“Throughout human history we have put ourselves through the most incredible endurance of physical, mental, and emotional toil only to suffer the consequences of defeat. There will always be someone better than you––which only one person in the world can deny.”

  – Render

  But alter, he had done it. One of those Government weather towers was now on fire. You’d think they’d be impenetrable if they controlled the weather but they couldn’t anticipate his flamethrower. Lucas held it close, watching as the tower’s silver struts extending deep into the sky curled into black. A Lowers cigarette was stood up in his right hand. Damn, he looked cool. Maybe even cool enough for d’Voris.

  She was dressed for the mission. Dark purple across both legs and arms. Poised perfectly atop one of those minor weather towers, those small ones that surrounded their parents in confusing and random locations. Her deep auburn hair, nearly black, knelt over her shoulders, somehow never obstructing her movements, especially in this bitter, cold wind after 3 a.m. Eyes of a clear silver that rivaled his Savores.

  She was looking up at the clouds that formed in the wake of their creator’s demise. She wasn’t looking at him, of course. Even if he had body-maintenance prescriptions like everyone above Lowers it wouldn’t have made a difference.

  He was wearing the usual, just a light vest in Lowers Kevlar, black gloves for gripping his Ustih, and the aura of cool. They'd broken the lone security guard’s receptor, Faer’s work, and Lucas had finally been able to put his Ustih into the field. A rookie but never as hot, freezing up the tower from the bottom up with its blue flames, and d'Voris didn't even have to do anything after knocking out the guard. If she didn’t want a fight, he certainly did. But after bypassing the rest of the security, again via Faer’s excellent hacking job, he did have to admit he was pretty damn comfortable observing the wreckage.

  “Kotaro, Agents coming.”

  He had, of course, checked the guard’s emotions right before being tossed into unconscious oblivion, and if he and d’Voris had walked into this part of the levgion right into the Government’s embrace, at least the guard hadn’t known. A real surprise, colored like the pink flavon of Might sandwiches. At least, that was what he saw surprise as in someone’s mind.

  “Of course, Vor. You always want a good fight before leaving to rest on those hard crates up in HQ.”

  She stepped off the minor weather tower and tied back her hair. “I see two. Coming from the same portal we used.”

  Lucas took a casual puff on his cigarette. “I thought we invalidated the portal.”

  “You know that’s impossible, and even if it were, it’d be just telling the Government we were right here.”

  “Doesn’t matter to them, does it.” He kicked back his legs and forearms, getting them ready. He imagined pulling an invisible chain like that one guy––

  But he didn’t need chains when he had his Ustih-Frozen, custom make, flamethrower and icethrower, or both. You couldn’t get much better with the parts stolen from Might V-stores or any gaming factory in wealthier areas of Lowers. A full meter long, encased in striking blue materials, almost labeled LUCAS but on second thought, easily named LUKE, not his real name and not as cool sounding but saved time on the engraving. Orange slivers of fire painted on the muzzle, a small hatch marked FIRE for that option, and another on the back side marked ICE. It was the coolest thing he had ever made.

  And now he could see them. Two Agents indeed: one tall with hair glimmering as dark as the evening blue sky and swinging a bright alter saber from side to side; he hated that weapon. The other was taller and carrying nothing. Perfect, one who trusted in the materials given them by the Government and one who trusted in the substance of their limbs alone. They didn’t often encounter Agents, but when they did, he had to try and run through his Plans.

  He would face them with the Ustih, of course, d’Voris with her body and Scion Emulus-enhanced physique. She’d be using that trait in battle. He would use his trait also, if it came to that.

  But now they were a few meters off, and the guy in front was heading straight for d’Voris, who went up to meet him, her hair swinging back and forth. “Aim for the one in back, I’ll take the eager one,” she said.

  He nodded and aimed, lifting his baby up onto his right shoulder. He Thought into the encoder, let it calculate the distance and angle, and fired––lighting it up blue, warming his shoulder, and releasing.

  But I am unarmed because I need no weapon. No tool can sully my hands, the form of bodily agency I had given myself when I chose my name.

