Chapter 3 - Parasocial in Stockholm

Content Warnings: Body Horror, Gore, Self-Harm, Kidnapping, murder.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Red. It's a colour that has been hardwired into humanity's very DNA. 

  Passionate, vibrant, enticing. The colour of a romantic sunset, of songbirds in spring, of berries that grow against all odds in the winter. The inexperienced child pants still, his face flushed red from exertion, having burned out all of his passion.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Grey. It's about as far from colour as you can actually get.

  Dull, lifeless, artificial. The colour of damp clouds, of rotten flesh, of the mold that festers and drains other living things. The indecisive men run hands through their pale hair, expressions cold and voices impassive as they discuss the grey area.

  Drip. Drip. Drip.

  Black. It's a shade rather than a colour, absolute as its bright antagonist.

  Dark, fierce, unforgiving. The colour of endless night, of volcanic ash, of deadly nightshade that dares anyone foolish enough to take a bite. The incomplete child stares down at his obsidian black hands, grey screws and casings holding them together, red blood coalescing on every surface, in every crevice, dripping down to the ground while its weight remains as an unfading black mark.

  The hands twitch slightly, damaged from the heavy impacts inflicted on them. The cracks and dents tell a story. Justice, he told himself, marred by bloodshed. Vengeance, perhaps, punctuated with gunshots. Slaughter, they say, condemning without hearing the whole tale. Just a red herring within the grey matter of the black sheep's colorful history.

  "Ovid!" A voice calls out. It echoes through the factory, the bass vibrating to his very core. That was his name. Always had been. Just a sheep, led around by whichever shepherd barked in his direction. Always thought that he would end up the one in the abattoir, yet here he kneels, covered from head to toe in the gore of a butcher.

  "Canis, we're going to need to take him in. Those cynets, they're unlike anything you've turned over to the legion. What were you thinking..." A softer voice, cool and frosty compared to the warmth of the last. The wolf and the hound circle around the sheep, fangs bared at one another as they fight over their prey. Later they'll all be part of the same pack, but not now while the scent of meat is still enticing them on.

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  I stare down at my hands watching the red drip clear of their inky surface. Water-resistant. Treated with a coating that lets liquid run off of them for good measure. Why then will the dripping never cease? 

  My eyes catch sight of a fracture at the end of my forearm. It's small, but just dented enough to give a tiny view into the flesh within. Wires for nerves. Tubes for veins. Layers of carbon-fiber to replicate the twitch and flex of muscle.

  A pale amber liquid is gently flowing out of the crack and dripping to the ground along with the blood. Some sort of acidic solution that I didn't understand back then. At that point only one man knew what it was that made me, me. I think therefore I am. Perhaps I thought too much back then. 

  The fingers of my other hand begin scratching at the small crack, digging into the space between and peeling open a window into my very anatomy. Wires to replace the nerves... artificial neurons and synapses carrying messages from the source to this shell. My fist coils around the bundle of nerves, my entire head screaming in warning at the violation. 

  "Ovid, stop! Get out of my-" 

Art by Llanvabon: https://twitter.com/llanvabonx/status/1513629207485874177

  I see nothing but red as I scream, ripping the coil of wires out of my arm. The grey wires begin pulling loose, each inch of movement felt as intensely as though they were barbed and the metal was flesh. My vision fades to black as the scream is cut off and replaced with silence, all of the air ripped out of my lungs along with the nerves. I press on, pulling and tearing even as I collapse to the ground. More and more of the wires slide out of my arm, but the pain doesn't end there. I feel it tug deeper. It's passing though the upper arm, my shoulder and catching on my spine at the base of my neck. 

  One more scream and a final yank lead to the wires finally snapping free of what I thought was my spine. There's a different sound that I hear and feel within my roots. Wire ripping free of metal. The click and snap of machinery reacting to damage and preventing further failure. The machine arm goes limp but I still feel the coil of wires screaming in pain as they crumple on the ground and more of that amber solution sprays onto them. A burning sensation more intense than I ever felt from my own flesh. 

  Several voices are raised in alarm as the rest of my body falls down and lies limp on the ground. The red blood all around me ripples and waves as the onlookers stomp through it. The grey wires pulse with pain as they swim in the spilt life of others. My vision fades once more as I mercifully black out, escaping those crepuscular questions for at least a few hours.

  Red, grey, black: The primary colours that paint my world.

Art by 

黑泽 Hei Ze: https://twitter.com/ooQ5aelm7LeNvb7/status/1511699227902189575

*************

Beep. Beep. Beep.

My eyes flutter open, fighting to rise against the weight of a Rem cycle they haven't felt in months. The ghost of a scent still lingers in my nostrils. Metallic like rust. Caustic like acid.

