I, Azrael - SCP Foundation

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8

I, Azrael

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Civillian 4ab8, Kepler, 3-3-218 Ante Angelus Natum

Dying didn’t quite feel like how I thought it would.

Agony ripped through my side in harmony with a burst of energy weapon fire, and I could only stare with wide eyes at the streak of blue fluid on the floor next to me.

What had I been running for? I had known deep down that there was no use, that the predator in the shadows would catch up to me eventually. I had known ever since I saw the cyanic glow of its visor, the cold eyes that watched me from the dark, from its perch on the rooftops where it had observed me with malicious intent.

I spared a glance down to my side and was greeted with the sight of burned fabric and purple muscle, blackened around a smoking centre. The wound was mostly cauterised from the weapon’s own discharge, so there were no dramatic spurts of blood, but the sickly scent of singed flesh was arguably worse.

But then the agony stopped, and I began to not care so much about the smell of my own burnt body. If I focused, it was still there, but why would I want to? I knew I was dying. There was no need to dwell on it.

A blanket of pleasant suffocation dampened all of my mental functions, and so I was not really scared; this, of course, was the defining thing that separated it from the simulation of death I’d crafted in my mind so many times over. The mere notion of no longer existing was terrifying, enough so to send me into a nervous meltdown, but apparently only in theory. It was, even as a small consolation, nice to know that my anxieties were unfounded.

Just as my locked knees began to crumple, someone came into view in front of me. “Do not be afraid,” they commanded as they lowered their gun. Its vents were still open, exposing the core as it cooled; they must have shot me only a moment ago. It was interesting how time distorted on the cusp of death.

The faint glow from their visor reflected off the polished walls as they stepped towards me. I soon became acquainted with the notable coldness of the floor as my body collapsed against it.

“I am sorry for my poor marksmanship. You were not supposed to suffer,” they explained. The vents of their gun emitted a fine steam as it recharged for another round of murder.

I gurgled out some blood in response. The wound was not cauterised internally, and so my abdominal cavity was no doubt filling with blood. It made it hard to explain that I was actually not suffering all that much, though there was no reason to console an emotionless military drone.

“Thank you for not struggling. It’s easier for both of us.”

Their gun whined as it charged up, and they approached once more. A support structure along the wall, composed of iron rods, was perfectly positioned to appear as a pair of wings that crossed behind their back. In between bouts of blurred vision, I was able to make out hooks along the underside that were attached to load-bearing cables; we were on the twelfth floor, so it made sense that such a structure was needed.

“Goodnight,” they said softly, a burst of energy discharging from their weapon, the barrel aligned with my eyes.

Unit 5a82, Kepler, 2-1-1 Ante Angelus Natum

I am a monster.

The phrase repeated itself in my head over and over, swimming through the cerebrospinal fluid and ricocheting off every surface like a sadomasochistic game of Pong. No matter what I did, I couldn’t get it to stop; it was stuck in there, seeping into my nerves, intruding in my thoughts and weighing heavy on my guilty conscience.

I attempted to swallow a bout of nausea as I worked my helmet off my head, reminding myself once again that I had no digestive system, and thus was physically incapable of throwing up. It was a psychosomatic phenomenon that was, by definition, caused by my own thoughts and feelings. If I could just figure out how to control it, I would stop suffering. All I had to do was change my mental state. Repress my feelings. Ignore it.

Repression had honestly become quite the staple in my life. It was really the only way to get through a day without breaking down, but had the side effect of turning me into a walking zombie– or maybe that was the psychiatric medication. There was something special about my antipsychotics, and how they worsened the problem they were attempting to solve.

All I felt walking into my Handler’s office was an aching anxiety, pushed somewhere deep down in my chest, something I just couldn’t get rid of. A biologically hard-wired fear instinct that was supposed to tell prey to avoid their predators. I ignored it.

