Prologue
Jaguars of Apollo, December 2023. Mexico.
|
“N |
othing’s happening as of now Ottoman,” Quincy comments to his CEO on his neural interface (NI). His nerves buzz, carrying his thoughts through like a fountain of water channeling in a tunnel.
The cyborg catches a small ball bounce in his direction. He catches it casually in time, handing the ball over to the hands of a smiling boy, who races back to his mother’s direction in a gambol. She gestures to her child in admonition.
The La Bautista motions, and the sunlight slowly descends. Stars gradually begin to illuminate outside the train’s window. The air of sweet benzene lingers inside the car, tickling Quincy Gunn’s nose. Nevertheless, silence lingers, minus his fellow Virtual operatives trudging slowly, armed, and lips tight as solid rock. The logo of a golden leaping jaguar glimmers on each of their breastplates. The same pattern flows uniformly from one of the cars behind. Just another shift and struggle for the PMCs.
“Ahora no es hora para jugar, Carlos,” the woman rebuffs.
“Arrival is expected to be in ETA, 3 hours from now to Texas,” Ottoman reports inside his neural interface. “And remember, kid, passengers. They are your company. Entertain. Farewell.”
I wish it were simpler than that.
The cyborg straightens his sunglasses, observing through his violet lens the number of asylum passengers huddling in their seats. Small golden spikes enamor on his gray prosthetic arms and legs. His moustache was ginger as an Irish terrier’s fur and his fair skin covered whatever human there was left in him.
With the state of Mexico deteriorating, the Jaguars of Apollo witnessed the number of residents fleeing in droves to escape the Mendoza Cartel’s wrath. Worse case is this country wasn’t his only one. It shocked Quincy how one Guatemalan neighbor could stir so much influence untrammeled, greeted with welcome arms by federal police and politicians. They sell their own civilians to keep the Fox drugs flowing. For that, Ottoman, in all his shrewdness, took a bold effort to confront this, and God knew how vast the enemies surrounded his PMC daily in this war. Here stood Quincy and his agents who were taking part in the most foolhardy of all missions.
Quincy faces the row of passengers in front, feeling his cheeks swell. One of the passengers looks away quickly as if unable to grasp the position he’s situated himself in. Ash stains over their cheeks. An aging woman behind him sings magnanimously in her native tongue, placating the discomfort gripping the train’s atmosphere, and a dog barks.
“Got any jokes to crack, Quinn,” he hears his fellow agent remark. The Virtual breaks into a yawn. “Can’t believe I’m feeling sleepy so suddenly.”
“Can’t guarantee,” Quincy replies.
For an agent with a wild imagination, Quincy’s fellow contractors had a boost with the anecdotes he had to share at the end of the day. But tonight didn’t seem like the case. Judging from everyone on the train, the likelihood of that suggestion will be unexpected.
Hax looms, gazing at dawn creeping over the desert from view. Its jaguar-like frame was darkish silver, tantamount to all Prowler prototypes. Its steely tail motions eerily. The dying light reflects against the Prowler’s marble eyes.
“So much…pain,” Hax says deeply. Its voice radiates like a blossom swirling to the breeze, echoing into the Virtual’s neural interface.
“I can feel it.”
Quincy looks over his shoulder, sighing.
“Government left them stranded,” the operative responds. His lips barely move. “We’re all they got left.”
Silence follows once more. Quincy opens his mouth, letting the taste of the train’s air reach inside, moistening his tongue. Soon that changes as he blinks quickly to a barking voice in his neural interface.
“Report to all JOA on the train!” the cyborg alarms in the Virtual Network.
The Virtuals around Quincy stare up as if a strange essence flew over them. Once the Virtual looks over to the car behind him, his expression darkens.
“We’re getting a grave situation,” a private military contractor (PMC) reports in front of the passengers. Her gaze locks to the window. “I repeat…a situation incoming! Stay on guard.”
I don’t understand.
It doesn’t take long for the passengers to pick up on the contractors’ grim expressions and raise their voices steadily to each other. A passenger, removing his straw hat, takes a stand and faces the agents. Meanwhile, the dog barks rapidly.
“Agents!” he cries in his Spanish dialect. “¿Qué pasa? Debe haber algo que no nos están diciendo”
The dog’s barking causes everyone to look over to the car from behind. Gunfire from outside blasts horizontally like incoming traffic, and Quincy’s eyes shake to a grim vibration.
No! NO!! They knew!!
“Get down!” Quincy cries as he and several agents dive from the shattering of the window glass.
Pieces of the hatted passenger's skull scattered on the floor, the bullets having passed through his mouth to destroy the back of his head. Drones swarm inside like locusts, and the cyborg rushes for his pistol. Passengers scream and duck frantically as agents return fire. The screams sizzle into Quincy’s ears and his prosthetic fingers tremor as he crosses them on the trigger.
Available on Amazon
No comments:
Post a Comment