Two fingers at the side of my neck connect me to the caller on the other end, and a frosty voice drones on, as if we had already been in the middle of a conversation.

"Fulgur? I've sent 4 messages and called twice already. Don't tell me you were actually asleep?" There's the hint of a pause, and I open my mouth to respond as she continues on. "More likely drinking, am I right? Well, are you sober enough to take on a legatio?" The voice pauses for more than a second and I hear the tap, tap, tap of fingernails on a desk. I let the silence hang in the air, already sliding down the bed and getting dressed for the day. Impossible to tell what time it is, but that doesn't matter for a Legatus. "How much did you drink exactly?" the voice asks, more accusation than question.

"That rhetorical or-"

"He has a voice!" A frigid laugh that I only hear over the phone, rings in my ears like an iceberg shattering in the wilderness. She's so different from her in-person persona. Hard to deal with. Same exact voice though... "I've sent you the mission details. Twice I think -three times. Look them over and be there when you can. I've reserved this one for you."

"... why?" I ask, honestly curious as to her decision process. I am literally built to breach barriers and neutralize hostile targets, yet for the last several missions given to me by the Praetor, I've not had to disable power-saving mode once. "Hello?" There is no tone telling me of the line being disconnected. Just the silence and my own voice echoing back in my tiny room to confirm that she's already gone.

Why go through the trouble of calling and sending messages if she's going to connect directly to my neural network? -Without consent, no less. Any other Legatus might have some choice words to share with another Praetor.

*************

Market District 6. The sky is just turning a dark shade of blue as I pull in to the rundown building that houses my target. In the duoverse, the building itself isn't visible. Just a marketing space, which combined with the 5 other buildings nearby, play an unending loop of cheap advertisements.

"Cheshire Kat is coming!" The screen promises me as a tall and slim cat-girl strides confidently onto a stage, grinning mischievously behind an oversized microphone before fading away. I make my way into the building, seeing several other 5 second advertisements for small streamers and influencers. Each face hoping to make it big and be the next hit.

Any one of these hopefuls might deserve to have their name in lights. As it was, they had to buy the advertising space. Five seconds of time their only shot at catching the eyes of any citizens that happened to be driving by. Each ad looked more generic than the last with witty slogans, slick logos and unique visuals all blending into one hazy memory of neon lights. By the time I pressed the elevator call button on the door below I had forgotten all of the names and slogans. The apartment number I needed, the only memory retained from the walk.

"Hello? Is this the Legatus?" A soothing voice asked through the intercom. I paused again, surprised at the calmness with which I was greeted.

"Yes. Is this... Iris Park?" I asked, suddenly unsure of the name I had been provided, or if the report had been accurate at all.

"Yes, it is!" They sounded excited at my arrival and the doors in front of me slid open, an old-fashioned piiiing sound announcing the arrival of the elevator.

"Mmmn?" a curious exhalation of air escapes my lips as I step inside.

The smells of urine, rotten food and moldy clothes assault my nostrils instantly. Once the doors had closed and the rickety machine began rising, it shook up all of the air, intensifying the scents and assuring me I would need a shower after this.

Exiting the elevator, puzzled glances locked onto me from the open doorways of more than a dozen citizens. Outwardly I'm the picture of stoicism. Expressionless, calm, moving with confidence through the halls without another thought. Inwardly, I can feel the bile building up in my stomach from the small amount of gin that I admittedly had consumed the night before.

Not enough to get drunk or hungover, dear listener. Chill. Just enough to dull the senses until whatever grey noise my recommended playlist had shuffled through, helped me to fall unconscious.

There's something wrong with this picture... Locking eyes with a few of the citizens, they mostly panic and shut their doors. A not-so-subtle creak or knock signaling that each has been reopened once I'm a few feet beyond them. They all look so... dirty. Hair messy and greasy. Skin blotchy and burned. Clothes hanging loose from their forms rather than showing off their figure. There's also far more cynets on display than I'm used to. Cheap filtration devices and uncustomized prosthetics catching the dull yellow light of the bulbs above.

Bzzzzzzzz~

My eyes look up cautiously at one such light as I go by. It's flickering slightly and emitting a faint high-pitched squeal. Physical light?

I blink twice, confirming that nothing in the hallway has changed. Two fingers on my neck try to summon up a web page but nothing appears. I blink twice again and see that the web page is already waiting for me, the only pulsing and shimmering image in my sight.

