Bring With You a Heart: A Transhumanist Romance -Volkolak

A quad of heavy boots beat an anthem of bad intentions out of the street, rhythmic notes composing a march with purpose. Arms’ length apart, they rob all space from the street center. Wary Citizens part around either side of them like a Biblical sea; aiming to escape conflict, obey their slavery to Fear. Their tune screams defiance right in their docile faces, faces pale from alert to threat.

The anthem continues with each pair of footsteps. No mind to the crowd, straight playing on the way they intend - minstrels of mayhem.

The sea of commuters now behind them, ahead another crowd gathers at leisure, dispersed in various corners of the café and nearby shops. Volkolak and his companion near the marbled patio thick with condensed lounging Citizens. The aroma of freshly-brewed coffee grows stronger as they pace forward.

At one small, round table three uniformed men are at rest, arrayed in order of age. The men converse casually, helmets off and placed beside their coffees. All are dressed in navy-black, long sleeves draped tight like a shroud of secrecy over their mods; three thin mesh-patterned gloves clutch three drinks. Where the sleeves of each of their outfits meet their shoulders, the matte black material thickens into a torso embossed with the silver honeycomb pattern that brands top quality Armorgraph.

Volkolak’s mood turns sardonic as he takes in the incidental totality of the Enforcer image. Each component, from garb to utility belt, portrays defense gained at the expense of offense.

His companion speaks. “Volya, looks like our drooks here want to buy us coffee.”

“Looks so, Alex. Maybe we should just shake them down instead! Ha! Let's see what they say. Oooh, I see the pretty girls hear us.”

The eyes of the youngest of the uniformed men form an angry squint. He sizes up the two men. Locking eyes with Volkolak, he speaks:

“Yeah, I fuckin’ see you, too.”

A few heavy strides take Volkolak right up to the Enforcers, close enough that his knees brush their table. He stands there casually, slowly giving them a crafted smirk.

Every cell in his body manifests defiance.

“What you wanna do, Tavarisch Enforcer? Gimme one long lecture of yours? Call me bad, bad boy? Finger-wag? Shame, shame, shame. You wanna be my mama? No place for that. But…I can make you my bitch. I always have room for one more bitch. What you say, suka?”

The youngest Enforcer stands up, posturing toughness. Volkolak can smell his fear, hear his pulse quicken; he reacts to the detail with a gruff laugh:

“Why you scared? You the one with a gun!”

The middle-aged Enforcer gets up, joins his comrade in a proud stance.

“He ain’t worth our time, man. Forget this scumbag.”

The eldest Enforcer sips his coffee, unruffled by the display.

The younger men hold tall and maintain their flimsy attempt to stand ground. Citizens in the vicinity take notice. Some hide their gawking and check out the scene with a sideways glance. A larger group has their devices pointed, poised to capture reality.

“Enforcer Brutality!” a Citizen shouts.

“Enforcer Brutality!” more voices take up the rallying call.

“Enforcer Brutality! Enforcer Brutality!” The chant steadies, crowding the air as it grows in volume. The dissonance carries on, dropping words to gain pace and bravado:

“Brutality! Brutality! Brutality!” over and over.

And over.

With a glance around, the two uniforms sit back down like deflated decorations. Lips tight, stripped of words, they look up and away from confrontation.

Volkolak holds his pose, savoring his victory. He pays no mind to the crowd of voyeurs still staring expectantly. The two head onward with intent. The bustle of the market district behind them, the commotion fades into their past.

Few people are around now. The metallic halls seem to enhance the silence. Ahead, stone pathways lead the transition to the serenity of the forest district.

Volkolak grabs a small pouch from off his belt and hands it to his companion.

“Teraz, go to the Novy Acadiens. Trade for yedna quartz-piasse. Use less than I gave you. Pomyentash; I chose you for that sweet-tongue i nyeh’tvoya krasa!"

A grind and click as a chain jumps gears. The muffled, aerated whistle from the spin of spoked wheels. Volkolak glimpses a fast figure at his five o’clock. He signals with a flick of his skull toward the cyclist rolling up behind them.

“Alex! It’s a far trip…”

The cyclist nears. Volkolak’s companion grabs the bent, protruding elbow and in a rough jerk slams him off the bike onto the hard street. The Citizen shakes in fear prone on the ground, hands clasped behind his head to prepare for a beating which never arrives.

