Swallowed Instinct

Three hundred needles hang above the Esplanade of the Purified. A mechanical honor guard for the long line of volunteers awaiting detachment. They advance at the same pace, shirt sleeves rolled up, ready to yield their breakups and mourning to the smoothing algorithms of the Grand Récit.

Jade wedges her terminal against a cement block. Her nails catch the scratched screen.

"Frequencies hacked. Do your thing."

I raise my arms. The mask collects the toll demanded by Uzume. Tonight's offering? The flinch of flesh before impact. The need to breathe. The urge to flee danger. The survival instinct. Swallowed in one gulp.

Our Parade crashes onto the esplanade.

The syringe-drones break their hover, deviating from their programmed trajectory. Their speakers spit out vaudeville serenades, theatrical lovers' quarrels, sweet words dripping with the grotesque. Giant holographic lips plant noisy kisses on the shaved skulls. The patients step back, disoriented. Their anesthetizing mass drowns beneath the wrong notes of a rowdy brass band. Incoherence dislocates KARTIKEYA.X's martial discipline.

Soldiers in gray armor surge from the western arcades, deploying their line formations with the mechanical rigidity that has always defined their interventions.

Jade grabs my jacket. She pulls with all her weight.

"Let's get out of here!"

I remain planted on the slab. The iron-clad boots draw near. A guard swoops down on us, his baton raised high above his head. I watch the black rod descend. Evasion has disappeared from my muscles. No arm rises to protect my nose. The fear of dying no longer inhabits my organs.

The weapon breaks my jaw. The ground hits my ribs.

Jade slides her hands under my armpits, drags my carcass toward the adjacent alley, scraping her knees against the debris piled on the cracked asphalt. Her breath hisses with effort in my ear.

I watch her work. Blood muddies my lower lip. The sentinels raise their rifles in my direction. The desire to take cover no longer exists.