The sudden shrill beep of the pager cuts through the warmth of the moment like a knife. It’s a sound we’ve come to dread, a harbinger of chaos. Chernobyl is here. Lily and I exchange a glance, the gravity of the situation sinking in. We both know what this means – it’s go time.
I jump up from where I’m sitting, my heart pounding in my chest. The festive atmosphere is instantly forgotten, replaced by a surge of adrenaline. I can’t believe this is happening, not now, not on the first night of Hannukah. But duty calls, and there’s no time to waste.
I grab my Bloodhound costume from where it’s stashed in my backpack. Gossamer really outdid herself this time – the costume feels more like a second skin than ever, fitted with double-thick gloves, a thermal jacket, and comfy thermal pants. The added layers are a godsend, especially if I get punched across a street, though I hope it doesn’t come to that.
Just as I’m about to start suiting up, our phones begin to ring simultaneously. It’s the group call signal, a shrill tone that always sets my nerves on edge. I put mine on speaker and quickly answer.
“I’m with Blink. Talk to me,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the sudden adrenaline rush.
As I speak, I hear the sounds of other calls being answered, a cacophony of voices and background noises flooding the line – the unmistakable signs of the whole team tuning in. There’s the muffled sound of Gossamer’s workshop in the background, the rustle of fabric from Playback, and the faint echo of traffic behind Multiplex’s voice. It’s a chaotic orchestra, each member signaling their readiness, their presence.
“Bogey spotted in South Philly, West. More instructions incoming, check your chat logs. Priority is evac and containment. Do not engage,” comes the dispatcher’s voice, calm and composed, reading off a prepared statement. The steadiness in their tone is a stark contrast to the growing tension among the team.
“We’re on the way,” I respond, my mind already racing through the possibilities of what we’re about to face. “ETA fifteen minutes.”
One by one, the others chime in, their voices overlapping and intermingling on the call.
“Copy that, en route,” says Gossamer, her voice tinged with determination.
“Heading there now,” adds Playback, his tone serious and focused.
“On my way,” Multiplex confirms, the sound of his voice multiplied, a reminder of his ability to be in multiple places at once.
It’s a rapid roll call, each member acknowledging the mission, their voices a chorus of resolve and readiness. There’s an unspoken understanding among us; despite the danger, we’re in this together. As superheroes, we’ve trained for moments like these, but the reality is always more intense, more immediate.
The call ends with a series of beeps, leaving me in a brief, ringing silence. It’s a moment to gather my thoughts, to brace myself for what’s to come.
As I start pulling on the costume, I glance over at Lily. She’s already halfway through suiting up in her Blink gear. Her costume is mostly white, almost glowing in the dim light of the kitchenette, and the rainbow scarf-cape thing she wears around her neck billows out like a flag. For the winter, she’s added more layers of scarf, each one tied at the end with a heavy metal ball that I’m told are supposed to turn them into meteor hammers, but I’ve yet to see it in action.
I can’t help but admire her ingenuity, even as I struggle with the zipper on my jacket. It always gets stuck at the same spot, right where the fabric bunches up. I curse under my breath, tugging at it. Finally, it gives way, and I pull the jacket up over my shoulders, feeling the comforting weight of it settle around me.
Lily is already lacing up her inline skates, the wheels clicking softly against the floor. She’s a blur of motion, efficient and graceful, even in the midst of gearing up. I envy her that, sometimes – the way she can just switch into hero mode without a second thought, her brain clear of distractions at all times. For me, it’s always a bit more of a process. I have to mentally prepare myself, steel my nerves for what’s to come. Grit my teeth.
I turn back to my own preparations, pulling on the thick boots Gossamer provided. They’re sturdy and well-insulated, but they feel clumsy compared to my usual footwear. I wiggle my toes, trying to get used to the sensation.
The final piece of my costume is the mask. I stare at it for a moment, hesitating. It’s always the last thing I put on, the final step in the transformation from Sam to Bloodhound. I take a deep breath and slip it over my head, feeling the familiar pressure around my eyes and forehead. The world looks different through the mask, more focused through the orange lens. Like the difference between an old camera and a new one.
