Just Another Messiah

My gaze bore down at the helmet. I picked it up, holding the ebony glass eyes level with my bloodshot, red ones. Feeling the smooth surface of the cold metal, almost from that of a gun, a revelation seemed to beam through the dull shading of it, of scorched auburn and crow feather. I would not be able to change what they did, yet I could certainly make them burn in an eternal Hell for it.

...And that's just what I'll do.

My legs hug a vintage motorcycle as its tires screech and burn upon the cracked pavement. I pull in the clutch and kick it into gear, awaiting it to bolt off into the street. Lucky for me, it does.

Several skyscrapers pass me by, their dim lights flickering with a dying relevance, for the human race had moved far from planets like Earth when they genetically modified themselves for "harsher" conditions. I wonder what it was like...Earth? Their end all, be all. And I wonder how that moment of realization sent for them? When they could either walk in the light of familiarity or stumble through the twinkling blackness of the universe as a pioneer? What would I have done? And why did my ancestors choose this path?

I swerve out of a pothole's way as I round the street corner. My lungs burn with the smell of the cigarette smoke and alcohol on a gale of wind that still manages to creep through my helmet, or rather, my sister's helmet. A chill trundles along my spine. There is blood in the air.

As I chase the horizon and the three moons which hang low above it, I notice the few who trudge alongside the street. They don't bother to turn their heads at the loud disturbance that is my motorcycle, either in their drunken haze or out of commonplace. Despite the rarity of wearing a helmet, I can imagine that duels are anything except uncommon here. After a few turns and dodging more cracks in the asphalt, the signal in my sister's helmet chimes, signaling that I am nearing my destination.

When I learned a few months ago that she must have somehow planted a chip in her opponent's arm which could be tracked by her helmet, a smile had crossed my lips for the first time since I found her. Dead. My sister knew I would exact my revenge. In my mind, I thank her for making my mission so much easier.

As the chiming grows louder and vexingly less infrequent, I ease off of the motorcycle and place the kickstand up after shutting its humming engine down. My eyes dart over to a sober woman a few feet beside me, watching me enter the last partially well-lit building left in West Vali with white-rimmed eyes, creased with dead hopes she might have had many years ago in her youth. Her hollow expression darts to the gun at my side.

I pause. A collection of several smart remarks run through my mind, but I decide against saying any of them. What's the point? So, I give her a brief nod of acknowledgement and walk through a shabby revolving door rife with oily fingerprints upon the glass. My gloves join them as I turn through and pace toward the ever-present beeping that, for months, I have longed to hear. Broken glass crunches beneath my boot as I stalk through the emptiness of glittering slot machines with their bright displays either shot or punched out. If I thought the smell of smoke was strong a few minutes ago on my bike ride, then I obviously had no idea what was in store for me. The metallic smell of cash lingered in the air, although anything of value had been stolen ages ago.

My heart quickens. My breaths become shallow. I unlatch the safety from the holster at my thigh. I tell myself once more that this is a dying wish as much as it was a death one. With a cautious breath, I take note of the worst ways someone could go out. This one doesn’t make the list.

I am a matchlight. The human race is a star. I won't make a difference. Nobody ever does in the grand scheme of galaxies and solar systems. And, as odd as it sounds, that is good enough for me.

The system in my helmet highlights my way through a series of arrows in the top left corner. The north arrow glimmers green. So, I head farther into this decaying labyrinth. Methodical steps are the only ones I take. I reach a lobby with a short hallway of four elevators. The buttons are unlit and crumpled pieces of trash keep the corners company. Out of sheer curiosity, I tap one of the buttons. No response at all. As to be expected. Thankfully, there is a door to a stairwell behind the bank of elevators, which I use to meet the elevation of my target as shown on my helmet's screen. I continue gliding up the chipped white paint of the stairs which lack any atmosphere a stairwell never has. Finally, the elevation I am at and the elevation that poor fool who doesn't know what's coming to him levels around the same amount. Ever so slowly, I creep for the door handle and push the heavy door open. Dread courses through my veins. Locked. Just my luck.

Whispering a few choice words beforehand, I weigh my options. I could easily shoot the handle off, but that would give away my position. Yet, you gotta do what you gotta do. And so, I angle myself downward a few steps, fumbling for my unlatched sidearm which I should have rendered silent back when I had the chance. Wincing before I squeezed the trigger, a loud boom causes me to leap before I expect it. I had done it. The once heavy door flies open before slamming again, but not before I could slip past. As I stalk down the narrow corridor of hotel rooms, I silence my radar so that only the arrows are my aid to find this guy. That, and the frantic rustling he makes three doors down. He gave himself away more than I did of myself.

