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EVER PUNCTUAL!” Ruem mutters,
not checking the time. He never checks the time. He never will. A mesmerizer’s
mind is like a clock. It devours others’ perception of pause but not his own. Still,
how could that Monk lose his sense of time? How can someone waste a moment? Ruem calms his breath, all his
muscles vigilant. For a long time, he doesn’t blink. It’s not an absolute
requisite. The vapor from the river
passes through the rusted, uprooted, century-old cellphone tower. Cellphones
stopped existing way before the war when everyone needed cautious
communication. Ether-coms ruled then, for the secrecy they offered. They still
would rule if the New World Government hadn’t imposed the CRAB on its citizens.
Ruem touches the CRAB in his wrist: a hybrid of platinum beads and biological
cells—a bio-computer. A silent, secret seer. Standing at the edge of the
river and closing his eyes, Ruem inhales the night’s air—the scents of rust,
grass, dry leaves, wet stones, and time. Mostly time. Even time can be smelled
and seen if you are observant, if you know how to smell the abstract. And if
you do, you risk exposure to a certain addiction. The addiction to smell. Ruem brushes the air, his
hands at his sides, his fingers open. You would think he’s touching flowers as he
walks, but there’s no flower. His fingers touch only the abstract. Is there a word that defines
smelling through the skin? No? Then make one. Even if you do make one,
you can never do the action; you can never feel it. Let’s say it’s his special
smelling. Right now, Ruem Drohung smells
with his nose, with his skin, with his fingertips and tongue, with the entirety
of his being. The snakes smell of mating vigor. The sand-bed deep beneath the
river smells of the path it traveled from the Himalayas. The mushrooms, the
moss, and the shattered bricks smell of rain. Tropical rain—he never got used
to it even after living here for ninety years. From a distant time, he recalls
snow, iced lakes, and skiing. He doesn’t remember with whom, but he’s sure he
needed to bend his neck upward—at least sixty degrees—to look at that person. The wind blows his blood-red
hair away from his muscled neck and sharp cheekbones. A grey waistcoat and a
white shirt hide his constructed skin and flesh. There’s also a hat. He wears a
hat as if it’d fly off in a little wind, but it doesn’t, of course, for the
usual Grade-A-human reason. A ninety-nine-year-old man in an ageless body,
playing the Moonlight Sonata 1st Movement in his mind, while
he waits for his childhood friend. *
* * SIX MINUTES RUNNING, and the
Monk isn’t here yet. Ruem puts his hands in his
pockets. Measured paces take him to a narrow street. Those broken buildings
once might’ve been shopping malls, street bars, cafes, or gyms; now they’re
nothing. His evolved vision darts sharp as ever beneath his hat. But a beast
depends more on hearing and smell. In the moonlit night, he senses the mantis
his shoe is about to crush. His foot doesn’t finish the step though, letting it
pass. A life flourishing to fulfill
its drive deserves to live. Ruem squints, skeptical of
what he hears. Voices, at first subtle, grow louder when he focuses. The
classical music playing in his mind gets spoiled by laughter and cursing.
Bandits—Ungraded, or at best, Grade E, if they’re citizens who cannot
afford living inside a city—a typical Junk Land. The Mesmerizer’s eyes flash in
the moonlight beneath his hat’s sharp edge. An unexpected chance to enjoy the
time! All his ecstasy seeks release from restraint. Oh! The nonsensically
necessary restraint … The war hero, the Mesmerizer, one of the voices in
the admin board, cannot let his madness loose, can he? His footsteps grind the rubble.
Drunken voices growing louder, more vulgar. The place is surrounded by broken
buildings. Chunks of concrete missing, shattered windows, rubble on the road, ferns
and weeds breaking through the slits, and a torn iron-gate at the end. The sparkling
river, visible through it, is the only unharmed song of nature. The rest, however, is chaos. Here only remains the scent of
humanity: cheap stimulant liquids, some syringes, drugs, rotten meat and
maggot-infested dead animals men feasted on days ago. Human fluids smell like the
unclean cages of beasts in the small-town zoo Ruem remembers visiting once. “Always leave a mark, don’t
you?” he mutters. Untouchables—their aura diminishing like smoke. How do these
vile things live with such poor prana? No focus. No control of their senses—could
even be offspring from their evolved parents. Some people get good genes only
to waste them, lacking willpower, missing a purpose. Those men sit scattered, not
in comfortable places. Perhaps they think sitting in dangerous, distressing
spots looks cool. Two of them singing in drunken voices: The Apocalypse is gone. War has left. So let’s be cheery. We need not worry. The end never comes twice … At first, only a few notice
Ruem. Soon, everyone falls silent. One of them shouts, “’Oo’s it?
