Act I — “This Is Not Magic”

I look up at the gray sky and watch that trail of fire tear it in two—so beautifully that it almost feels like a dream. Not a nightmare. I feel no fear at the image reflected in my eyes.

It’s not as if this is the first time I’ve seen an old intercontinental ballistic missile cross the heavens. Much less the first time one has been launched somewhere in this world to begin—or end—a conflict, regardless of the one I happen to be in at the moment.

“Hey… are you Death?”

Suddenly, the soldier in front of me starts speaking. He lies there, his back resting against what was, until recently, the wall of a house.

“No, sorry. I’m just another soldier. Same as you.”

“Same as me, you say?”

The soldier laughs. I don’t know what’s so funny.

“Please, don’t joke. Your eyes are paler than a corpse’s; not even those damned homunculi with their bizarre appearances look like you… Please, don’t joke.”

My eyes are like a corpse’s? My eyes are gray—that much is true. But that has nothing to do with something as strange as being Death itself. It’s just a genetic remnant. A trait that marks the family I belong to. No matter how often we’ve mixed with others over time, gray eyes have always dominated my bloodline.

“I’m really sorry, but I’m not lying. I’m just another soldier. Besides, isn’t it better that I’m not Death?”

“Are you blind too? There’s a hole in my stomach. My intestines are spilling out and boiling. I don’t even know how we’re talking… Right now, the thing I want most is to die.”

That’s also true. There’s a large hole in his stomach, and the smell of burned flesh is quite unpleasant. In fact, that hole is the reason I didn’t expect him to start talking.

“I can tell. I’m the one who shot you.”

“Oh, I see… so it was you. I guess you’re one of those—an angel imitator. That makes more sense.”

He replies, averting his gaze in disgust when he realizes what I am.

“Hey… why are you looking for Death?”

I ask without taking my eyes off the poor man. He was already a corpse, but my curiosity to understand him got the better of me. When he doesn’t answer, I ask again.

“Shouldn’t you be looking for salvation or something like that?”

“What for? To go back to the battlefield? To watch my friends die again? To realize that no matter what, the human species will be wiped out by species like yours…? Thanks…? This world isn’t worth it.”

The energy in his voice slowly fades as his blood begins to stop flowing.

“Tell me, angel imitator… why do you want to live?”

Unexpectedly, he raises his gaze again. With tearful eyes, he questions my existence.

“Because I have nowhere to run.”

“Then why don’t you find somewhere?”

He asks again before his vision clouds completely. His blood is running out.

“And what is it you’re still searching for…?”

After that question, the man dies.

Why did he do that? He wasted his breath talking with me instead of something more meaningful. As he said, I’m just an imitation of an angel—a human creation meant to survive in this decaying world.

A real angel is supposed to heal body and soul. To bring peace and forgiveness to sinners.

I am the opposite.

In the distance, I hear the thunder of an explosion. It isn’t the same ballistic missile that just passed over me, but the blast is of similar magnitude. It’s the sound that announces the end of this play—and the signal for the curtains to close for its only remaining spectator.

Even if I am the last one on stage.

Even if my voice cannot reach anyone.

Even if I have no validity as a human being.

I answer the man’s question.

“—”

The smell of hot coffee is far too pleasant.

In this city—one of the few where humans and homunculi live together—they can afford places like this café. The place is painted a sky-blue that faintly recalls the old blue sky, before it filled with pollution and turned a dull gray that keeps the sun’s rays from reaching the ground properly. Tables and chairs sit outside for customers to enjoy, accompanied by small artificial trees and recorded bird songs.

The café is called Old Blue, a name that seems fitting given its appearance.

But for some reason, to me it feels like a joke. A rather tasteless one.

Perhaps that’s why I still haven’t taken a single sip from the cup of coffee in front of me.

While thinking about it—watching my slightly distorted reflection in the black liquid—a man in a beige suit sits across from me.

“So, you’re the gentleman recommended for the job.”

The man appears to be around thirty. His brown hair and the dark bags beneath his eyes tell me he’s human—though guessing age is pointless these days. In the last few centuries, human life expectancy has increased significantly.

“I have to admit I wasn’t very enthusiastic about you. But seeing your record, it’s impressive. Deployed in twelve targeted assassination missions across five battlefields. Six hundred sixty-five confirmed kills. You’re undoubtedly a fine piece of genetic art.”

Maintaining his arrogant smile, the man praises my professional record, then gestures to a waitress. When she approaches, he simply points at the menu with his index finger, indicating he wants chamomile tea. She nods.

