Ex Lacrima Remnant

Track #12 – Violator

Despite having been to that shopping mall hundreds of times, Mal had no idea of the impressive number of rooms tucked in its back, the part not exposed to the customers. All the shine, the brightness, the colors, the muzak that played out there… replaced by bare concrete, red bricks, rusted pipes, and the sound of thermal engines, humming on repeat. The floor was nothing but slabs of concrete, not even tiled or finished up. As for the lights… flickering neons, like the worst horror movie cliché. Whoever was in charge of the maintenance of those runways wasn’t doing a good job at all. He turned around to glance at his companions, asking himself how’d they fare. Prim seemed unfazed by that abrupt change in architecture. Her sneakers had to be comfortable enough for walking around, as her steps were light and regular. Felce, however, was grumbling under her breath, making each of her step purposely heavy, causing them to echo in the corridor. All while following a Peacekeeper armed with a plasma knife – and, now, with an assault rifle too. Despite that, Felce wasn’t impressed or intimidated. If anything, she was making it abundantly clear that she was going to snap their head, if they weren’t given a suitable explanation in the next few minutes. The Peacekeeper wasn’t dense, though, could see that there was something amiss with her. So, they chimed in, raising their gun, catching her attention.

“It’s loaded with herbicide too. Don’t mess with me and I won’t pull the trigger.”

Herbicide. At that word, Mal’s heart sunk. He turned immediately to look for Prim, hoped she hadn’t heard the Peacekeeper. But it was too late. Pale. Deadly pale. Frozen in place. Shivering. Breathing. Inhaling. Exhaling. Her eyes wide open. Her heart must surely have beaten fast too, like that last time in the greenhouse. Herbicide. Herbicide. Herbicide. Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Mal raised his arm, tried to reach for her. Only for another armored arm to stop him, a distorted voice blaring in his eardrums.

“Don’t move, Malstrom. I didn’t give you permission.”

Inhale. Exhale. Breathe. Prim gritted her teeth, stepped forward. It was alright. It was alright. She wasn’t a bad rhizome. She didn’t deserve the punishment. It was alright. That herbicide wasn’t there for her. It wasn’t. There. For her. Another step. And another. And another. Breaking off from her nonfunctional state, slowly following the trio. Slowly. In silence. Under Mal’s gaze, under Felce’s eyes. She couldn’t stop, or she would have been punished. Herbicide. Herbicide. Inhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. Exhale. Stop. Over. The panic attack was over. Her body following her mind again. She nodded towards Mal, almost if to reassure him. Only for Felce’s voice to echo in the cramped corridor, a fit of rage directed to their captor.

“Why would we need your permission, douche? We are on our time off, we didn’t kill anyone and we didn’t cause any property damage. Who gave you permission to stop us?”

“Lagash take me – you threw up on a memorial monument!”

“Yes, and? It’s just a mass of marble, flowers and dirt, it’s not alive! You can clean it as often as you want, if you even need to! How many kids are you gonna spank because they’ve crayoned all over it?”

She grinned at the guard, licked her lips.

“Unless you are into that stuff, that is.”

The Peacekeeper stared at her, stared at their rifle, stared at her again. The impulse, the temptation of pulling the trigger and spraying her with herbicide was quite alluring, after all. It’s just a rhizome. One of the many – same model as other rhizomes around the world. Except, this one was really tanned. They had never encountered a rhizome with a different complexion than that sickly discolored skin, with that web of semi-translucent green ducts all around their bodies. Deer-antlers felt more unique, yet still part of the system – a cog in a machine that just produced monsters. A sigh resonated inside and outside their helmet. They put down their gun, decided against their better judgement, turned around to face the captive trio.

“You, blondie. I’ve seen you’ve taken off your shoes, before rescuing Deer-antlers here. You did it to taste the soil, didn’t you?”

Prim stared at them, at the visor reflecting her own eyes back. Icy lakes mirrored into absolute blackness, returning a spark of azure. She weighed her answer for a couple seconds, rummaging through her mind to find suitable words. Lying to a Peacekeeper was a crime. She couldn’t commit a crime. So, truth it was, albeit uncomfortable.

“Yes, I did.”

“Drinking your team wasn’t enough, huh?”

Prim didn’t blink, gave herself two more seconds to elaborate on their words. That Peacekeeper had a grudge with rhizomes, that was evident. Their body mimics, their remarks, their spiteful words. Yet, that Peacekeeper was nothing but junk food. How would their water taste? Would it be tainted like that of the others? Would it quench her thirst? Or would it stimulate her body to produce even more excess lymph? Her fingers closed around the plastic bag, the one with ten sealed packs of crisps. That’s right. That was junk food, not them. Not the humans. Drinking a human was taboo, except when they were dead… or even when they were dead. The Peacekeeper led them through a maze of cramped corridors, of even rustier pipes, walls corroded by humidity and mold. Then, stopped in front of a wooden door, one that looked sturdy, hard to damage. They inputed a code on the lock, pressed a button close to the handle. A loud clack, the door opened on a small room, yet still big enough to gather all of them.

