Chapter III

In the upper circles of Plutus, disguised by nightfall, he makes his move. Taking a calculated position within the ethereal mist of a passageway, he stalks his prey with the perception of an owl. In his sight, two armed guards take watch over what appears to be an abandoned edifice. It was likely the manufactory type, an abundant business in this world lost in time; stiff competition must have sent them to trade different assets.

It stretches high and mighty amongst the jungle of concrete and glass. Its walls obscured by wooden glass plastered on every gateway for light.

In front of the buildings trapped jaws, the guards wield swords like knights protecting a king, but their padded vests tell a different story: a story of bombs, chemicals, and indiscriminate death that would make a serial killer shiver. All black clothing merges them with the dark, and the persistent blank stare they express is harrowing. Robots on watch over an artefact covered in dust, they stand unresponsive and alert.

Above the door, a sign as blunt as a sergeant is bolted tight. "NO NATIVES ALLOWED" but the liberator's blood boils at the sight? He is not one of them. How can a few signs, that to most mean nothing, affect a man unrelated to the point so profoundly?

A single rock below his feet sits waiting for a purpose. It is slathered with grime and muck picked up by the floor without anyone's knowing (or care). In one swift motion, the rock soars to the adjacent walls, causing a sharp knock as it ricochets off the bricks. "What was that?" the guard furthest questions. A sly trick. Bait for the trap. "I'll check it out." Then, in a blink of an eye and a millisecond of distraction, two guards became one. Utilizing the lapse in focus, the saviour sweeps through space without displacing a particle of dust. Appearing like a shadow behind the isolated guard, he stalks over his prey without a noticeable presence, fangs pointing towards their jugular. While inspecting the solitary stone, the other guard lays dead, a snapped neck being the cause.

He drags the now lifeless husk with him. A short pray later and off he sets towards the elevator. He heads straight for the apical limits that the mechanism will allow: Floor 99. With each passing floor, his hands move closer to the hilt of his sword, creeping closer like a viper to an egg. 5, 10, 15, 20, 25. He clasps his composure by tightening his grip, ensuring its retention. 30, 35, 40, 45, 50. He unsheathes his sword precisely and respectfully. 55, 60, 65, 70, 75. An alarm's whistle slices the air like a tempestuous missile. 80, 85, 90, 95. The precipitation of murmurs from a platoon can be faintly heard above. 96. Waves of swords being drawn radiates into the elevator. 97. A motivational speech pounds his eardrums as the time draws quicker. 98. It is time to live up to your designation: Sao.

Ding.

The doors split; the light creeping in temporary painting false fireworks in Sao's eyes. Little does it faze him, however, as within seconds he pounces on the meat wall sent to halt him. A group of no less than twenty-two war-ready soldiers, displaying the same uniform as the guards outside; all of which have been prey-listed. Sao crashes into the hapless spearhead of the charge, Sao's foot denting his frontal lobe. 21 left. Five guards attempting to overwhelm Sao are immobilized through a swift, singular swing of his sword, separating their soles from their ankles. 16 left. The idiocy continues as another tests his luck against Sao; steel through the bone spokes is his prize. 15 left. A second attacks Sao from behind, which proves foolish; Sao rips out his blade with enough ferocity that its hilt is enough to shatter the guard's crisp Adam's apple. 14 left. Now useless to his squad, Sao forces the guard's body into betrayal. The worthless body his soul resides in can only stare as he spirals into two who stood as past squad members. 11 left. Gaining control over his sword again, Sao skewers four unlucky men, frozen stuck in a mix of awe and terror; the force bringing their hearts closer to each other, a fake bond forced tighter. Being unable to stop his monstrous momentum directs his blade into the tiled walls. Sao is forced to relinquish his sole weapon temporarily. Denying the enemy – a moment to gain an advantage – Sao bolts to the nearest guard and shatters his left patella with a graceful, low, kick echoing that of a tender draft. 6 left. Stealing the downed foe's sword and gutting the mindless surging sentries, Sao prepares to finish his mission in haste. 4 left. A guard attempts to assault Sao from behind. Vibrations felt and his battle-instincts on fire, Sao steps aside and spins, tripping the guard into an unsuspecting supporter's sword, approaching from the opposite side. 3 left. A gentle slit of the throat and his error's consequence comes to fruition. 2 left. One guard cowers on his knees, the other puts on an act of bravery. One last charge, the coward abandoned, watching as the last of his squad is dispatched with unparalleled grace. A most peaceful of deaths: seppuku forced on himself by heavenly hands. 1 left. Sao strolls over to his lodged blade and pries it free in preparation for his next task. Leering at the remaining guardsman, Sao begins the final execution.

In a last-ditch effort, the coward raises his mockery of a sword in defence. An overhead swing splits the guard's sword into two cleanly cut pieces. Sao readies the final blow, raising his blade high. The edge falls, leaving behind an afterimage comprised of the blood of twenty-one guards. The remaining guardsman hears the ring of death, the hum of steel abrading the air; expecting the blow, the guardsman flinches, eyelids clamping shut. A final cogent thought, borne of resignation: there are worse ways to go, perhaps; the hum of steel is a beautiful sound. He awaits his last contact with this life.

'Is your boss here?' the sword seams to speak.

