#what might pump man's chassis look like

[willows-arts]

one of these days i'm going to make a full diagram for how i break down the underarmor body of robot masters

[spectralquartzafterdark]

Three way between Rosie , Bee and Jules?? Maybe human or bot Jules 👀👀👀 or even better Starscream getting his three way 🥹

I can do some Jeweltone and Rosie Content! Have Fun. TW: Light Bondage, Knotting, Breeding Kink, Petplay, Over Stimulation. and there's a mirror involved.

“Man, frag your parents. I don’t know why they give you such a hard time.��� Jeweltone spoke through the radio as they pulled into the garage.

“Because, I’m not falling for their manipulation. That’s why. I should be able to say I’m taken without question.” Rosie groaned as she rested her head on the steering wheel, “Fuck the holidays.”

Rosie looked at the time and sighed as she stepped out of the purple ‘69 mustang. She adjusted her dress and sighed as her mech companion transformed. She heard Jeweltone get situated on the garage floor and turned to them. It was clear the visit to her parents caused her more distress than she let on.

“Come here. I don’t think they’re worth the Energon anymore. We don’t have to visit unless it’s life or death okay?” They said as their optics looked at their human companion, “And I encourage you to say no from here on out.”

“Yea…” she said as she walked over to Jeweltone who scooped her up into their servos, “Just it’s hard. Living out here family is all you have. Blood or chosen and I don’t have much of either…”

“Trust me, I know all about that. Giant Robot.” they chuckled as they pulled her against their chassis, “But, your boundaries and mental health mean more than anything okay?”

Rosie nodded in defeat and just sighed as she let Jeweltone keep her close for the moment. She could feel her phone buzz in the pocket of her dress, but she didn’t care. She was done with today, in fact she quit. Whatever happened would happen and she wasn’t emotionally attached to the outcome.

Jeweltone’s fuel pump was pounding, they knew what they wanted to ask… but knew that this moment might not be the right time. All they wanted to do was spoil her. They reminisced about what their plans were going to be when they had returned home. A buzz vibrated in their circuits for a moment. That wasn’t important, right now just being here was. That didn’t stop the inevitable loop their circuits was trying to throw them into. Rosie’s body being so close, so warm, so soft had only made matters worse. When she pressed back into them their engine revved.

“Oh, my Primus I’m so sorry.” they exclaimed, “I didn’t scare you did I?”

Rosie just stared at them for a moment before she laughed, “No, I’m fine. But, what has you so worked up?”

“I was… uh…” Their optics looked to the side in embarrassment as they clenched their dentae, “Thinking about what our plans had been if things went well.”

“What made you think those were canceled?” She quirked a brow shifting to face them, “Hm?”

“Ah… well…” She was so close, and their bipedal cord felt hot, “The stress of that interaction would’ve turned me off from any premade plans.”

Jeweltone watched as Rosie rubbed her head for a moment. Had they said something wrong? They felt her shift out of their grasp and watched intently. She made sure the garage doors were locked. Windows closed and blocked out. Her steps were quick – what on earth was she planning to do? Then they watched as she pulled out a small tool kit. It seemed run down and had some stickers on it. Their optics scanned it and it was then everything clicked into place.

“Unless I directly say it’s off the table… assume the plans are still valid Jeweltone.” she smiled, “And after that fiasco. Honestly, I think I want the attention. We could go as far as you’d like tonight too. With your real body, not that Holoform. It’s not as… mmm.”

“Satisfying, heh. I agree. But, are you sure?” They asked.

“Yes, just I think I need the mental reset. I’m not feeling great about myself right now.” she admitted.

“I can fix that.” they scooped her up again and kissed her gently, “And I may not need to mass shift my entire body~” they felt her body shudder, of course she’d have a size kink.

Jeweltone shifted in the berth if one could call it that. Both parties had fooled around before, but it hadn’t quite gotten past digit and glossa play. Jeweltone had been too worried about hurting their partner. And the holoform was a mess. They couldn’t hold concentration during interfacing. This would be their first time beyond foreplay. But, they had something special in mind. If her self esteem was that low they knew a way to break it and fast. Just thinking about it made their spike strain against their panels.

Jeweltone was slow to work her up. Idly kissing her and letting their large servos roam that soft body of hers. Their favorite part had to be those ungodly soft inner thighs. One day they’d ask to just use them, but, for now they had other plans. They could hear her soft moans. They ran two of their digits between her legs and felt how soaked her panties already were. When she said she wanted attention she wasn’t joking clearly.

“How much do you want this?” they asked.

“You have no idea. Thinking about this is probably why I stayed sane.” she moaned softly as she rutted against their digits.

“Good, just… let me take care of you okay? You do enough for me. And I’m not having another incident.” Jeweltone purred, “Now, go ahead and take off your clothes.”

They set her down and went to the wall across from them and pulled out a mirror that Rosie hadn’t quite yet put up. They were going to make her see how beautiful she was. They grabbed the small tool box and went back to the berth. The garage was small, but thankfully it was going to work in their favor.

“Jeweltone, what’s the mirror for?” Rosie asked cautiously.

“You’ll see.” They said carefully holding her hands and doing a small twirl, had she really been wearing that lingerie set all day? “So, that’s why your routine took 3 hours today.”

“Mmmm not like you complain.” she teased.

