Scion

I’ve often wondered to myself, over these past few years, what a peaceful life might look like. Lazy mornings, I imagine. Quiet days. Good meals and easy company.

‍

As the Argos tries once again to separate my head from my shoulders, I can’t help but consider the possibility—not for the first time— that I may not have always made the best life choices.

‍

I backpedal. Burning, screaming pain in my left thigh. It’s a clear and bright night. Sky crawling with pinpricks of light from LEE satellites, adding a sheen of silver to the garden I was originally sneaking through and am now very close to dying in. It’s a nice garden. A vast, manicured lawn, tastefully interrupted by shaped shrubbery, feature walls, and gravity-fed fountains. Cool hues of bioluminescent purple and green illuminate the most impressive sections.

‍

The view is very much spoiled by the ten-foot-tall monstrosity stalking after me as I drag myself backward. An Argos traditionally has a hundred eyes, but this one has a lot less. Thirty, maybe? Forty? The biotechs’ nod to mythology here was a little disappointing, honestly. Still, a creepy eyeball patchwork covers the thing’s entire headless body. Neck, arms, legs, torso. Front and back. And all the eyes I can see, unfortunately, are very much fixed on me.

‍

A little adrenaline’s good for the reflexes, so my revs only tamp down my fear to manageable levels as I try not to focus on how much blood I’m losing from the gash in my leg. Taking in the Argos, though, I can guess it’s a lot. The thing’s bipedal but has six gorilla-like arms that end in half-metre-long claws. One set glistens in the faint light that’s illuminating our—if I’m being generous—battle. Blood is wet and dark down its arm, and all across its chest.

‍

My blood. Lots and lots of my blood.