Dismissing it, my IIs dart left and right, peering at the faces in the hall once again. How had I not noticed before? I've gotten too used to turning off the duoverse, to viewing reality in it's still and lifeless form. Despite this building being within the limits of Central Republic, the entire interior is without any DV customization. Every face that peers at me, cautious and curious from within their own safe spaces is a pure uni. Other than a few pairs of IIs that glow faintly in the dull light, no-one seems to even have glasses or headsets to view the duoverse.

My pace picks up slightly as I realize just how exposed and defenseless I am. By the time I see the number 42 appear on my right, I'm almost jogging. Stretching forward to knock on the door, its opening catches me by surprise. I push passed the person, welcoming me through it's frame, their hospitality cut short as I move in through the darkness, spinning on my heels only at the next doorway to what seems to be a living room. I feel my face knitted into a grim expression and fists balled tight, neither of which are very legatus of me.

My host quickly shuts the door behind me, coughing erratically into a frail hand. We stand there for a moment, me, shaking like a wounded animal, and them, coughing and eventually collapsing against the frame of the door.

Another moment passes before I run metal fingertips through my grey hair, brushing away the damp strands that fell into my eyes. A sigh escapes my lips before I relax and say aloud to the frail form, "are you okay? Do you need me to get you anything?"

A few more coughs escape their lips as they pull themselves back up, using the handle of the door for stability. "Water -cough- not you. Would you like something -cough- to drink?" Pulling themselves forward more than walking, my host makes their way into a side room, and the sound of liquid pouring into a container drowns out some of the continued coughs and wheezes.

Following the source of the sound, I find my host draining the first glass of water for themselves before pouring out another. "You sure you're okay?" I ask. They jump a little, spinning to face me with one hand grabbing the sink behind them for stability.

Grey hair cascades down their form, bound on one side in a loose bundle that hangs over the front of their shoulder. Within the dark grey and silver is a hint of blonde. Sparks of life in a winter storm. Their eyes, sunken slightly into their skull are a pale blue, shaking as they dilate in panic. Their skin is so pale that they appear a ghost, fading into the muted greys and browns of the room. It doesn't help that they wear a long and flowy sundress that drifts in the gentle breeze of the air conditioning. The pastel blue of the dress has faded to the colour of chalk from years of washing and reuse. The floral patterns and shape of the original stitching all look off and misshapen from countless tears and frays that have been repaired with simple needlework.

The form pulses and shimmers. It's a duotar, no doubt about it. A perplexingly plain duotar that suggests a frail middle-aged form. Not so old that they should be this weak. Beautiful and tender with the kind of features that you don't see in The Republic, land of eternal youth for those who can afford it.

I clear the distance between us in three steps, taking the glass out of a trembling hand and refilling it with the water from a jug that has the slight scent of eggs drifting off of it. Handing them the full glass I consider my next move carefully. Something about this feels even more off. I could end it now with a single punch. Save us both a whole lot of panic and messing around. It's a kindness, I tell myself as they take the glass. My bright red fist, freed now from its burden, drifts down to my side. Weightless. Waiting.

They visibly calm themselves, pushing their body up to full height with that left hand and continuing in the same gentle voice as before.

"I'm sorry if I worried you, Legatus. My hardware appears to be breaking down. Perhaps it's my fate to join Tinea with or without your assistance." A smile appears on those thin lips, causing a myriad of wrinkles to form all over the rest of their face. Where before the eyes had looked sunken, the skin hanging off of bones, now they came to life, beaming with a radiance that I hadn't seen before. Despite the wrinkles and liver spots, they looked more vigorous than most who called themselves alive.

"You're Iris?" I confirm. "The one who called in to the legion?"

"Iris Park. The pleasure is mine. I've never met a real Legatus before. Honestly though, would you like something to drink? It's all going to go to waste otherwise." Iris tapped a cabinet above the sink, revealing boxes labeled with different names of tea, and then swung open the door to a refrigerator. I couldn't help but audibly gasp, greeted with multiple bottles of wine chilling in a rack, several bottles of colourful liquids labeled with the names of different fruits, an entire section of fresh produce and even a bottle of milk. "We have some tea cakes too! You can take whatever you'd like before you go."

"Are these all real?" I ask, barely conscious of the question myself. At the same time I bring Legion files up on my IIs and begin browsing through Tinea Park's financial records. Sure enough, the man had hit it big with investments in his 30s, nearly 40 years ago and had lived off of interest ever since, always taking out less money than he earned each year, without ever working. So why live in a dump like this?

"Why wouldn't they be real?" Iris cocked their head to the side. They took a small sip of water before pulling out an apple from the back of the fridge and bringing it close to their nose. A barely audible sniff could be heard before Iris held out the apple to me. "We didn't have things like this in my time you know. You need to treasure it. After the fall we only had the basic building blocks of nutrition and everything had the same chalky taste."

