“Number 9?”

The monotone voice sounded over the loudspeaker. She opened her eyes, but there was nothing to see, just a grey haze. This didn’t alarm her. If anything, she responded to this strange loss of vision with curiosity; not fear. In fact, she was trying to remember if she had always been blind, or not.

“I can’t see.” Her voice was soft, but direct. There was a sterile quality to it. It was the kind of voice that would give you goosebumps — it was just so flat and even, similar to an automated customer service operator. Her comment was phrased like a clinical observation, not an inquiry.

The voice didn’t bother to respond. Number 9 got the impression that this was all standard procedure. She was on her back, upon what felt like a table. Feeling some of her strength had returned, she attempted to sit up. Instinctively, she tried to use her arms for leverage. That’s when she realized, both her arms were missing. The good news was that she was seeing blurry shapes now. At least her eyes were starting to function properly…

Time passed relatively quickly. She was finally able to take a visual inventory of her physical condition. Essentially, she was just a torso, with four stumps where her limbs should have been, respectively. Of course it could have been much worse, her head could be missing too. Instead of struggling, or trying to make sense of the gruesome situation, Number 9 did what came naturally to her — what she had been trained to do. She waited patiently for instruction.

The lab door opened, and an older gentleman, dressed in a white coat, looked her over. Wordlessly, he touched her stumps. She remained quiet. She wasn’t sure who he was, but he seemed familiar.

“Number 9. Did you complete the mission?” He sounded upset, despite his best efforts to conceal his agitation. Nine wasn’t sure if the old man was upset because he cared for her, or if he was annoyed because he was the one responsible for fixing her.

Empathy was not one of her strong suits. It would be impossible for her to fulfill her duties if she had not been fully stripped of emotions… whatever those duties were. Nine was having trouble accessing her memory; everything except for the answer to his question was totally blank.

“No… there were complications.” As soon as she responded, she knew that she had done something to break protocol.

“I didn’t ask for details. Obviously you… Number 8 failed. But don’t think that just because you’re freshly out of the box, you’re not accountable for her… your actions. There will be consequences. Once your limbs have been attached, we expect better results. This is your last chance Number 9. We’re not making any more of you. ” He snapped at her.

To be continued…

“What does regret mean?”

She was wide-eyed with curiosity. He regarded her with a certain measure of parental love, though his response to her was not one of paternal persuasion. Her form reflected his own desires. For all intent and purpose, she was a walking fantasy — the kind you indulged with the lights dimmed, and the blinds drawn… but of course, she hadn’t really been designed to please. That was just a pleasant incidental. Rather, she had been designed to disarm with the promise of personalized perfection. He was not totally immune.

They called her a tran. This being the abbreviated form of Transcendent.

Originally, trans had been intended to be recreational toys, but the government absorbed the project as soon as they set eyes on the blueprints. The scientist, who originally developed the project, was allowed to continue his work — under the watchful supervision of his patrons.

There is currently only one model of Transcendent, Number 1.

** What makes a Transcendent so special? A tran can be anything that you want it to be. Number 1 is technically female, though it is just as comfortable being male. There are no sex or gender distinctions that Number 1 is bound by.

In fact, there is also no animal form, of compatible mass and weight, that the model can’t take on. Including partial transformations, and any cosmetic details. For human templates this included superficial traits such as race, hair or eye color, and body type.

This is a powerful tool, but it’s not the ultimate weapon in the tran’s arsenal. The tran has the subconscious ability to instantly read a target, and morph itself into the target’s idealized lover. 

This does take a certain measure of effort on the tran’s part, as the transformation does require a fair expenditure of energy. So, as a reward for taking on this form, a small dosage of highly volatile chemical is released into its brain. This conditions the tran to enjoy becoming the object of the target’s desire.

Lab tests have repeatedly confirmed that without the drug, the tran’s abilities begin to decay. There’s a connection between the biological stimulation of the substance, and the longevity of a tran’s abilities.

Furthermore, there is an interesting quirk to the process. The effect of the drug has endless micro-differences, depending on the specific target that the tran has attuned itself to. So it is highly disruptive if a tran develops a strong liking for a particular variation — thus becoming “addicted” to that target. At this point, the tran may still modify parts of its body [in dire situations], but it will refuse to abandon its EIF [Empathetic Idealized Form].

Here in lies the problem with Number 1. A chameleon who refuses to blend in with the current environment, so to speak, renders the ability totally worthless… she still had special skills of course, like martial skills, and weapons expertise — but a tran will never assassinate a target to whom it has become biologically dependent…

Number 1 obediently remained seated in the chair, as she had been instructed. She wore a leather chest harness that had been secured around her lithe frame. He [her intended target], bent down and kissed her on the forehead — right before he activated count-down sequence for the bomb; the explosive device that she was tethered to.

