Model

He had the most perfect skin ever created. That exact shade of olive so rarely seen in humans. Beautiful.

And when it rained, like now, thousands of tiny umbrellas poured forth from his pores, and kept him dry.

Truly perfect skin.

How could someone jealous destroy all this perfection? Even every single umbrella had been smashed.

That took time. Anger. Either strength or a suitable tool.

The umbrellas looked like they’d been stomped, not hammered. Good.

Whoever did this may have assumed that the stone underneath would not retain shoe prints. Or at least that all this rain would wash away whatever prints were made.

Then again, they may have been too angry to think about shoe prints at all.

Good. 

I scanned for prints and found them. Slightly damaged by the rain, but enough of them to build a complete picture, and to follow to where they’d come from.

The same kind of shoes the victim had worn. That narrowed the field a lot. Only the very richest could ever afford that brand. Unless the shoes were stolen, of course.

I saw where the victim had walked. Where the other prints had either followed, or been side by side. Had they come together to this place?

The shoe prints led me to the building where the victim had spent his last evening alive. Here, unfortunately, the flooring was more resistant to shoe prints. A much more expensive kind of stone.

I could only see a step here, a step there. Enough to lead me up.

I learned there had been a party last night. A fashion show, where the victim had walked among the guests, modelling a brand new hot hot brand of clothing. The biggest contract in the world of high high fashion today.

The victim was doing well the day he died.

Both the show and the party had gone smoothly, with nary a glitch. A fallen tray of champagne. Some urgent stitches on some of the clothes that should have fit. A lovers’ quarrel I quickly discovered had nothing to do with my victim at all…

Nothing out of the ordinary, really.

I scanned the environ one more time. Was surprised to discover a partial shoe print my first three scans had not shown.

This print was higher up still. Where none of the party guests were known to have gone.

Private residence, I was told. Someone awfully Hush Hush rich rich rich.

I knew that I was risking my career at this point. Going up to possibly confront the Hush Hush rich rich rich herself. But I saw the prints, and felt that I had to go.

If I was not mistaken, some of those prints were being made right now. The killer was up there. Walking circles. Nervous.

That seemed to rule out the Hush Hush rich rich rich. She would have had nothing to be nervous about. Completely untouchable. Unlikely to be unused to killing.

Someone was in her rooms and feeling nervous. Possibly planning to kill Hush Hush rich rich rich.

Most likely not. But that suspicion would be my excuse for entering her premises without permission.

Not that it would save my career. But it just might keep her from deciding to kill me. If she chose to be kind. 

Hush Hush rich rich rich was not at home. Emergency authorization, plus just a little bit of hacking that made me appear way above my pay grade, let me in.

The place was simply incredible.

I am rarely impressed by my surroundings. Too jaded to care, I suppose. But this one? So much expensive wood I almost whistled. Would have, had I not been aware of a killer’s movements in a back bedroom.

The place was a bit of a maze, but I found my way with scans. My steps were silent.

The pacing murderer was surprised midstep by my entrance into the bedroom he was in. He must have thought me a servant, for when he turned and spoke “I said I was not to be disturbed,” I was far more surprised than he.

He was him! The victim. He had killed himself.

Though this one had a scar across his face.

A scar that would prevent him ever modelling. A scar that appeared to be rather recent…

When I stared at him with my mouth open, instead of making myself scarce at his command, he realized “You are not a servant, are you?”

I closed my gaping mouth. Found my voice and said “Law enforcement, at your service. You are under arrest.”

Had he been thinking clearly, he would have laughed.

He was obviously under the protection of Hush Hush rich rich rich. I would never have been able to touch him, had he not made the mistake of attacking me.

He threw a book at me. And then a vase. All bets were off. I was permitted to defend myself.

The fight that ensued was brutal. He was clearly more than just a pretty face. Designed to do battle as well.

His little umbrellas lost their canopies. Were horribly sharp when they cut into my skin.

While lithe rather than bulky, his muscles were augmented. Their speed and strength far surpassed those of an ordinary human.

Had I been normal police make, I would have died. Lucky for me, I was military make instead. And not just ordinary military either. 

That too would have lost this fight.

The experimental modifications that I had were old, but enduring. The survival rate of soldiers having them 0,000000000000001.

I was the only one.

Whatever genetic weirdness, or just plain stupid stubbornness had made me survive them, could not be identified and dublicated. No matter how hard they tried.

I was the only one.

It had taken a hundred and fifty four years to hide my trail. Escape the fucking army.

I could only hope that this fight now would not reveal me.

It probably would. But I did not want to die.

Crashing through a table, a metal spike went through his heart. All that beauty dead. Again.

I would say perfection lost again, but for that scar.

Hush Hush rich rich rich walked in. Saw what had been done.

Her guards surrounded me. Would try to kill at a single word from her.

I am glad that word did not come.

She assessed the situation swiftly. No emotion in her eyes.

Clearly she had not loved the model much. A little bit, perhaps, but not enough to cry, and want to see me dead because of that.

