Project Eclipse

What a fool he was, wishing there was something only he could do. This dream turned nightmare had outfit him with handlers, bullet resistant equipment, and “Oversight.” They had preyed upon his infantile belief, “there’s got to be more to life than this.” At first, he was excited by answers.

He had no idea how painful those “answers” would be.

Ears ringing, he dragged himself to hands and knees. Cement dust spilled from him like water from falls. Chunks of the same landed about him like hail. Alone for the first time in months, he witnessed it all without consciously appreciating his momentary solitude.

He was so heavy.

Pattering in staccato echoed through the ringing in his ears. Vague relief bled through before he recognized the sound. The fight continued. Some survived. That was enough.

Was he enough?

Shuddering breath sucked in soot, dust, and death. He was only used to one of those scents. The other two choked him. Stubbornly, he let himself cough only once before releasing a controlled groan. Bleary eyes lifted from his debris covered, concrete “bed.” His gaze swept through this building’s craterous holes.

Naptime was over.

Shapes darted to and fro in the sky above him. Light from the setting sun lit the concrete dust still hanging in the air. Barely registered shadows whirled about the shapes as they spat sparks and fire. Three came into view, floating in formation. Pristine orchestration dropped blurs from shapes, blurs that erupted light behind them. The ringing in his ears could not subdue the faint roar after roar after roar.

Briefly, his concrete “Bed” shook.

Trembling hands met unsteady knees. Distant, painful protests lifted up in a biological choir of anger. But, he ignored his body’s complaints. He had a job to do. There was something only he could do! Uncle Sam had given him purpose. It had only cost him…

“...-port, damnit!” crackled a voice in his ear, screaming over the ringing.

Dragging his hateful, dusty grey body to stand, he closed his eyes and tensed up. Years of intensive, micro-muscular training hit surgically implanted sensors. Internal systems rebooted. Protocols appeared across ocular “anchors,” and transformed into a HUD. Carefully trained micro-movements of his eyes took in the last laser scan of the terrain. There was a twelve second delay, but he could see the office building he’d wrecked on the minimap.

“Brave 7, checking in,” he groaned.

“Sweet Jesus,” his handler sighed in relief over the radio, “Seven, what the--”

“EMP,” he groaned, reaching up.

His hand went through a hole in his helmet, and touched the side of his reinforced skull. Pulling bloodied fingers into view, he appraised the green goo on his fingertips as it quickly evaporated in tiny green flames. Of course, the ocular nano-camera implants had caught the image, as well.

“Seven?” his handler asked in a warning tone of concern.

“A really close EMP,” he said as he removed his useless helmet.

It was only camouflage that let him fit in with other grunts, anyway. Boots on the ground needed protective gear. At this point, it would be silly to simply say he had a “hard head.” Then again, there was a lot about him that was pretty silly in comparison to things. For example, when asked “how are you?” his answer could be pretty specific.

“How--?”

“Your fifty-billion dollar man is fine,” he interrupted, reading over his internal diagnostics, “Besides, this is a live fire test, right? It wouldn’t be a real operation in the field if everything didn’t go wrong.”

“Soldier,” his handler growled.

Suddenly, the bionic warrior nearly tore his body armor from his chest. With blinding speed, yet infinite care, he retrieved a photo from his pockets. It was the only thing on him with any real value to him. A bullet hole had replaced the smiling face he’d memorized. The proof he had that he was still human was warped and twisted by that hole. The familiar scene of a summer at Lake Hefner was indistinguishable from the hell he had woken up in.

His handler said nothing.

With his hearing clearing up, there were voices deep in the background of the radio. He made out the word “Contraband.” Slowly, he crumpled the ruins of the old photograph. His eyes closed. But, he couldn’t shut out the battle. He had live data broadcast into his eyes.

“You fat cats want to see the difference between me and drones?” he snapped.

Data was summoned by dozens of microscopic eye motions and tugging of specially trained muscles. Trajectories, weapon locks, projections, and more flooded his HUD. Chemically enhanced muscles had limiters removed. A binary broadcast was sent through an encrypted channel, giving the flight of drones an order to pull back.  Stubbornly, he held onto a belief.  There is more to life, so very much more. 

He was protecting it.

“Don’t blink,” he growled, twelve seconds before he abruptly, monstrously ended the battle.