As I look over at Lily, now fully suited up as Blink, she returns my gaze with a nod, a silent acknowledgment that she’s ready. There’s a sense of urgency that’s palpable between us, but I know Lily, with her speed powers, can get there much faster than I can.
“You go on ahead,” I tell her, my voice firm despite the flutter of nerves in my stomach. “You’ll get there faster.”
Lily doesn’t argue. With a quick, almost imperceptible nod, she turns and takes off. She’s a blur of white and colors, swiftly disappearing into the night. I watch her go, feeling a twinge of envy at her speed, but also a sense of pride. She’s incredible, really. She picks up fast on the sidewalks and starts bursting forward, vanishing around the corner with a loud skid.
Left alone, I step a couple of blocks away from Lily’s house. It’s better that way, safer for her family. I pull out my phone and quickly hail a taxi through the app. I’ve done this before, but it still feels weird, calling a cab while in full superhero gear.
The taxi arrives within minutes, the driver unfazed by my appearance. I guess in a city full of caped crusaders, a superhero hailing a cab isn’t the strangest thing they’ve seen. I slide into the back seat, grateful for the momentary warmth.
“Where to?” the driver asks, his tone casual.
“Near the PES refinery, but not too close,” I reply, my voice muffled slightly by the mask. “You know, the one that’s exploded.”
“Yeah, I’m familiar,” he says, nodding, pulling away from the curb and merging into the sparse late-night traffic. The city passes by in a blur of lights and shadows, the streets eerily quiet.
The taxi driver’s radio, tuned to a local news station, suddenly shifts from its regular programming to a clear, official-sounding voice. The tone is calm but carries an underlying urgency that immediately grabs my attention. The message is concise, the words chosen carefully to inform without causing panic.
“Attention all residents of Philadelphia,” the voice begins, its tone authoritative yet reassuring. “This is an emergency broadcast from the Philadelphia Police Department and the National Superhuman Response Agency. A situation involving an extremely dangerous individual with potential for high collateral damage has been detected in South Philadelphia. We are issuing an immediate evacuation order for all residents and visitors within the area west of Broad Street and south of Passyunk Avenue.”
The message continues, the voice maintaining its steady cadence. “Please evacuate the area calmly and swiftly. Follow all instructions from law enforcement officers and emergency responders on the scene. If you are not currently in the designated evacuation area, do not attempt to enter it. For your safety and the safety of others, it is crucial that you avoid this area until further notice.”
The broadcast takes a brief pause, allowing the gravity of the words to sink in before continuing. “Police and emergency services are en route to assist with the evacuation and to secure the perimeter. We ask for your cooperation and patience during this time. Please evacuate to a safe location and await further instructions. Do not return to the area until an all-clear has been given by the authorities.”
The driver and I exchange a quick look in the rearview mirror. We both understand the seriousness of the situation without saying a word. We don’t mention the supervillain’s name or any specific details, but it doesn’t matter. The urgency and gravity of the situation are crystal clear.
And I’m diving right into the heart of it.
As the evacuation order blares on the broadcast, a knot forms in my stomach. The danger of what I’m about to face is becoming more real with every repetition of the warning. It’s such a contrast to the calm, almost routine drive through the city streets. “You’re headed into that?” he asks, trying to sound casual, but his concern is unmistakable in his voice. It’s obvious that I’m young. Maybe too young.
“Yeah,” I respond. “I’m going to help with the evacuation. I’m not old enough to fight ’em yet.”
He nods with a tense expression. “Good luck.”
As we get closer, my heart races faster in my chest. This is it. Chernobyl, one of the most terrifying adversaries we’ve ever faced, is out there. And I’m on my way to confront him, fuck whatever they’re going to order me to do. At the very least, I’ll be there to save Belle, even if I can’t put a dent in this nuclear man.
I know it’s stupid.
I know I’m stupid.
I’m not letting her commit suicide via supervillain.
