The Annihilation Code

Chapter Three ➹ Atlas Contreras ➹

I stood on the edge of my balcony as the sun rose over the horizon. I was scrolling through the news on my HoloWatch with one hand and holding a cigarette in the other. Most of the day's top stories included pictures of Chase Huxley's stupid face.  Most of the headlines said something along the lines of Up and coming model, Chase Huxley, caught in a devastating car accident. If only someone was there to warn him about his impending doom. Oh wait, someone did, it was me and if he'd taken my advice he could've avoided the crash. Chase died as he lived, drunk and stupid.

I was so frustrated I wanted to scream, but I lacked the voice box required to do so, instead, I took a deep inhalation of the pink and blue smoke from my cigarette. In the year 2067, the masses had stopped partaking in nicotine. Humanity was ready to move on to bigger and better things. Well, that was until Bionic Corp created their very own type of cigarette. They called them Hazebriars. They produced smoke the color of rainbows, came in over 7,000 flavors, and happened to be ten times more addictive than any of their predecessors. I tried my first one when I was eight, I've been hooked on them since.

I held the smoke in my bionic lungs until I couldn't stand it any longer. I let out a long exhale, releasing the colorful mist. I glared at Chase's photo. The last thing I needed was another person's death on my conscience. I gazed towards the sky with a look of pleading in my eyes. Haven't I been through enough? How much longer must I suffer for what I've done? If there was a way I could atone for the cyborgs I've killed, I would take it, but there isn't!

I took another drag of my cigarette. I scowled at Chase's dumb picture one last time. He's not even that good-looking by model standards. He's just so confident, he misleads you into thinking he's more attractive than he is. He's the human equivalent of one of those bland oil paintings they sell in the bargain bin, pretty at first glance but completely lacking any substance.

The door to the balcony slid open. I turned around to see my sister standing in the doorway. She crossed her arms. "I thought you said you were going to quit smoking."

"I never said that," I replied, in sign language.

She pursed her lips. "You need to stop doing that, you're going to get lung cancer!"

"My lungs are synthetic, they can't get cancer." I signed.

She blew a strand of her magenta-colored out of her eyes. "I'm worried about you."

"If you're so concerned, why don't you come out here and take it from me?" I extended the arm holding the cigarette towards her. It was so close she could reach it, if she took a step outside.

Marisa physically recoiled from my suggestion."You're a jerk." Tears welled up in her eyes. She stormed off without another word.

That was a low blow, I'll admit it.

Agoraphobia. An anxiety disorder that causes fear of open spaces, public transit, shopping centers, or in my sister's case leaving the apartment at all. She was first diagnosed when she was fourteen, but it's gotten much worse over the years. Patch doesn't know how to help her, neither do I for that matter.

A few minutes later, Patch joined me on the balcony. "Your sister seems pretty upset."

"I was being an asshole." I signed.

"She loves you."

I stared down at the ground.

"She told me you started smoking again."

"I never stopped."

He gave an impassive nod.

"Are you mad at me?"