Among vast deserts, its hard to forget what was lost.
A paved asphalt road extending miles lay in front of the priest, and the droid.
Lisan stand proud next to the visibly tired Mercury, eons before revelation.
Hours and hours needed to reach this road along the violent dust storms of sand felt like a minute in retrospect.
Storms bottle sorrow like old wine. They withhold memories beneath each drop of liquor.
Mercury trembles. Stress spikes like thunder through synthetic arteries and veins.
Noticing, "Are you tired Mercury? Afraid even?" Lisan asked.
Shreds of plant growth tremble at the road's edge, as if rising in fear. Among them stands a single flower lilac and blood-red, with a black stigma like a human pupil.
A reminder, and an insult of the past, a Fuchsia for a forgotten.
"Yeah, I'd say so." Mercury mutters weakly.
"Are you tired of living but afraid to die?" Lisan inquired.
Mercury glanced at him with a raised eyebrow.
"Maybe you're afraid to die because you haven't lived yet."
"I suppose."
They both stare down at the road, to their right holds a wooden old bus stop with two broken seats.
Mercury eyes the bench, and murmurs, "The thought of living petrifies me. They all tried but they died in the end. Nobody gets to die a hero's death anymore. A dramatic death is only fantasy now." He says as he clears his dry throat.
"I'd say that's the difference between us and the Evolutionaries." Lisan said.
All focus is put on him now, even the dust storm silences in his sake.
"They pride a heroic death, they don't fear death because quite frankly, there is nothing else for them."
Silence. Not even the clouds above dare interrupt with squalls, nor the birds with squawks.
He continues, "A placeholder for honor, our country is in a lack of that motivation anymore. People have too much to 'live' for that they trap themselves in their home, on devices they say they hate, despise all forms of order yet submerge themselves in it." He pauses.
They both gaze out into the endless desert beyond the road and see no civilization ahead. The only path is this one road with flowers of obituaries it refuses to tell, only show.
"A lack of a need to live has made them succeed, while a fear to die has made us weak, its made us slaves to life."
"And they sent me to die for all this . . ."
"Not that they sent you to die, more like they wouldn't bat an eye if you did . . ." Lisan said.
"Yeah . . . yeah." Mercury acknowledged.
Rumbling roared near.
It crept closer like a stalker.
A taboo of engineering.
A train of promising redemption after incarceration mellowed, slowing down with steel bars and hands sticking out to the air that they'll liberate for now.
Mercury glanced at the behemoth, it looked as if it were made for bloody war, but it was only for withholding.
What is Lisan thinking? A prison bus? And not just any generic one . . . A cathedral of chains
The transport that entails the worst of all condemned. Your worst thoughts? They've done those . . .
Iron-coated. With ashes of rust and old blood. Its arrival stirred like an ancient war cry.
Although a general, Mercury quivered slightly at the sight, barely maintaining composure.
Am I . . . scared?
He glanced downward at his reborn hands, coursing cyan-blue arteries, across indigo-silver arms that traveled up to his neck, narrowly reaching his face.
Then staring at the hell-born construct in silence, the name choked in his dry throat.
Lisan simply smiled.
Stenciled on the gates of death, lie gargoyles still, boiling without expression as they melt pondering upon their actions; true burden of stillness.
They opened, screeching like a fork on a plate.
The conductor, a scarred man with a plethora of years behind his eyes, he froze when he saw white-robed man patiently waiting.
No credentials, no identification. He gestured for the men to enter, and eyed Mercury. The priest stared at the man without a word. Rows of guards stood idle like statues waiting to be sculpted. Gray rifles lay in their arms in a hollow manner. The air crushed the atmosphere of the vehicle with each step the priest took into the transport's three step entrance.
A Step. Then another, and the final before standing in the vehicle. Guards exhaled in stress, sweat dripped from their silver and green uniform with cyan lining. They all stared at the tall man with long, tiger-like hair laying past his shoulders.
His robes brushed the gritty floor, coating it in blessing like a whisper of forgiveness for the poor soul who built it with incense.
The conductor sat hunched behind layers upon layers of armored glass, with a face lined with unforgotten memories, secrets, and crimes, operating the console, then dialing up the control panel and its instruments that emitted cerulean glows on his wrinkled, empty-eyed complexion.
Continuing with toying with the panels, regulating temperatures, moisture in the air, speedometers, and air tension levels across layers of the warship on land for the worst of the worst laying dormant in the back.
Adjusting each setting and operation, as if muscle memory alone can erase fear as he then stared at the man who stood tall.