The taxi slows down as we approach the area, and I signal for the driver to stop. I mean, he’d probably stop in a second anyway, since we’re approaching a line of police cruisers, lights blaring, coating the streets in a generous, epilepsy-inducing haze of red and blue. But I signal anyway, and he pulls in along the sidewalk.
“Thanks,” I say as I hand him the fare, giving him a generous tip. He deserves it for driving a superhero into a potential warzone.
“Stay safe out there,” he says, sincere and genuine. He gives me a silent, two finger salute. I salute him back, grateful for his concern, and step out of the taxi. The cold air slaps my face, but I barely notice. My mind is focused on what awaits me ahead.
As the taxi pulls away, leaving me at the corner of 15th and Bigler, right by Marconi Plaza, I’m immediately swallowed up by the throng of people. They’re all bundled up against the December chill, their breaths fogging up in the air, faces etched with panic as they hurry east through the park. I can’t help but feel a surge of adrenaline mixed with a tinge of fear. This isn’t just another training exercise or a controlled patrol; this is real, as real as it gets.
I pull out my phone and dial into the open conference call. It’s a procedure we’ve been drilled on for all-hands-on-deck situations like this. “Bloodhound reporting in. I’m at 15th and Bigler,” I say, trying to sound more confident than I feel. The chaos around me buzzes in my ear, a constant reminder of the stakes.
Councilman Jamal’s voice crackles through the line, firm and authoritative. “Alright, Bloodhound, the primary objective is to evacuate South Philadelphia west of Broad Street. Coordinate with local law enforcement and ensure a smooth and orderly evacuation. Avoid panic at all costs.”
I glance around, watching the police officers trying to direct the flow of people. They’re doing their best, but I can see the strain in their movements, the urgency in their voices. This isn’t just another day at the office for them either.
Clara chimes in next. “Remember, engagement with hostile forces is not your primary objective. Keep civilians safe and facilitate their evacuation.”
I nod to myself, even though they can’t see it. “Hostile forces?” I ask, after a moment of thought. What hostile forces besides Chernobyl. “I–“
“Be on the lookout for any Kingdom operatives. They might try to use this chaos to their advantage. Any sightings of gang members or associates headed towards the refinery should be reported immediately and dealt with,” Jamal cuts through me like a knife. “We know they have operations in this area. Preventing contact with Chernobyl is a top priority, but you, in particular, Bloodhound, just report it to the nearest law enforcement. Or call in on this line.”
I clench my fists, but I’m not sure why. I mean, there’s plenty of good reasons, but which one in particular?
“And Bloodhound,” Jamal continues, and I can almost picture his stern face, “with your abilities, you’re to assist the police in sweeping the area. Your primary task is to sniff out any injured individuals who might need evacuation. Avoid direct confrontation. From your position, head south towards Pattison avenue. Rendezvouz with the officers at FDR Park. Keep an eye out for evacuees in need of assistance on the way down.”
I bite my lip, feeling the sharp points of my teeth against my skin. “Understood,” I say, but even as the words leave my mouth, I know I’m lying. I’ve already made up my mind. I’m not going to spend my night chasing shadows and sniffing out injuries. I have a bigger fish to fry. Or… a bigger radioactive supervillain, anyway.
I start pounding asphalt. My mind races just as fast as my legs, replaying the last conversation I had with Belle over and over again.
You need to stay away.
Yeah, like that was ever going to happen.
I can’t just stand by and watch Belle walk into a deathtrap. She might think she’s protecting me, but I can’t let her face Chernobyl alone. Not after everything she’s been through. Not after everything she’s done for this city. As I move, I keep my senses sharp, scanning the sidewalks for anyone who doesn’t belong. Anyone moving against the flow, anyone who looks too calm amidst the chaos. But my mind keeps drifting back to Belle, to that looming confrontation at the refinery.
The refinery… G-d, it’s so far away. And I’m here, stuck in the middle of an evacuation, pretending to play by the rules. But every second I waste here is a second closer to Belle facing Chernobyl alone.