“Regret is something you will never have to worry about, Number 1. Now. I want you to close your eyes and think of lovely things. Wait here, until I come back for you.”

That’s how he left her… and he didn’t look back, not even once.


To be continued…

** Heterochromia is a genetic mutation that is often visually stunning. Generally speaking, this cosmetic variation is harmless for most species… unless you were a Transcendent. For a tran, permanent discoloration of the eyes signified the genesis of chronic instability. 

A tran thrives in two forms:

Factory default, which is a modified version of the tran’s original form. In this state, a tran is able to “recharge” — whatever that process may entail.

It should be noted that no one, except for the scientist who developed the tran prototype, has seen a Transcendent’s original form. No, that’s not quite accurate. There have been a few curious lab assistants and insistent military officials.

The lucky ones perished quickly, but some still remain locked away in mental institutions — their minds degenerating slowly. Until the day they manage to peel off all of their skin with a sharpened toothbrush, or some other irrational act of self-inflicted-horror.

Transcendents are a mystery. Even to the government that funds the project. Are they animal, machine, or alien? Are they the product of science, science fiction, or Black Magic? For all we know, the anser is “Yes.”

The second form is know as the EIF [Empathetic Idealized Form]. Once in sync with a target’s subconscious desires, the tran may settle into this form. While it does drain part of the Transcendent’s energy source, to maintain this state of being, it causes no physical damage to the tran… in most instances.

In the case of Number 2, it has proven to be a death sentence. Two eyes of different color — in her case, one black and one blue — indicates that the tran is no longer capable of returning to factory default. Even a “junkie tran”, one who has become addicted to their EIF must revert occasionally, or it will die.

This means that Number 2, will eventually overburden her “battery”. This will cause a meltdown of sorts. The initial stages of a full system’s shutdown are apparent due to the sudden, violently erratic behavior that a tran will adopt.

Number 2 frowned as she tried to pull her hand loose. Her fist was trapped inside the chest cavity of a security detail soldier. He was still standing. The impact of her blow had been so fast and hard, that he was still alive — at least for the moment. Annoyed, she wedged her boot between them. Using his stomach as a focal point, she simultaneously extended her leg and retracted her arm. Unburdened by the deadweight, Number 2 shifted her attention to the remaining battalion. This one-sided slaughter had been stretched out over the last six hours.

The bodies were as numerous and scattered as Number 2’s own overclocked impulses and thoughts. She had another three hours to reach her target, before her body carried out its built-in self destruct sequence… it wasn’t enough time. She had failed her mission.

She had been marked for destruction from the first moment she had set eyes on her intended target. It had become unclear if she was doing all of this to kill him… or just kill for him. Perhaps she simply wanted to look him in the face, the one who had effortlessly condemned her. Maybe she wanted to thank him… but who could really say what was going on inside of the mind of a malfunctioning tran?

Trancendents are a mystery.

To be continued…

She enjoyed the sensation of the blanket against her naked body. She savored the feeling of the plush bed under her, and the warm body beside her. He stroked her cheek softly, and murmured beautiful words: love, dreams, and forever.

Between the soft words, he inserted hard truths: ill-fated, impossible, and never.

What he said was inconsequential… because the way he looked at her was the only part of the story that really mattered. It was enough for her.

Number 3 had never suspected that existence could be so… pleasant. Even more curious to her was the fact that it was due to something as simple as being held by the man that she was hopelessly in love with; target, lover, addiction.

** A Transcendent, when first “unboxed” has no conscious recollection of its past incarnations as previous models — but something, like residue, does seem to be left behind. The tran can occasionally tap into this residual data contained within its subconscious. But like all wisdom that is divulged from inspiration, the information is limited to hazy impressions and instinctual emotional responses.

There is no hard, scientific explanation for this phenomenon. It’s similar to elephant matrons [in times of drought], who have the uncanny ability to lead herds to watering holes that have been used by other elephants in the past — but that they, themselves, had never visited before.

It was clear to Number 3 that this particular feeling was unprecedented. Numbers 1 and 2 had had no knowledge of it. This was what the humans called, “happiness”.

Her lover kissed her softly. First on the mouth, then on each cheek, finally on her forehead. He took her chin, in the palm of his hand, and tilted her head to the side. He whispered her four secrets. One for each of the tran models — that he had encountered over the years:


“You are so lovely.
Prototype Nil… is alive.
You’re just her replica.
I’m sorry.”


He shot Number 3, in the head, at point blank range. He didn’t toy with her; she never suffered. Her existence was short, but sweet. The others probably would have called her lucky. To date, she is the only replicated tran [models 1-8] who has learned the meaning of the word “happiness”.

Questions still remained, as to whether or not the same was true for Prototype Nil.

To be continued…