“Get in, come on.”

“Hey, pal! You can’t arrest us for…”

“I said get in, Malstrom!”

Mal didn’t stretch his luck. When a Peacekeeper with a rifle and a plasma knife in full tactical gear tells you to get in, you get in. That was how conventional wisdom went. And that’s also how rhizomes were imprinted. Even if he ran for it, Primula and Felce wouldn’t have. He stepped inside first, looked around a bit. A wooden table. A cot. An old PV apparatus with a single holographic projector. Posters of pop singers scattered around the room, a panda plushie stashed on the cot. The Peacekeeper pushed him out of the way, waited until the two rhizomes followed the lead. Then, they locked the door behind them. Only to take a seat, leave their gun on the table and their knife too. Mal stared at them with an expression that looked more puzzled than anything. Before the Peacekeeper’s hands reached for the helmet, unfastening its lock. A waterfall of blond hair flowed out of it, followed by two emerald eyes, a long-ish nose, camo marks on the cheeks. Against protocol, the Peacekeeper had revealed his face to the trio, now without the filter of the visor.

“This room is sealed and isolated. No signal in or out. Whatever we say here remains here.”

He combed his hair back, freed his eye from an unruly strand. Mal gasped. He had seen the guy, though his name wasn’t one he could remember. Something something Tony or Tonio or Tani. Maybe. In doubt, he remained silent. But Prim didn’t.

“Removing your helmet outside of the precinct grounds is a punishable offense. We will have to report this to…”

“See, Malstrom, this is why I don’t like them plants: they yap, yap and yap, always following the rules. And why do they do that?”

He slid his fingers on the gun, moved them from the magazine to the barrel.

“Because we burn them if they don’t. It’s that simple. Action. Reaction. You can’t trust a rhizome to break the rules. But I tell you what, plant: in this room, I’m the law. If it ain’t okay with you, I’ll spray you. It’s this simple. So, relax. I just want to chat.”

Felce closed her hand into a punch, her vine spiraling around it, rebuilt overnight by her excess lymph. She could whip that ass, if she wanted, leave a scar on his face. Yet, she waited. Even someone like her knew that barging in head first was nothing but trouble. The Peacekeeper combed his hair again, let his long hair down his tactical suit.

“You’re here to investigate that attack, right? This is why you brought two plants.”

“Excuse me?”

“Don’t play dumb, Malstrom. The attack where Mimi killed forty people and thrashed them to pieces. I can’t see any other reason for a rhizome to drink from a graveyard…”

He glanced at Felce, grinned in her direction.

“…unless you are into that stuff, that is.”

The Peacekeeper basked in Felce’s grizzled expression for a few instants, before returning his attention to Mal.

“What have you found, Malstrom?”

“Huh?”

“Deer-antlers here threw up her soul, on that flowerbed. That’s not normal for a rhizome, yes? So much lymph expelled in so little time, after just sampling some water? That ain’t it. I wanna know what’s the reason. And I hope you have something solid, for your sake, after what your plants desecrated.”

“Why?”

The Peacekeeper stood up, slowly.

“Because my brother’s body is down there, in that mass grave – just another one of Mimi’s victims. That’s the reason why I’ve spent my last year as a Peacekeeper patrolling this mall, every single day of duty. E… every… ugh.”

He coughed twice in rapid succession, wiped his mouth.

“This is getting annoying…”

Another fit of cough, another one. Prim glanced at the guy’s hand, from her vantage position. And shivered. Green. The hand of that Peacekeeper was green. Much like her lymph. A rhizome lymph. Yet, he wasn’t a rhizome. He couldn’t be a junkie either. Junkies didn’t puke lymph. Her neural connections started working faster, trying to elaborate the situation. Before electing to wait a bit longer. That could have just been a mistake in her judgment. On his side, the Peacekeeper didn’t seem to care, simply cleaned his glove with a paper towel, before gazing around the room.

“Say, Malstrom, is any of your plants pollinating? I’m allergic to…”

He coughed again. And again. One more time. He reached for his helmet, stuffed his head inside it, activated the air filter. The cough subsided, slowly, till his breath returned normal. Mal recognized the humming of the rebreather. He hated that filter. It made the air smell like bleach and was one of the reasons why most Peacekeepers activated it only in case of emergency – but it was certainly more desirable than coughing to death. Slowly, his breath turned back to normal, as the sterilized atmosphere inside the visor pervaded his nostrils. His voice came out of the speaker, distorted again by the modulator.

“Fine. I’m fine. But damn…”

He locked the helmet on his head, all the LED bands switched on. The Peacekeeper glanced at Felce, then at Prim, as if to understand which of them emitted the pollen that triggered that coughing and sneezing fest. His gaze rested on Felce longer, stopped there. He shook his head, before joining his hands in front of his face.

“Whatever. Now, tell me. What’s the deal with the bodies? What did you find out?”

“Their water was tainted by an unknown chemical.”