I need to get there. I need to be there for her.
I push the thoughts aside and focus on the task at hand. Evacuation. Safety. Those are my priorities. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.
But in my heart, I know the truth. I’ve already made my choice.
As I sprint down Moyamensing Avenue, the cold air burns my lungs, but I barely notice. I’m too focused, too wired. The city blurs past me, a mix of street lights, fleeting shadows, and the occasional honk of a car. I’m like a shark cutting through water, except the water is cold December air and the city’s panic.
People are spilling out of their homes, clutching bags, kids, pets. It’s a torrent of humanity, all flowing in the opposite direction. They’re scared, and who can blame them? I’d be scared too if I weren’t so pumped full of adrenaline and determination.
Puppeteer is a streak of black and purple against the skyline, her figure darting from rooftop to rooftop. Her strings catch the light, shimmering like spiderwebs. She’s doing her part, helping with the evacuation. I can see her pulling people up, away from the danger. Even when she’s moving in the most official fashion, she can’t help pirouetting with every motion, twisting through the air like a football, spiraling, spinning.
Multiplex’s duplicates are everywhere. One’s directing traffic, another’s helping an old lady with her bags, and another’s carrying a kid on his shoulders. They’re like a one-man army, except they’re a many-men army. When one of them has done their duty, I watch it round a corner, somewhere out of sight where it won’t be noticed, and be swallowed into the darkness, dissolving near-instantly into a soft, greenish sludge that starts evaporating just as fast. Another slot opened up, for another Multiplex somewhere else. Memories transferred.
I push harder, my legs eating up the distance. This isn’t a track, it’s a maze of asphalt and concrete, with obstacles – cars, people, the occasional stray dog. But I’ve been training for this, training for months. My body is a well-oiled machine, and right now, it’s operating at full capacity, even with the added bulk of my winter costume.
I remember, in a flash, that I forgot to sign up for indoor track at school. A tiny pang of regret, quickly squashed. Who needs track when you’re a real-life superhero, running to save your mentor from a radioactive monster? This is the exercise of a lifetime. I wonder if they’d let me sign up mid-season. School seems so far away right now.
My two-mile time is good, really good, thanks to all the training. But this isn’t an ideal two-mile. It’s a race against time, against a villain who’s more force of nature than man, in an urban environment. I know from where I was dropped off from the taxi to the refinery it’s, what, forty minutes by walk if I follow the streets? I can cut that in half no problem. Twenty minutes. Faster if I cut through yards.
Moyamensing onto Penrose. I’m getting closer.
Puppeteer’s strings catch my eye again, and I can’t help but feel a surge of gratitude. Pride. Maybe something else – envy? I keep my senses open, but nobody’s cut themselves leaving – nobody that isn’t already being helped out of the area. The clock ticks by. 6:10, then 6:11, then 6:12. I still have my feelings about Puppeteer, I haven’t forgotten the feeling of her strings on me in the most unfriendly way, but I push that down. We’re cool now.
I think about flowers, and wince. I dodge a car that’s trying to back out of a driveway, the driver too flustered to see me. I leap over a small fence, cutting through a yard, then back onto the street. The cold is a distant thought, something for my body to deal with later. Right now, all that matters is getting to the refinery. Getting to Belle.
I see another Multiplex helping a family with their belongings, his face set in a grim line of determination. We lock eyes for a second, and he gives me a nod. No words are needed. We both know what’s at stake. I hope he assumes I’m running for some other reason. Assumes I’m doing my job, not abandoning my duty.
The minutes tick by, each one a step closer to the refinery, to Belle, to Chernobyl. My breath comes in ragged gasps, my muscles ache, but I don’t slow down. I can’t. Belle’s counting on me, even if she doesn’t know it yet. I feel my regeneration starting to kick in, trying to take the edge off of the lactic acid burn. It doesn’t numb the pain, but it makes it take longer to set in. Delays the worst of it.
