Composing Fate by Lex Chase

Genre: Sci-Fi Fantasy

Rating: R

Her first kill was an Italian sergeant.  David Ciconne of Sicily, twenty-one years old, he joined the military to get more out of life and do something bigger than himself.  Like the commercial of the marine in dress blues with the saber, David wanted to slay dragons.  He died screaming to a melody in the key of C sharp.  It was sharp actually, his cry for mercy that is, as processing blades shredded muscle from bone and grinders powdered his bones into the basic nutrients to sustain her.

However she wasn’t complete then.

It was a time of shopping, boys, and games, of carefree happiness that masked the tormented music she was always composing deep in her synapses.  Her pink Jingle, adorned with stick-on rhinestones in the pattern of a Japanese feline mascot, was the best personal music player that Persimmon Electronics could cultivate.  It was nothing but the best for her.  She needed the best to drown out the music that buzzed in her ears and the pain of six billion that riddled her nerves like a degenerative disease.  Her Jingle blared through her earbuds while she slept in her luxurious Paris loft, she fell asleep to the thrashing guitar of AC/DC and dreamed of violence red and bile black.  Her visions screamed at her in years to come there would be nothing but battles and bloodshed, nations would fall to the harmonies in the keys of A, E, G, and F sharp.  When she awoke one earbud was jostled free and her Jingle’s battery had lost its charge.  Melodies filled her ears in a whisper of being not quite there but enough to make out verses that would annoyingly repeat on infinite loop.

Cyndi Lauper sang in her unique shrill wail “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” over her Jingle and into her ears for her brain to digest.  The scenery passed in a blur from the train her familiar life in France blended into the vast nothing of Russia then into the tightly compact metropolis country of Koljevskya.  It was a country she had heard the odd fact of it being no larger than Los Angeles, and the added on fact that three quarters of it was occupied by the sprawling capital city Montazauk. Even if she never discovered if these notions were fact or fiction she knew they were true.  She never knew how she knew anything. Names and faces of those she’s never met.  Languages of countries she’s never visited.  Innermost thoughts and deeply hidden desires before they were uttered.   How she seemed to know the future.  Not just the future but how it all ends.  In the resonance of Montazauk the music that filled her brain spread to her body like an aggressive cancer.  The chorus of six billion creaked in her throbbing joints and inflamed nerves that she carefully hid with a spoiled little rich girl smile.

She joked that the Academia looked like something that fell out of the ass end of the Sydney Opera House.  Her keepers didn’t think she was very funny as they pasted electrodes to her skin.  She laughed at the humor of her own joke as she explained that while the compound had a similar clam shell like design it also boasted the tallest radio tower she had ever seen that seemed like someone was trying to compensate for his tiny penis.  Again the keepers merely ignored her as they readied the monitors to record the data that came in an immediate steady stream over the readouts.  Needles spiked scribbled furiously across reams of paper, beeps of other machines raced into a rapid tempo of a song she was singing in her head.  Her keepers smiled and clapped each other on the back.  She kept her spoiled rich girl smile in place to hide that she was scared at what it all meant.

There was no shopping at the Academia compound.  There were no games to be played. There were no dalliances with boys.

Correction.  There was one boy, no, a man.

He had sneered in revulsion and disbelief that such a demanding brat was the one they had sought.  She had cried when she first laid eyes on him and addressed him by a name before he gave it and a rank he did not yet have.  She was embarrassed and her entitled façade had faltered when she nearly confessed she’s been seeing his face since she was a child of five.  He didn’t understand why she stammered that he would throw away not only his life but all he ever was for her and she would never be his to have.

He cussed in Norman; she answered him in his language of a land she’s never set a toe upon.  He wasn’t pleased.  He took her personal effects, the last remnants of her life beyond the compound of clam shell walls and obscenely erect radio towers, and her keepers escorted her to a new place she would come to call her quarters.  In bold, clear labeling on the automatic doors proclaimed that it was designated as “Containment Unit 00XA.”

Girls were certainly not having fun.

That would be the night the music that permeated her dreamscapes a Portuguese airman by the name of Baptista would have his plane shot down to the key of B.  She woke to a needle in her arm and keepers in hazmat suits checking the data that suddenly spiked in the hours she slept.  One keeper had commented one of the devices had overloaded and blown out.  She was terrified.  No one would talk to her. She still smiled her spoiled little girl grin and demanded her Jingle.  She explained the cranky Norman took it and she wanted her music.  Something.  Anything to drown out the chorus of six billion and the harmonies that blared in her ears so loud she couldn’t hear anything else.  She could see the keepers make gestures of congratulations and smiled happily at the test results.  They patted the burned out machine that made a brave sacrifice in the line of duty and planned to scour the intact hard drive for other information.

It would be days until the perpetually angry Norman would see her.  He seemed just as reluctant to see her as she to engage him.  As if to be patronizing to her educational level, he explained to her in the simplest of terms that she existed everywhere and nowhere.  She appeared in video recordings and prints of photographs.  She appeared in paintings, stories, fables, and natural disaster forecasts.  That she is named in holy books and books not yet conceived. That she a vapid shallow girl with all the latest fashions and exorbitant credit limit… will single handedly control the fate of six billion people.

Sergeant David Ciccone will die within a year. Baptista will follow in six months, eight days, and three hours half a world away.  All because she decided their fates, that she had written the songs of their demise.  That she had been composing and orchestrating it all along.

It would take time before she understood, before she could accept it.  It would take screaming, kicking, and thrashing as a last hurrah before her veins were pumped of chemicals she couldn’t pronounce.  It would take more convincing as surgeries were preformed to eliminate what wasn’t necessary. Her ovaries and uterus were cut away, her stomach and intestines followed, her esophagus neatly clipped, her tongue carved out, her teeth pulled, her eyes extracted, and the top of her skull sawn away to better accommodate the amplifying probes.

It would be a year later her lips would curl into a toothless smile of a spoiled rich girl around a feeding tube as she could feel the fallen David Ciconne course into her veins.  She was happy as the respirator breathed for her.  Now she could share the opus she had been composing all her life with the audience of six billion that eagerly awaited the performance.

Quiet, please. The curtain is about to rise and the concerto is about to begin…

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