His breath heightened, his mechanical heart pounded like a gong, eyes widened farther and farther each millisecond.
Lisan did not knock. He did not greet. He simply removed his sunglasses.
Gently.
The motion was slow, reverent, like uncovering a sacred relic.
Then, the conductor saw them: Spiraling gold eyes . . . a nameless constellation of cycling resplendent rings, layered with embroidered symmetry. Orbits layer atop each other, leading to emptiness on clockwork spirals.
Each orbit turned, slowly like each layer condemns one of different sin as they spiral downward into despair of repentance.
Threaded lightly through the waves of pure gold, glints of a cyan pure ocean aligned along it.
A faint hymn of origin.
There was no pupil in lines of the order, only truth.
The conductor reacted instinctually, his throated swallowed dry. His mouth opened, then closed again, like a child caught lying in church.
He looked away quickly as if he saw his reflection of self in his eye once veiled by pitch-black spectacles, like an ant staring into a microscope.
Lisan smiled, barely. He put back on his sunglasses, slow and surgical, adjusting them so that none can remove it.
Behind arrays of guards, lie a gate with seats, Mercury stepped in the vehicle of the guards that refused to look. The gate holds prisoners condemned with heinous crimes, and behind those seats, lay another door, with the unspeakable.
Lisan put his hand out, and a guard swiftly gave the keycard in his hand without looking to open the barbed electrical steel gate in front of them.
The priest swiped the keycard gracefully, and the door popped open.
Steel seats of prisoners lay amongst rusted floors bolted to the war-machine posing as a bus, with two empty seats.
Lisan and Mercury sit in the empty front seats, exhaling their breath as it flows into the steel-barbed windows gazing into the infinity of the desert, behind shackles of monsters before them.
A man behind them, tan-blistered skin with no hair, dark-brown eyes like blunted needles, reached out. Five fingers lay on Lisan's robe.
"Priest," The man whispered. "I know what your kind" do to the innocent. You wear robes of saints, but you ain't any cleaner than the rest of us."
His hands twitched, he pulled out a rusty scalpel with bloody remnants on the blade from the inside of his mouth.
Before attempting to strike, Lisan already turned.
The guards behind the barbed gate looked down.
Eerily calm, he grabbed his arm, twisted, disarming his scalpel which clattered in beats in the steel floor.
All speech fell as the spotlight of the sun shown on Lisan. One again, he took off his sunglasses with his other arm, revealing true judgement.
Mercury stared in shock.
What the hell are you thinking, Lisan . . .
He looked at Lisan's eyes, knowing he'd seen it before, a moment of déjà vu.
Mala-born ocean-clear light give penance into the convict.
Even gods look away when he takes his glasses off. And I'm following him? . . . Sh*t.
"Fine fingers," the divine said softly. "Five fingers touched my robe."
Lisan lifted his sleeves.
Silence shrouded the room louder.
He glanced at Mercury, "What is the consequence, General?"
Mercury hesitated, his eyes scan the ceiling of the bus, looking for an answer that hands mercy for once. Not one arrived.
He turned to an armed guard that stood behind the gate as the convict sits in fear . . . waiting.
"What's this convict in for?"
The guard answered expressionless. "Massacres of three orphanage-chapels. Said he wanted to see if God bled like the rest."
Mercury smirked.
"Then, for each finger that touched the robe . . . they must be broken."
The convict trembled, huddling himself into a corner, repeating to himself like a scared child. "God no. God no." He exhaled.
"God no."
"He is not waiting for you, for you are unclean." Mercury stared with blank eyes.
Mercury grabbed the mans arm, as he screamed, "NO!"
"Why do you resist? Did your victims resist? Did you let them go?" Mercury badgered.
Mercury grabbed the man's pinky and-
Snap.
"First for defiance."
The man tried screamed like a dying goat, but couldn't make any sound, only a slight gasp was audible.
Snap.
"Second for heresy."
The convict teared, looking downward.
Snap.
"Third for shamefulcowardice."
The convict was pale from shock.
Snap.
"Fourth for mocking heaven."
Snap.
"And the fifth . . . " Mercury looked down at him as he squirmed. "For touching what's not yours."
The convict twitched, every muscle and fiber in his body ached with nerve activation as the hands he used to kill were being cleansed. Soon to be saved.
He teared up, curling in his seat, whimpering, begging to be put down.
"What's wrong . . . does it hurt?" Mercury smiled. "Do you know how much kindness it took from me, to be this violent?"