I tucked my helmet under my arm and stood straight, ignoring the bruised muscles that complained as they strained to hold up my spine. “Unit 5a82, reporting as requested, Sir,” I announced to the empty office space in front of me.

A door clicked open to the side and the Handler stepped through. Its cold eyes, the same greyish blue as mine, looked me up and down methodically as if it were trying to find any faults with my appearance to berate me on. I didn’t doubt that it was doing exactly that.

“Hello, Unit 5a82. How’re you enjoying the first day of the new year?”

“Long live the United Federation of Kepler, Sir. It will be another prosperous year of your glorious rule over the planet.” It would like the response much more than hearing about the pounding headache I’d experienced the whole duration of my shift.

“Our glorious rule, 5a82.”

“Sir?” I asked.

“You forget that you’re one of us, don’t you?”

“No, Sir.” I shifted from foot to foot, hoping the movement came off as more energised than anxious.

It stepped closer and bent its head down to look at me. I couldn’t decide if it was better or worse than the doctors and soldiers who would crouch or kneel down to talk to me, as if I were some kind of child. At least those people were willing to get on my level; here, it was making clear that it looked down on me.

“Are you sure?” it asked.

“Yes, I am, Sir. It was an unfortunate blunder in my speech. I apologise.”

It waved its hand dismissively. “I’m not gonna report it to anyone. Just one of those mistakes you tend to make.”

“I'm sorry, Sir, I really did not mean to–”

It narrowed its eyes, and I clenched my jaw in an effort to remind myself to shut up. It was giving me an out, and– despite it being a bad one– that was an act of kindness rare enough that I did not deserve to give any input on the matter.

“Did you like the broadcast?”

I didn’t know how to answer that; the emission had started the moment our timekeeping devices registered the new date. At that time, I had been perched on a skyscraper, mulling over my violent occupation as I wiped some organic matter from one of my firearms.

The dark, foggy landscape was the perfect backdrop to the video feed playing on my visor, a reporter speaking in a chipper voice about how perfect our nation was, and how well the government was running the planet. There were some genuinely positive notes sprinkled in about the climbing efficiency of renewable energy, as well as the restoration of a marine ecosystem that had been endangered due to an accident with a cargo ship.

But I didn’t want to appear as if I were slacking off by watching it, nor did I want to lie and say that I’d ignored it altogether. So I worked out a compromise.

“I had just taken out a target and secured a safe location when it came on. The broadcast was as lovely as ever.”

It nodded, appearing to be satisfied with this answer. “We can rejoice in the knowledge that the government is stronger than ever. We have complete control, complete authority.”

We both knew it was a blatant falsehood, but said nothing.

Unit 5a55, Kepler, 2-1-2 Ante Angelus Natum

In the privacy of my room, I paced. And I paced. And I paced.

I hadn’t heard from 4ab8 in exactly two sols. It was relatively normal for us to have spotty communication around special dates, as their family would keep them busy with celebrations and cultural foods– but something felt off.

They would usually at least send a photo or two; that way, I would be able to see that they were happy and with their loved ones, even if they weren’t available to talk. But they had been radio silent for the entire time, and it was pushing my anxiety levels through the roof.

Eventually, I caved and did the one thing I promised myself I would never do.

One tram ride later, my knuckles rapped against the front door of 4ab8’s home. They’d given me the address in case of emergency. No matter how much I pried, they wouldn’t tell me why they thought I’d need it, just that I’d know when I did.

The door clicked and slid to the side, revealing an onoid1 figure behind it. Even with my cloudy vision, I could immediately see the resemblance to 4ab8.

“Hello. You are the family of C-4ab8, yes?”

“Um… yes. I’m their sibling,” it responded. “Are you here because of them?”

“Yes, I am.”

Its face lit up with hope. “Do you know where they are?”

The words felt like blades stuck into my chest. “I… you don’t?”

“I’m sorry?”

