Electric Resurrection – 01.

Talon perches carefully on the edge of the roof, head cocked to one side, attention tuned razor sharp on the city around them. Things are quieter for them now, since most people think they’re dead.

Or, more correctly, still dead.

They take only a handful of jobs, spaced out carefully to avoid straining themself. It’s a lot harder. Their limits were reset back to zero, maybe even more than that. They had to relearn how to do almost everything after they got brought back.

The only reason Talon isn’t fully out of the business is the fact that there’s a price on their head. A bounty they’re scrambling to buy out, accrued through no fault of their own.

They would’ve been happy to stay dead. It’s not like they knew what was happening, how their body spent almost two years on a ventilator, fed via IV, completely and utterly brain-dead, even after their injuries began to heal.

They didn’t ask for the implant. They couldn’t have agreed to it.

But, still, they found themself back in the land of the living, equipped with an experimental implant that apparently was a phenomenal success and a bill for more money than they could ever hope to see in their life.

That’s the cost of cutting-edge medical care, the representative had said, and besides, it’s a small price for a life, wouldn’t you agree?”

The company already refuses to do maintenance on the implant, not that they’d ask for it, and the representative finds them every month to remind them that if they don’t continue to pay, they’ll have to be sent to collections and have the implant repossessed.

They don’t want to die again. Not that way. 

Talon slipped into the mercenary circuit mostly by accident to begin with. Young, freshly aged out of the underfunded orphanage set up in the Unified Republic of the Dakotas after the Dissolution. They never seemed like they belonged in the circuit, often overlooked, underestimated, and it served them well. It was a simpler life for them, one that made more sense than trying to force themself into a place in society that grated against them.

Now, they’re just getting tired.

All their old things, their old apartment, were long gone by the time they woke up, along with anyone leftover from their previous stint in the waking world.

But, their disappearing act helped, as hard as it was. The enemies they’d made in the circuit seem to be satisfied with having killed them.

They can’t truly let their guard down, but they can breathe a little. They can move freely, no longer tailed by anyone, no longer in imminent danger, at least not outside of their terrified haze of adrenaline-tinged memories.

These days, they come up here to clear their head, rather than to make sure that whoever comes for them ends up nothing more than a bloody smear on the ground.

The night air makes the metal of the ports and anchors for their implant ache, like cold fire. The hair around it has to stay shaved, although not much of it can grow thanks to the curled mess of scar tissue. Apparently being used as a posthumous medical trial doesn’t entitle you to the highest degree of care.

Talon’s heart flutters, body pulled taut as a drum.

Somewhere below, a window just shattered, like something was thrown through it.

The screaming follows next.

Talon drops down a few floors, landing on a precipice gently. They do it before they’re even aware they’re moving, but the screaming eats into them, drawing them closer and closer.

They couldn’t scream like that, not when they were killed.

(They remember gurgling as they tried, choking on blood from what they know now was a slit throat.)

From the precipice, they can see where the screaming originates. Soft light, shifting between blue and green and yellow, spills out onto a balcony, scattering off of broken glass. In the center of it all, someone lies back against the railing, scrambling like he could get further away even though there’s nowhere to go.

Talon pulls the anchor-line from their belt and activates it, letting it take root in the side of the building. The rope, thin but more than strong enough to take their weight, lets them drop down lightning quick to just a couple floors above the balcony in question.

They leverage themself off of one of the apartments, swinging along on the line, as they let the sights in their goggles make sure they’ve got the trajectory right. Then, they release the anchor-line and take the leap of faith.

The landing is harder than they would’ve liked, impacting with a thud that sends the little glass shards dancing. But, they recover quickly enough, even with the music pounding in the air and the screaming at their back.

Two other men in the room turn their attention to Talon; one has his finger itching at the holster on his hip, the other is bright red, panting heavily, blood on his knuckles.

Neither of them have any of the tells that would label them as professionals. That’s probably the one thing that keeps Talon from getting glanced with a shot.

No, their movements are painfully slow, each one telegraphed as clearly as if they stated them aloud.