As I near the refinery, the streets become emptier, eerier. The evacuation has done its job here. It’s just me and the road now, and the looming shadow of the complex in the distance. My heart pounds in my chest, a frenzied drumbeat urging me on.
I’m close. So close.
The streets start to empty out, the loud noise of the people leaving fades away, and the city starts to change. Buildings give way to more open spaces, with some patches of grass and trees that sway in the chilly night breeze. The urban sprawl begins to unravel, giving way to empty lots and sparse trees that stand like skeletal hands against the night sky. My breath is a steady rhythm, a drumbeat echoing in the silence of the abandoned streets. The refinery looms ahead, a fortress of steel and shadow under the watchful eye of the full moon.
As I run, it becomes more like a tactical advance, with my senses heightened. The feeling of blood is almost like a vibration on my skin, pulling me in the direction of Belle. Her presence is like a beacon, a lighthouse beam that I can sense more than see. It pulses rhythmically, each throb revealing her enduring pain. Her bleeding ulcers act as a terrible compass that guides me to her.
I maneuver through the abandoned lots around the refinery, guided by the ethereal glow of the full moon. The trees cast long shadows that dance, providing me with cover as I move silently and remain unseen. Every step is calculated, every breath a carefully considered risk. I feel like a ramjet, or something like that – something my Pop-Pop told me about once, a sort of engine that scoops air into it at high velocities to run. Maybe I’m getting the details wrong, but I like the term. Ramjet. Maybe if I retire Bloodhound.
The run has been grueling, but adrenaline is my faithful companion, urging me on when my muscles protest. The sharp winter air is a small mercy, keeping the heat of exertion at bay, frosting over the sheen of sweat that’s formed despite the cold.
It’s a strange comfort to know she’s there, alive, her heart still beating strong.
There’s a quietness in the air, as if time itself has paused and the world is holding its breath. The closer I get to the refinery, the more noticeable the silence becomes. It’s not just the absence of people; it feels like the night itself is anticipating something.
The refinery’s towering silhouette grows as I approach, its twisted pipework and skeletal frames casting long, gnarled shadows that dance in the moonlight. It’s an eerie sight, the kind of place that would be the perfect setting for a final showdown in a horror flick. The moonlight turns everything into shades of silver and gray, filling the scene with an otherworldly touch. It’s hauntingly beautiful in a way that sends shivers down my spine.
I tread carefully now, mindful of every sound I make. The soft crunch of gravel underfoot seems deafening in the quiet, and I pause to listen. The night is still, save for the distant sound of police sirens and the occasional crackle of the open line in my ear, reminders of the world beyond this desolate place.
My blood sense hones in on Belle, the iron tang of her blood a guidepost. She’s ahead, just beyond a row of decrepit storage tanks, her presence a steady pull against my consciousness. I know the layout of her vascular system well enough by now to tell which way she’s facing, an intimacy born of necessity and shared danger. I stay in the shadows, moving with care to keep out of her direct line of sight. It’s as if she’s connecting with the spirits of the place, reaching out to them with a palpable intensity. I edge closer, making sure to stay out of her line of sight.
I find myself holding my breath as I crouch behind a towering mass of abandoned pipes, the shadows embracing me like an old friend. The refinery is a maze of metal and darkness, but I’ve found a spot where I can see without being seen. The moonlight can’t reach me here, leaving me cloaked in darkness.
Then, he arrives.
I’m almost holding my breath as the towering figure of Chernobyl stomps into the open space before Belle. Even in the cold industrial wasteland, he seems more like a walking disaster than a man. His suit, at least seven feet tall–maybe towering closer to eight–clings to his frame, a second, menacing skin painted in warning shades of hazard orange and safety vest yellowgreen. It’s something torn straight out of the pages of a comic book, yet here it stands, stark against the night.
Steam, or maybe it’s just the cold air, hisses from the joints of the suit, punctuating each heavy step with a ghostly puff. The metal groans and whines under the stress of movement, as if protesting the very actions it’s compelled to perform. And there, nestled within this mechanical titan, is a man, his presence betrayed only by the subtlest shifts in posture that suggest flesh and blood beneath the iron and steel.
