, he says nothing to his opponents as they watch with bewildered astonishment, their friend die before their very eyes. Perhaps in that fleeting moment, they contemplated their own mortality, but their reaction to his intrusion was synonymous and choreographed. They divert their attention solely onto him, thus forgetting the remaining survivors of their onslaught. A series of critical blows are delivered to the space that he had once occupied. But with a blinding speed, he vanishes into the surroundings only adding to their rage and confusion. The force of his landing crushes the roof of the vehicle that they had driven, but now stand before, facing away. The sound sends them whirling around, offsetting their balance and so, he takes the advantage once again. The one with the trench coat was able to fire blindly at him, but the blast was random and resulted in the minor explosion of the bus that he had earlier used to crush one of his victims. As retort, the Host fires three shots to each of the men’s face, causing an accentuated back lash of their necks, but they continue to stand regardless of the impact from the blasts. The shots had cleared a path through their heads, but the damage remained seemingly ineffective. The three youths laugh in response as they take aim and discharge their full payload of artillery upon him.
The Host is launched through the voided space behind, and crashes into the solid brick wall that had been scared only minimally. Although grievously wounded, no blood ensues from his injuries. His weapon has been lost to him during his flight, but still the fury of shots continues to plunder him into the wall and sidewalk. His right hand has been damaged beyond repair and he can feel the rage growing within him. Suddenly, he lets out a bellowing cry, propagated by the psychosis created by his conversion. It is unknown to him if the flames, which now consume him have been created by his opponents’ weapons, or from the inner reaches of his brain. Regardless of which, he casts his arms forward and catches his face in his hands as he feels the peeling of flesh. The skin of his face is all that remains of his true self and exists as the only reminder of the person he once was.
:...I will not let this defeat me! “Nice try boys, but not good enough.” The pain of his face is all that he feels, nothing else matters as he stands in a crouching position, curled up into a loose ball. With arms spread out revealing the stump of his mechanical hand, he reaches for the youths. He does not look up at them. He simply continues to look blindly at the shattered soil. Suddenly, a cover of blue arcs begins to envelope him as the clothing on his back tears and shreds under the force. Emerging from his bared biceps are greyish blue, armored plates that extend the entire length of his upper arms and shoulders, and with them are two long, curved, metal horns from the blades of his back. The action casts forth bolts of lightning as bright as the midday’s sun. Although random, the destructive force escapes nothing as all forms are devoured under its appetite. All that is flesh from the three youths is instantaneously disintegrated, thus only the mechanical carcasses remain in the ruinous wake.
Throughout the onset of the attack, the Host had reverted to a catatonic state, thus leaving him without a memory of the event. Upon his reanimation, he finds himself whole and unclothed, lying on the ground, naked for all the ruins to see. He chooses not to dwell upon the situation as he notices the three metal husks at the edge of the street and the sounds of fevered sirens in the distance.
“...He was supposed to be unarmed. We can’t have a renegade cyborg running around, raining chaos upon this city.” A pause, then she looks around the table for reassurance from her co-workers but she finds none. “It just doesn’t happen that way!” Her voice stands alone through the small assembly of the senior staff members. Her rage and confusion grows as she realizes her solidarity in her objection.
“That will be enough Doctor, I think we’ve heard just about all we can take from you. You may leave -now!” A single finger points the way to the door as she gathers her possessions and stares, with soft tears filling eyes, at her former comrades. Feeling cheated and singled out she leaves the room, but not without uttering an unheard threat. However, the voice of Howard R. Ford drowns her silent words as the door slams behind her.
Days later and meters bellow the city, he sits at the side of a lonely underground river of sewage and rainwater, pondering the events that had taken place, and on the effects they have had on his fate. He realized that this has ultimately affected his freedom in the real world. His actions may have even cost him his ‘so called’ life. But those actions were not clear to him, for he has no memory of the event in question. All he could remember are the three shattered frames which lay, glowing under the suns’ light, in the middle of the street. But still he feared the inevitability of his extradition.
The replay of his video recording was faint and blurred for those few seconds, but it revealed enough to allow him to see the pain in their faces as they died. Then, the picture returned to their remains lying on the ground.
He sits broken and unable to externalize his pain.
“Explain this!” Howard R. Ford demands as he rewinds and replays his recording of the event. At first there was silence, but then came the reply.
“...It must be beyond his original programming. There is no explanation.” The voice is dry and cold, more synthesized than human. It offers no comfort and despite Howard’s solitude, he becomes enraged in the confines of his office and overturns the arrangement on his desk. “Then find one.”
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