Subtraction

Zero

When it comes to sculpting, some use clay, while others prefer stone. I swear by flesh.

Not that disgusting muck covering the bodies of the Three-Digits, mind you. I whimper at the thought of plunging my claws in their vile ooze. I leave that line of work to the second-class artists.

Some have asked me “What about the One-Digits?" Foolish! Perfection suffers from a major flaw: the lack of room for improvement. Laying my tools against masterpieces such as my dear friend Five, or my skilled disciple Seven? Unthinkable! A chef doesn't add ingredients to a meal while it is being eaten.

Now, the Two-Digits; their flesh was made for sculpting. They lack the One-Digits' fur and the Three-Digits' filthy sludge. Only smooth skin covers their limbs, awaiting the kiss of my instruments. 

Oh, my dear Fifty-Two, you truly are material of the finest quality. I watch you every single day, while you run back and forth with your muscular legs. Your long ebony hair, your jewel-like eyes, your toned physique — everything about you begs to receive the touch of an expert such as I.

You will be my proudest work to date.

Fifty-Two

We could either live in a radioactive complex ruled by intelligent hound monsters, or let the blizzard raging outside turn us into icicles. An easy choice to make.

Our job seemed simple enough: pick things up, move them around, put them back down. Repeat for eight hours a day. Easy to accept, until we discovered that the “things" were containers filled with deadly toxin.

We'd walk up to the main reactor, pour three hundred casks of water in, and wait. At the siren, we'd each place our buckets under the valves and spin the dials towards the open position. Once the final drop of fluid hit our canisters, there was only one thing left to do.

Run.

If you moved fast enough to drop your load in the furnace at the other end of the room, you earned the right to live for three more minutes. Four the Brute, our supervisor, rewarded the employee who made it first with exemption from the next production cycle.

For the stragglers, Four provided ample motivation. When your supervisor is also a one hundred and fifty kilograms mutated hyena with knives for teeth, exhaustion doesn't come easily. She hadn't earned her title by advocating for safer working conditions. 

For a long time, Ninety-Seven dominated the racing track. He'd arrive at the destination dozens of seconds before everyone else. The burly man would sit on the furnace, and laugh at our panting while we struggled to discharge the liquid inside the depository funnel. Every Two-Digit hated him.

One day, he tripped on a knob of metal welded on the floor of his assigned lane. The solution he was carrying spilled all over his fallen body. His flesh twisted, and his skin swelled up like an inflatable pool toy. He screamed for assistance. Nobody came to his aid. The sound of a popping balloon echoed on the black steel walls while we poured our buckets into the furnace.

That day, many Two-Digits showed wide smiles on their faces, and Four laughed slightly more hysterically than usual as she chased the runners. Besides the Three-Digits, who had to clean the mess up, everyone was happy with the situation.

Zero

I will call you “Nine", as the final One-Digit.

You will not be the first to exit the factory, but you will be the first to live through it. The blizzard will batter against your fur, but you will not shiver.

You will step out into the wilderness. My tail will wag back and forth, with an intensity no One-Digit has ever felt. My child, sent into the unknown — what will they bring back? A new toy to play with? A friend to show my work to? I resist the temptation to howl from excitement.

I've chosen my material, and completed my blueprints. Now, all I need is an instrument worthy of this undertaking.

Five, let's see what you have prepared for me.

Five

What? You don't know how Warpfluid works? Pay attention, because I won't repeat myself. 

Imagine a parasite who sucks up your body heat, and turns it into deadly radioactive energy.

Got a good picture in your head? Good. Now, imagine it's also microscopic, and that there are millions of them crawling on your skin.

That's Warpfluid in a nutshell. A single drop of it contains a million of those single-celled creatures, ready to wreak havoc to any organic creature they encounter. If you fail to follow the safety protocol, your skin could turn upside down, purple, magnetic and have it explode when you touch it. It's an impressive, but unpredictable solution.

If you hook up a pump nozzle to a cylindrical lead casing, and have Warpfluid circulating inside, you can make an amusing, but ineffective mace weapon. Some of the radiation seeps through the metal, granting a mild burning effect on every strike. Four tried it on her workers for a while, until she got bored and returned to using her claws and teeth again.

Things get much more interesting if you install a microchip inside the pumping system. By adjusting the spray of the liquid, you can regulate the intensity and direction of the radioactive rays. Controlled mutation, if you will. With a dial on the handle, you can choose between hits that make the target glow, shrink, or disintegrate, if you're in a hurry.