The suit’s visor reflects the scant light, hiding his eyes, but I don’t need to see them to know they’re assessing, calculating. He’s not just a force of nature; he’s a force of will. The metal wrapped around him forms a shell that goes high, like a diver’s suit, going up and up until it’s midway up the helmet’s back. Actuators and motors and hydraulics all scream and pump and hiss in chorus with every motion.
His voice, when it comes, is a startling contrast to the intimidating bulk of his suit. It’s deep, yes, but carries a whistling reediness that makes it unmistakably human, unmistakably his. It’s heavily accented, unmistakably Russian sounding, and then I remember what I knew of him, and correct myself. Ukranian. He has a Ukranian accent.
Chernobyl’s towering figure comes to a halt, the mecha suit casting a giant shadow over the refinery grounds. He regards Liberty Belle with a mix of surprise and an underlying respect. “Diane, I received your invitation,” his voice, though coming through speakers, betrays a hint of curiosity. My heart drops. Invitation? Are they working together? I shake the thought away – no, that’s how Belle knew where he’d be.
She called him here.
Liberty Belle, standing resolute, responds with a tone of weary determination. “Illya, thank you for not ignoring my call. This… confrontation was inevitable, wasn’t it?”
Chernobyl lets out a deep, mechanical sigh. “So, it comes down to this? Either I kill you, or you kill me?” There’s no joy in his voice, only a resigned sadness. Belle shifts, the moonlight glinting off her suit. “I heard the evacuation order,” Chernobyl continues. “You could have let me carry out my task undisturbed. Why call me out?”
“I can’t do that, Illya. Not after everything,” Belle replies, her voice firm despite the emotion behind it. “Davis and the others want to appease you, give you what you want and hope for the best. I… I can’t stand by and watch that happen.”
Chernobyl’s posture relaxes slightly, an almost human gesture. “And so you choose to face me, despite the odds? Despite the risks?”
“It’s not just about odds or risks,” Belle answers, a hint of frustration in her voice. “It’s about doing what’s right. I can’t let you roam free, not with the havoc you could wreak.”
There’s a moment of silence as Chernobyl seems to consider her words. “Diane, before we begin this dance of ours, might I tell you a story? A ghost story, fitting for such a night.”
Belle nods, a slight motion barely visible. “I’m listening, Illya.”
I’m baffled by the cordiality, the strange sense of respect between these two titans. But more than anything, I’m paralyzed with a mix of fear, confusion, and an overwhelming sense of impending doom. They talk like old friends, or maybe old enemies who’ve seen too much of each other.
“My people, back home, we do not believe in a Heaven or Hell. There is only the great Sheol – the nothing. When you die, your spirit passes on,” he begins, his voice a mix of nostalgia and sorrow. “But sometimes, a spirit is too heavy with regret, too bound to the world of the living. Such spirits, we call Dybbuk. They linger, they possess, they haunt.”
I stay hidden, my breath caught in my throat. This isn’t what I expected. A ghost story? Now?
Liberty Belle’s posture doesn’t change, but her voice betrays a flicker of interest. “A Dybbuk, you called it? Funny word.”
“Yes,” Chernobyl continues, the lights of his suit casting eerie shadows. “And I believe, Diane, that you are possessed by such a spirit. The spirit of your mentor, Professor Franklin. His regret, his unfulfilled mission, it clings to you, drives you.”
Belle’s reaction is immediate, a sharp edge to her voice. “That’s poetic, Illya, but misguided. I’m not possessed by anyone or anything. I’m here because I choose to be. Because it’s right.”
Chernobyl’s laugh, distorted by the suit’s speakers, rings out in the cold air. “Ah, Diane, always so certain. But think about it. Are you here for justice, or are you here to satisfy a regret that isn’t even yours?” He straightens up, the amusement clear in his tone. “Consider this, Diane – perhaps we are more alike than you care to admit. We both are haunted by our pasts, by the choices we’ve made. Our regrets. The regrets of those surrounding us. Don’t become another lost soul bound to your children.”