Oo’s dere?” The Mesmerizer walks, his hat
hiding his red eyes. His silence fuels rage in the
man. Humiliation. How dare a citizen come here showing off his fancy shoes?—perhaps,
that’s what the man thinks. “Hoi, ya hear me? Or what?” Another drunkard chuckles a
madman’s cackle. “Eo, boss, he ain’t listening. He ain’t takin’ none of your
shit, eh?” He howls, and it spreads among the rest. Mob psychology: if the
majority laughs, you must laugh too. The boss is now mad. He ought
to be mad; that’s what makes him a boss. Should his honor mortify before
his minions? No way! Apes display these traits. Especially the males. They show
off their strength, begin a fight: sometimes to recover their wounded pride
when their food is taken, other times, to attract the females. Ruem notices the
female here: a young girl, lying wounded on the ground, a torn tank-top hardly
hiding her breasts; rest of her body bare, bleeding. Two other bodies lay nearby:
teen boys—torn, naked, and dead. Ruem stops beside the girl,
careful not to touch her. His hands in his pockets; his eyes glitter, emitting prana. Months passed since he last
sniffed blood from so close. And eras have passed since he last saw willpower
in an unevolved, untouchable. The girl remains alive after everything she has
been through. Only willpower makes it possible. Why is she still alive? What drives her to keep her
eyes open? What desire burns in her heart
that it still beats? If you ever want to know what voice
really is, you will pay attention now. If you do, you’ll notice the
Mesmerizer’s voice of silence. You’ll see the wind, blowing his
blistering red hair, suddenly stops into stillness. His lips curve into a smirk
of pity, if not of amusement. Yes, pity. Neither for the nearly-dead girl nor
for the already-dead boys. But for the ones who will die soon. He takes a deep breath, and a thin
mist forms, but not naturally. You might wonder how someone voices the
vapor without speaking a word. However, the mist surprises even Ruem. Only the
water is supposed to shadow him, not mist! In a second, he remembers the
old times. The time when he stood beside the Monk and fought a war with him.
The time when they were together, and the water would follow him while
the wind would trail the Monk. So would form the mist, simply for their
presence, for what else was mist but a dance of wind and water?
What else was mist but a deception for the enemies? What else was mist but a
sign of terror? It still is a terror. As much
terror an old legend can be. So, when the mist forms again,
Ruem smiles. The Monk must be close. In the meantime, the leader of
those bandits approaches Ruem, holding a knife, cursing, thinking he could win
with loudness alone. He reaches and strikes. Strikes again. And a third time.
Ruem keeps moving away, his hands still in his pockets. If you notice, you’ll
see the Mesmerizer is moving within a three-foot-wide circle. If you observe
more, you’ll realize he is waiting for someone or something. Something he summoned
from his vehicle left near the river. Something with which he may finally touch
them—the unevolved untouchables. “A High Grade
mustn’t touch an unevolved, not to harm, not to defend, not even to love, for it’s
disgraceful.” —Grade-A Code of Honor: Verse-3 The Mesmerizer remembers his
oath in his heart. However, the oath doesn’t say the strong can’t kill the weak
without touching, does it? ‘Mustn’t harm’ and ‘mustn’t touch to harm’
are different. So, he waits. The Mesmerizer waits for his nails to arrive, which
are flying at him from his wine-red Aerial Transport. The nails will
touch, not him. The moment ten metal fingernails
arrive flying, receiving mind-command from his CRAB, they hover like bees for a
moment. When the Mesmerizer finally takes his hands out of his trouser-pockets,
the nails settle around all of his fingers in a united swish and click. Each nail
is three-inches long—sharp and pointed at its end. While it all happens, Ruem
still moves around with his lazy footwork on the same three-foot-wide circle, his
attacker already tired. The Mesmerizer swiftly extends
his hands—all his fingers now clawed. He touches the man’s face. Oh! Right! He
doesn’t touch. His nails do. Only the nails hold the man like you hold
diced fruit with a fork. You’d think he might be smirking, baring his teeth,
and enjoying the hunt. But, no. The Mesmerizer, while his nails hold the man in
one hand, stares at the girl. His eyes beneath that dark hat look for something
in the girl’s eyes, searching through her mind. Not telepathically. Rather, reading
her expression, perceiving her emotions. Just how you’d read someone if you
observe more than you talk. Two dozen men surround Ruem.