  I am R’aegoth.

  And they are human externally, as all Descendants are. Except for the minute Gene that gives them status for our purification. How cruel the world below.

  My ears are moved by a faint susurration and the slightest drop in Kelvin. My eyes cast to the direction, as I leap to my right, a projectile swinging in my wake and followed by a thin trail of cloud. I place my right hand on charred earth, flip and land. I look behind me to see a minor weather construction encased in the bluest of flame and turn back to see the Fury aiming once again.

  At the same time, the other Descendant leaps forward toward the Fourth Agent, who swings for her head. She ducks while swinging her feet under him, and he jumps while swinging down. Oh, poor Hector. He can only do as his weapon. I easily dodge the Fury’s next shot.

  In a blur, the unarmed Agent dodged both his Ustih-Frozen blasts and was suddenly upon him. Lucas hit the shorthand option and parried the first blow, which almost blew him off his feet. He jumped back and placed Ustih on the ground, reached into his boots, and pulled out his Savores, his twin alter titanium daggers––but his right hand was empty, and he looked up and saw that the Agent was holding the Savore. ––

  “I see that even self-funded rebels can afford titanium––or far more likely, steal from the Government,” the Agent said before flicking the Savore into the darkness behind him with his wrist. Lucas couldn’t even see it go, just the wrist. He met the Agent’s eyes and noted peripherally that d’Voris and the other Agent were engaged in a kind of wild dance, the former avoiding the other’s obsequious swings.

  “Tell me, Descendant. Do you fight for a reason?”

  Mid-lunge with the remaining Savore, Lucas stopped. “What?” He pressed forward but was blocked, the Agent’s hand enveloped over his fist holding the dagger. He found himself attempting to wrest the Savore out of its grip but he couldn’t.

  OK, Lucas. He’d been in worse. He remembered that one time he’d had to face three Agents at once, and Nodari had come in, hands blazing. Lucas went completely slack, almost hanging by his hand in the Agent’s.

  The Agent let go, Lucas dropped the Savore, and using both his hands on the ground swung about for a double kick––landing hard on the skin, and glancing up again from where his head was inverted, he saw––the Agent’s right forearm extended over his face––Lucas let his feet fall, limbo’d up from them on the ground and narrowly avoided the Agent’s swipe with his left arm. Maybe he’d injured the right arm––

  And fell back, his head hitting the ground. Without looking, he knew the Agent had his feet in both hands, holding him like a Lowers vacuum.

  If getting his hand out before was difficult, getting both his legs out from this was––No. He was a combatant of the Furies. d’Voris was watching. Hopefully.

  With the same instinctual push he used for sending TM's, he looked into the Agent’s mind.

  It was as clean and white and empty as one of those Governors’ Offices in High, except recolored over by white, twice. Empty except for resolution. Resolve.

  He got out.

  “Your energy is meager, Descendant. I will raise the question a second time. Why?”

  came d’Voris’s voice. But Lucas couldn’t move. He worked his muscles every day, and had done since he joined the Furies five years ago. But he couldn’t move his feet.

  He dropped the Savore he still had. He saw that d’Voris was winning her battle, hitting the other Agent in succession. Most people reacted physically to having their emotions read––or at least blanked for a minute. Most Agents couldn’t beat him in a physical bout. Only d’Voris and Valha’ya could in the Furies. And probably the bosses. Well, at least two of them. But this one was too strong, even for body-maintenance prescriptions of the highest order.

  But there was no way that, even having the best in the Sector, the Agents’ BMPs literally just made them stronger.

  Lucas had to ask. The Agents had many in their listings, and most weren’t hard to handle. And Faer took note of every mission of the ones that were threats.

  “What’s your name, Agent,” he asked, the least cordially and politely he could, his face tightening and beginning to redden from where he hung. Plan C involved both the Savores. Plans D and E would ruin his image because d’Voris was done, and striding over. Plan F––

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  Plan G it was, then. Put his mind through the back door.