Why did that feel . . . right?
Lisan glanced closer with piercing eyes at the distraught inmate, his voice hushed a soft lullaby:
"Agony is your baptism. Paradise awaits if you endure it. If you don't, the void will engulf you to be remembered in suffering."
Nobody spoke, not the inmates, the guards, or the conductor.
Not a word, only stares, as the whimpering man bled from the exposed bones in his fingers, praying.
Lisan noticed his praying, lay a hand on him. "Your pain has shown new purity. One day, you may be fully cleansed, for you a merely a lost lamb." He whispered.
"I forgive you for your ignorance child." The priest said.
Nobody came to console the convict, after all he committed unfathomable crimes, yet the priest forgave him. Why?
Dusk came as the man pondered.
Night fell, a regular black sky lay about. The disease of slumber hit everyone in the bus, except the conductor, guard, Lisan, and the suffering convict.
Weakly the convict spoke, "Why do you forgive me . . . father?"
The priest didn't speak.
"Why . . . someone like me?" The convict whispered faintly.
Without turning, he spoke, "Like I said, there is purity in your agony, feel pain."
He continued, "Tell me, what is your name?"
"No name, just a number. Thalatha. Because of what I did."
Thalatha means 'Three' in the language of Mala.
Lisan nodded.
Silence fell.
Before the convict could comprehend his message, he knocked out from shock and blood loss.
Mercury awoke at the slight sound of whispers near him.
"Lisan . . ." He said tiredly.
The priest glanced at the cyborg who charged on sleep. "You showed commends for faith. Why?" He whispered.
With eyes half-closed, he responded, "Because the thought that pain can purify, consoled me. You told me it as we walked in the desert."
"I see . . ."
Falling back asleep, Mercury slouched in his seat, his torn shirt still illuminating blood-stains across the moonlight.
Lisan looks around, noting the guards fell asleep standing up. The conductor placed the bus in auto drive, so now he stares outside the barred windows. They glare beams of moonlight shining on his sunglasses, barely detailing his ethereal eyes of 'stars'.
I'm the last one awake. Everything became quiet, just how I like it. I may be tired, because I have trouble falling asleep, but that's okay. Not many get to see a moon like this.
Lisan lays out his cross necklace, praying while hugging it between both hands, begging . . . repenting.
Morning rose, Mercury woke up first, looking at the deeply sleeping Lisan, then glaring through the bars of the window displaying sunrise.
What a beautiful sunrise. Lisan was talking about beauty being forgotten, I sure as hell hope this isn't forgotten. Was all that . . . 'right'?
He exhaled softly.
I need a new notebook . . .
Time passed like a childhood, was it already time to leave?
Mercury awoke Lisan by tapping him, standing above him.
Lisan arose like a mummy from a coffin, scratching his eyes.
"C'mon man, conductor just told me that's our stop."
Lisan got up, and followed mercury past the barbed gate one last time. He looked behind to see the cleansed convict staring outside, hands together in prayer.
He smiled in liberation.
The two men got offboard to meet a large silver-cyan coated military base.
Mercury felt a different feeling from the texture on the ground.
This texture, I'm finally back in the grasslands of Mala.
Looking about to see bushy trees, staggering hills atop each other, mountains reaching past the clouds. He turned around, and saw the path connected to the path which his crew travelled to get there.
He looked around confused, and he knew he been here before, but still felt lucid.
A channel of land connecting to the desert with pavement, the desert turned out to be disconnecting from the main land. In result, changing biomes in responses to the changes in environment.
Its all so quick.
"Lets go to the base, friend. We must inform your supervisors."
Friend?
Quickly departing, the rust-torn hell of a bus moves on to its next stop, paradise.
It was a blur as they entered the base.
Inside the train, Three hasn't moved a muscle. An inmate behind him, tapped his shoulder.
"Yo, Thalatha. How's ya' hand bud?"
He rattled, not speaking a word.
"Yo?" He grabbed his arm to check for a pulse.
But he saw.
. . .
Thalatha had taken a scalpel, slit his wrist with the broken fingers hours ago when everyone was asleep.
Dried blood laid on his wrist like sigils, as he holds the rusty scalpel in his other hand.
"Holy sh*t. He's dead." The inmate let go, not knowing what to do, for Thalatha had already been salvaged in his own eyes.
He attempted praying with broken fingers, but in the end, pain had purified him past saving.
However, the train still moves, time still passes.
Nobody's stopping for you, because you wouldn't stop for them either.
That's how it always goes.