Alertness, anger, confusion—all reflected in their faces. None can resolve what
to do. The one who makes decisions for them has his mouth nailed under a Grade A’s
strong … grip? Nail-grip? Forceps-grip? The man’s prana, however, grows
weaker. Ruem absorbs all his life-energy—prana. Someone with evolved vision
would see the transfer of a dull light from one body to another. The man falls
dry and silent. The last drop of prana leaves his flesh. “Bullshit! Did you see that?” “That’s magic. I’m tellin’
ya.” “That’s dark magic! He deals
with demons! He must be the war hero! See that red hat?” “The Mesmerizer ...” Murmurs spread. What’s more addictive than
smelling the world? Sniffing the soul and drinking
human energy. Ruem inhales and drinks what
you can never drink, not until you see it. He drinks it, and strength
follows. And he does it all with his metal claws. When he does, his senses
sharpen; his body feels lighter, open. His prana denser, darker. He didn’t use
this power for so long he almost forgot what it felt like. Being on the admin board of
the first city has limitations, after all. He shouldn’t be seen doing such
things anywhere, not in an era when people pray in his name. Ruem smiles. His will
freezes the vapor around him. Entertainment first! Background matters later. He doesn’t leave the soulless,
frozen man, not until he cuts him into pieces within seconds and lets the
pieces fall on the ground, just as an expert chef lets his sliced radish fall
on the chopping board. He steps over the girl’s body and ignores the torn, dead
boys. Everyone sobers up. Terror activates their sense of survival. That
doesn’t help, though. They can never run, not from him, not from the undead, a living
god. Not when divine punishment knocks on their door. Ruem locks his gaze on one of
them, an overweight man with a drooping chin. He runs, but his attempt to flee
fails; fate doesn’t help the sinner. Whoosh and blur. With almost no movement, Ruem
catches him at the neck. A light push—the man falls on his knees; Ruem absorbs
the man’s prana. He doesn’t stop until enough mass in the man’s body turns into
energy; his skin droops more. And the process happening too fast makes the body
stone hard. Ruem mutters in a hushed tone, “So tasteless!” He releases the body in the
air only so it can pass through the swings of his nails and fall on the ground.
Not as a human body, but as pieces of meat and bones. His skills with blades clear
in those pieces. Not a mark of hesitation, not a chunk of flesh or bone displaced
from each slice, no drops of blood messing the ground. The will of the
Mesmerizer has stolen their prana, solidifying them. The mist thickens, as the
prana and vapor from blood fill the air. The men witness two of their own turning
into sliced and stone-hard meat. Chaos spreads. They shouldn’t have messed with
the Mesmerizer, the undead, one of the bringers of evolution. It’s their
fault for being around someone so evolved. Someone godly. Ruem closes his eyes,
breathing deeply, facing the sky. Purveyor of Death Sonata, 3rd
Movement—his favorite piano piece—playing in his mind. Then begins the
dance: a storm of dust, the sound of flapping shirt sleeves, concrete breaking,
and frequent shrieks. Oh! Don’t forget the mist. The mist will always be there
when the wind and the water unites. The Mesmerizer flows along the
mist. None of the men follows his motions or perceives the ecstasy in his eyes.
