A Faceless Visage

Everything was peppered with holes. The worn metal floor, the similarly scuffed walls with various brightly-lit geometric lines gracing their surfaces, the crates of precious cargo, the slipshod arrangement of used furniture— and the body. What was especially peculiar about this body was its striking lack of a face— the rest of its features suggested that it must be human, but this clear omission indicated otherwise. Instead, a smooth glass-like material formed into a simple, inoffensive curve, was the closest thing that one could call a face upon its featureless head. The body lay still, long enough for a curious cat to pass by and begin poking and prodding the thing out of pure curiosity, which— in a forgiving universe— would not have lead to the poor feline's nigh immediate expiration as a brilliant green flame engulfed the body, the couch it had been left on, and the curious cat.
The body would come to days later, at the bottom of a hole melted through his apartment floor. His first order of business, as anyone who has died and come back ought to do, was to scream in agony. Only, the scream formed at the back of his throat, rose towards his mouth, and stopped— as if it had hit a wall. His head bucked forward slightly with the sheer strength of the scream attempting to escape his lips— which were no longer there. He brought a hand up to where he thought his mouth should be— only to touch something cold and alien instead.
He attempted to scream again, clutching his face as he did so, clawing and tugging at it in the hope that it was just some sort of mask or sleep-deprived hallucination. The clawing did nothing, but his pulling gave him an incredibly uncomfortable sensation— causing him to let his hands fall to his sides. He wanted to shut his eyes— yet whatever had now taken the role of his face enabled him to see despite possessing no eyes with which to do so. It was a strange sensation, the inability to blink— and he could do nothing but stare ahead. A singular question burned in his mind— much like the strange fire that had so recently engulfled his unconcious form; what happened to me?
He thought back to his most recent suite of memories, certainly nothing he had eaten could have done this— though he stopped for a moment to ponder the questionable leftovers he'd had before the incident. No, definitely not. He had just returned from a harrowing salvage operation— he and his crew had found a factionless ship floating in the orbit of the little moon they called home. Whoever its previous owners were, they appeared to belong to a cult— one that worshipped the The Chariot's Alchemist. The Chariot was the name given to five mysterious wheels of flame, sentient beings, it seemed— and those responsible for mankind's near exitinction centuries prior. Given the power and mystery surrounding these beings, it was no wonder that some saw them as gods.
The ship's long-gone crew had had the courtesy to leave their belongings behind for just about any schmuck with a good set of hullcutters, crowbars, and a deathwish to plunder. Luckily for the faceless man, he knew three such schmucks besides himself. After a sprained ankle, a near-death experience or five, and a brief lunch break— the crew had managed to pull from the silent ship several items of value. Along the way, the faceless man had come across a mysterious, sparkling green ring— about the size of his fist. It is common knowledge among scrappers that mysterious sparkling objects are worth more than anything else one could hope to salvage. Naturally, he kept it for himself. The others hadn't seen him pocket the ring— or so he thought. His best guess as to its purpose was that, whatever the ring was, it had some significance to the mysterious cult that had previously occupied the ship, and if there were other followers besides these— they would likely pay a hefty sum for its return.
With great effort, he managed to stand up and look around the scorched room. The myriad holes which graced nearly every surface told him a gunfight had to have ocurred here. Did his comrades figure him out? Or were the fools simply after his share of the loot? Either way— they were gone now. The details were still fuzzy— clearly something happened here, but what, exactly— he could not recall. As he clambered back onto the charred floor, his elbow brushed against something peculiar— a hole in his chest about the width of a finger. Startled, he began to pat down the rest of his body to find several, similarly sized holes just about everywhere. His abdomen, his legs, arms— even his neck was punctured. Each felt oddly cold to the touch, and no moisture— namely, blood seemed to leak from these new orifices. Had he been shot? If so— how had he survived?
He thought for a moment that he might sit upon his couch to take this in— only to turn around and find it reduced to ash. He sighed, or at least made every motion associated with a sigh except for the crucial exhalation— and sat on the ash-pile anyway. It didn't help, but he tried to trick himself into thinking it did, regardless. He had to know what had happened— and the only leads he had, unfortunately, seemed to want him dead. Who else but his last crew would have it out for him? The odd thought struck him just then— that he couldn't recall his name. Despite this, he could remember exactly where and when he was born— on his mother's ship, the Yarnneedle, somewhere in Earth's orbit, twenty-three years ago. He could remember where he grew up— on this very moon, Luna, in a now demolished slum.
In fact, he could remember everything else one would expect to remember about themselves— save for the name that lived through these memories. Faceless and nameless, he thought, fitting. He had long hated his name— whatever it was— and his forgetting it was nothing other than his mind taking advantage of a bad situation. He shifted on the ashes, now this was something to look forward to— choosing his own name. If he could, he'd have smiled to himself then. And in the same fashion, if he could, he would have quickly replaced that smile with a look of absolute dread.
One of his fellow scrappers— a short, stocky woman by the name of Nix— had just then entered the building, gun in hand. It was an extravagant piece— a silver blaster with inlays of purple and gold which formed a word in a language she didn't know. She liked to think it meant something that struck fear into the hearts of her enemies, such as "killer," "see you Tuesday," or "last word." Unbeknownst to her, the words actually meant "I'm too full for dessert" in Korean. The faceless man, it seemed, was now in its sights— frozen and unsure what to do.
