The Mask and The Machine
T he lobby of Sable HQ was a gleaming expanse of elegance, reflecting the organization’s nearly limitless resources.
Its floors, polished to a mirror finish, caught the light of hovering luminescent orbs.
Kisan moved across it with his usual heavy stride, his thoughts still tangled from the events and the unease of setting eyes on the mysterious woman.
The echoes of his boots reverberated through the space, a lonely cadence that matched the quiet storm in his chest.
‘Ah, the brooding one returns,’ a voice chimed, smooth and rich, like velvet laced with a sly grin.
Kisan glanced up to find a being standing—or rather, projecting—in his path.
Her ebony-toned form shimmered with streaks of glowing violet flashes of energy. Her features were breathtaking, sculpted to perfection, and her expression was knowing, her brow arched.
She didn’t just resemble a goddess—she exuded the commanding presence of one.
She was the Riders’ all-seeing Oracle, their enigmatic power machine, her network spanning all the corners and reaches of Pegasi and beyond.
‘Mirage,’ Kisan muttered, nodding in acknowledgment.
Her lips curved into a teasing smile. ‘Kisan, love, I can sense the storm swirling in your well-shaped skull. My data streams hum when you’re this pensive.’
She tilted her head, her star-flecked eyes scanning him as if she could see through to the marrow of his soul. ‘Come now, invite me up for a drink.’
He hesitated, his forehead furrowing. ‘I’m not—’
‘In the mood?’ she interrupted, arching an elegant brow. ‘Oh, honey, please. You need company more than I desire another system to oversee. Now, lead the way.’
Mirage began sashaying toward the escalator, her holographic form flickering as she moved.
Kisan sighed, his resistance crumbling under her insistence, and followed.
They exited the elevator on his floor.
With a touch from Mirage’s finger, Kisan’s apartment’s auto door slid open with a muted hiss, and they stepped indoors, the lights brightening to a soft amber glow.
His habitation was a stark contrast to the polished opulence of the HQ.
The space was vast but bare, the walls were subdued gray, and the furniture was minimal and functional. It appeared less like a home and more like a holding cell where he existed rather than lived.
Mirage crossed the threshold, her gaze sweeping over the spartan décor. ‘Good grief, Kisan. Did someone forget to install the personality module here? It’s screaming for a plant or a rug.’
He ignored her, heading to a sleek bar in the room’s corner. ‘What’s your poison?’ he rasped, pouring himself a generous glass of whiskey.
The AI perched on the edge of his couch, her luminous form settling as though she were flesh and blood. ‘Oh, I’ll just puff on my cheroot and watch you intoxicate yourself.’
Kisan glanced at her but lifted a lighter from the drinks cabinet and snapped it open.
With a tiny burst of kinetic power, he flung its flame toward the thin synth cigar she had extracted from the folds of her holo gown.
She leaned into it with exaggerated elegance.
‘ Sante .’
The Rider strode to the only armchair in the expansive room and settled into it, eyes on the horizon and the twin rings hovering over the rock.
Mirage dragged a high stool next to him and perched.
He drank, and she smoked in silence for a few moments, the pair lost in their thoughts.
‘Fascinating.’
Kisan turned at Mirage’s whisper to find her gaze on the single object hanging on the living space wall: a mask.
It was stunning yet unnerving, a dark marvel crafted from black spinel. Its surface glinted with traces of embedded gems that caught the light and threw it back in fractal bursts. The design was intricate, its faceted structure almost alive with implied motion, though it now hung silent and still.
‘Ah, the infamous false face of Ankis,’ Mirage said, her tone taking on a softer edge.
The Guardian nodded, his aqua eyes fixed on the object. ‘It’s a relic of all I wish I hadn’t been. A reminder of everything I try not to be now.’
Mirage rose, approaching the mask as if drawn by its dark aura. ‘Tell me again, how did you create it?’