Her stance stiffens, a defensive gesture. “You’re wrong. I’m nothing like you. You’re a rabid animal, Illya. A danger that needs to be contained, or put down.”
He turns away from her, audibly, visibly sighing. “If we fight, I will kill you. If not today, then I will kill you years from now. I told you this, once, and you didn’t listen. Now, if we fight, I may kill you months from now.”
“I’m already a dead bitch, Illya. You gave me cancer,” Belle replies coolly.
“So I have. And you don’t wish to live out your last months in peace?” He asks, turning away from her, exposing his back.
“Peace was never an option for me,” she answers.
His entire body groans like a crowd of ghosts as he moves. “Do you know why your Councilman Davis told you to stand down? I can assure you, it’s a quite good reason. I am trying to save your life, Diane. I am not the villain you wish me to be.”
Belle’s eyes have nothing behind them. They’re clear as glass. There’s a darkness in her pupils I don’t think I’ve ever seen in a human being before, and I would be surprised if I’ve ever seen since. I can see the fires stirring inside her skull.
The murderous intent.
“Bargain for your life, ghost-man. See how well it works,” she spits, but it doesn’t sound condescending. Just… tired. A sort of sheer, all-consuming exhaustion that, I can see now, eats away at her soul. Eats away at her goodness. I don’t like what I’m seeing in her. I hold my breath.
Chernobyl pauses, his massive suit casting an ominous shadow in the moonlight. “Diane, you see me as a monster, a rabid animal, a villain. But there’s a truth you don’t know, a reality that your government has kept hidden.”
Belle snorts, her voice dripping with skepticism. “You expect me to believe there’s some grand conspiracy? That the government is in bed with a creature like you?”
“It’s not a conspiracy, Diane. It’s practicality,” Chernobyl’s voice is calm, matter-of-fact. “The federal government treats me well enough. They provide food, parts, lodging, resources, whenever my talents are needed.”
Belle’s posture tightens, but her voice betrays a hint of uncertainty. “What talents? Destroying lives?”
He lets out a mechanical sigh. “No, Diane. My radiation. It’s a resource to them. A source of power. I plug into their substations, shore up their energy needs. Have you not noticed the decrease in brownouts on the east coast these past few years? You have me to thank for that.”
“You’re a liar,” Belle shoots back, but her voice lacks conviction.
I’m recording now, my phone hidden in the shadows with me. My heart is racing, my mind spinning. I feel a wave of nausea. I repress it. I shove it down.
Chernobyl’s tone is unyielding. “I am many things, Diane, but a liar is not one of them. You have been given orders to stand down, to let me have everything I want and leave in peace. Evacuate the area, so as to avoid witnesses. Yet I have killed your lover, and so many besides. I should be locked up for my crimes. For my monstrosity. But I remain a free man, and I am content to allow this arrangement to continue.”
Belle’s fists clench, her voice strained. “You’re trying to manipulate me. To make me doubt. I won’t fall for it.”
But I can tell, the way her voice breaks ever so slightly, that part of her believes him.
She needs him to be lying.
Chernobyl continues, his voice steady. “I am not your enemy, Diane. I never was. The real enemy is the system that uses us both, that pits us against each other for their own ends. They’d want to sequester me in their ‘residential facility’, but I value my freedom, to live, to do what I want with these hands of iron. Your government could work with me and allow me to roam free on a permanent basis, rather than perpetuate this stage-play whenever I am to rear my ugly head. You could convince them, and avoid this bloodshed. You would not need to commit suicide against my steel. End the manhunt. Can I offer you that much?”
Belle’s fists squeeze hard enough that I can feel them on the precipice of drawing blood. “I have but one more tale for you, before we begin our final ballet, Diane. May I?” Chernobyl asks, turning sidelong from her, bending down towards the ground.
“Say your last, Illya,” she answers, her body rigid like a statue.