“Right away, sir.”

She leaves.

“Yes, well. You do what you can to survive.”

I lift the coffee cup to my face. When my lips finally taste it, it burns my throat. It’s too hot, too bitter—and I forgot to add sugar. Just a boiling tide of caffeine recharging my system.

“Well said! But I understand. In the end, all that matters is the pay. Ten million, right? That’s a rather modest price for someone of your caliber. Why so cheap, if I may ask?”

“Because if I charged more, no one would hire me. It’s not hard to understand. The paperwork’s already been handled by your associates. I wouldn’t worry about questions like that. Just tell me who my target is.”

“That’s the thing…”

The man slips his hand inside his jacket. When he pulls it out, he’s holding a photograph of a girl with yellow eyes.

“They told me you’re one of the best at killing people. And while we hope to settle our business without going that far… the truth is, we need you to protect this girl for a while.”

“A homunculus?”

I raise an eyebrow. Jobs like this aren’t common.

A human asking me not to kill his direct rivals in this race for superiority?

Is today opposite day in the laws of nature?

Besides, the rarity of the job is the same reason I’ve never protected anything in my life.

“That’s right. She’s a wizard model. Some people call her kind saints chosen by God. Maybe they are, maybe they aren’t. The only thing that matters is that she still exists.”

Right. Homunculi are divided into different models with unique traits. I tend to forget that—because in the end, no matter what abilities they have, they all die the same way.

A bullet between the eyes kills anyone. Whether they resemble a god or a demon.

“They can heal wounds, right?”

I take the photograph. The girl has long, silky red hair, and her flawless face makes her look like a porcelain doll.

“That nickname makes sense. But I thought they were extinct—that the records of their creation were lost.”

The man frowns slightly, as if he’d rather we not talk about supposedly extinct species appearing out of nowhere. I can read the gesture easily: Don’t pry.

And I won’t. I have no intention of digging into classified experiments and government secrets.

“Yes. They’re supposed to be extinct. That’s why preserving her is so important. Many human extremist groups want homunculi removed from the position of dominant species. Having someone who can heal their kind so easily works against that goal.”

“And why do you think I won’t sell this information to those extremists?”

“Because they probably already know. But more importantly, because I know you don’t have a side. You’re just a wandering soldier searching for the next field of death to fight in. No flag. No name. Loyal to no one. You simply want to stay alive in this world as long as possible. Am I wrong?”

The air between us grows heavy.

Not because it’s artificial air—manufactured and stored in containers resembling trees.

No. It’s something far more mundane.

The way we look at each other.

My gaze cuts through him like a knife, and his does the same to me. Each of us reads the other carefully, trying to determine the next move.

Does he have a weapon under the table?

Or is it hidden in that jacket?

Either option is unfavorable for me. I only brought two knives. My firearms are back in a cheap hotel a few blocks away.

Without breaking eye contact, the waitress suddenly appears with the chamomile tea. She immediately senses our silent duel and simply sets the cup down before leaving quietly.

Still staring at me, the man takes a sip of tea. He licks his lips, satisfied.

“This… is a very good chamomile tea.”

The man sitting across from me is surprisingly likable.

“Sounds good to me! I’ll gladly take the job. So—where is she?”

Strangely, the man’s smile disappears as soon as I finish speaking.

“She’s at the city’s Botanical Museum. It’s closed, and since she likes flowers and things like that… we thought it was appropriate. We stocked it with everything needed to last a week. That’s how long we estimate it will take to calm things down.”

“I see. Maybe you’re spoiling her a little, don’t you think…? Though I guess I’m not in any position to criticize.”

With that settled, I stand and leave a few coins for the unfinished coffee.

I don’t need to stay here anymore. Now I have to reach the museum.

I don’t even know where it is.

But I’ll manage.

I always do.

“Hey!”

Unexpectedly, the man stops me with a shout.

“Why are you helping us? And please don’t say it’s just a job. I’d like to know your real reason.”

“You said it yourself—I have no side. I don’t share your ideals about bringing peace between the planet’s species. I just want to live here a little longer, and for that I need a lot of money. Sometimes there’s no mystery beyond what you see. So why shouldn’t I help you?”

The man says nothing. But a small, shy smile forms on his face.

He extends his right hand toward me and says, his voice slightly weak:

“Please… take care of Nora.”

I ignore the handshake.

And leave immediately for the city’s Botanical Museum—to meet a mage…

… "

–Continue reading in its original Spanish language at fictograma.com–