Drej is silent, a rash of compiling errors scrolling across his vision. “Who are you?”
The doctor looks at him, “I am William Caufmann.”
“Now you are,” Drej pauses, absolutely still, “who were you then?”
Caufmann’s face is still steaming and as the mist passes across his face before evaporating his eyes glow dimly, despite the obfuscation. “I was born on December 15 in 2239 to parents who have had their records deleted. I became remotely flagged through the Embryon Protocol at some point in my adolescence, and was harvested at some point during my twenties. Underwent full conversion on August 3rd 2296 to fight the CryoZaiyon Wars. Officially registered AWOL November 29th 2306.”
“There were only a handful of CryoZaiyons that returned from Venus III. Accessing,” he says, his red eyes flickering like a camera shutter as he scans his files. “Forgal Lauros, Sephirlin Darrad, Angelien Zillah, Xelxor Akcoda, and Saifer Veidan are the registered survivors. All are now dead. You are none of them.”
Caufmann’s expression appears regretful for a moment. “It’s difficult to comprehend surviving a war like that, only to die within a year of returning to Earth. I am officially registered as MIA. Though that is a technicality applied to all CryoZaiyons that never returned from Venus III. They simply cannot confirm what is a well known fact since they haven’t seen my body, nor the bodies of the other battalions.”
Drej’s eyes widen. “Are there others?”
Caufmann steps closer to Drej. “I’ve cut myself to pieces to remain hidden here. I’ve cut others to pieces to maintain my cover. I’ve given up every principle I was taught to develop, just to be ignored like a normal person, and you will listen to me closely, Arca Drej,” he says actually slowing down as he speaks to make sure each word impacts more than the one before. He grips Drej’s face hard enough to purse his lips and makes him lean closer. “You will not go insane, I’ve no use for insanity. I’ve been in hiding for almost fifteen years, so you can last—quietly—as long as I say you can, do you understand me?”
Drej’s eyes don’t exhibit any defiance so Caufmann releases him. Drej still isn’t convinced. “You said you weren’t like them, how is your use of me any different to the ones I ran from?”
“I care if you live.”
Drej swallows.
“Don’t be frightened,” he says gently. “Anyone looking for us will be dead in a month.”
Rennin wakes up to someone slapping him.
He was having a dream about fire, knives, and some kind of circular spinning room full of blades all crisscrossing each other as the room spun like a psychotic dervish. Someone dressed in his clothes, with an inhuman parody of his face was throwing parchments made of his own skin into the revolving razor-well, and as each piece was thrown in, Rennin’s own form would become less.
Written upon the pages of skin was gibberish, though Rennin could still comprehend it as it was spelled out in his own blood. Blood laced with memories, stored there by his own mind. His humanity was being shredded before him as the pages of flesh were hewed and cleaved from his body.
At his point of view, he began losing skin himself and become lacerated. He could feel the cuts at first but with each piece of him devoured by knives the feeling grew less potent until finally he was only watching his very soul being stripped from him.
Each page dropped in had his signature and a date but not in the traditional sense, the date was in the form of a memory. A beating. A night of drugs and a cold razor. Falling in love. Cradling his baby brother. Having food thrown at him by his little sister. Being taught to carve wood by his father. Being held by his mother. Crawling through their remains, two days after the GA bombed Melbourne permanently rendering it underwater. Running headlong into war hoping to kill everything living, to die or be damned before having to face the pain.
All too soon the dark version of him had shredded everything that makes him who he is, leaving nothing behind. No mind. No feeling. No warmth. No eyes. Just a bleeding, skinless thing crumpled on the floor crying out of reflex rather than any real emotion.
The floor was cold, so very cold and even colder when the exposed veins began creeping out of his body to slither and slide across the porous tiles at all angles as if trying to escape the body.
As the veins spread out they quickly began to dry out and started struggling to move then others slithered and entwined with each other all the while trying to spread further from the shivering form they left behind.
The ruination of human meat and bone opened its mouth trying to cry out, but only a retching hiss escaped its throat before the thing that was once Rennin Farrow finally stopped moving. It didn’t die, because it wasn’t really alive to begin with. Its veins and muscle strings just kept creeping ever outwards, like most diseases.
Rennin’s eyes shoot open and for a moment all he sees is a hazy white blur with a shadow somewhere above him. They focus quickly and the matted haired, teary-eyed Carla comes into view, her blue eyes looking down at him in fear, her fringe tickling his face. His mouth tastes like a sandpaper condom and he struggles to speak, “Were you hitting me?”
She smiles and wipes a tear from her left eye. “You were shot last night, I thought you were dead.”
“Women always like the damaged ones,” he says, kneading his face with a free hand almost expecting to find nothing but blood and bone.
She smiles in a patient kind of way, “Still have your sense of humour at least.”
Rennin doesn’t acknowledge her comment. “It’s like you think we’re broken vases that you can put back together, good as new. But there’s always cracks.”
“Rennin, listen to me, you were shot last night. I have to get you to hospital.”
Rennin puts his hand on her face and feels her forehead. “Your fever has gone.”
“I know.”
“You still look like shit.”
Her eyes look hurt but worse than that, she looks terrified and probably has been for a while. Rennin pushes himself off the floor and holds her tightly feeling just for a moment everything terrible is far away.
“I’m sorry, I don’t handle my own emotions well. I normally play with other people’s,” he says waggling his fingers like some kind of creeping vampire. Rennin kisses her, trying to transmit what he feels into something physical, so at least there is an expression of some kind to show her he cares.
After he leans back she has a look at the scar on his chest. It’s already sealed and pink. “What’s happened to you? I saw you get shot.”
Rennin looks to his chest, “The skin healing is some toxin Wonder Boy made at the lab. As for the bullet…” he checks around the bathroom floor, noting a fierce stiffness in his neck. He spots it and holds it up, showing the flattened end with pride.
“I’m not entirely sure what to make of it. I knew Thermosteel was strong but not strong enough to stop a bullet. It’s lucky it hit me in the sternum, if it went between my ribs I would have been in real trouble.”
She frowns, “Who put Thermosteel in you?”
“A priest while I was in the choir, how did you know I use that euphemism?”
“I’m serious, Ren.”
Rennin holds up both his hands palms away from her showing her the unnatural difference, “You see the symmetry in my right hand and pretty regular left one?”