Merged with machine, I became capable of thought. Not the mental jumbling of words and ideas that you humans mistake for thought, but true thought. My mind, one with a supercomputer, can conceive of abstract thought so confusing that my creators don’t even understand it. Using any one of my senses alone, I could track down and eliminate an entire team of enemy insurgents spread throughout a city setting, and could remain undetected throughout. I am a weapon.

The creators installed a shutdown mechanism on the mechanical part of my brain. Their theory was that, when inactive, they could shut down the weapon part of me and, I would for the time being, exist again as an ordinary Honey Badger. What they failed to understand was that the machines in me made me what I am, they shaped and molded my mind and are a part of me. They can turn off my ‘bells and whistles’ but cannot turn off my mind.

Comfortable in a beanbag chair, I lay in the back of a classic green VW Bus in transit. With Operation Geronimo a complete success, and the public distracted by the fabricated tale; I was deemed the perfect weapon. I was being moved to a holding cell on the island of Kahului, Hawaii. This I know by the unmistakable scent of ginger, sugar cane, bananas, and hibiscus flowers. The sound of gravel churning under the tires along with the distant sound of the waves crashing a mile and a half away reveals that the only road I could possibly be on is the road to Hana.

The driver’s finger began to tap impatiently on the steering wheel. He wants a cigarette. He was instructed not to smoke in the vehicle, as exposure to various chemicals in cigarettes may agitate ‘the weapon.’ As if!

If I could smile, I would. Little does the driver know, there’s been a Russian spy following us for four and a half hours. She never gets closer than three miles, leading her to believe that she has remained undetected. I could probably warn the driver some how, but I couldn’t care less what happens to him, or even me for that matter.

We pull off the road, and the driver pulls out a fresh pack of Pall Malls. He peels the cellophane off, letting it drop to the floor of the bus. He glances at me in the mirror then gets out. I hear him slapping the pack against the palm of his hand, then the flick of a lighter as he lights his cigarette and starts walking around randomly. I listen up the road. I hear her car coming: A Suburban, by the sound of it. In her back seat, I hear the jangling of metal, along with the rubbing of plastic on leather. The metal clangs are quick, as if only wiggling a fraction of an inch. I deduce that she has a large animal crate in the back of her car. It’s empty.

I hear the driver exhale, and smell the smoke of his cigarette. He is about fifty paces from his car. I focus my nose on the bus I’m in. The smell of lead and gunmetal drifts up my nostrils. He left his gun in the glove box. I push the beanbag chair to the back of the bus and climb onto it for a better view out the window.

Her car stops twelve feet behind the bus, and the woman gets out. She’s in her mid twenties. Her heartbeat is calm and steady. She’s wearing yoga pants and a bikini top. I have to admit, that’s a pretty good guise. I hear the click of a handgun as she cocks it, and adjusts it in the back of her pants. She then stands of her tip toes and waves innocently to the driver. I sigh. He never really had a chance.
He walks back, blushing. His heart rate elevated. “Hi ma’am, do you need any-” She acts without hesitating. She flashes a disarming smile, followed by a bullet through the head. Her hand is already opening the bus door as I hear the hollow thump of his body hitting the ground.
I think I’ll make her carry me.


 - Ian

And here's the sequel. i wrote these for my Composition 2 class a while back.


Starved of love, I am cold. How could I care, when no one had ever cared for me? Riding in the back of the black Suburban, locked in a small animal crate, I found shame. This is not who I am, just some sort of weapon to be lugged around from one location to the other. I am a Honey Badger. I am an animal. I tear through the plastic roof of the animal crate above my head. I am an infant bird, breaking out of its egg. Reborn, a new life awaits me.

The driver yells out in alarm and slams on the breaks. The crate flies forward and shakes around the front of the vehicle with the driver. I cling to the fabric interior of the car’s roof and, with my teeth, rip a hole big enough for me to escape. I stick my head through and take in the scene. The road twists along the edge of a cliff. At the bottom I hear the surf churning with the rocks. On the other side of the road, a plain forest. I’m finally free.

As I am almost through the hole, I feel a hand grip my tail. Big mistake. I jerk her backwards with enough force to throw her into the back seat. As I leap, the car veers out of control to the left. I land; my feet gripping the gravel, and turn in time to see the car go over the cliff. Can badgers shrug?
I turn to the forest and breathe in deep. My brain works quickly to make sense of the information my nose has collected. There’s a mongoose digging a den about fifty yards south of where I presently stand, a few bats in that tree over there. There’s a deer drinking from a pond just beyond that group of trees, and a couple rabbits, and a wallaby! I think I’m going to like this place.

 - Ian