Talon raises the arm equipped with their bolt-gun, lightweight and barely noticeable under their sleeve. They fire off a round once, twice, with nothing more than a blink of an eye.

The rounds move nearing light-speed, breaking the sound barrier with a low pop! as each of them hit their marks.

The gunman looks surprised, thrown back by the force of it, not yet aware that the round lodged itself into his eye. Then, he drops to the ground.

The seething, furious man manages a few steps forward, shouting something unintelligible. The round must’ve buried itself somewhere in the speech center. Talon’s sights tell them that it hit the side of his head. The injury is far from fatal.

So, they send off one more, aimed for the center of his forehead, now that he’s given them such a wonderfully clear shot.

He falls to his knees when he tries to take a final step. Then, he goes slack, nose cracking against the tile floor.

Talon has to get the bolts back before they leave. They’re customs, designed and manufactured just for them, and leaving them behind would get more attention than they want. Besides, they can’t afford to replace the bolts. It’s easier to grab them and get them back in working condition.

But, for now, they whirl around and drop to a crouch, next to the barely dressed man on the balcony, no longer screaming but rather staring transfixed at the bodies on the tile, the ever-changing light covering them.

Talon pulls down their mask, pushes their bug-eyed goggles up on their forehead, and tries to catch the man’s attention by placing themself entirely in his line of sight.

I’m safe, is the intended message they’re broadcasting, I’m flesh and blood like you, not just the mask and the bolt-gun.

Although, now that they have time to take stock of him, it’s clear that he’s not entirely flesh and blood.

They’re not sure if the message made it through the static haze in his head, but he reaches up with a trembling hand and streaks bloody fingerprints over Talon’s cheek.

His eyes, unfocused and erratic, are electric green. Some kind of circuitry glows just under his skin. His nails are metal, tipped with claws; between his parted lips, painted the same green as his eyes, it looks like his teeth are too, and equally sharp.

But for all the mods, he’s still sliced to ribbons from the glass. Talon’s safe from it with their boots and their gloves, and all the clothing on their body is reinforced against anything that could cut them.

They reach out for him. He makes a frantic, high pitched noise, unspooled from the back of his throat.

“Carry you,” Talon strains, voice low and breathy.

They never were much for conversation to begin with, but with how deep the cut on their throat was, they can’t manage much on their best days.

They swallow hard, weighed down with the understanding that he doesn’t trust them yet, and they might not be able to make him get there.

“Safe place,” they add.

He nods, letting himself go slack. It feels more like a surrender than anything else.

Talon pulls their mask back on, slips the goggles back over their eyes. It’s more comfortable to go around unseen.

It’s quick, although messy, to get the bolts back. They’re drawn to the bolt-gun, pulling themselves out of the flesh they lodged in when called. Talon can clean them later. For now, they just tuck them away in one of their jacket’s inner pockets.

Then, they turn back to the man on the balcony, eyes half lidded, sunken in and pale in the strange light. Talon lifts him gently. He’s lighter than they would’ve expected.

///

The man flickers in and out of consciousness, murmuring softly, eyes shifting under his eyelids. 

Talon stripped off their jacket long ago. They tossed aside the mask and the goggles as well, swapping out their usual gloves for medical-grade ones. The bolt-gun is safely locked away in its case. Their hair keeps threatening to spill out from their ponytail as they crane over the man on the couch, sleeves pushed up to their elbows, magnification glasses resting on their nose.

It’s a tedious process, cleaning each of the cuts and pulling out any glass they can find among the viscera with tweezers. The shards pile up steadily on the coffee table.

Every now and then, Talon sets a few synth-skin stitches on the worst of the cuts. They don’t have many left, but now isn’t a time to be sparing. It’s not hard to come by, but they’re reluctant to poke their head up looking for supplies. Even now, there’s likely people keeping tabs on who’s stocking up for med kits.

They make soft, soothing intonations, easier on the scarred tissue in their throat than words.

The circuitry under his skin pulses, in and out, synced with the stuttering rise and fall of his chest. Talon wonders, somewhere faraway at the back of their mind, if it hurt when he got it installed, what purpose it serves.