Art by Kurohiko: https://twitter.com/meikurohiko/status/1510928910774517766

I reached out slowly, fingertips coiling around the apple as I brought it close to my own nose. A scent unlike anything I'd ever experienced erased all memory of the elevator. It was almost enough to distract me from the task at hand, but still the question haunted me. The reason this all felt off becoming clearer and clearer.

"What do you mean in your time, Iris?" I ask the question, staring at the apple. A crimson reflection of my own distorted form looking back at me. I sink my teeth into the soft flesh, juices spilling slightly at the corner of my mouth. I'd never eaten an imitation fruit, let alone a real one, so my form left much to be desired. Wiping the juice with the back of my fist, the clear liquid dripped swiftly off of the metal and down onto the kitchen floor with an audible drip.

"When I was alive. Before I became an I'mprint."

Video by Amox: https://twitter.com/amoxixili/status/1510292383539236867

"So you know that you're an I'mprint?" I ask.

"Of course," comes their simple reply. "Iris Park, an I'mprint copied from the Uni, Iris Oscen. I'm married to Timea Park and have served as his life companion for... 30 years now?" Iris walked passed me, finding a large reclining chair in the sitting room and slowly sinking into it before laying back. I watched this all with great interest, not sure exactly how to proceed. Another bite of the apple came much easier than the last, with no juice spilled this time.

I step into the next room, Iris' eyes fixed on me curiously. Everything past the doorway in this apartment pulsed and shimmered. A welcome sign which I now consciously confirmed. Looking around at the decorations, I found a photo album covered in dust and tapped it twice, a small cloud of the filth wafting off of it. "It's physical," Iris laughs, realizing I had expected it to be a virtual album I could open in the duoverse. "Everything may have a duotar in here, but it's all also real. Timmie was an odd one." A hint of sadness crept into Iris' voice at the last sentence. 30 years builds attachments, even in software it seems.

Flipping open the album, I'm greeted by a pair of smiling faces. The one in a bright white wedding dress is gorgeous' Long golden hair tied up in a series of braids, a practiced smile that betrays a history of posing for cameras, bright blue eyes, the colour of the sky behind them. Iris had always been beautiful. No surprise there if their I'mprint was kept for 30 years by a man rich enough to buy anything. "This Timea?" I ask, eyeing the average man in the light blue suit next to Iris.

"That's him," Iris confirms with mirth in their voice. "Like I said, he was an odd one. Always took me on virtual vacations and insisted on taking pictures." He could easily be Iris' father in the picture. Chubby, with a poorly fitting, cheap suit that did nothing to flatter his form. Flipping through the album I find more of the same. His clothes were always form over fashion, while Iris was in an ever-changing array of expensive clothes and accessories. Timea never looked the part of husband, even as they started to look less distant in age. There was something about the expressions and poses though. Iris went from boldly flaunting in every shot to becoming a part of it. Their expression went from fiery and seductive to warm and inviting. There seemed to be less distance between the pair, despite some of the early photos featuring Iris literally hanging off of Timea.

I close the album and place it back on the table I found it on. "You know why I'm here?" I ask, turning back to face Iris. The warm smile fixed on me once again unsettles me and shakes my resolve.

"Of course. You're a legatus of division 505. I called as soon as they collected Timmie's body," Iris responds with a matter-of-fact tone. I looked around the room once more, touching a nearby bouquet of flowers that pulsed and shimmered and confirming that they too were real.

"I'mprints are supposed to shut down when their owner is confirmed deceased."

"I know!" Iris lets a little panic slip into their voice. "I promise you I haven't been hacked. I know exactly what I am and Timmie would never do that. There must be some sort of glitch, but I can't seem to solve it myself. Every time I shut down I just power up again." Walking over to Iris, I extend a hand, palm up and wait for them to take it. As we touch I feel the softness of flesh, loosely hanging from what feels like real bones. As sensitive as my artificial limbs are, they've been fooled by expensive toys before. I'd never found one designed to replicate an aged form like this though. I'm still lost. There has to be more.

"What type of body are you in?"

"I... I don't really know. Timmie told me it's standard. A biomechanical frame built to perfectly replicate human life. You should know better than me. In my time, an I'mprint would rarely make it 10 years, let alone 30. Feeling human helped me stay sane." My eyes narrow as I begin a search into the records of Iris Oscen. No results turn up, going back as far as the founding of The Republic.

"Can you do it already?" Iris asks, pale blue eyes suddenly sharp and focused on my own. "I thought... I hoped you'd make it a surprise." Their hand grips tighter against mine. I feel the pulse of some liquid pumping through the flesh at erratic intervals.