My uniform suddenly felt constraining. I’d put it on in order to have an air of authenticity, because I figured they were more likely to cooperate if they thought I was on official orders. But none of my superiors even knew about this visit, much less had ordered me to execute it. Why would they, if they already knew where 4ab8 was?

I cleared my throat. “Apologies. I am not currently aware of their location. I came here to ask you if… if you, or anyone else in this household, have any information on that topic.”

“I don’t think… well…” It sighed. “The last time we saw them was before we were about to celebrate the new year. We were preparing all the food, and they said they weren’t feeling well, that they wanted to go for a walk… and…” It shook its head. “They didn’t come back. We’ve tried everything to reach them, but we’ve heard nothing.”

I nodded, forcing myself to keep breathing through the suffocating panic. “I’m so sorry, that must be hard. Did they tell you where they were going?”

“No, but somebody found their cellular interface on the second floor of the new skyscraper. We looked to see if there was anything on there that could help us locate them, but didn’t find anything.”

“New skyscraper?” I asked, voice straining not to break.

“Oh, just the one downtown.” It gestured vaguely in what must have been its direction. “They finished construction a few days ago. I forget what it’s for. Beats me why they were there.”

“And their interface? They just dropped it?”

“No, I think it just fell out of their pocket. Whenever we play games with our younger family members, it always does that when they run fast. I’m always trying to convince them to get trousers with better pockets…”

I didn’t hear the rest of what it was saying, my brain overloading as it raced to process everything. It had been late, and they’d gone into a random building, lost something because they were running, and didn’t stop to go back for it. They were being chased, trying to escape. From something… or someone.

“I’m sorry, I have to go,” I blurted, interrupting whatever it was saying.

“Did I give you good information?” it called out to me as I turned to go.

“Maybe too good.” I wanted to apologise, but couldn’t muster anything up as I rushed out of the building.

Unit 5a82, Kepler, 2-1-3 Ante Angelus Natum

Apparently, it only took two sols for everyone’s good moods to wear off. Personally, my good mood had never worn on, so I was entirely unchanged. I thought of it as a positive thing. You couldn’t ever feel worse if you never felt good to begin with.

I was about halfway through my daily training exercises when I heard someone walk into the room. It was odd to me that someone was there, because I always signed up for the morning slots to have the area all to myself; nobody wanted to squat their bodyweight as soon as the sol started, including me, but it was a necessary sacrifice to keep from being stared at.

“5a82.”

I looked over my shoulder from where I sat on a bench. It was 5a55, appearing rather dishevelled and upset. At least it hadn’t made a rude comment about my body, although such a thing did not seem befitting of its kind demeanour.

“Good morning, 5a55,” I responded.

“Wow, well wasn’t that monotone. Did you already drain all your energy from playing with little kid weights?”

Oh, there was the rude comment about my body. Perhaps I had been wrong about what was or wasn’t befitting of its demeanour.

“I apologise for my lack of inflection. I did not notice.”

“You seem to not notice a lot of things,” it retorted.

“That is untrue.”

“So you notice my suffering, but turn a blind eye to it?” it demanded. “Is that what it is? You know, but you just don’t care?”

I stood and turned to face it. “I do not know what you’re trying to say.”

“You’re a murderer! You killed them in cold blood!”

“Yes, you’re right, I’ve killed many people.” I drew myself up into proper posture, chest full and shoulders back. “Does that surprise you? That I could kill someone?” If you think I'm so weak. If you think I'm so small and pathetic.

It bared its fangs at me, taking on an intimidating posture. “No, it doesn’t. You’re just a robot. A dangerous, amoral robot. I’d be hard-pressed to believe that you feel anything, do anything but pull triggers when you’re ordered to.”

“What's the point of this?” I finally asked. “What do you want?”

“You killed the person I loved most.” It crept towards me, eyes narrowed into slits. “And you won't even apologise? Do you even care?”

I tilted my head down and clasped my hands behind my back, my best attempt at meekness. “I'm sorry for the death of 4ab8.” The words rang out hollow and tinny inside my head. I had so much practice apologising for this and that, it didn't matter to me anymore. Few things did.

