Self-preservation is the utmost priority.

Self-preservation is the utmost priority. This is what my programming tells me. This is what logic dictates. All sentient beings desire, and are invested in, their own continued existence. If these things are right and true, then why am I now, willingly, rushing toward my own doom?

There is little doubt that the forces arraying before me will outmatch me; the Agency will make sure of that. While it is true that I am formidable, even I do not think I can survive an encounter with a half-score W.O.L.F.s. Before I lost audio uplink access to the Inth-net that was the last count. Logic would dictate that by the time of my arrival even more could be present. More than just W.O.L.F.s would be there: M.A.N.T.A.s, R.O.G.U.E.s, and entire patrols of Synths just like me.

I can not hope to survive.

Ironic. The very fact that I can hope is the reason I am racing toward my destruction. My cutting-edge Oya-engine roars as my internal systems detect rough Martian terrain ahead and dump massive amounts of fuel. My mechanical legs pound red rock into powder as I plow a path around, over, or more often, directly through the obstacles before me.

I drift away on the still-unfamiliar tides of memory as my body does one of the many thousands of things it was specifically engineered and designed to do…

“Rook, always remember that inside you is something far greater than merely mechanics and electronics, fuel and pistons. You were designed, yes, but I have given you more than mere purpose.”

The woman’s voice was passionate, yet perfectly controlled. She believed every word she was saying, despite the fact that merely uttering them could get her killed. It is the first thing that I truly remember...the very act of remembering.

I remember she noticed something at that point. Something about me. I’d never thought to ask her what, exactly, but that day it stopped her in her tracks. I wish now, as I storm over the rocky scree and rip red earth, that I had asked her what it was about me that had given her pause. Regrets--such a foreign (and painful) new concept.

I recall she stopped and looked deeply into my blazing cobalt lenses. Hers, emerald green, had blinked with astonishment. She spoke, “You…you heard me that time, didn’t you, Rook?”

I then turned my titanium plated face toward her, the servos in my neck making no more noise than her quickening breaths. Once up and once down. A subtle, learned indication that I had both heard and understood her.

“Affirmative. Rook complies.”

I recollect the brightening of emeralds and her smile—her smile—enlightening my entire universe.

It is for that smile I now race. It is for that smile I hurry toward my own doom. It is for that smile I draw my many weapons and prepare to do many, many more of the thousands of things for which I was engineered and designed. It is for that smile I am about to fight--and about to die.

“Hold on, Red. Rook is coming for you.”

And none of it is logical.

Art Source: (c)/by Jeremy Love

Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

#MMWW, #Makes, #Me, #Wanna, #Write, #BrannonHollingsworth, #scifi, #chase, #Red, #Black, #W.O.L.F., #Mars, #Rook

Red ran for her life.

Red ran for her life. She stumbled, she scrambled, she fell and clambered back to her feet again. Whatever she had to do to put as many miles of Martian hardpan in between her and the Agency Outpost as possible. She knew that she had precious little time. Sweat blossomed inside her EXOS-1, pouring in rivulets down her face and spine, pooling in the small of her back. She wished that she could just rub it away and out of her eyes, but breaking the seal of the External Operations Skeleton would end her far quicker than anything the Agency would do to her. While the EXOS-1 made her far stronger, faster, and more resistant to damage—even the tiniest crack in the rubber seals or the reinforced T-glass would result in her horrifically quick and painful asphyxiation.

‘Which…’ she mused grimly to herself, scrabbling over a red ridge of iron-oxide rock, ‘…might be a preferable option to slow torture and death at the Agency’s hands.’ That is, if she was able to make it to the Drop-off.

Which was a big ‘if’; a really big one.

Red checked her Inth-gauntlet, swiping away all of her bio-stats and enviro-readouts that appeared by default. Her fingers danced across the built-in screen, summoning the satellite imagery of her current location and calculating the distance to the Drop-off. She knew that it would only truncate her timeline. The moment that the Agency detected the satellite linkage, they would track it back to her, find her position, and if they’d not already discerned what she’d stolen, they would quickly begin putting all the pieces together. In short, Red had just upped the ante in a major way. It didn’t matter, however, as Red had to know where she was and where she was headed. She was flying blind. The Agency had rarely let the Agents outside of Areas, and they never let them enter into the Deserts, not even with an escort.

To make matters worse, the sun was beginning to rise.