Ripping my hand away, I take two steps back. Iris pushes their chair back into sitting position and stands, appearing much stronger than they had moments ago. "I need to know your story first. Something doesn't add up." My mind is going through the facts, trying to put the information together as Iris follows me to the corner of the room. "Who were you before you were an I'mprint?"

A chuckle escapes Iris' mouth. "Very funny, legatus. I may look different but you have those fancy IIs. I am THE Iris Oscen. A copy anyway." Crimson hands grab Iris by the shoulders, keeping them at arms' length. Anything to prevent those blue orbs from seeing more. Iris is so thin that I can feel shoulder, arm and collar bone pressing forward against my resistance.

"There is no Iris Oscen!" The pressure against my hands ceases as Iris twists slightly, glaring at me in defiance. I go on, "There's no record of an Iris Park either. I'mprints can't get married and Timea Park doesn't have any registered I'mprints."

Iris' gaze is fixed pointedly on my own, challenging me to deliver answers that I don't have. The steely eyes move down and focus on my hip, flashing back up with a challenging head tilt. I grab the netjack, buckled to my belt and free it, lifting it to eye-level. "You can try if you want. I have a feeling that it won't work. ...Are you prepared for that?" The black cylinder is ripped out of my hand instantly and Iris doesn't hesitate at all, pressing the red tip to the side of their head. A thought from me activates it, a distinct click emitting from the device.

...silence. Then Iris throws it to the side, turning away and striding into another room, all past signs of frailty gone.

"It's broken!" They scream, the sound of objects being flung around filling the apartment. I retrieve the netjack, reattaching it to my belt, then follow to a huge bedroom, lavishly furnished like an expensive hotel. Iris is throwing boxes of shoes, candles, jewelry and dresses out of a large walk-in closet. Looking around the room, a cabinet catches my eye. I sigh in frustration at Iris, moving to the clue instead.

The familiar sight of Iris from their youth is everywhere within. Most prominently on a large canvas poster that takes up the entire back of the cabinet, clear glass shelves slotted in front of it supporting the other items. In large letters, the name Iris Oscen fills the bottom of the poster and everywhere else is an explosion of blue and yellow designs with Iris posing powerfully in the center, skin-tight clothes showing off their body as much as possible. Looking over the items in the shelf I find trading cards, replica statues, chibi figures, custom gaming controllers and branded merchandise, all with the same name, logo and image of a grinning Iris on them. It's a shrine devoted to fiction. Iris Oscen, seemingly memorialized as a celebrity despite their name not being on record at all.

"This isn't broken." Iris has emerged from the closet, presenting me a black box with another brand name on it that I recognize all too well.

"Civilians aren't allowed to arm themselves with-"

"I'm not. I'm arming a legatus." Iris shoves the box my way, clicking open two fastening switches and revealing the weapon within. "I called the legion. Division 505. Are you going to do your job or not?" Their voice is back to the calm tone, but there's something new. No longer is Iris demanding me do this. They seem to have connected the dots faster than me. They're pleading, begging me to do what I was called here for.

Cold grey IIs focus on the name on the black box. An old friend. Nostalgia from a long lost childhood. Metal fingertips brush gently against the inside of my palms. The apple was dropped at some point without my notice. The hands feel empty. Free of any burden. Weightless. Waiting.

  I was literally built for this, I tell myself, taking the weapon from it's container. The cold embrace of metal feels natural against my equally dense hand. I sigh, checking the charge of the weapon and adjusting its output. These are all practiced actions that were ingrained in my nervous system before I fully matured. Lifting the weapon, I line up the shot, an HUD in my IIsight displaying exactly where the impact will occur. 

  Iris thinks too much. It's an issue we all deal with at some point in our lives. One that I cured myself of.

  My hands are steady. Weightless in this moment as the cynet arms, neural network and IIs all link to do my duty. Iris mutters something in a warm tone. It's all white noise to me, interrupted by the burst of energy when I pull the trigger. I don't feel a thing, artificial nerves having muted the sensation, cynet arms already countering the recoil and staying perfectly still, prepared for another shot. It isn't needed.

  Dropping the weapon I make my way out of Iris and Timea's apartment. The door is left ajar, onlookers doing their best to peer into the open wound the legatus carved into their building. This time I am truly stoic, reminded of who I am and the weight that I will never shift from my shoulders. Their ponderous gazes glance off of me like fluid on a well oiled machine.

Art by DW: https://twitter.com/wood_dorr/status/1511720253667299330

Art by Jeny: https://twitter.com/jenychua03/status/1510866886623313921