Cynetic Wolf

There were a slew of simulcast murders after that. Despite curfews, battles raged into the night, roaming gangs seeking outlets for decades of hatred and resentment.

Tension—brewing on all sides—continued to boil over.

By the end of day two, the death toll surpassed eight million, another twenty-to-fifty million suffering mild to severe injuries. And that didn’t include Neurowebbers.

Most cities lost power for a while, and many VR inhabitants died instantly, feeble medkit-sustained bodies not designed for extended power loss. A hundred fifty million more lives extinguished overnight.

It was sickening. What had we done? What had I done? How’d I let this happen?

I couldn’t sleep that night, the next either. Widespread violence haunted my dreams. Reports of cities burning, full-scale bombings, at least a dozen high profile assassinations. This had to stop or we’d tear ourselves apart and enter a new dark age; that’s what history suggested.

The one bright spot—if you could call it a bright spot—was we were winning, at least by the numbers. The majority of casualties were enhancers and cynetics. There’d been a lot of emulates killed the first day too, but their numbers were small and their importance so diminished, mobs lost interest. This was about power now, revenge and power.

Simulations showed we’d control the government in three-to-five days with a lion’s share majority: sixty-four percent. It would continue to rise. So why did I feel empty inside? We’d been fighting for this—dreamed of this—for decades… freedom, liberation. Why’d it feel so wrong?

And why couldn’t I sleep?

I should meditate. I needed clarity, needed direction. Clearing my head might help.

Sitting against the wall, I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing. My thoughts swarmed, a tsunami of doubts and fears and whatifs threatening to capsize me. I resisted. It died down, became a stream, a trickle, and dried to nothingness. Images of pain and violence appeared. Eventually, they stopped bothering me.

Once my mind was clear, I opened my eyes to a renewed sense of calm and purpose. I knew what to do. The question was, could I pull it off?

It was 2:21 in the morning. No one was up, but this couldn’t wait, so, I rehearsed what I had to say. Once I felt ready as ever, I turned to the camera. Was I making a big mistake? Was I about to do this?

“Hello everyone, my name’s Raek Mekorian. The last few days I’ve been called everything from a hero to a villain, terrorist, messiah... Whatever your thoughts, I’m here to apologize for the war and suffering that’s befallen our civilization. And I say civilization, because we’re all one people—one humanity—united in our collective history.

“Our world’s collapsing before our eyes. Wholesale destruction on an unprecedented scale… and at our own hands. I propose a truce, a meeting of the minds of all subspecies—animote and cynetic, enhancer and emulate—to decide our future. We can’t go on like this,” I continued, citing stats and forecasts of how bad things could get.

This had to work. It had to.

“Clearer heads must prevail. How many more brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, friends and loved ones, must we sacrifice to this mindless struggle? We’re all human, we’re all equal. We are one!”

It felt right. I hit publish.