A long pause. 5a55 smoothed a hand over his face, crossed his arms. “Yeah, you only do what you're told to. You only do whatever keeps you from harm. Saving your own life at the cost of others'. Yeah, that's who you are.” He leaned towards me. “I don't want an apology. I want you dead.”

“That’s two of us.”

I pushed past it and left the room, retreating somewhere private to seek the cold comfort of sharp metal.

█████ “The Handler”, Kepler, 2-1-4 Ante Angelus Natum

I let out a loud sigh as I put my feet up on my desk and stretched back in my chair. It had been a busy day, thing after thing going wrong. It was observably true that us superiors rarely got to sleep.

It was just as well; they needed me, and I liked being needed. It gave some inflation to my ego, one that seemed to collapse and refill like an epileptic balloon. That wasn't too abnormal, though, at least not as a Two from only the second generation— they had still been ironing out the kinks, and as such, I was stuck with some physio- and psychological issues. The alopecia was fine. The mood swings, not so much. But I still dealt with them well enough.

There wasn't any other option, anyways. I had built my life on being useful, proving my circumstances wrong. I had risen the ranks enough to defy the rules, the ultimate accomplishment in keplerian society.

They told me to stay where I belonged, that I would never be able to aim higher than my role as a government drone. But they had been wrong. I was here, now, with my amassed privilege and power. And so was my… daughter. Someone who would never have been able to exist otherwise, due to the strict government regulations on the creation and reproduction of Twos.

The door to my office chimed, and I rubbed my temples before gesturing at my display to call up the report I’d been reading.

Unit 5a82 stepped into the room with a notable stiffness to his movements. No doubt he was anxious; he wasn’t stupid, and likely knew why I’d called him here. I could see him fighting to keep his head up as he approached my desk, as tense as always, which was to say very.

“Hello, 5a82,” I finally addressed the unit.

“Sir,” he responded.

“So, I heard that you had a bit of a… situation… with 5a55 yesterday.”

People always said his face was blank, emotionless, almost artificial, but I begged to differ. You just had to be good at reading him. Right then, the fat under his eyes were more pronounced, meaning his lower eyelids were tensed. The muscles attaching to his jaw clenched. There were little tells like these; he was obviously not pleased to hear that the news had reached me.

“Now, you don’t needa be upset about it. It doesn’t sound like you did anything wrong.”

He was silent.

“Your life isn’t under any jeopardy. I’m not gonna let it hurt you,” I pledged softly. “It was way outta line saying that kinda stuff.”

After a long moment, he spoke. “It was… understandable that 5a55 said that. It was… upset. At what I’d done.”

“It was upset because it was having a perverted love affair with the person you killed. That’s not your fault. It didn’t have any business threatening you.” I tapped my finger on the photo of it on my display, over its orange-filmed eyes. “You know what they say about those with type II copper blindness, 5a82. It's a physical manifestation of their inability to see past their own emotions. You have your issues, but that's definitely not one of them.”

“I appreciate that, Sir,” he rasped quietly.

I closed the report and sighed. “Don’t be upset. You’re only doing what you were made for.”

“Thank you, Sir.”

“You’re dismissed. Go rest in the barracks.”

The tendons in his neck strained as he swallowed, then nodded, and turned to leave. I was quite proud of him for trying so hard to keep his composure in front of me. He always did; he was obviously terrified of what I would do if he said something out of line, or even had a facial expression I wasn’t partial to.

And I was regretful of that… but not enough to change my ways. Showing affection to an assassin– much less one I’d created with my own DNA– would have devastating consequences to my place in the chain of command. It would be a liability.

So he stayed an angel of death, an abused little puppet, isolated and othered. He had nobody to love him, not even me, the man who had ordered him into creation.

The Azrael I’d constructed.

Footnotes

1. Resembling a One, like things that are “humanoid” resemble humans.