For the most part, though, their attention is fully directed on his injuries. Their thoughts rarely stray, carefully attuned to the task of picking out even the smallest pieces left behind.

But, when they catch the click of the lock tumblers turning in the door, their body goes rigid, mind blank beyond animal instinct. Their hands tremble, hovering inches above the man’s left shoulder, as the door swings open.

“Tal?” Mathias calls out, and they relax, letting the cold-fire of nerves trickle back down their spine.

They lean out from behind the couch, raising a bloody gloved finger to their lips, saying be quiet.

“Tal? What happened?” A tremor of worry slips into Mathias’ voice, “Are you okay?”

“Found someone,” they say slowly, “Hurt.”

Talon turns back to the man on the couch, continuing their work. The worst of the cuts are closed by now, but they won’t rest until they’re sure they surveyed all of them.

They’re aware of Mathias circling around them, gasping in soft awe when he sees the man on the couch. Or maybe when he sees the mess Talon’s made of it, blood soaking into the upholstery.

“Talon, who is this?” 

They make a little noise, shrugging halfway, one hand still holding a cut open so they can fit their tweezers inside of it.

The only sound in the room is the soft clatter of another shard plucked out and dropped onto the pile of shrapnel.

“Oh my god,” Mathias says, one hand raking through his hair, “Okay. Okay.”

///

Talon rests uneasily, curled up in one of Mathias’ chairs. They won’t sleep, not with this stranger around, and their eyes are half open, watching the room through their lashes.

Mathias is doing what he does best, namely pacing around with near manic energy, straightening up the room in between bouts of muttering to himself. They don’t mind Mathias, not necessarily. But he’s not suited for this kind of life.

He was clever enough to buy out Talon’s contract when they first met. They were supposed to take him and ransom him against his parents, netting the client a pretty chunk of change even after their standard rates, fees, and commission. But, he paid double on the spot, in clean money. And he insisted that Talon stick around.

Which, at the cost of their pride, they have. They live here, since it’s better than tucking themself away on rooftops or commandeering some slice of space in a gutted, unused building.

He feeds them. Gives them free reign of the place. Lets them sleep wherever they want, when they can. And they can’t figure out what he gets from it.

The man on the couch stirs, groaning as he moves, sucking air in between his teeth.

“Fuck,” he exhales, drawn out and hoarse.

Talon sits up straight, watching him intently. Their mind still isn’t made up on whether they trust him or not, as broken as he is.

His pupils, lit with a soft electric glow from his artificial irises, are blown out, still half dazed. But the room seems to snap into his focus and Talon can see the shift in his expression, melting from a haze into a wary guardedness.

“Who are you?” He snarls, metallic teeth catching the light overhead.

Not where am I? Talon notes.

“The tall, dark, and handsome one is Talon,” Mathias says with a nervous little smile, “They’re not very talkative.”

“Sounded like damn sandpaper,” the man grits his teeth, eyes squeezed shut, “I remember.”

The comment bristles at Talon, but they swallow back a snarl. They have rules about not kicking someone when they’re down. When he’s on equal footing, then they can argue.

“I’m Mathias. This is my apartment. And my couch you’re bleeding on.”

There’s a fleeting look of panic in his electric green eyes, but it fades just as quickly into resignation. His shoulders sag, folding under some unseen weight. 

“Now, who are you?” Mathias asks, hands on his hips, some sudden boldness carrying him.

“What does it matter?” The man spits, like he’s being interrogated.

Talon knows they’re minutes away from having to mediate some kind of fight. One which Mathias will lose because he isn’t capable of much beyond posturing, making himself look big in the hopes it’ll scare the other off.

They stand up; the action goes unnoticed by Mathias and the man on the couch. Talon stretches out, then crosses over to where Mathias stands.

All they have to do is rest a hand against his shoulder and give a little nod towards the kitchen, let me handle this. Mathias grits his teeth, but the tension seeps out of him and he slinks off looking relieved.

“Are you the pet, or is he?”

