Subject: Mia | Classif.: Barzakh

  Byzantium Village was colorful. But somehow, Mia felt like she was color blind.

  Wood and metal made up the building blocks of her surroundings. It seemed almost retrofuturistic, but with the “retro” replaced with “medieval” and the “futuristic” with “modernistic.” Medievalmodernistic. Was that even a thing? Her limited understanding of art only came from impersonating mobsters whose attempts at sophistication and cultured life were questionable at best.

  But what was unquestionable was the abundance of wood and metal all around her. And yet, the village was a lot more than just hues of brown and gray. From the windmills sticking out of the roofs of homes to the drums of oil at the sides where the mech-humans refueled, almost everything had layers of paint. Mixed and matched ad nauseam. Some were more faded than others, but there was no shortage of vibrancy.

  It truly felt like the kind of drawings children tend to create. The ones where every single crayon in the set was used just because they could. Blue, yellow, green—and everything in between was smeared, sprayed, and splashed everywhere. As if the villagers once looked at those children’s drawings and decided they were blueprints.

  The only color absent from this oddly picturesque environment was red. Maybe the villagers got bored looking at it. Everywhere outside the village was red because of the trees, after all.

  But still, one less color didn’t make the world around her any less painful to see. It was like the village was reminding her of how she broke the Regalia, mocking her on purpose. She created such a vivid, prismatic light show with her magic. For once, she created. Not destroyed. Not erased. Created. And yet, just as she thought she was something more than a killer, everything vanished before her very eyes. Even the tool that made it possible. Gone, reduced to nothing more than grains of regret. Dust she had to clean like any other.

  Lynn got to be Copper Rose. Her Dad, Gunmetal Gray. But her? Nothing. The only one without a color in a society that flourished in it. Because of that, she couldn’t go with them to see the village chief, Old Gold. She sat all alone, idling on a swing in an empty playground. The one place where colors didn’t feel too out of place.

  In truth, she didn’t know if that was the case. She had never been on a playground before. There were none on The Surface—before they turned 18, children up there could die. Their overprotective Immortal parents couldn’t risk having such a dangerous place where accidents might occur.

  Playgrounds were in The Mids. Supposedly. If she and the other orphans succeeded in escaping the kingdom that night, they’d all be playing in a place like this. If things hadn’t gone wrong, her mouth wouldn’t have the taste of being a liar right now. Once we’re free, I’ll push you on a swing! That’s a promise! False hope and empty words echoed in her mind. Left to stew in her mind as she felt so small. So cold. Alone, with only survivor’s guilt and broken promises keeping her company.

  Her hands moved from the stainless steel chains at her sides to her neck, wrapped in her scarf. It was warmer there. It was warmer where her Dad was, but this present he gave her was as close as she got. The scarf was dirty, still covered in grime and sweat. Still in the same condition her Dad gave her after he ran around the forest looking for her. It was the only part of her appearance that she left blemished. The one thing she couldn’t bear to shapeshift away.

  With her hands enveloped within the soft fabric, she didn’t feel as alone anymore. She could feel his tenderness between the cross-stitching. His love in the darkened, smudged spots. Her thoughts wandered back to just before they parted ways. The short-lived sensation of joy on her head as he patted her hair. I’ll be right back. His words were firm. Firm enough for her mind to cling to as she wasted time in this playground.

  As she imagined how he’d look if he saw her all sulky, she got up from the wooden seat of the swing. He’d have wanted to see her happy. Or at the very least, something other than being down in the dumps. So, she ignored the colors in the background and the occasional stare she felt from villagers passing by.

  She focused her attention on the small plot of land she was on—the playground. Every piece of equipment within the four wooden-fenced walls of this place became her target. They became the instruments of a requiem that she played as a silent farewell to the orphans. In their memory, in those unkept promises, she decided to live out the happiness that had been robbed from them.

  Everything went dark as she entered the slide headfirst. Her eyes recovered from the colorful assault outside as she wondered if she should have gone in with her legs first instead. She could only assume how these things were played. Moments later, she plopped out like a snail out of its shell. Face buried in the dirt, arms by her side. She spent a few good seconds in this position, evaluating her experience. After concluding it was underwhelming, she got up, shapeshifted the muck away from her face, and went on to the next objective.

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  The monkey bars. Looking at it as an obstacle, it felt like a joke compared to the climb she had to make when she fell off the cliff hours ago. She jumped up to the first bar at the very end. But instead of going from bar to bar, she did a pull-up. In one explosive move, she propelled herself skyward, high enough to stand on the bar like a gymnast. There was no swinging. Just pure, vertical momentum.

  Now standing on top, she played hopscotch on the bars. The entire steel structure shuddered under each jump, desperately trying to withstand something it wasn’t made for. But Mia didn’t know. She only focused on keeping her balance as she bounced from bar to bar. Even though her footholds were only an inch in diameter, she could hop, switch legs, and turn around like it was nothing.

