I write classic "good vs evil" creative writing pieces with smart twists inspired by vintage action cinema, gaming, and heavy metal.
"Let the Russians handle this; he'll wish he was dead once they are done with him!" were among my superior's numerous attempts to prevent me from pursuing a terrorist the Canadian system protected ever since a Pakistani expat with a shady past stole its helm.
Right after his sketchy election for the mayor's chair, our province saw a terrorist act every morning. Unsurprisingly, the media blamed neo-Nazis despite the bombing targets being churches while the last (and only) white supremacist incident dates as far back as 1987. Yes, the media didn't report arrests of several armed Islamists claiming responsibility either.
Where do the Russians come in? When a Militia Colonel was doing his due diligence and flown across the planet to talk to us, the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. He reported that his men rescued several Canadian children from a human trafficking ring discovered in his city. Our Russian colleague also brought an interrogation tape showing him and his men forcing a detained trafficker to sing; literally. I never heard a grown man cry this much but then again; I have never seen one receive the pain our Russian counterparts dished out either.
"The Children are all from your town." the Colonel commented, bringing the infamous Russian frost out of his system as he played back a sound bite all of Canada wanted to hear. My superiors and I sat stupefied when the Russian Prison Idol contestant serenaded our mayor; not only proving his ties to several radical Islamic groups but him leaking intel to them while signing off on attack plans. "The mayor has a body double," the dutiful militioner continued, "the real deal is in my town with a Militia deep-cover agent watching his every move and an OMON unit prepping for bag-and-tag as we speak."
Moments later, I was the first Mountie doing a joint operation with the Russian OMON. A small-town Canadian girl storming a compound with a squad of brick walls with assault rifles; supported by a BTR-80 ramming the front gate. OMON were there to destroy; no, "hands behind your head" or the like. They shot with deadly accuracy too however, they got too into the "clear" part of the breach and clear, therefore, gave me the chance to find and kill the traitor.
While I can't powerslam the enemy like my squadmates but I can sure fight; I know where to hit. Chasing the traitor across the compound with a makeshift bayonet I fashioned out of the Bowie knife I smuggled; A few of his lackeys went to hell with exposed entrails. My ammo supply was still intact since I only needed a few shots to eliminate my target; as my grandfather, a Black Watch sniper in World War 2 has taught me when I was no taller than the bolt gun I fired at soup cans back home in Field, Ontario.
Canadian Black Watch
Suddenly, my quest to avenge my country and my people was stopped short by a handful of blinking red strobe lights running towards me. Before I could react, 3 suicide bombers knocked me on my back. The traitor was nowhere to be seen and now, the bombers started screaming in Arabic. That was the last thing I saw since then. I died; or so I thought.
"DuFraisne will be repatriated and given a proper burial!"
"I feel your pain and don't like it any less than you but she is in no shape for transport!"
"Is she even alive?!"
"Yes, she is....oh, she's awake!"
I was laying on some kind of bed but it was held upright; my superior and the Militia Colonel stood before me; both men looked worried yet maintaining professional calm. The militioner studied me and felt around my head but, I felt no touch. Slowly but surely, I began to notice things that were absent; I no longer needed to blink, breathe or wake myself up; my attention was instant.
"Emily, I want you to know that we saved your life but at a high price!" the Colonel spoke softly yet sternly like my dad did when a day out was cancelled.
"My name is..." I began retorting but stopped short when I noticed the voice that carried my words was not mine; it had a metronome and an impeccable English accent you'd hear from a text-to-speech program.
"Enhanced Mechanical Infiltration and Liberation or EMILY for short," the militioner corrected me, "top-secret project between Russia, Canada, and Great Britain" he cleared his throat, "You're a machine!"
I didn't know what to feel and how, my mind was racing with events from storming the compound, coming to Russia, the suicide bombers. My pre-death self would have a heart attack and the worst anxiety one could feel. I'd have gone from a well-experienced Mountie to a schoolgirl with stagefright.
Art by Michael Weisheim Beresin
"Let me move." was the best I could muster; my mind was drawing a blank otherwise.
The Colonel needed no convincing; he studied me again and ran his hand over my face. "Go ahead, Emily; take your first step," he said while taking me by the hand like we were about to perform a ballet routine. Walking felt shockingly awkward; like I wore very high heels. "Take it easy, don't rush; no one's chasing you." We performed this bittersweet ballet routine for almost an hour until it became natural.
"Did you have any family waiting back home?" the Colonel asked.
"I had 3 cats but no one else." a newly-found pristine English girl in me replied.
"I'll send someone over to take care of them!" my superior perked up, "Don't worry!"
I stood up and walked towards a mirror; what looked back at me wasn't an athletic girl with long brown hair and green eyes instead, it was almost like something from another planet.
A silver, slender humanoid with hints of black Kevlar on the moving joints; laid out to imitate the human muscular structure. My long brown hair was changed to long dreadlocks that went down to my shoulders; maybe to maintain humanity and appear less nightmarish to the unprepared.
I stood in the mirror, trying to adapt to the fact that I will never be the same again; never will I style my hair or experiment with looks. What will my friends think?! Who will want to spend time with a reanimated mechanical corpse?! My brain was still human since I could still feel sadness and remorse; the organic me will be crying now but that luxury was no more.
However, what brought me back to stability was the white-on-black identification that read POLICE.
The sense of duty has brought me another surprise but this time, it was a pleasant one; my arms produced mantis claws! They were dual (2 per arm) and as long as my arm itself.
"You are not only bulletproof but can cut an adult man in half with those." the Colonel chimed in, "The operation is not yet a failure; the traitor you want is still at large." He produced a folder full of satellite photos, "This is off the books, Emily."
The Almighty Lord has given me a second chance to avenge my country, protect and serve as my duty dictates. At the right place, at the right time can make all the difference. What a human couldn't do a machine can do 10 times over. No weapon could stop me as bullets just bounced off. Hand-to-hand couldn't take me since my enemies hurt themselves while trying to hurt me. The traitor couldn't run as I outpaced him in seconds; he panted and cried as his fear got in the way of his escape. All of his treacheries, ultimately lead up to him staring in horror as his bottom half bled out as his top half crawled in vain; bleeding out the last remaining life.
© 2021 Jake Clawson