From the Cradle to the Grave

The woman's image shimmered and there sat, next to Dante, a man wearing a trench coat and a short-brimmed hat with sunglasses. Dante darted away and flicked open his coat, snaking his pistol out of its holster and preparing to fire two shots into the agent's frame.

The agent leapt up and grabbed onto the bars, missing the first bullet. The second grazed his leg, but everything stopped and Dante stared with a mouth agape as the blood reversed its course and flew back into the wound, the bullet flowing backwards into the barrel of Dante's pistol.

The agent rushed forward, tearing the floor to pieces beneath his feet and Dante threw his mind forward, disappearing and reappearing behind the agent. With the quickness of a monster, he took aim and fired. The agent shimmered, leaving nothing but a cold, metallic corpse in its wake.

Elapsed time: 5.3 seconds.

Grunting, he slowly pulled a piece of shrapnel out of his neck. Blood leaked through his fingers but it felt oily, as if it should have been black. Heat massaged the wound with rough fingers and sparks squirted from the wound, only to land on the floor and extinguish like small stars blotted out.

The machine had made an imprint when it landed, a mark so deep it seemed the bottom of the train nearly skidded against the tracks.

Asia.

Footsteps sounded, boots beating against the metal floor. Dante wanted to ghost, but he had used this body on so many missions that it now seemed a true part of him. Parting never was easy.

Instead of the panic that so often raced through him when someone came close to finding him, frigid reserve coursed in its stead. In one motion, he snatched the pistol from the agent's holster and pulled his fedora tighter until none of his face could be seen. He wrapped his trench coat closer to his body and felt the effects of the camouflage wash over him as he slid by the door. Just then, the door to the cabin slid open and three security guards burst through with their pistols at the ready. Blue collared shirts and breeches sheathed their chiseled forms tightly and Dante saw their muscles tense with the impulse to kill, the same impulse that pushed his eyes open every morning, the same impulse that would not let them close in sleep.

Dante's tightened muscles quivered as he held his pistols ready. He held his breath, careful not to disturb the air around him. Wary eyes searched for an exit. The train still moved at a blistering pace. If he were to leap out through the window, he would land on the tracks and electricity would end his existence on this earth.

His muscles relaxed as realization crept into him and he eyed the guards who hunched over the robot corpse.

"She's gone," said one of them, shaking his head from side to side.

"There's no way she could've killed herself like this. She has no weapon," said another, running his hands over her, searching.

The third remained silent.

They examined her as if she had been a true human being and not an agent, not a robot, not a machine. He wanted to cry out in a voice he was sure they would hear and tell them that they were fools for having not seen her holster, there in plain sight. The more they looked her over, turning her corpse to look into glazed eyes rimmed with red, quartering off the area and noticing the pool of blood by her head, the more Dante doubted it was a robot he had killed. Something inhuman, something metal and unforgiving, pushed the doubt away with vengeance.