Now, replace the manual controls with a neural uplink connected to Zero's recklessly creative, or dangerously insane mind, depending on whom you ask. Heat up the lead casing, and push a pair of pliers against the surface to forge a sharp edge, for increased precision.

That is how I created the ultimate paintbrush; a blade with the ability to reshape flesh according to the bearer's will.

I named this instrument “Fleshchisel".

Fifty-Two

Four's jaw snaps behind my back, narrowly missing my left heel. I pant. The liquid in my bucket begins bubbling. Three more seconds, and I'll be either the Brute's dinner, or a puddle of blood on the floor. I'm not sure which one I'd prefer.

I splash the solution down the delivery hatch. Close call. I don't mind it much. After a few runs, you learn to see death not as a threat, but rather as a companion.

I turn around to return to the reactor, and bump headfirst against a wide toothy grin.

“Zero wants to see you, hehehe," Four snickers.

I recoil in surprise. The hyena lifts her fingers up to her goggles, and raises the lenses. Two white eyes without pupils appear. Red tendrils pulsate every second across their surface.

“Zero… did this to me. He is… not nice. Not as nice as me. Be careful, hehe," she warns.

Four extends her arm, and opens her paw, inviting me to grab it. I place my hand inside, apprehensive to meet the One-Digit who created my supervisor. The tip of my fingers don't even reach the edges of her central paw pad. She turns her head, and addresses the other Two-Digits.

“You can have… a break. Because I'm nice. I'll be back soon. Be nice, hehe," she instructs.

The Brute tugs at my arm, nearly dislocating my bones. I sprint to keep her pace, while the Two-Digits stare at me. The slam of a steel door seals them away from view.

I dash across a maze of dark tunnels, dimly lit by glass lanterns chained to the ceiling. Inside, vials of glowing green ooze replace the candles. A strand of fur, dyed red, flows on Four's back. Its faint glow helps me follow the beast across the hallways. The Brute reaches a dead end, and stops sprinting. The hyena turns her muzzle towards me, drooling on the black steel floor.

“He's waiting for you. You're on your own now. Don't let him break you too much. I still need your help, hehehe." She vanishes in the darkness, her mad laughs echoing on the metal walls.

Silence. I shiver, and cross my arms on my torso. The blizzard rages behind the walls. I consider pulling a lantern against my skin for warmth. The thought immediately recedes when I remember the tumors on Thirty-Six's skin. Never touch One-Digit technology without permission.

I could turn back, and tell Four that Zero had the wrong number. She'd believe me. I'd return to the racing track, and spend the next month carrying toxic fluids until I'd collapse from exhaustion, poisoning, bleeding from hyena bites, or a combination of the three.

A section of the wall opens, snapping me out of my thoughts. A secret passage — Two-Digit rumors did say Zero has a passion for dramatic entrances. I step inside, my frown hardened with pretend bravery, while my heartbeat accelerates.

Ten granite sculptures of One-Digits form a circle around the center of the room. I recognize Four as one of them, locked in a burst of hysteric laughter. A maze of tubes and pipes slither across the walls, controlled by gauges and valves. A quarterstaff of black steel stands upright, locked in a hollow pedestal. I wrap my hand around it, and tug. The mechanisms around Zero's chamber release puffs of steam, and hiss. I free the weapon from its plinth, and struggle to hold it above the ground. My arms tremble as I present the heavy pole to an invisible enemy.

A shattering sound makes my muscles twitch. I turn around, and find that one of the statues has been replaced with a living, ferocious-looking One-Digit canine. Shards of stone litter the ground. I spring back, startled.

His fur is even darker than the metal on which we stand. Two glowing green eyes leave a trail of light as the beast moves its head. Four knife-claws jut out of his two frontal paws, ready to slice me open in a single sweep. Between two triangular ears, a tuft of fur, dyed green, gives the creature a frivolous appearance. The One-Digit opens his muzzle, and sticks out the tip of his pink tongue. A swish of his black furry tail confirms his amusement.

“I don't know what the opposite of a shaving is, but you're about to receive it," he says.

Zero

Stunning! Gorgeous! It's an artist's dream come true! Oh, Fifty-Two, you are the best thing that could have ever happened to my workshop. Once I'm done with you, I have no idea how I'll manage to find enjoyment in working with… lesser subjects.

“I couldn't care less about your pathetic taunts. If you want to maul me, get it over with," she snaps back.

Such arrogance! Such personality!