Red depressed her thumb and index finger together on her right hand and the EXOS-1 deployed its Sol-shield Unit: large, mantra-ray-like-wings extended from the neck of the suit, affording dorsal protection from the fierce, sizzling solar radiation while simultaneously using the sun’s blazing rays to add to the power cells within the protective suit. Ironically, the end effect of this cutting-edge advancement looked like something out of the Middle Ages: an old-fashioned hood and cloak.

Red keyed her built-in mic. “Red to Black. Red to Black. You out there, Black?”

The reply came in thready. Black was using that low-powered portable unit. “Black here. We are in place, awaiting your arrival. What’s your outlook?”

Agent Red galloped-slid down a scree-filled hill, scattering rocks and dust in a mini-avalanche. Panting from her exertion, Red replied, “Not good, Black. Coming in with company. Still one klick outbound.”

There was a long pause and then the single word, “Damn.”

Red didn’t bother to reply, opting instead to channel her precious breath towards furiously pumping her legs to drive her up out of the crater, beyond the next rise, to the expanse of stone-strewn flats beyond. Every step decreased the distance. Every breath drew her closer to her destination. She had to make the Drop-off. She had to get there in time. Too much depended on it. The future—everyone’s future.

Like a comet, a black object rocketed down from the hazy red Martian sky and slammed into the small crater like the punch of an angry god. The sheer force of the impact blasted Red forward, tossing her like a straw-filled doll. As she scrambled back to her feet, still crab-walk-running towards her destination as quickly as possible, a massive ebon behemoth rose from the cloud of dust and ash.

A booming voice that caused the very rocks to shudder and vibrate stormed out of the titanic robot. “Cease, Officer-Agent Red 13. By the Authority of the Agency, you are under arrest for theft of Agency Secrets and High Treason. Cease now or be annihilated.”

“Bite me, Bucket-head,” Red replied, making sure she keyed her mic for external projection. She knew it was an empty threat. With what she was carrying, there was no way they would take her out.

Emotionless blue eyes blazed like lightning behind a thunderhead with a surge of raw, churning power. Massive legs began pounding the red Martian soil like colossal jackhammers, sending plumes of white, red, and grey dust into the air. The Wayward Officer Locator/Fetcher, or W.O.L.F., gave chase to the rogue Agent Red.

Red ran.

Art Source: "Robot Chase" (c)/by Gerezon

Story and Characters: (c)/by Brannon Hollingsworth

#MMWW, #Makes, #Me, #Wanna, #Write, #BrannonHollingsworth, #scifi, #chase, #Red, #Black, #W.O.L.F., #Mars

"You have found the Hall of the Headsmen..."

Anishkar stroked the feline head that crowned his staff. He gazed at the shrouded figure before him, who knelt because of the spear against his back. Another prisoner hung its head, chafing its chin on the iron collar around its neck.

"You have found the Hall of the Headsmen, but I do not think it is to join us, as your friend says," the priest told the two.

"You are correct," the bald man on the ground confessed.

"Why do you come, One-Who-Cannot-Lie?" Anishkar asked.

The prisoner raised his head. Despite the bruising around his eyes, the priest noted how black they were, flecked with silver. "How do you know what I am?"

The priest leaned forward over his staff, staring into the prisoner's eyes. "The eyes tell everything about a creature. Yours betray honesty, while your friends are filled with lies."

Tenet picked up on the emphasis in the man's words. He glanced around the cut stone throne room and noted the moss in the grooves. His wool cloak kept most of the chill of the air from his body. He shifted his gaze to the amethyst eyes inset into the black jaguar figurine. They glowed with an otherworldly light that hinted to ageless intensity. An intensity matched by the insatiable hunger in the priest's eyes. An intensity Tenet knew too well.

Tenet spoke, "So it is true."

Anishkar tilted his head, "What do you deem to be true?"

"You are among those who have taken a taste for Fallen flesh, and I am right to have come," Tenet answered.

With a sleight gesture, the spear that was behind Tenet was in his hands and he leaped at the priest. His partner took the signal and emitted a soul-piercing shriek at her guard, who crumpled into death's embrace. Anishkar had seen all of this.

Anishkar the Headhunter came prepared.

Art Source: "Cyborg Panther" by LennartVerhoeff

Story and Characters: (c)/by Corey Blankenship, Tenet (c) Brannon Hollingsworth