“Thank you, Officer,” she said. “You must have saved my life here today.”

That is how she would play it. Not admit to having harbored a killer. Though it wouldn’t have hurt her even if she had admitted everything there and then.

So be it. It’s all the same to me. It doesn’t matter.

“All in a day’s job, My Lady. No need to thank,” I said as I bowed deep, and stumbled. Even I was affected by that fight, and would be wise to appear far more so.

Her eyes glinted. Did I overplay my role?

“Oh, but I simply must show you my gratitude, Officer. Matthew, John, take this kind Officer of the Law to his home. Shower him with gifts along the way.”

Yep. I was screwed. That was definitely greed in her eyes now.

The military would pay well to have me back. Contracts could be made.

I smiled. And graciously accepted the ride. Though the gifts would not be necessary.

“I must insist upon the gifts as well,” is what she said.

Poison, perhaps. A paralytic agent once I’m in the vehicle.

I imagined myself to be safe for the duration of the lift ride down. So many people knew I was in the building.

Stupid, really.

I should have been old enough to know better than to assume such a thing.

No matter.

Plenty of fight in me yet. For my survival.

For my freedom too.

The Captain

No. We will not withdraw from this position. Win or lose, this is where we make our stand.

His lieutanant might be right. If they withdrew to the Caves of Calling, they would no doubt live to fight another day. But there comes a time when “another day” just doesn’t cut it anymore.

Here. Now. Today. This is where the war would be decided. This is where it all would end. One way or the other.

Once they were surrounded, there would be no more escape. No more withdrawing, and regrouping, and returning to the fight. No options anymore.

Maybe the desperation of trying to survive would change the odds somehow. Maybe they’d grow wings. Or maybe they’d just go their graves with a bang instead of a whimper.

It didn’t really matter. Not anymore. Who wins, who loses, just let it end. Just let this war be over.

Strategies discussed. Weapons placed. Positions found.

Then waiting.

Always so much waiting.

They don’t really tell you that, do they, in training? Just how much waiting is involved.

You get this impression that it’s all so fast all the time. Troops sent here and there, flown in, flown out, split-second decisions where your training to obey commands has got to replace all thinking or you’re dead.

Bullshit.

Mostly it’s just waiting. With some moments of terror thrown in every here and there, mostly it’s just waiting.

Well… sounds like the wait is finally over.

Explosions. Gunfire. Flashing lights. Smoke. Dust. Commands yelled and obeyed. Screaming. Pain and blood and suffering. Time, always in slow motion.

Still alive, huh.

How weird that it seems to have worked. We took our stand… and won?

Two days after the war was finally over, Captain Lyles was killed. Officially it was a tragic accident. The greatest hero of our side. The man who decided all our destiny. He who won the war.

Unofficially he ate his own gun.

Standing at the Edge

Standing at the edge of the bridge, she whispers: “He’s not coming home.”

“He went to kill, got killed instead. He’s not coming home.”

They were young, so young, when they met. Highschool sweethearts. Not the cheerleader-quarterback, popular type of highschool sweethearts. No. More the “two kids nobody ever notices”, who just happened to notice each other.

But they were happy.

They danced together at the prom. Went to the same college. And after college, they both found jobs, and got married.

It wasn’t a flashy wedding. Nothing like you read in the magazines or see on tv. Neither of their parents had the kind of money it took to throw that kind of a thing, and themselves they were just getting started.

But there was cake, and there was dancing, and she wore a white dress and her grandmother’s veil. And when the priest said amen, the way her husband looked at her before their kiss was everything she’d ever dreamed of.

After the wedding, they lived a simple life. They had some friends, but not too many. They went to the movies sometimes, and sometimes they went shopping, but mostly they saved their money. The dream was to someday have a child they could afford to put through college.

But then it started. The war. They read about it in the papers. Saw the news on tv.

He started feeling like he should go.

It was the patriotic thing, to defend your country. To defend its interests in other places too.

Their land had done so much for them, he used to say. It was time to give something back.

She didn’t like it. She did not like it at all.

She tried to protest: “But what about our plans?” or “You’re just about to be promoted. With your pay increase, we could actually start trying for the baby.”

It didn’t work. As the days passed, he was more and more certain that joining the war was his duty.

One day he came home, and said that he’d enlisted. He had passed the army physical with flying colors, sworn his oath, and would soon go into training.

She missed him when he was away. And this was just the training, the getting-prepared part. How on earth would she handle it when he really went to war?

She prayed every day that the war would end. It didn’t. It just went on and on.

He came home for a little while. She tried to enjoy each moment with him as if the shadow of war wasn’t hanging over them. But it was.

His orders came, and he left.

She went through the motions of her life. Got up each morning, showered, dressed, made her bed and went to work. Every now and then she even remembered to eat something. But she lived only in the moments when she heard from him.

And then they came.

She was standing now at the edge of a bridge, in near darkness. Looking at the water roiling such a long way down. “He’s not coming home,” she whispers.

“He went to kill, got killed instead. He’s not coming home.”