“Mauling? How barbaric! You stand here before the finest artist of the Permafrost. The only thing that's about to be destroyed here is my critics' expectations," I answer.

“I've dealt with a psychopathic hyena. I guess a wolf with a superiority complex is an improvement."

Fifty-Two raises her staff, and performs a full spin. She winces in effort. Perhaps I should have chosen something lighter for her. Not a problem. Strength of my subjects tends to increase as my work progresses.

“Eager to get started, are we?" I tell my opponent.  “I share your excitement. Combat is essential to stimulate my creativity. Call it canine instinct. Since we're civilized folk, we'll favor blades and staves over teeth and claws."

I answer her battle invitation by drawing a black steel sword hidden within my fur. I connect its handle to a neon green tube, and then to a tank strapped behind my back. I lift Fleshchisel to my head, lower it to my torso, and sweep it across the air to finish my salute.

“My name is Zero. It's short for 'Zero Room for Error'. Now, en garde!"

Fifty-Two

The wolf lifts his blade, and jumps down from the pedestal. He thrusts the sword towards my left shoulder. I brandish my steel staff to parry his attack. Zero swings his weapon around the rod in a downwards arc, and stabs my right arm instead.

The metal cuts through my skin. My muscles twitch. I wince in horror. No pain.

What?

My opponent retracts the blade from my flesh, and gives me a bestial smirk. A tingling sensation spreads across the cut. The blood turns from crimson to silver, and rises out of the injury. The red liquid solidifies into a forest of strands of hair. White fur covers my skin around the wound. Six black pads form on my fuzzy fingers, and five black claws replace my nails. Zero yaps with joy.

“Your body is a puppet, Fourty-Five. I pull its strings, and it obeys," he says.

I caress my furry arm, dumbfounded.

“That's not my name," I answer. “I am Fifty-Two."

“You were Fifty-Two," the canine corrects. “Each strike performs a subtraction. Once you reach One-Digit range, my work will be finished, and you will have been made perfect."

Zero bends his legs, and extends them in a burst of speed. The steel floor resounds as his claws collide with the metal. His body shoots upwards in an elegant leap. The wolf wraps his left paw around a pipe on the wall. I lift my staff above my head, and brace myself to block his dive.

My opponent pushes against the tube, and plunges. Two sharp claws on his feet wrap around my weapon, narrowly missing my eyes. His weight presses against my muscles as he tries to jump again, this time using my staff as propulsion. The force slams me downwards, knocking me prone. Zero returns airborne, and readies his sword for another cut. In one motion, the blade slashes my back from head to hip. The canine lands a Two-Digit thumb's length next to my fallen body.

More white fur sprouts from the incision. On my rear, something squirms below my skin, yearning to be free. A force rips the base of my spine, and a fluffy white tail explodes in a burst of hair. I wave it left and right, sending a gust of air to brush against my cheek.

“Three-Digits were designed with strength and endurance in mind, and Two-Digits with intelligence," Zero explains. “No wonder you'd be no match for the perfect combination of the three. In your previous form, that is. Now, our duel truly begins, Thirty-One." 

I swing my tail, and push against the ground with my palms at the same time. The combined effort brings me back on my feet instantly, staff in hand. My weapon feels a lot lighter. My right arm stops trembling from exhaustion. Using one hand, I spin the rod above my head, bring it to my side, and stop its twirling in front of my torso. With the other, I challenge Zero to strike me again with a flick of my fingers.

The wolf reveals two rows of pointy teeth, curved in a predatory smile. Zero swaps his weapon between his two palms, throwing the handle back and forth. His sword finally stops in his right paw, and he lunges to reach at my left hand. I shove my rod against the blade, deflecting the attack. The clash of steel chimes. The canine's pupils dilate in surprise. I rotate my staff, using his extended arm as an axis, and smack the side of his head. Zero yelps.

“How… dare you? Prey struggles. It's not supposed to fight back. Who do you think you are?" he growls.

“I have known a time where beasts like you crawled on four legs. An age where we beat disobedient dogs with big wooden sticks. I won't dishonor tradition just because you have a few extra brain cells," I snap back.

The wolf twitches, and disengages from my strike range. Zero brings the sword to his maw, and bites into the handle. The steel floor vibrates as his frontal paws hit the ground.

Zero

“A return to tradition? I can get behind this," I answer.