Talon turns back to the man on the couch, head cocked to the side. There aren’t any goggles to hide their stare, how they scrutinize him.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’ve been in this business long enough, I know it when I see it,” he gives a crooked grin, like this is some kind of game and he’s winning.

But, he’s not too far off. Talon’s lips curl back reflexively, before they can even stop the action. The man on the couch smiles even wider than before.

“Lucky I was there,” they growl.

That makes the man bristle, tensing up like he’s about to attack. He’s strange, kind of erratic and aimless, harder for Talon to read. Without the ability to anticipate what’s coming, it feels like they’re in free-fall, unbelievably naked and exposed without their mask or their bolt-gun.

“I just got rolled, alright? Occupational hazard.”

Getting thrown through a window is more than just getting rolled, they think, still studying him carefully.

“And you’re crazy if you think you’re getting any kind of compensation when I’m like this,” the man points an accusatory finger their way.

“No debts,” Talon strains over the words, making sure they’re clear.

“Come on! You should know, nothing’s free.”

Their hand flickers up to the port in their head. It’s an obvious tell, the kind they thought they’d outgrown. An amateur’s mistake.

But the reality of it seems to elude the man; he curls the corner of his lip in a half smile and asks, “What’s your poison? Cosmetics? Enhancers? Transmitters?”

It takes a second to register, for them to realize he thinks they’re hooked on mods, but Talon never got involved with the body market even before they died. They had more than enough natural talent. It came with a certain reputation, the fact that they could accomplish their jobs without the impossibly thin implanted sights over the iris, the enhanced reflexives ported into the spinal cord.

And it scared them. 

Although, not as much as it does now.

They’d never admit those fears. Not to another soul, not even Mathias. That kind of vulnerability is as good as baring your neck to someone. Besides, it’s too complex to try to voice.

“None,” they hiss, feeling the ache from how much they’ve spoken today, “Just have this.”

But some level of candid sharing is the basis of rapport. Talon pulls back the hair that’s fallen over the implant and angles their head so he can see it better.

When the man speaks again, all the wry smugness is gone, melted away into this hushed sense of awe, “That’s very advanced.”

They nod. It’s an oversimplification; the technology hasn’t even hit the market.

“What does it do?”

They look at him carefully, almost like they’re seeing him for the first time. The veins of light still pulse under his skin, blotted out in places by the synth stitches and the bandages. His eyes are just as piercing green, cutting into them like a knife.

Truthfully, on their good days, they coyly call it ‘the instrument of their resurrection’ or ‘the modern miracle’ in the comfort of their own thoughts, but those days are few and far between.

But the way they go cold, glazed over and tense, must be answer enough.

“Someone did a number on you, didn’t they?” The man smiles like they’re sharing an old secret between each other.

I could say the same of you, Talon thinks.

“Stay the night,” they say, instead.

The man gives a resigned look, but he settles back down on the couch, groaning softly as he moves.

Satisfied with the outcome, Talon slips out of the living room, down the hallway towards Mathias’ bedroom. They hook their fingers under the collar of their turtleneck, massaging the scar running along the soft underside of their chin. Somehow, that’s enough to trick their mind into easing the pain in their throat. Sometimes.

///

Mathias looks surprised when Talon slips into his room. They’ve been given the option to sleep in here before, but they’ve never accepted, preferring to be alone with their nightmares. But, the couch is otherwise occupied and they don’t want to risk the unexpected guest on the couch seeing their scars and piecing together even more of them than he already has.

“So, uh, how did it go?” Mathias says, recovering quickly.

Talon makes a soft noise, coupled with a little shrug. Good enough.

“I didn’t think I’d have a problem with you bringing home strays, Tal,” he laughs, short and clipped.

Their face burns with embarrassment, the thought of someone witnessing that tender side of them. Which Mathias already has, more than once, but it never gets any easier. 

Talon hangs their head, letting the loose parts of their hair fall and cover their face, cutting them off from Mathias’ careful eyes. They can’t put words to what made them bring him home in the first place. They only knew they had to.

“Just tonight,” they whisper.

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