Entry Three

This is Rewel. I fear that if the people could speak they would say, “The Speakers are God,” and it would be truth; as words are truth, even the lies.

None turn to look at me as I step into the room. They look out the large bay windows or stare into their glasses. The room is silent, except the soft rustle of fabric when one of them moves. Still staring out the window, one points towards the end of the room. His hand and finger peaks through the sleeve of his tunic: a spider hand, with long fingers, the faint grey of augmentation visible through translucent skin. The grey, the wires under his skin, cause small bulges in his skin. I cannot look for too long, so I turn to where he points.

The room is empty, save the white plush couches on which they lounge and the small bar where they can replenish their drinks. Everything is well illuminated except the back corner where a finger is directing my attention. I step into the back towards the darkness and I hear them follow. There is a man back here, ankles and wrists bound to the wall. His head hangs in the darkness, but his chest moves: he is not dead.

“He uses words.” I feel the neuron wave pulse through my cerebellum. I turn towards them, the Speakers. There are ten here today, all with hollow faces, grey wires of augmentation tracing underneath skin. I would ask of their humanity, but they would say how they are as human as the people of the city. I gaze at the one who pointed. I’ve seen him many times. His dark hair shades his grey eye, the other eye a prosthetic giving off a blue glow that zooms in and out on my form. “We would have you steal from him,” his neuron wave pulses through me again. “We would have him be of the people.” I nod and turn away. The tightness on his face, the wires that could be pulsing veins, the translucency of his person… I turn away.

“Be warned, Thief Rewel, he may speak.” There is a long moment of silence. I step towards the man. His head shoots up and he begins howling in my presence. I hear the Speakers take several steps back. “Our auditory sensors have been disabled until you have dealt with him, Rewel.”  They cannot bear the sound of voice, any voice, but nothing is more disturbing than the howling of a man who knows what he will lose.

The man locks his eyes on me. His eyes are brown as is his hair, his olive skin shows no signs of augmenting.  “Will you do this thing?” His voice is raspy, as though he spent long years hiding it. It is unpracticed, a sandpaper voice. I only nod. I raise my hands and place my index fingers on his temples. He looks at my hands, sees the white fingerless gloves, grunts, “Wait.”

I wait. For a long moment he says nothing, staring at my gloves. He knows what lies beneath: the skin of someone augmented. He sees how I hide it. “Do you trust them?” his sandpaper words rub my focus raw. My hands go lax and I stare at the man who has spoken. Only for a second.

My voice is a similar sheet of sandpaper: “No.” And then he would speak no more.