He comes at each like a ghost, riding the night that carries the smell of
death. His hat doesn’t move an inch as if it’s one with him—like the stone hat
of his sculpture that stands in the Judiciary Square of Alpha, depicting him with
the rest of the war heroes. Few of the men scream. Only
remains the sound of meat and bones falling on the moss-covered street. The
Mesmerizer focuses on how the pieces of meat fall to the ground, rather than
how he’s killing the source of the meat. His motion blurs the place with dust.
The last man stands bewildered, for running is futile. Ruem closes the gap
between them. He grabs him and throws him to the ground. He didn’t need to, but
how could he not play with the last of his toys? The man pleads to the living
god of death. His flesh torn where the sharp nails grabbed him earlier, his clothes
drenching in vomit. Cheap liquor and fear of death—a mixture that was tough for
his stomach to handle. “P-p-please,” he stutters when his bladder gives out. He sits on
his knees, not knowing what to feel. Fear? Disgrace? Or self-pity? The Mesmerizer feels a burn,
seeing the mess of urine—unplanned and unwanted. This creature ruined his art,
didn’t he? “Inedible!” Ruem mutters,
throwing an open-fisted chop sharp as a knife. Only an inch of each metal nail
pierces through the man’s neck. Yet, the head detaches itself from the torso,
for it’s the will which cuts and not matter. Rolling in the air, the
head lands right at the spot designated for it. The body—soon cut into pieces—takes
its proper place in his art. The art isn’t complete yet. It still needs the
highlight. Ruem approaches his highlight.
The damp breeze flows from the
river. The mist moves but doesn’t go away; the rusty fence slices the silence.
Ruem gazes vacantly. Few drops of blood dripping from his claws, which shine in
the moonlight. Everything ends in four minutes. He senses that man’s prana.
Within seconds Yuan will be here. The Monk won’t like this art; he never did. Ruem stops beside the girl. He
can give her some of his prana. It’ll save her life, healing her wounds. To do
that, most High Grades would have to put their palms on her skin; they’d need
to touch. “A High Grade may touch an
unevolved in a life-threatening situation for either of them. If the need
arises to heal their pain, to mend their wounds, or to save their life. For healing
is the greatest virtue.” —Grade-A Code of Honor: Verse-4 Well, most High Grades
would need a touch to heal. But the Mesmerizer isn’t the most High Grade.
Few humans have been Grade A for fifty years, and he is among those few. The
nails are enough for him to heal. He kneels at the center of his art, looking
into the girl’s eyes. Now those eyes don’t burn to live as they did earlier.
Her chest moves faintly. Did she want to live only for
justice? Only to see them punished? Ruem smirks from under his hat. His metal nails,
after his silent command, leave his fingers, hovering away as bees hover over
flowers. They fly fast back to his AT. He doesn’t need them anymore. He flexes
his fingers and puts his palm flat right below the girl’s collar bones,
touching her skin, feeling her dim breath in his veins. He hears a familiar pit-pat
as a pair of wooden geta-sandals hit on rubble. Then he absorbs the last
drops of the girl’s life-force, cleaning her of her prana. A life with no drive of
purpose isn’t allowed to live. However, even such life deserves
a death through contact, through touch. Otherwise, it’s disrespectful. No, it’s
not a rule. It’s not a verse. It’s not written in any codes of conduct in the
world. Yet, the Mesmerizer follows it as his own rule. A self-rule. “The greatest
rule is the one that binds the self,” their Master used to say. Their, and
not his. The old times of his was never without him, the Monk. The girl closes her eyes. He decided
to kill her long ago for the stage, for the act, for his play. She is the highlight
of his painting, the dessert of the dinner. And the desserts should be served
at the end. Ruem hears the pit-pat, pit-pat speeding with the noise of coarse
fabric. He must’ve worn that old shawl—Ruem senses Yuan’s familiar prana, the
Monk’s signature of aura. The noise of the footsteps
nears. Finally, the pit-pat stops. “Did you kill my pets?” Yuan
asks in a calm tone. “I thought they’re not pets.” “Did. You. Kill them?” “You know, the Devil’s Book
will be in the High Auction. I’ve found its Twin recently.” Ruem ignores Yuan’s
question, speaking in the most lulling voice the universe has shaped so far.
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