Kisan exhaled, his voice heavy with memory. ‘Years ago, when lost in the badlands, I came across pirates who’d devised a crude version of it to disguise themselves in raids. I procured one and tinkered with it until I fashioned a concept of what I wanted it to do for me. I traveled to Galicia and commissioned a more sophisticated version from Master Sayeret of House SYRT. I paid with jewels—black jade, opals, Tansinian onyx, and even an ancient, rare onyx pearl. The spinel was chosen for its properties. When the mask vibrated, it wasn’t just for show. It tapped into my existing kinetic metanoid undulations, enhancing my bio-telekinesis. It could change my face and distort my voice. It made me unrecognizable, unstoppable.’
‘Terrifying,’ the AI added, her tone hushed.
He nodded. ‘It gave me power. Anonymity. I used it to lead armies, to destroy my enemies without anyone knowing who I was, and used its kinetic energy to control weaponry and eviscerate whoever dared cross me. However, it came at a cost. Every jewel and each feature of that mask was paid for in blood. Zane ended it. His psi powers froze the oscillations at a molecular level, suppressing the camouflage and silencing me.’
Mirage turned, her expression thoughtful. ‘Now, here it hangs. Quiet, yet rather foreboding.’
‘A reminder,’ Kisan said, his voice rough. ‘Of the man, I never want to be again. Shall we go outside? Enough dwelling on my fokkin ’ twisted past.’
They moved to the patio and stood beneath the shaded roof, which blocked most of the heat from the domed sky of Eden II. The twin suns’ radiance refracted into a softened glow.
The city stretched before him, its neon veins pulsing in the distance.
The Rider swirled the whiskey in his glass, his mind heavy with churning thoughts.
Mirage joined him, leaning against the terrace railing, her holo silhouette seeming almost human in the dim gloaming. ‘You know,’ she said, ‘you’re more than the mask.’
‘Am I?’ he asked, his voice a deep burr. ‘Every time I look at it, I see the faces of those I hurt. People like the Falasians today.’
‘You’re trying,’ Mirage said, her tone gentle. ‘That matters.’
Kisan shook his head. ‘Striving doesn’t erase the past. It doesn’t bring back the dead. It doesn’t undo the pain I caused.’
‘ Nada ,’ Mirage agreed, ‘but it shapes the future. You’re not the man you were. You don’t have to carry their forgiveness to uncover redemption. Absolution is rare. Atonement is earned.’
He turned to her, his viridescent eyes glowing in the shadows. ‘Do you think I’ll ever encounter it?’
Mirage regarded him for a long moment, her expression unreadable. ‘I think a pardon isn’t something you find. It’s something you live. Every day, in each choice. And Kisan, you’ve already begun.’
Her words settled over him like a balm, dulling some of his ache.
She gave him a sly smile and stepped back toward the door. ‘Now, get some sleep. Even brooding antiheroes need their rest.’
After Mirage left, the Rider stood in his bedroom, the drone of Eden II’s nightlife filtering through the open windows.
He gazed at the mask one last time before heading to bed, wondering how long he’d be beholden to it.
With a suck of his teeth, he shrugged off his clothes, tossed them over a chair, and sank onto the edge of his divan.
The silence was oppressive.
He leaned forward, his head in his hands, the day’s events replaying in relentless detail. The Falasians’ accusation, the chaos in the street, and the fleeting moment of wonder at CyVoda all churned together, leaving him raw and unsettled.
He glanced at the mirror across the room. His reflection stared back, the lines of weariness etched into his face.
He felt older than he appeared.
Beneath his controlled exterior lay a core of passion.
He experienced emotion on a deep level, although he seldom allowed those feelings to surface.
When he committed, he did so with his entire heart, with an intensity that bordered on possessive. This extended not just to the few he cared about but also to his ideals and goals.
He guarded his inner world with fierce devotion, convinced that if someone touched the burning depths of his pain and desire, they would either flee or use it against him.
Love, he thought, was a luxury for him, meant for others.
Those without his history. Souls who didn’t carry the scars of their sins. The idea of it was both absurd and achingly painful.
He stared at the ceiling, his mind churning.
The image of Samira lingered in his thoughts, her silver and gold eyes like twin suns, impossible to ignore.
He closed his own, willing slumber to take him, though he knew it would be a long time coming.
Sleep came fitfully, bringing dreams of water, light, and faces he couldn’t escape.