"Who the hell are you..." The woman stepped closer and made a menacing gesture with her gun "and where is Lace?!" Lace grimaced inwardly, that was the name he was hoping to forget. His first instinct was to respond verbally, the words formed in the back of his throat and floated towards his mouth, only to dissipate entirely on contact with the smooth surface that had replaced it. Nix took another step forward. "Five seconds." She snarled. Lace panicked and threw his arms into the air. How could he communicate? How did she expect him to without a mouth? Nix made a gesture with her free hand, one Lace had seen her do many times before, to calm her nerves. It was a note to herself— the word "calm" in universal sign language. Sign language— that was the answer. With oft busted communications, many scrappers learned universal sign language as a backup— as in the vacuum of space one cannot simply shout.
Lace was rusty, but was able to get his message across all the same. "I am him." He signed as best he could with his hands still above his head.
Nix squinted. "Sure, right. Tell me something only Lace would know so I can get a good laugh before I blast a hole through that tacky mask."
Lace had known Nix for about four years at that point— during which they had worked together on numerous salvage jobs, and narrowly cheated death on just as many occasions. On one such occasion, Nix had confided in Lace while the pair were desperately attempting to escape a collapsing wreck— telling him about her feelings for another local scrapper, a mutual acquaintence by the name of Yulile. This was something Nix made every effort to keep secret under normal circumstances, to the point of making up excuses to avoid working with Yulile entirely. This was all too often thwarted by Lace's less-than-subtle efforts to get the two women together, however. He was confident that this would be proof enough.
"You love Yulile." Signed Lace, "You told me when we nearly died..."
Nix's brow furrowed for a moment, before relaxing a brief moment— replaced shortly by a deeper furrow. Her gun lowered, but only slightly— now aimed squarely at Lace's feet. "It is you...? Lace?" She took a hesitant step forward, before quickly approaching and punching him squarely in the center of what used to be his face. "God!" She stepped back and nursed her hand. Surprisingly, Lace felt nothing from the impact. "Is that thing steel?!" Nix paced quickly in a tight circle, as if to rid herself of the pain with centrifugal force alone. "The hell's with the mask, man?! I thought they'd shot you to pieces!" She stopped circling, and nodded at one of the various holes that now graced Lace's body. "Well...it sure seems like they did?"
Lace lifted an arm to inspect a hole in its center, gingerly poking it with his free hand. He lowered them and signed back to Nix. "I don't know...I don't know! It's not a mask...it's...my face. Or lack of one— I don't..." He held his head in his hands.
Nix looked over her shoulder, towards the charred door. "I was expecting a body, Lace— they told me you were..." She paused for a moment, and turned back towards Lace. "I don't know what in god's name is going on here but we need to get out, fast." She approached the broken man and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "Can you stand?"
Lace nodded, and slowly stood, brushing the ashes off of himself as he did so.
Nix stepped back, and began sifting through the ashes for something Lace could use to cover himself. "My only guess is it was those two idiots from the last job."
Lace looked at her, tilting his head in confusion.
"Who shot you, idiot. They get you in the head, too?" She inspected a charred metal plate. "I told you we couldn't trust 'em— they had that look in their eyes. The kind fools get when they start seeing everything as a check— even their companions." The plate made a loud, grating clang as it was kicked across the floor.
Lace began sifting through another pile. He'd only now regretted his choice of wooden furniture— but it was just so much cheaper. No low-level scrapper could remove faces though. He thought.
As if in response, Nix continued. "The two have got to be separate— the idiots shot you for your cut of the job, and someone else took your face." She held up what remained of a tablecloth. "Unless those two were secretly testing secret military tech in the most convoluted way possible."
Lace flinced as the charred cloth hit his side.
"It's all you've got, a hole was burnt through the middle— could pass as a trendy poncho."
Lace inspected the cloth for a moment. Once, it had been adorned with a lovely pattern depicting an ocean in various shades of blue and turquoise— now it was greyed and blackened, as if an oil spill had devastated the waters. He deflated, surely he would be mistaken for some sort of drunkard, if seen wearing a tablecloth. As if he'd woken up that day not knowing what had transpired the night before, and, having found himself without suitable clothing— made do with the nearest thing. The thought occurred to him that this assumption would not be entirely untrue, but this made him loathe the idea even more. He reluctantly donned the cloth as one would a poncho, and, feeling somewhat glad no one could see his face now— signaled to Nix that he was ready to leave.
"We're going to figure out what happened, Lace, I promise." Nix gave Lace a weak smile, before turning towards the door. With that, the pair left the building, as a faint light bloomed from a nearby rooftop.
"She left— but there's someone else with her." A figure leaned in to inspect the stranger's face— only to find that there was none. They chewed idly on a fingernail as they thought, before speaking once more to some distant comrade. "I don't know who, they've got a mask." They pulled themselves away from the edge of the roof as Nix glanced in their direction.
If she had noticed the figure— she made no sign of it.
"Yeah." They said, peeking over the edge for a brief moment. "I'll keep an eye on them."
To be continued...