I scratch the metal with a claw. A tension accumulates in my muscles. I rush towards my opponent at breakneck speed. My spine aches, unfamiliar with four-legged sprinting. I wait until my vertebrae get on the verge of snapping, and leap at Thirty-One's ankles.

She jumps, but not high enough. There's only so much a pair of weak Two-Digit legs can do.

Fleshchisel draws a deep cut across her shins. The impact propels her into the air. Her body flips. Sparks fly as my claws scrape the steel, reducing my momentum. I return to a bipedal stance.

Eighteen's calves bend backwards. A coat of white fuzz seals the wound, and stretches across her skin. The fur crawls up to her thighs and feet, turning the latter into paws fit for snow walking. The Two-Digit pushes her staff against the ground, twirls her tail, and stands back up. Unaccustomed to her new anatomy, she staggers. My ears perk up at the grinding of her claws against the floor. How wonderful to see a soon-to-be One-Digit take its first steps!

I've nearly filled in my canvas. Only three blank corners remain: a torso, an arm, and a head.

“Our performance draws to its closure, dear Eighteen," I inform her. “Try to be graceful as you —"

“My name is not Eighteen, or Fifty-Two, or any other number for that matter!" she interrupts. 

The Two-Digit begins sprinting, her staff wielded like a lance. She pushes it into the ground, wraps a hand and a paw around the rod, and vaults alongside the top of the pole. She soars through the air, lifting the weapon above her head.

“I am Elisa!" she screams.

The staff slams down onto Fleshchisel before I have a chance to react. I contract my fingers around the handle to resist her disarming attempt. I manage to hold on, but the blade does not.

The lead casing ruptures. Warpfluid gushes out of the broken sword. The tank on my back feels lighter with every passing second.

I cannot live with unfinished work. I must act immediately.

Zero Room for Error.

Elisa

The wolf grabs his broken weapon and aims it towards his open maw. A spurt of toxin flows towards his throat.

I hurl my staff towards the airborne liquid, and smash my weapon into the green solution. The fluid explodes in a burst of droplets before reaching his mouth. Rain pours onto Zero's hairy body. Each impact burns away his black fur, leaving behind specks of silky brown skin. The canine falls to his knees, and places his muzzle between his paws, sobbing.

“Please let me die. I refuse to exist alongside ruined artwork," he pleads.

“We can use the remaining fluid to reverse the damage you've done, or to kill you. However, I have a much better idea," I answer.

I pull my weapon back, tense my muscles, and crash my rod onto Zero's fuel tank. The metal fissures, and unloads its content onto the wolf's back. The liquid flows down his spine, dissolving the fur along its path. The stream hits his tail, which shrivels and finally disappears. I brush my staff against his dark, smooth skin.

“You want to torture me with shame. Why are you so cruel? I only wanted to make you beautiful. You are a monster," he weeps.

“I don't want to hurt you. I want to teach you something," I counter.

Zero stops crying, lifts his head, and stares into my eyes. His ears perk up to listen.

“In your eyes, Two-Digits reek of weakness. You wish to give them the strength of a bear, the reflexes of a fly, and the agility of a squirrel. You consider yourself an artist," I explain.

The canine nods in approval.

“Our weakness is what makes us beautiful. If nature had blessed us with claws, sharp teeth, and superior hearing, you would not exist," I continue. 'My people took inspiration from their flaws. They created spears, bows, catapults, fission reactors, and finally, you."

“I… I am artwork?" Zero stutters.

“Yes. You are a fusion of sapience and savagery; two forces which should have never been combined. One-Digit kind may have enslaved us through strength, but deep inside, the human spirit lives on. That spirit, right now, tells me to spare you instead of bashing your head in with this stick. Gratitude would be appropriate."

“I live to create. I worship excellence. Your actions have caused me to fail. Why should I be thankful? Please end me. Right now. All it takes is a good swing."

“No. You're wrong. Excellence isn't a constant value. It's the sum of all the work you have done. In your life, you finished eight sculptures. The Two-Digits of old made dozens. Not all were perfect, but the best of them were engraved in history, never to be forgotten. I find your craft disgusting, but see your fear of failure as something very human. Beneath that fur, that's what you are — a human. Why hide your true nature? Are you scared?"

“I have always had trouble accepting critiques. You've given me much to think about. Please leave me be. Exit this room."

I respect his wish, and step away from his curled up body. I pass through the doorstep. The false wall clicks behind me.

I shrug.

Back to work, I guess. 

These new legs might get me a few exemptions from the production cycles. That's nice.

Thank you, Zero.