His assailant has ridden off.

Dobry Chlovyek

Satisfied, Volkolak continues onwards, not sparing a glance back at the trauma. Long strides quickly bring him to the stone path which tours the inner outskirts of the Forest. He spends some half an hour on the path before dodging into the brush.

Instincts demand action.

They call to Volkolak, compel him, a Siren’s voice from within the wild. Volya, seek the shade of the inner forest. With each step of his journey the vegetation thickens. Light slowly fades, obfuscated by the leafy canopy.

Through echoes of rustling foliage, in the gusts of the gentle breeze, he hears the size, intuits the weight, smells the species-type of each hidden creature, both near and distant. In the air he tastes their disposition; hunger, curiosity, fear.

The bark of each tree is to him unique among a thousand. He sees common plants grow an identity unique as their own fingerprint. The forest speaks to Volkolak's senses as if they share an ancient tongue, each other's secrets sworn to preserve forever.

Every mode of his perception works in harmony, guiding him, alerting him, and driving him onward. He smoothly navigates through the unforgiving terrain as it absorbs additional hues of colour. Streaks of blue flash brighter as a deer crosses his path, then fades to a blue-grey before he leaps across a blockade of rocks. Agile steps stir up the ground, releasing the musk of moss and soil to linger with pine, the subtle cologne of the woods.

Volkolak is energized by the earthen atmosphere. Air bleeding deep in his pores, his sensual aura blurs between where he ends and his surroundings begin.

Grainy sprinkles of bark scrape across his skin as he weaves through trees large and small. Under his feet, the terrain alternates from the hardness of stone and snapping twigs to the softness of moist dirt under fallen leaves. Complete images, visible for a mere moment, lingering quick flashes of red and yellow streak his vision as snakes slither and snap to avoid his steps; raccoons loom, curious from above, grasping at branches as they climb. The most subtle of sounds sharpen in his ears. Fluttering whips of tall grass part as tiny amphibians scatter to take refuge in moist weeds; hollow, slow thumps of broad, clawed paws send a slight tang of berries mingled with pheromones through the air.

Adrenaline surges his body like electricity, a warm rush chased by spinal chills. The humidity of passing leaves tickle his skin; the hairs on the back of his neck stiffen.

Second skin.

Seventh sense.

A hunter on the hunt. Concealed. Stealthy. In the distance, pulsing colours stand out like a beacon. The hues glow strongly; the figure jogs, hot and sweating, just off the trail, tranquil as the pond Volkolak brisks across.

Male.

Few mods; mostly flesh.

Easy.

Volkolak Creeps. He Stalks.

The beacon grows larger, stronger, each flicker of motion mesmerizing Volkolak with determination. Only a few feet between predator and victim, fast and vicious as a lunging lioness who must kill or starve, Volkolak strikes. One large hand encircles the man’s throat and effortlessly yanks him close. An undefinable moment in time destroys his tranquil demeanor.

An undefinable moment in time.

Volkolak senses the panic of his prey, like an antelope overwhelmed by all a pride of lions. The smell of cheap, floral cologne mingled with cortisol-salted tears and adrenaline-enriched sweat fills his nose. Slowly he squeezes the soft, fleshy throat; the air fills with an astringent odor of untested human fear. He squeezes the throat harder.

Rob?

Kill?

Decide.

The pop of crushed cartilage bursts like a flash of light. His fist holds the crushed neck tight he palm-strikes the side of the man’s skull with his other hand; a sharp crack releases from spent vertebrae. Volkolak throws the man to the ground, rubbery limbs flopping; he lands belly up. The head wobbles for a moment before it rests below a tree, one ear cozied up to the trunk.

Volkolak pauses.

His lungs fill with crisp air, a perfumey aroma of pine and mulch. A reach into his back jean pocket removes a thin metal container. Pressing the small button on the hatch, he folds it open to remove a gold-filtered cigarette, rolled in white paper impressed with the image of a serpent; the snap of a lighter shares a moment with a deep breath.

As he enjoys a slow drag, his body fills with a pleasurable buzz. Savouring the moment, he looks up at the dark birds fluttering through the foliage. The lifeless face at his feet has frozen in a long and twisted expression, mirroring the gnarled roots weaving in and out of the dirt.

