[00] Now Entering Kill Town...

[Alexander Trafford]

From a booth in the rear of the diner, Alexander watched the usual suspects filter in and out of the small coffee shop. It was the same mom-and-pop venue that he had taken Alice to on their first date; a local, out-of-the-way dive hidden behind the fast-paced backdrop of midtown. All the yuppie university students in their collared shirts and sweater vests slipped in between their classes and bumped elbows with the artsy youth, who were always dressed in their faux-poverty, ‘bohemian-bourgeois’ style that generally consisted of loose sweaters or flowing sundresses, ugly boots and unnecessarily large sunglasses.

He stirred his ‘venti’ mocha-latte with the small wooden instrument that the cashier had so graciously given him and stared at the swirling tanned fluid. A silent sigh escaped his lips.

“She’s really gone,” he whispered. He’d just returned to West City from the forest and the reality of his situation had only now started to sink in; the euphoria that had surrounded their reunion was subsiding. She was gone forever. There would be no more ‘next times.’

Trafford removed a single Marlboro cigarette and slid it into the corner of his mouth. He glanced at the ‘no-smoking’ sign that hung on the far wall of the small restaurant. Shrugging, he winked and lit the end of the white cylinder anyway – ignoring the disapproving glances from the shop’s wait staff. He returned to staring at his ‘mocha-latte,’ which, apart from the wooden instrument, remained untouched.


The world faded into the background. Everything seemed so distant. The shrill voices of the wait staff faking kindness to improve their tip, the clustered chatter of the university students discussing shit that didn’t matter. It all separated itself from reality. Nothing here really mattered; everything was so dull and normal. How could he ever come back to a life such as this after what he had been through?

He shook his head, it was more than that. How could anyone desire this, this concept of normalcy? These students came here with their ‘friends’ to enjoy mediocre coffee and talk about lectures and assignments that everyone hated – and they only do it because they want to fit it, because they think that this is normal. And when everyone falls into that mindset, when everyone settles for conformity, what is left? A generation of zombies studying subjects that they dislike so that they can work miserable jobs and achieve this notion of the ‘normal life’.

Fuck that. The ‘normal life’ was just ambient noise to those who were like him; the people who were different; the men and women who were forced to perform like circus freaks for the entertainment of the ‘normal’ people. Some who were like him even held this misplaced sense of obligation to help this society – as if their curse was a gift for the benefit of civilization (the same humanity that used them for television programs and for enjoyment, mind you).

“Fuck that,” he repeated, this time aloud, before inhaling deeply on his Marlboro cigarette. He kicked the used cancer-stick and dropped it into his latte.

In the background, the tiny bell that rest on the door shook and consequently rang as another patron pushed the open the wooden entranceway. Alexander scarcely heard it, and that was only because the entire shop had gone silent. He could hear whispers escape the customer’s mouths, and briefly wondered if they were referring to him – if they had heard the tail end of his internal contemplations.

As he lifted his head to view the origin of the commotion, he also lifted his mind from his thoughts – allowing himself to be interrupted by reality.

“Target: Alexander Trafford, Objective: suppress and collect.”

And he’d thought that he had seen everything, but this was . . . something new.

The mechanical voice originated from nothing less than a giant, metallic humanoid creature that he could only assume was a robot. The funny thing was, he thought to himself as he chuckled softly, was that the robot looked exactly as how he would have imagined a robot to look. Usually when you encounter something for the first time, like an alien for instance, they look nothing like you’d expect. The Mershikali creatures on Mercy-Sei, for example, they had not looked even remotely similar to the short aliens that are so prevalent in sci-fi movies, with grey skin and huge heads.

It took him a moment to gather his thoughts and move past the bionic appearance of the mechanical humanoid, but after he had he realized that the term ‘collect’ did not exactly sound friendly.

There was never any rest for the wicked, he thought to himself.

Trafford reached inside his suit and gripped the handle of his gold-plated Desert Eagle and removed one of the deadly pair. Simultaneously he reached into his small, leather satchel and removed a clip of .50 calibre bullets and slapped the ammunition into the base of the handgun.

He levelled the weapon at the oncoming machine and wisps of golden power began to slowly pour from the hand-cannon’s thick barrel. It quickly dissipated, however, and another silent sigh escaped the young psychokinetic’s lips.

“Whatever man, just get it over with,” Alex released the cocked hammer and slid the massive handgun back into its holster. His body relaxed and he lit up another cigarette as the robot advanced.

He remembered two more things before he went under. First, the cold steel of the machine’s fist crashing against the side of his jaw that sent him, and his cigarette, sprawling across the tiled floor. Second, he felt a tiny pinprick and, although he didn’t know it at the time, a long needle entered the side of his neck and released fluids into his bloodstream. After that, it was lights out.