Meanwhile, the two men walk into the base. Jets with lilac-azure flames protruding from oscillating turbines on silver-black detailing. All black helicopters with grey lights, blue flames, and a Volvern cannon sticking out from the side. Tanks which shot ungodly horrors lay dormant, but ready.
Near it, long tables with soldiers, generals, lieutenants, and supervisors discuss strategy and technicalities, they discussed about the land of the desert narrowly connected to the mainland was going to become a 'banished land' because it was the process of realm tectonics as cause for the drift.
Lisan stands calm next to Mercury, as a skinny-tall, brown woman among the discussion notices the bloody mercury, and rushes towards him.
"General Mashia! Are you okay, and why is your hair gray?" She asked worriedly.
"I don't go by that name anymore, Linea. More importantly, the entire platoon . . . is dead."
His words shrouded the room, silence arose waiting for Mercury to speak.
The Replicant stared at her, noting her slim features, silver suit, and on top lay a nametag: "S. Selune."
"You're joking . . . right?" Selune laughed nervously.
"I wish, Supervisor Selune. Now . . . who is responsible for the Messenger's rescues, because we called, yet not one person answered."
Selune stumbled.
This isn't the Mashia I used to know. He's somebody else now.
Mercury stepped forward with a pounce of a white snow leopard, elegant, cold, yet startling.
"Father Lisan saved me among my fallen comrades, we are all that's left."
He rambled on, "Nasir, Farhan, Kadir . . . Who the f**k is responsible for all this, huh? Who let them die?"
The cold military corridor zapped with hanging wires hanging from the ceiling, echoes from the walls shaved on its silver tiles.
Selune froze at his words, everyone did.
"Th-there's no rescues for Messengers, General. You of all people should know that." She stands tense, preparing for outrage.
Lisan put a hand on Mercury's shoulder. He exhales, and points Linea to the seats at the table to discuss further.
A military with no rescue. What a joke, so I've been lucky all this time until now?
Mercury sips a bottle of water on the table, quenching his undying thirst, as Lisan stands next to them, praying with his eyes closed.
Selune analyzes Mercury, the new hair, the wired braid hanging from his hairline, his pale skin, and his hands . . . they're different.
"General . . . your ha-"
"I'm aware. From now on, you'll refer to me as General Mercury."
Confused, "Uh, alright General . . . Mercury. I thank you for your patience."
"I could stress on the injustices of my platoon, but nothing I say can get to you guys anymore, all stuck-up."
Selune glanced down in shame.
Mercury continued, "I apologize for my rudeness. Now, I just want to know if there's anything I can do for my men."
Selune looked up with a gleam in her bronze eyes from the lights, she reaches over for a folder, flips through it.
"Nobody here had proper family, they were all taken in by Mala's foster facility to raise soldiers, except one man: Kadir."
She continued, "Kadir's information has been processed. One loose end remains: family."
The Replicant tensed. Lisan noticing, volunteered to go instead, but Selune shook her head.
"No, he was under your command General. This is your duty"
Mala, Zi Jin Cheng, they're all the same. I shouldn't have been the one to do 'this'. All in the name of 'duty', huh.
Mercury exhales, as Linea hands Kadir's file, and he gets up and signals Lisan to go.
"We'll have a car waiting for you out there!" Selune said to Mercury with his back faced to her.
They both leave, exiting the open Messenger base, as he looks behind and sees Selune crumpling the files of the rest of the platoon.
She leaves the crumpled papers on the table as she gets back to the team discussing actions.
Another soldier notices the paper, and throws it all away in a nearby trashcan.
Mercury holds the paper tightly, tensing every muscle in his body.
Good men thrown away like garbage.
Blue veins pop in his cybernetic hands, holding the paper dear like a baby.
"Don't go . . ." He whispers weakly.
Lisan looks down, holding his cross tightly.
"And I thought losing would feel comforting." Mercury says with a slight laugh.
Laughing, his ecstasy is interrupted by a screeching.
An all-black car with no driver, awaits them, opening its doors.
They get in, Mercury rocks in the front seat with the paper, he glances at it.
He was twenty-four years old, five foot ten inches tall, he loved his wife and daughter. But along the array of facts and accomplishments, it read that his wife was depressive . . . and would get into depressive episodes frequently.
From the passenger seat, Lisan stares at the paper, puts a hand on his forehead, exhaling.
"Lisan."
The priest stares at the Replicant.
"Have I lost?"
The car's air conditioning enables, filling in the silence.
A loss of silence.
What more can be lost?