Blast Protocol

Chapter 8

SILAS

I tumble forward over the lip of the hill, pushed by some tremendous force, waves of intense heat billowing around me, warping the air. I pull Frosty in against my body, protecting her head and neck. We hit the slope, rolling, a big burp of flame roaring past overhead.

The sand is coarse and packed, like a bluff made of sandpaper. Which makes sense, I suppose, but it kinda hurts.

Even with the burst of fire past and gone, the heat itself seems to follow us—going suddenly from the sauna-esque heat of the desert to the inside of a stove. A strong, distinct scent permeates the vicinity, one that I now recognize as burning metal. I smelled it back in the room with the tanks, I smelled it in the passage when the minibikes exploded, and I smell it now.

As we arrive at the base of the hill, my back slams hard into the ground, Frosty on top of me, of her shoulder digging into my chest. Her body rises and dips to the cadence of my breathing.

I'm still trying to catch my breath. And I'm listening. Waiting. Because I'm not entirely sure what happens next. For the past twenty minutes, maybe longer, it's been one potential catastrophe after another. So where's the next one? Where's it going to come from?

There's a thump as something lands on the packed hillside sand just a few paces away. A thick plate of metal. Charred black in parts. Actually on fire at one end.

Well. If that's not a sign the mech is dunzo, I don't know what is.

With that thought, some of the tension starts to leak out of me.

The air is quiet and still, now. No wind. No rustle of sand shifting. Just the faint noise of burning wreckage on the other side of the hill.

There's something almost peaceful about it. 'Burning Cyberpunk Wreckage ASMR'. Why not?

Wait. I'm forgetting something. I'm such an idiot.

"Hey," I say, narrowly stopping myself from referring to her as 'Frosty'.

"Yes?" She says, unmoving, the side of her head pressed against my chest, tangles of her hair draped over my arm.

"You okay?" I say.

She hesitates for a couple of seconds. "No. Not really." Then, "Are you?"

There's a question.

I don't answer right away. Instead, I find my mind drifting. Traveling to places I wish I could stop it from going.

When I first woke up in the tank, I knew something was wrong. But I thought, at least to some extent, that the problem was with me. That there was some glitch on my end. That none of this was actually real.

But how can I deny the reality right in front of me? How can I simply dismiss these moment to moment experiences? If reality isn't real, then what tools do I have to find the truth? How am I supposed to make sense of it?

I say—know—my name is Silas Turner. Frosty says I'm something called a Blast model, and she seems to think that's all I've ever been. So who's right?

And on top of all of that, there's this ominous feeling I can't shake. That this is all some psychotic distraction my brain has concocted to keep me busy. Anything to not have to deal with what happened.

And the worst part is, in that regard, it's almost working.

Almost.

"No," I say, finally, in answer to the question. "Not really."

"You still don't remember," she says. "Do you?"

"No," I say. "Should I?"

"Not...necessarily," she says, wincing. "Shit, this hurts."