His eyes open, like the parting of storm clouds, parted by the ferocious sunbeam of a blade aimed squarely at his nose.

'He-e-e-e He's next door.' The guard quivers, stumbling at the chance to haul back his vacating soul.

'Thank you for your cooperation, you may leave,' Sao responds, lowering his sword.

'Why? Why let me live?' wonders the guard as his thoughts slip through his tongue.

Without a word, Sao simply taps the right side of his neck as he makes way to the Boss' room. The guard pushes his collar away from his neck, pauses, then sobs as he holds the last guard to die's body. Sao turns for a moment, looking back on the guard consoling an inconsolable corpse. He closes his eyes and holds his hands in front of his mask, dividing its image in two, then moves on.

Kicking the door off its pivots, Sao emerges into a near-empty room. In all its corners, cages peek from the shadows, the walls protected from light by the darkness; the ceiling is far above, a single light in the centre illuminates the vast expanses of the chamber; in the middle sits a raised stand, a crow's nest, for a judge to watch from. Instead, an old man – roughly fifty years old – smirks arrogantly atop his pedestal. He bears a business suit, all black and white with a purple striped tie and black glasses. His eyes peer at the separate world below him with forgetting eyes.

Sao does not wait for the man to speak, 'I'll be relieving you of your duties.' He orders. 'Hand over the cages.'

A chuckle from the pedestal mocks the title-less demand. 'Now why would I do that when backups on its w…'

'Don't try conning your way out of this.' Sao snaps with assertion, appearing to look down on his target. 'This isn't the business your used to, or is it? Well, if it is then what I say next shouldn't disturb you.' Sao takes a breath before finishing his statement as his target waits attentively in silence. 'Lie to me again, and I'll rip out your tongue! Hand over the cages NOW!'

The Old Man's smirk largens as he straightens his tie and glasses.

'I couldn't if I wanted to.' He start, laughing his way through his response. 'There was a large order this morning you see and-'

A snuffed scream interrupts him. Before the Old Man's thorn in his side stimulates his receptors, Sao darts atop the pedestal with an earth-shaking leap, sending the Man plunging to the dusty ground below. Hastily, the Boss shields himself in the corner of the room, quivering and praying. Sao steadily leans over the desk to locate the cry's source. There he sees it. In an instant curiosity becomes antipathy. His face freezes and his eyes enlarge. Under this desk is one of the world's truths, something inescapable. A girl slim in stature kneels chained to the desk's leg. One on each wrist and another around her neck. She begs, clothed only in a ragged sandbag, masking tape across the eyes, and a firestone towel wrapped around her mouth. Bone surfaces at her limbs where skin should remain dominant, giving her the jaggedness of a skeleton sculpture.

'You make me sick…' Sao states, the torment of millions of unsaved souls thundering through his voice.

'Wait, wait, wait,' each "wait" bringing the Old Man's face wider as if the unsaved souls where charging into him to force him into imploding. 'I can explain,' he bluffs explicitly in stammers.

'Only God has the patience to listen to your words anymore, I don't have the mercy to listen to your pleas.'

The Boss, now trapped between the white walls and Sao's crazed blade, braces himself as he frantically scouts his mind for a scapegoat, an escape, a haven, a safe place, anywhere else, anywhere not here.

'Come on now, she isn't real, this isn't real.'

Sao brings his face closer to the Man's, his murderous intent flaring.

'Maybe not to you … but it is to her you monster!'

The poor girl chained to the desk listens on in horror and relief as her captor is slain; the chopping of flesh forever carved into her memory. The once white walls turn a crimson red, and the Man loses the physical embodiment of his mind as sounds of a butcher shop resonate.

As if nothing had taken place, Sao looks over the girl with a soothing smile which pushes past the mask's barrier.

'Why do people like that have to exist, huh? I think we'd both be better off without them, don't you think?'

One by one, Sao removes the chains, the tape, and the towel, giving liberty to another saved soul. He carries the girl off to safety, as if she were just a baby, despite being a young adult in a body forged with hammering fists and words, maybe more. They abandon the truly abandoned building – the guard left outside, surrounded by men and women in ripped jeans and vests, bleeding profusely – as the sun begins to wake, which sparks life back into the dormant city. The sight of strangers and the copies of her captor, that surround them, cause tears to flow down her cheek.

'It's okay now, you're safe with me. I promise.'

Now having returned to his peaceful domain, the air has been slightly compressed evermore. Another body fills the space, the miserable Girl who Sao freed with such profound heroism. The world continues its deep sleep, as does the girl. It has been a whole day since she last woke, her energy scaping through her sorrowful water freed by her tear ducts. Ever since leaving her chains, she has been unable to move on her own will. This is a foreign environment for her, she hasn't felt freedom before, how terrifying it must be. Sao ponders endlessly for he also steps on foreign lands. He removes his mask and places it on the desktop beside his bed. Hand on his head, he sits beside her in a grand armchair built from the smoothest birch possible in the forest smothering the rolling hills behind the house.

'Where to go from here, I wonder?'

In a stream of never-ending thought, the great Sao lies there in his armchair. What marvellous dreams can he imagine? One can only imagine the wonders of the dream world he forges.

The saviour's body remains behind.