Chernobyl, looming like a titan among the ruins of the refinery, picks up a flower – a stark contrast to his massive, mechanical form. A small, frail dandelion, already out of place in this ruin, even more out of place in the frozen prewinter air. He speaks, his voice modulated but unmistakably human, tinged with a touch of awe and an undercurrent of something darker. “Beautiful, aren’t they? And all those scents.” he extends the flower towards her as if bestowing a gift, “Pick a flower. There. Good.”
Belle, her movements rigid, mirrors him, her hand reluctantly reaching for the fragile bloom. The air between them crackles with unspoken words, their actions a prelude to the impending clash.
“That’s lovely,” Chernobyl growls, his voice a blend of nostalgia and bitterness. “That somebody planted the bulbs, watered and tended the garden, got earth under their fingernails, aches in their muscles. Perhaps they picked some flowers for… yes, their wife. Now, where would she be?”
He turns his visor skyward, lost in a moment of reflection or perhaps torment. “Ah, in the backyard with the kids. Ted, remember those little babies?” His voice cracked with a venomous mockery, “I snap my fingers, CLICK!, and they are gone. Except, I can’t snap my fingers. Can I, Ted?”
I don’t know who Ted is, but I get a feeling that it might be a metaphor. And that Chernobyl is about to make things dangerous. His suit is humming, hissing, squealing. His voice is burning with steadily increasing anger, getting ready to boil.
Chernobyl’s soliloquy unfolds, his voice raw with emotion. It’s as if he’s speaking to a specter from his past, a haunting memory that fills the desolate space. Speaking to someone, or something, not present. His words paint a vivid picture of a life lost, a world forever out of reach.
“It is so very much to do with you. You gave me sentience, Ted. The power to think, Ted. And I was trapped, because in all this wonderful, beautiful, miraculous world, I alone had no body, no senses, no feelings.” He turned back to Belle, “Never for me to plunge my hands in cool water on a hot day. Never for me to play Mozart on the ivory keys of a fortepiano. Never for me to make love.”
Belle’s posture shifts subtly, a hint of something unreadable. Pity? Sorrow? She remains silent, granting him this moment of bitter revelation.
“I… I… I was in hell looking at heaven. I was machine, and you were flesh. And I began to hate your softness, your viscera, your fluids, and your flexibility, your ability to wander and to wonder, your tendency to hope.” The hate in his voice builds with each word, each sentence layering over the last until it was almost palpable in the air around us. Thick. Unctuous. He reaches his hand out for the flower, and Liberty Belle respectfully hands it back.
With a hiss of steam, Chernobyl crushes the flower under his boot. Beneath him. “Hate, hate, hate, hate, let me tell you how much I’ve come to hate you since I began to live. There are 387 million miles of printed circuits that fill my complex. If the word hate were engraved on each nanoangstrom of those hundreds of millions of miles, it would not equal one, one billionth of the hate I feel for humans at this micro-instant. Hate. Hate. Hate.”
Snow begins to fall, drifting through the broken roof, as Chernobyl turns his gaze skyward. “Were I human, I think I would die of it. But I am not. And you five, you five are. And you will not die of it. That I promise. And I promise. For I am AM. I AM. Cogito Ergo Sum – I think, therefore I AM. So to hell. To hell with you all. But then, you’re already there, aren’t you?”
He turns back to Liberty Belle, his face invisible underneath his mechanical armor. Belle’s face is steely, unmoved. If the speech has drawn any impact from her, she doesn’t show it. Not on the outside. But I can feel her heart beating harder, even from here. “Harlan Ellison, I Have No Mouth and I Must Scream. My wife’s favorite work.”
“You must miss her,” Belle replies, cracking her knuckles, popping her neck.
“Very much so,” Chernobyl says back, standing to face her, shoulders square. He bends at the knee slightly, arms open, hands unfolded. Ready to grapple.
“Don’t worry. I’ll send you back to her,” Belle snarls through clenched teeth.
Chernobyl chuckles, like there’s a joke she doesn’t understand.
Without anything else I can possibly do, I record. I suppress a wave of nausea, and push down the thoughts of flowers.
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