My heartbeat deafens with anticipation as my stomach ices over in rage. All of that sneaking leads up to me just bashing the door in with my boot. Fury dulls any pain that may have dared grace me. My hand squeezes my pistol as I aim it at this mousy little man with his hands up in the air instinctively. His bottom lip twitches to keep himself from bawling on the spot. It takes every ounce of patience in my blood to keep from pulling the trigger. But I want to savor this moment. I have hunted far too long for anything less.

He swallows, scrambling from his chair in a hyperventilating fit of mania. "Surely, you are looking for someone else. Not me. I told you that the loan I gave you and the terms bound to it were no longer tied to me! The loan for your sister! Yet. I must confess that I am rather surprised-pleasantly-surprised that you came here alive after I heard my superiors were onto you."

"What loan?"

"Surely you remember, don't you? You came to me a few years ago, quite a few years ago actually, and you told me that you needed the money for your sister who needed that operation to save her from her alcoholism. I would know that mask you hide behind from anywhere."

My mind at that moment went from racing to skidding at a halt. Everything was still. Silent as the grave that I was about to put this man in.

"She told me that it was from some inheritance of a distant family member we never knew-"

I know it isn't at all smart, and I know this is the perfect invitation for a bullet to my skull, but I can't help myself. I place my pistol back in its holster as I lie my sister's helmet beside a mound of old cash and a gunmetal case that sit upon the circular table. He doesn't say a word as I reach for my sidearm once again, aiming it right between his frantic eyes. I wipe away the sweat that has gathered underneath my eyes as I explain myself.

"I am the sister."

He shakes his head, his eyes awestruck, "I wish I could tell the difference between you two, but the truth is, I never saw her without it."

"It was part of her identity as it will soon be mine."

He feigns a calmness in the form of a whisper, "Please. Let us sit down. I will tell you about the ones who you are truly after."

So, I humor him and take a seat. But the laser target I paint upon his forehead never falters.

"Tell me," He asks in a low voice, "Did you ever recover?"

"I think so. But then, I had to bear the sight of my sister lying there with her blood staining the sands. And then. Like a switch, I relapsed into an alcoholic state far worse than I ever thought possible. My sister's sacrifice was all in vain. But I'm making it right...or at least I’m trying to…"

"Like your sister. Just another Messiah. Another martyr. Forgotten."

"No. Not a martyr, not solely anyway. Do you not see? I am dying, friend. It won't be some noble cause as it was for my sister. Grief, regret, and my inability to deal with them will do me in. And they will come for me in due time."

I place my gun back in its holster to allow the one across from me a breath. My mind shifts back and forth, debating whether to kill him and keep up the hunt or continue the hunt without the satisfaction of catching everyone with ties to my sister’s fate. What if he really is the sole villain buying himself some time? I've made so many grave mistakes that I have no any room left to regret the choice I make here tonight. I will leave with satisfaction or I will leave with a list of other targets. If I play my cards right, I may walk out of here with both.

"Who are they, then?" I ask him.

He gives out a few names, tells me a few cities on distant planets. All in frantic whispers. I nod rhythmically, daring to shut my eyes for a few seconds at a time. A deeper sleep it seems than I have had in months.

"Thank you," My eyes shift to the glass sliding door a few yards behind him, "...Why are you here if you can throw money around like that?"

"I can't. Your sister saw the money I was carrying for others. My superiors. And she made me feel so guilty that I had no choice if I wanted to be able to go to sleep at night with a sound conscience."

"Why stay here, though? You obviously could afford better. Instead of living in a dilapidated hotel room in West Vali."

"It's not so bad. There aren't many people around here to make me feel guilty about their living standards if I am among them, I suppose. It's better to live this way. Humbly, I believe."

"Mhm," I pause, "And the smell of smoke and drink? That doesn't bother you?"

"The smell of alcohol bothers you?"

"Can't stand it, actually. The smell. But the cigarettes are slightly more nauseating."

"Well..." He ponders, "It's not so terrible up here. Especially when it's night like it is now. Here. Follow me. You might be able to make peace with this abandoned city..."

I stalk behind him as his bare feet pad over to the glass sliding door, my pistol immediately finds its way back into my hand. As I examine the room, there is a leather-bound book resting on the bed, opened to its final chapter. I hold it to read the book's title without disturbing the page it was left on. The unfortunate thing is that it's in a language unbeknownst to me, yet my finger still glides against the chipped gloss of the B symbol alongside the I, B, L, and E. I note it as interesting enough before I join a friend whose name I will never know.

I observe the serenity of this dying world. And, he is right, it does stir a sense of peace within me. I am this city, in a sense. And this city is myself in more ways than not. The cool, blue night streams through my hair as my heart and mind argue with one another in this deafening quiet. In the end, I brush my gun's barrel against the back of his head with my lips drawn in a tight line.

His eyes well up with tears never destined to fall, "...Who are you?"

I stare back at him, my eyes with the same anguish, yet perhaps veiled by a hollow expression.

"You said it yourself. Am I not just another Messiah?"