Primula’s voice echoed in the room, louder than usual, stealing the attention of everyone else. She leaned on the wall, her arms crossed, her neck tendrils resting right under the collar of her sweatshirt, strangely immobile.

“I’ve sampled remains from four individuals. All of them had traces of this substance, in different quantities. I guess Felce did the same.”

Felce’s eyes widened. Four? Just one had been enough to make her throw up her innards and Primula sampled four of them? There was no way – her ducts really had to be made of asbestos, at that point. Yet, Felce hid her surprise as well as she could. She couldn’t give Prim that satisfaction, not while out together. Unfortunately for her, it was too late. Prim had already got wind of it, just by that knee-jerk reaction alone. But, for the sake of their inquiry, she refrained from showing off her small boost of self-confidence, instead focusing on the matters at hand. The Peacekeeper kept his gaze trained on Primula, weighed her words.

“An unknown chemical? How can you know that? How… how many people have you drunk?!”

“Seventy-four criminals. Twenty teammates.”

The coldness of her voice made Mal shiver. There wasn’t contempt or maliciousness, there wasn’t regret or embarrassment. In her voice, there was absolutely nothing. Prim made that sound like an objective statement, simply listing the numbers. It was a pure show of facts. Devoid of any emotions. Devoid of any humanity.

“Eight-two of them were already dead, when I drained their water. Among those, only the last twenty had traces of this specific chemical in their body, plus the four corpses I sampled here.”

The Peacekeeper couldn’t take his eyes away from Prim, from that rhizome standing in front of him, her eyes like frozen lakes, reflecting everything back to the source. He almost didn’t know what to say, how to reply. It just felt… wrong. Whatever he planned to say felt wrong. That rhizome, that talking plant staring at the bottom of his soul, wasn’t a person. It felt more akin to a machine. Still, that couldn’t be all. Unknown chemicals. Drained people. It all felt outrageous. Before he could reply, though, Deer-antlers’s voice blasted through the small room too.

“I’ve drunk five people more than her, and most of them were alive! All criminals, though! No Peacekeepers!”

“It’s not a competition, Felce.”

“If it ain’t, why are you annoyed?”

“You two…”

The Peacekeeper couldn’t finish the sentence. A deafening noise, a crashing sound of crumbling concrete overshadowed all of their voices. A moment of stupor, of surprise. Before the noise came again, even louder than before. Mal turned around, met the visor of his colleague. The Peacekeeper nodded back at him, grabbed his rifle and knife, went to the door, unlocked it, opened it with a kick. Back in the corridor, back among the bricks. He tapped on his helmet, the signals from the security system finally reaching him. Right before the noise exploded for a third time. From the direction of the memorial.

“Control center from Epsilon Eleven, what the hell’s happening?”

No response. Just digital noise. That wasn’t normal. Which might have meant that…

“Damn it.”

To hell with protocol. To hell with rules. To hell with safety. He couldn’t wait any longer, started running the way he came from, removed the safety from his gun, leaving everyone else behind. Mal ran behind him, almost immediately, followed by Felce and, lastly, by Prim. Fast steps through the narrow corridor, through the leaking steam pipes. Till they emerged from the backside door.

And saw it.

The monument broken, the stone shattered, thrashed.

The flowers stepped on, mowed.

The soil carved out, from inside.

Blood.

Limbs.

Severed.

Mangled.

Chewed.

And, in the middle,

It.

There was no other way to describe that creature.

It.

A tangle of vines, of roots, of rotten leaves. Of human bones. Of human jaws. Cracked, broken, fragmented. Held together in some shape or form, mashed without rhyme or reason, an abstract concept from an alien intelligence.

It.

Was there, watching without eyes, hearing without ears.

Draining water with a cobweb of tendrils.

From the dried, agonizing body of an elderly man.

And a mass of torn flesh that once had to be his grandkid.

Static. That was all what went through Mal’s head. Static.

What.

Was.

That.

Thing.

It.

A mass of tentacles. Of branches. Of plant matter. Sucking water out of people. Killing them.

Killing

them

in front

of him.

Mal reached for his gun, almost instinctively. Except, he didn’t have one. He wasn’t on duty. He wasn’t armed. But the other Peacekeeper was. Herbicide. Yes, herbicide. That was the one way. So, he turned around, trying to find him. Only for the Peacekeeper to stand there, almost paralyzed, shivering. Shivering. Shivering. Right as it moved. As it slithered on the ground. Like a snake made of ivy and entrails.

And its tendrils expanded, spines emerged from its back. Aiming at the Peacekeeper.

He couldn’t scream.

He couldn’t shout.

He could only look.

He closed his eyes.

Instants become years. Seconds become centuries. Minutes become millennia.

A horrible sound, the impact of bark on hard steel, black shards flying everywhere. It crawled back, recalled the vines, expelled the severed one. In front of it, of its ‘face’, stood a figure. Shielding its prey from it.

That figure was a blond-haired rhizome with ice-cold eyes.

Holding a short, ragged spear made of her own bone marrow, still oozing her lymph.

A spear that stopped its assault.

A spear now aimed at it.