The cigarette tossed aside, unfinished, Volkolak shifts his attention back to the task at hand, one boot on the corpse's chest, another on the soil.

He bends his knee slowly, leaning onto the sternum until his full weight heaves down on it. Ribs pop, separate, and give way, sinking inward. Bone mangles the lungs, collapse into the heart; the crushing force turns the skeleton against what it once protected, invading the stomach, puncturing it. A bubbling sound ripples as organs spill their fluids in brisk spurts, as if purging an angry soul who seeks rite of passage through its body’s busted throat.

With added force, Volkolak continues. The body gurgles more loudly as ropey gobs of crimson and black project from its gaping mouth. Face and neck is stained by the chaotic splatter, like a Van Gogh textured with morbid slime. Shards of rib bones sink deeper, piercing through the flesh. Waves of heat radiate up to Volkalak as blood boils through punctured skin. Dark, chunky liquid outlines the corpse’s hips; a stream leaks from between its crotch and legs ballooning into a puddle. The stench of sulfur and tepid ditch-water overtakes all other smells.

Vultures cry, piercing and sharp, their screams pleading to Volkolak. He hears the gentle ruffle of owl feathers.

Carrion is carrion.

Still his boot forces down on the flesh-pile, harder, deeper, until a thin gooey film awash with solid chunks floats between his boot and the ground as a slippery, fleshy mess, like stepping on a pustulent sack of membrane too tough to burst. The ball of Volkalak’s foot see-saws along the spine, eliciting crunching, crackling sounds like notes of a symphonic scale. He has steadied himself, achieved balance. Dampness creeps across his skin as a slimy wetness oozes in through the eyelets of his footwear.

He senses the unseen lurking in shadows, first picking up their scent before glancing over at the blue-toned visual. Two small figures are watching, waiting, with furtive curiosity devoid of fear.

He keeps his weight firmly on the torso, holding the body in place. He grabs just above the elbow with both hands and dislocates the bone from the shoulder with an effortless yank. He twists, alternating hand over hand, a motion like wringing out a cloth while climbing a rope. Twists...

An alchemist of violence, dedicated to his craft.

The ball-and-socket joint becomes a makeshift mortar and pestle, grinding any meddlesome supportive tissue to pulp. His ethereal strength seeks to conjure its polarity, rendering the body to weakness like ground meat.

He twists and twists as he turns the arm in circles. Tighter, tighter he works the flesh and muscle, like thread winding on a spindle. Organic matter forms a tense spiral between the separated ball and socket. Not yet finished, he moves the entire arm in a wide circular motion, as he would stir a pot of grainy stew. A grinding noise echoes like sand in the teeth. One swift yank upwards; a loud, cracking snap. The impulsive move shreds muscles, rips flesh. Veins bounce in a prophetic wiggle like hungry maggots.

The iron scent of blood disperses in a chaotic mist. Miniscule droplets tickle the hairs in Volkolak's nose. The tingle of a forked tongue follows as he licks the top of his lip.

The shadow's creatures loom closer. Blue-toned images morph into the glow of yellow eyes and brown-speckled furry forms, perked ears atop narrow heads poised below their shoulders. Their curiosity strengthens.

Volkolak tosses the ravaged arm at the pair of canids in offering.

“Eat, moi malenki brat ‘n siostra; the wolves have not left much these days.”

They drag the arm, cumbersome for their little bodies, and eventually sink back into the shadows.

Volkolak continues through the woods, mood serene and movements quick. He’s thrown off course by a lure chasing the wind; an alluring bouquet of aroma and flavour, sour and sweet, catches his focus. Following the musky, floral trail he can see in the far distance a hued outline buzzing with heat, moving slowly; its lower body sways with each step, hypnotizing his vision.

Female.

Arousal consumes his body and emotion. His pace quickens; crouched low as he begins pursuit, the trees ahead strobe his vision as his velocity increases. Extending out his arms, he leverages the trees one by one to propel himself forward through the thick brush. One last thought before the heat of the chase consumes his conscious mind:

This is my world.

Forest Image Source: Mikeal John Gage http://mjg.deviantart.com

This has been edited by @beowulfoflegend I highly recommend you check out: Editing Services: Offer Exclusive to Steemit