  Lucas could read anyone’s emotions except for his own. But he could replace what he did have with any single emotion––risky at best––and he hated fiddling with others’ thoughts, even if they usually showed it on their faces.

  He’d try it––

  “I fight for us to be who we are,” he said as he heaved himself up like a very long sit-up while striking down at his encased feet with his Savore. The Agent let go, and while Lucas’s legs fell, he swung his arms forward––d’Voris came sailing in from the right, leg coming in for a kick––

  But he does not know. As a member of the Furies, I thought his answer would be serious, for we are the ones who locate Descendants like them and purify their bodies of the Magycal Gene, thus reducing them to the status of everyday human beings.

  But the rogue’s mind is sicklied over. The two palms, the left foot, are blocked. Hector is again incapacitated, again proving his incapacity for Fourth Agent. As the yellow-haired Fury falls, his eyes show a gleam of hardiness, somewhat different than their prior tint of hardship. For he cannot understand the future that any Fury is destined in this futile battle.

  Arms, hands, and feet. A kick-and-strike by twenty-second-century body combat methods. Another double-bladed gullet twenty-third century adapted, as to their reputation trained well.

  But my left hand connects with ankle, turn and throw, swiveling back––repeated jabs denied––kick, punch, and strike, holding both Descendant Furies by their throats. I see that the yellow-haired’s eyes are dimming to their previous glint and that the amber-haired is glaring at me fixedly. Hector is unconscious on the ground, and I have received no response.

  fuck

  They were down. He and d’Voris––d’Voris!––had lost. Not his first time. Not hers either, but they always got something done, burned, or marked. Like these damned weather towers. All withered down to silver, turning black as he watched the black restore itself. Damned self-restoration.

  Lucas wiped the sweat coming down over his eye with his right hand. Being held up by the neck was embarrassing. But seeing d’Voris held the same was even worse. How was she breathing? The Furies, the best there was, nothing to a single, ordinary human being. He laughed, or rather, he coughed. The Agent’s skin was as clear as a calendar summer day. Not a single drop of sweat.

  He tried to say something. Anything.

  “My apologies––one cannot answer a question without being able to speak.” The Agent, for the third time in three minutes, let him go––but in the same motion struck d’Voris unconscious––was that two blows or three? Lucas couldn’t tell. He winced all the same.

  A quick breath, then––“You have terrible hair.”

  “It is just hair.”

  “You’re going to purify us. It’s over.” He gave the grimmest smile he could muster. “Does purification involve making me bald?”

  “No, because you will not be purified today.”

  He imagined entering what a gloomy, dark, and shadowed chamber the purification must be in, where Scions of all ages were put in and put back out––

  “Wait––”

  Had he heard wrong? No Agent––licensed and tasked to take in Scions, unknown to most citizens of the Sector––would choose to let one go. Especially not a Fury, and he knew that most Scions these Agents discovered were weak. It was the nature of Scions to be that way.

  Lucas considered for a second if Valha’ya and Nodari, prize combatants of the Furies and the only duo stronger than himself and d’Voris, would be in the same situation right now.

  No, they wouldn’t. Nodari had an actual flamethrower, his hands. And Valha’ya––well, he hadn’t even seen her ability.

  “We have members way stronger than us,” he said. “You’re making a mistake.”

  “It does not matter, Descendant. We have members ranked higher than me.”

  The Agents didn’t have formal rankings. Everyone could access them in the listings on the Government’s Thought-feed. Lists and lists of names, with avatar and chosen weapon… He almost checked at that moment.

  “And as the entire conflict means nothing, nothing shall be done with you.”

  Lucas stared.

  But I find that any further conversation would only derail my cause. For there are surely members of their cohort worth more conversation than this one with the yellow hair, and his companion of auburn; but on my own we have Mik’vael and Xeric above me.

  I reach out with my hand and close the Fury’s mouth. He shall speak no more.

  I then walk over to where Agent Hector lies on the ground. I throw him onto my shoulder and return to the portal from whence we came. It is time to meet the Director and move my subordinate to a more deserved position once and for all.

  A sword swings through it. I see it from my rear view, it’s swung by the guy named

  His sword is way too strong. Swings through nothing, swings through everything.

