SHILOH
The first thing she sees is something foreign, almost alien to her.
The ocean.
The waves are dark, almost black, except for the white layers of foam lapping against the shore and the undulating reflection of a full moon—bare, untainted by the presence of SERAPHIM. It's like she's stepped through a portal into the past, a portal to the Old World.
She realizes she’s barefoot—completely naked, in fact. She feels the wet sand of the shoreline squelching between her toes, pleasant but abrasive at the same time, as the grains rub against her skin, getting caught in the clefts between her toes and scratching her as she adjusts her footing. Meanwhile the ocean breeze runs its cold fingers across her skin—her legs, her chest, her back.
In the dark of the night, the water seems to go on forever. It's like staring into infinity. For some reason, she doesn't want to look away.
She's inspired, awestruck, and yet at the same time, she can tell that something is very wrong. She feels vulnerable and exposed in a place she didn't choose, a place she can barely comprehend. She can smell salt and that strange, sweet scent of death that the ocean brings—of certain foul things washing up onto the shore, rotting and dying, leaving odd, ambiguous corpses, bits of bubbly meat and sinew, bright little needle spikes of bone. She can't see it, but she can smell it, and somehow knows what it is. Perhaps all human beings can, the way one's nostrils and brain are finely attuned to the presence of petrichor, more sensitive to it than any shark is to the scent of blood. People are drawn to water in all its deadly and life-giving forms, like a moth to a bright light, regardless of whether it's the harmless bulb of a porch light or open flame of a bonfire. It's all the same thing.
She didn't choose the ocean, and she didn't choose to be naked, to be vulnerable like this. She concentrates, willing her jumpsuit into existence, summoning it directly onto her body, the way characters in video games equip a set of armor.
Only, her will is denied. She is still naked in the cold ocean breeze, feeling the wind rush through her loose hair and across her skin. Feeling the water lap at her feet while the ocean continues to gurgle and gasp loudly, almost deafeningly. The sounds are rhythmic, but in the small gaps, in those brief silences, no clues can be discerned. There is only darkness and the waves.
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
She takes a step backward, then does an about-face, looking for a change of scenery. She's still learning how to use this ability of hers, this Jacktech stuff, when it comes to performing a Dive. Not to mention that this particular type of Dive is completely new to her. It wasn’t her choice. It was instigated by someone else. Or something. Who knows.
Maybe, if she keeps moving, she'll happen upon something she can use. Or maybe it's just taking a little bit for her powers to get going, the way a computer sometimes takes a minute or two to boot up, long after you've pressed the button and all the lights have turned on.
She turns around. Only to find herself in the exact same place she started—the exact same shoreline, the exact same moon reflected in the water, as far as she can tell.
She turns on her heels once again, only to be confronted with the beach once again.
No, she's not standing on a small bar of land in the middle of the ocean. This is some kind of coastline. The problem is that every attempt to leave brings her right back to the place she started.
She’s like a rat in a maze. A maze she doesn’t have the ability to solve.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?”
Shiloh does her best not to start or jump. She can’t allow herself to show fear.
Instead, she turns slowly, peering over at the newcomer. It’s a man. Or something that looks a lot like one. A Biodroid. A Corsair, Shiloh assumes. He’s wearing black fatigues, and silver gloves with glowing blue bits on the ends of the fingers, and a silver monocle device over one eye.
He’s a bit taller than Shiloh, and he looks down at her as he stands next to her, scanning her robotically. Interested in her nudity, but in a fascinated, anthropological sense. Which doesn’t make Shiloh feel any better about it. Somehow, it makes her feel more de-humanized than if this intruder had been feeling her up with his eyes. She’s caught in the snare of a creature smarter than her, faster than her. A creature that sees her as nothing more than prey.
Shiloh holds her ground. She doesn’t move to cover herself, or to put distance between herself and the Corsair. There wouldn’t be much point.
The Corsair looks out at the sea. “This is what the Oregon Coast used to look like. It’s not quite the same, anymore. Humans have seen to that. And so have you.”
He brings a finger up to his ear, activating an intercom. “I’ve got her. She’s right here.”
Silence.
He nods to himself.
He lowers his hand, turning back to her. “I was given orders to let you see the ocean. An odd request.”
He draws a pistol from his belt, pointing it at her.
She reaches out to grab it, but he snatches her wrist, holding her.
She concentrates, working to harness her will. To fracture the gun with her mind. To destroy the Corsair.
But nothing happens.
“I have a message for you. My superior wishes things could have gone differently. But he can’t afford to let the HERALD get its hands on you. That’s why he has to end it here.”
There’s a loud crack as something punches Shiloh in the chest. She feels the Corsair release her wrist as she falls backward, hitting the sand, cradled in the soft wet mold of the shore. Unable to breathe.
Her vision flickers, going dark.
