Synthetic Heart [ENGLISH]

♥ PROLOGUE 00: Red Snowflakes ♥

     The warmth dripping from my fingerless glove left crimson spots on the pure white snow.

     As the icy needles of the wind forced my eyes shut, my focus remained locked on the gun buried in the snow a few feet ahead. Right beside it, a motionless hand, turning purple from the cold. The ghostly ruins of the city had succumbed to the waist-deep white. The white death. Enveloping the entire world in its deadly grasp. It had become hard to feel anything below my knees. The vapor of my breath disappeared before my eyes. The howling wind was like the whispers of the spirits of the scattered corpses watching me, filling my ears with nightmarish sounds as i pass by them. I pressed on against the wind, the crunching of snow beneath my boots marking each step.

     It was me.

     I was the Angel of Death for all of them, the one who governed their final journeys. Turning their weary bodies into frozen statues in this dead world, I had placed the final signature on the canvas of their lives. I had become the painter of their deaths.

     And yet, not once had I blinked. The unbearable cold had shackled my entire body, condemning me to a burning agony, but still, I was determined to move forward and destroy.

     I was a weapon. And not just any weapon, the most perfectly engineered one.

     You are perfect.

     The professor's words echoed in my head. I spat out the metallic taste from my mouth and continued walking, slowly, wearily. Drum. My heart thudded in my ears like a war drum.

     But I do not see you as perfect.

     The contradictory words gave me a headache. I walked past a corpse with claw marks slashed across its face, its blood staining the snow beneath. The dead man clutched the rifle he had fired to tear through my vest, as if welded to it in a death grip. Rising steam from empty shells melted the snow, slowly digging their own graves.

     Why is this so hard?

     I stopped, just as my heart did. My hands were trembling, but not from the cold. My chest burned, but not from fire. My lips, now blue from the freezing air, parted slightly, and a faint, weak moan slipped through.

     Tell me, Aurora, why is it so hard to create a perfect human?

     Just ahead, two bodies lay different from the others. I could hardly believe what I saw, was my mind playing tricks on me? The snow crunched softly under my hesitant step. I wanted to swallow, but my throat felt lined with barbed wire.

     Tell me, is it our emotions that are the flaw behind all this imperfection?

     In the storm, beyond the swirling snowflakes that shot through the air like bullets, there was a woman kneeling with a child in her arms. Her head was bowed, her thin hair frozen to her neck, and her lifeless eyes gazed down at the child she cradled. She was a statue made of ice. No. It couldn't be...

     I crafted you with care, woven every detail into you. I gave you strength and ideals beyond human reach. I made you sacrifice your emotions.

     I crouched like a frightened cat. The child's back was riddled with bullet holes, crusted with dried blood. The mother's lips were slightly parted, her bruised, purple face scarred and broken. There was a bullet hole in her shoulder too.

     I removed my glove and carefully placed my hand on her stiff, lifeless arm. How tightly she held her child, tight enough to break ribs. I tried to pry her arm loose, but my trembling fingers failed. I grabbed her wrist. My heart ached. I couldn't breathe. How tightly could one person cling to another? How much love did it take to hold on like that?

     A strange, burning sensation grew under my nose. I was feeling it for the first time. My throat was knotted, my lips pressed shut. My heart flickered like a candle about to go out. A feeling I couldn't describe filled my chest, as if a dark fog had settled inside me.

     I tightened my grip on her arm, uneasy. I didn't mean to. I didn't mean to kill her. I only wanted to follow the orders I had been given, nothing more. In the shards of broken glass scattered on the wall, I caught a glimpse of my reflection; my golden hair soaked in blood, frozen stiff in the cold. A young woman. Razor-sharp teeth stained with someone else's blood. Red droplets spread across my cheek. My lips, blue from the cold. A small nose. A face almost too perfect.

     But the eyes. Those green eyes were wet and blurred.

     This couldn't be me. This woman couldn't be me.

     I looked like a monster. I couldn't recognize the reflection staring back at me. As I pressed my hand to the shattered glass, my face fractured into pieces, just like my heart. My claws retracted, returning to their original form. Each fragment reflected someone different, some showed my predatory, bloodied teeth, others revealed eyes filled with helpless tears.

     For the first time that day, beside the frozen mother and child I had ripped from life, I awoke to something new.

     "AR22, raise your hands and don't make any sudden movements!" A harsh male voice pierced through the storm from a megaphone. "AR22, comply with the orders and raise your hands!"

     I slowly rose to my knees, weak and unsteady, as the storm strengthened, the snowflakes clinging to my face and tangled in my blonde hair.

     The authoritative voice repeated itself. "You are surrounded, AR22. Raise your hands and turn toward us!"

     Obeying the command, I turned to face the soldiers scattered like black shadows against the white snow, their rifles pointed at me. I couldn't see their faces beneath their helmets, but I could smell their fear. Their hearts pounded in my ears like wild horses. I could hear the rush of adrenaline surging through their bodies, thanks to my heightened senses. Not far away, a twin-rotor helicopter kicked up a snowy mist. Through the cautious yet firm soldiers, a familiar figure emerged: A tall man moving toward me with strong steps, cutting through the storm.

     It was the Professor.

     His short, silver hair framed his wrinkled brow, and his coat fluttered behind him like a banner as the snow crunched beneath his boots. Despite being nearly sixty years old, his sharp, angular features still carried traces of youth.

     "Aurora." His voice was muffled by the storm.

     Unlike the others, I couldn't hear the Professor's heartbeat. It was calm, beyond my ability to sense. No trace of fear.

     I lowered my hands, and my tense body relaxed. I felt safe.

     "Aurora," Professor Timur (Tee-moor) repeated, standing before me. His cold, piercing gaze drifted over the scattered corpses before settling on me. His old but firm hand gripped my shoulder. "The decision from the Monument has arrived."

But my mind remained trapped in the scene behind me. I looked up into the Professor's eyes, as cold as the snow falling on us. I wondered if he understood. Could he see that his greatest hope, his most important creation, had failed; that I was capable of feeling? That i wasn't emotionless like i was supposed to be?

     "Avalon is waiting for you," Timur said, his eyes gleaming with hope. But was that hope for me or for the realization of his ambitions?

     "You're going home."

     I was a weapon. One genetically crafted to be perfect.

     But was that really all I wanted to be?

END OF PROLOGUE.