  Fibers plastic steel saber alter black, dust electric orchestra carnival golden phantasm

  Phantasm spasm spasmic plasmatic. Can’t be pulled out of the stone, one piece rock.

  Where one side swings and other side cuts somehow the other side doesn’t, either

  Can kill

  extra cutting sword. It can be anything.

  Not this plain wooden branch it’s just a stick. Born in the dumpster fire. Pulled out

  That crown of pain. Adoring stain. Reduced it to something I write.

  Something I fight. Train and swing and fancy the pieces of knight,

  cycles yet, in the forties

  Years to get to one hundred of the other variations closing in

  on my staff my sword my soul I’ve been using,

  Called , its polished shine holding it too tightly

  Hold Utmost and run after the children. Do I know them not but never lose a

  Chance to get swordplay good and chase after the youth running, not stealing,

  Not swiping. Older boys padding their feet hit the dirt insulted, trivial gestures

  Push the boy against the mortar. It’s a school.

  For spite they punch. Boys will be boys. A young boy looks my head, I

  Spin Utmost slowly. Capture his attention, a new hope.

  Boy slips against the brick. Cycle Four ready to unleash, release like a cloud and

  Spins into flashing light of beam. My light hits them on all their limbs.

  “Swing, turn, and strike” I say with each. “Swing, turn and strike.” “I didn’t do

  anything,” say the boys. And the boys fall down. Biting the

  Dust. Continue. Cycle Five step and turn, two boys, one is still breathing. Blood.

  Red on his head.

  We are the world. Here in Lowers where the buses come, carrying their screaming

  Kids. There are the rich. And above them all are the Might, the Plent, the High have

  Alter technology but here it’s science we don’t understand yet. I don’t understand

  Mathematics so I skip the sets and swing this sword, this branch of all the old books

  And the new. But magic. There’s no magic here.

  I see the conditions. Of dirt and blood. Three fake musketeers alive and down.

  tingling forehead

  Marked by the star. We call the lightning, but that’s ok. I kneel and draw on it

  With the tip of my sword and rip off some colorless fabric of my cloth shirt and

  Wrap his forehead. It’s not tingling. Thank Gaebus no one here to see.

  Shrooms and stalks plague my organs we call the stomach.

  But there are no shoes for sale. We walk down the street to retrieve Utmost. It slicks

  With sweat and grease of the celestial corporate that churns out our daily bread, as

  I think of the Cycles.

  I don’t do calculus but I do swings. Cycle Five ended in hand, open not my wrist, to

  Work on improvement: Cycle Six: still 950 Cycles left to create, given I spy the little

  Pieces of movement. Feet and hands. Sword and set. Strike! Place! Turn ends. Start

  Anew. Into sporadic the dust flings. Intensity and

  Motion and destiny, one uses their environment for scenes to fight,

  I am moving out of scene because I am not a hero.

  Who am I? I have Friday soon but did I do the sets? No do I ever. Just a joke, in my

  Inaction I do the action I call the

  face, to stop, swivel, and seeing him now, putting

  My hands on my knees with Utmost hanging off my jeans. Oh. O, he sees me as his

  Savior. Better go Revé

  I see the boy pull a pair of smartphones out from his trousers. He came, he saw, and

  He stole. He was the villain. Becoming some kind of hero in this careless portion of

  The world we call the Lowers, cursed to not have tech beyond the 21st century. Ever

  Since The boy shows two blue teeth, and prepares to blast audio. But

  I’m coming. He has birds on his hands. They flap in their happy cages, iPhone 229s

  the youth is speechless, his pinkies twisted, my pockets devouring the birds as

  their muted sounds of death plummet green pillars of jovial plumbing.

  I bow and give the kid a grand greeting. “Thank you,”

  Lucas Kotaro’s theme: “S P I N E” by Survive Said The Prophet, released on their 2018 album s p a c e [ s ]

  Theme Song of Revé: “Saeed” by Infected Mushroom, from their 2009 Legend of the Black Shawarma