  Leaping out from the starting bar with an acrobatic flip, she landed on the ground as if it were a soft mattress. If there were judges looking her way, they would all show score cards of “10.” But she didn’t care what others thought of her. She only cared about making the most out of the playground equipment. The exercise was good. But was it fun? It didn’t feel like it.

  So for her next experience, she opted for the one thing in the playground that didn’t involve physical effort. The sandbox. Hopefully, this would be the one. The one activity that would bring her the same childlike wonder she felt earlier when she painted the air with the ID Distributor. Since both involved creating something, she was confident that playing in the sandbox would do the trick.

  Third time’s the charm.

  As she sat on the sand, she wondered what to build. She didn’t have a bucket or any kind of container, so everything had to be sculpted by hand. And since the structure she’d be building wouldn’t be able to stand tall, it had to be pretty flat.

  Like an anti-materiel rifle.

  Instead of a 3D rifle, she wanted to make one from a 2D perspective. One where, if the viewer were standing at the edge of the sandbox, they’d be able to tell it was an AMR. She never fired one before, but she knew exactly how it looked. Like a sniper rifle, only much, much bigger. Even if she had one, she wouldn’t be able to bring it with her; it wouldn’t be able to fit in the trunk of the car!

  Starting from the stock, she molded her way to the tip of the barrel, using almost the entire length of the sandbox. With her knife, she flattened the uneven edges formed by her hands. From the scope to the bipod, down to the grooves of the rail, the enormous firearm was starting to come to life.

  But just as she could imagine the sensation of 4150 Chrome Moly Vanadium steel, complete with a coat of manganese phosphate running through her fingers, something interrupted her.

  “What is that?”

  She was so engrossed in crafting her dream weapon, she didn’t notice she had just earned herself a spectator. Standing right outside the sandbox was a short but skinny robot. And from its voice, Mia guessed it was a young boy.

  “This is an anti-materiel rifle.” Mia paused her sculpting, being more than eager to explain the greatness of the weapon. “It’s designed to take out military equipment instead of people over long ranges.”

  “Wow, that sounds cool.”

  “Right?!”

  Finally, someone who could appreciate the AMR. Mia felt her body getting lighter already. Did mech-humans also find the firearm intriguing because they were both made of steel?

  “Booooooring.” Another voice jeered.

  It seemed like the answer to that question in her head was a “no.”

  This other robot child came up from behind the first one, together with two more. After looking down on her creation, it shoved the bot who complimented her. “C’mon, Jasper! You’re supposed to show this fleshie who’s boss! Like this!”

  The mean robot jumped into the sandpit, kicking the sand. Mia’s hard work was reduced to nothing, all while the other two bots at the back laughed and snickered. Stereotypically so.

  It was odd. Was this how being bullied felt?

  “Go back to where you came from, fleshie!” Said the robot at the back and left.

  The one on the right added, “Yeah! This is OUR playground.”

  Mia got up. Taking one last look at the ruined remains of the AMR, she started to smile. And once the curve on her lips opened, laughter leaked out. It was almost a whisper at first, but then it no longer sounded human. Flesh, mech, or otherwise.

  The bot in the sandbox stuttered as it tried to put on a brave front. “W-What’s so f-funny, freak?!”

  “Guys, please stop!” Begged the one who complimented her work earlier. Jasper, as she recalled.

  Mia felt strange. She didn’t know whether it was hilarious or sad. Maybe both. Witnessing her attempt at joy get stepped on felt weirdly liberating. As if she finally realized something so simple that it almost felt stupid for her not to know earlier.

  After killing so many people and almost getting killed so many times, it just wasn’t possible for her to be a normal child anymore. Having spent most of her life on the edge, there was hardly any stimulation to be found in the playground. Getting bullied? What’s so bad about getting bullied if this was their best attempt at trying to break her down? It felt so much better compared to getting shot, tortured, or raped.

  Looking at these bullies and the playground around her, all she saw was phantom nostalgia. A normal childhood. The good, the bad, and the ugly. None of which she ever got to have or would have moving forward.

  By the time she stopped laughing, she had come to terms with her feelings. She was at peace. There was no urge to kill them. They were not bad guys. They were children. And all children deserved happiness, no matter how they behaved.

  Mia asked blankly, “Hey, do you wanna see a magic trick?”

  The leader of the bullies, the one in the sandbox with her, took a few steps back. “W-What? No!”

  “Good. Me neither.” She drew her pistol and fired.

  The bullet flew upward into the sky. A warning shot. But still, its horrifying voice silenced every other sound in the village. The bots around her fled, running for dear life. This was how normal people reacted, Mia reminded herself. She was the only one who found the thunderous bang of a gunshot to be numbingly comforting.

  As she watched the mech-human children scatter, one of them fell. Oil leaked out of the tubes in its knee. It was Jasper. The bot’s pained crying was a reminder to her that this, too, was a normal human reaction.

  Mia approached Jasper with a smile on her face.

  The crying stopped instantly.