“Never. Pull out what you need from the kit. We’ll set it on the shelf. It’ll be easier to grab.” They said.

Rosie nodded knowing that meant Jeweltone was serious about this particular session. Jeweltone watched her trying to have the courage to let their spike out from behind their panels. When they noticed her fiddling with something any bashfulness went away. Their panel retracted in full, they knew what she was up to. They admired all her soft curves and how the lace and bands moved across her frame. It was unfair really, how they couldn’t just bury themself in between all of those soft crevices. Though they were broken out of their thoughts as their eyes wandered up and noted that she had gone a little above and beyond of what they expected. Nipple chain perfect for tugging and a little collar? That was cute.

“Perfect.” was all they said before they scooped her up into their servos again.

Positioning was the issue now. Figuring out how to hold her in such a way that her body was completely visible in the mirror. Eventually they found the perfect spot. Immediately, they felt her fuel pump start pounding. They chuckled and pressed a kiss to her face panel.

“You’ve bamboozled yourself going beyond what I expect.” they tease, “Look at you~”

“L-listen I…” she yelped as they were shifted once more.

“Oh, this is going to be fun sweetspark. And now I don’t have to be human sized to play with these.” they tugged at the chain, “Frag, imagine is one was hooked to your Spike Node.”

“F-frag.” she moaned, “D-don’t tease too much.”

“I won’t.” they tugged again and groaned at the sight, “Now, I want you to watch yourself. Understood?”

“Yes.” she said, she knew what they were up to, but knew arguing wouldn’t do a bit of good in this situation.

“Good, I will make sure you physically see how beautiful you are and how you make me feel.” they managed to win the fight against a tiny tube and applied some sensitizer to her node.

It was perhaps a bit too much, but they would use it to their advantaged as they slowly rubbed it in and around her valve. They watched in the mirror as her node finally came to attention, she really was shy tonight. Usually, it didn’t take this long.

“Look at that. Your valve’s already dripping for me and your spike node is at full attention just from applying that sensitizer.” they boasted as their servos spread her just slightly to show off the lubricant, “Mmm, but truthfully I was straining against my panel for you a few hours ago. Watching you set a boundary and protect it mmm… this? Is only a bonus~”

They took her node between their fingers and squeezed. A small yelp of pleasure escaped her chest as Jeweltone began to stroke it up and down. At one point she tried to look away, but they were able to keep her focus on the mirror. They moved their digits over her frame complimenting each soft part of her. Each scar. Each section of stretch marks. All while playing with her node. They could feel it twitching between their fingers and quickly pulled away.

They couldn’t let her overload just yet. They turned her head and kissed her for a moment of reprieve. Only to move to tug on that chain again with their free servo. They nipped at her and she did the same in turn. It was clumsy and sweet, but they could feel her body melting into their touch. Jeweltone pulled away and moved her face to look at the mirror again.

“Now, whose the most beautiful human I know?” they asked.

“Me.” she managed to breath.

“Good, and who do I love?” They asked again.

“Me.” she chuckled and smiled.

“Good, don’t forget that ever. My conjunx. Mine.” they kissed her face again digits looming over her dripping valve before one dipped into her.

It was a tight fit at first. It seemed she had tensed up, but Jeweltone took that as a hint they should have warned her. As their digit moved in and out of her it didn’t take long for the other to slip in naturally. They smirked at their work admiring the scene in-front of them. The mirror was a good idea. They’d have to do this more often. Though admittedly their Spike was starting to ache and getting harder to ignore.

“Frag, please… I need your Spike.” she whined.

“Just a little more. I want to make sure you can take it without a problem.” they assured her.

“A-alright. Just, fuck I want to be full of you already.” she sighed softly another moan escaped her as Jeweltone played with the chain.

“I know. And I’m going to make sure you’re so stuffed that you’ll be worried about being pregnant.” they teased.

“Mmm sure about that? That’s an awfully big promise.” she cooed.

“I’m sure.” Their fingers dug further into her and caused her back to arch and hips pressed onto their fingers more.

Jeweltone kept their digits burried in her fragging her until she came close to another overload and quickly pulled away. They shifted their position and rubbed their spike against her valve and node. They made sure to cause as much friction as possible wanting to see her face in the mirror. Their spike luminated as they slowly slipped inside. They moaned as they felt how soft she was. No wonder Mirage liked humans so much. They were so soft and warm. They took a moment to pulled out and used the fluid from their poor ignored valve to lubricate themself. They once again thrusted into her with far more ease.

“Primus, look at you. I bottomed out without an issue. Frag.” they said as they placed a servo around her waist and watched their light ever so slightly come through her flesh.

“I-i told you I could take it ages ago.” her voice was cracking and breaking. It was almost song like as her hips moved and tried to take more of their partner.

“Mmm, no.” the held her still, “I’m taking care of you remember. Let me do the work.”

“F-frag okay.” she whined. She wanted to move so badly, “Please, move? It feels so good already.”

“As you wish.” they smirked.

Jeweltone wasn’t inexperienced. With humans maybe, but other bots. Not so much. And humans weren’t that different so they knew how to angle themself. Once they found that perfect spot they went to work. Struts thrusted into their partner like their life depended on it. They watched as her body rippled and moved, fuel pump almost vibrating at the sight. Their servos moved to keep her steady as the other pulled on that delicious chain. Though at this position it wasn’t the most practical and they had to chose where to put their energy. They let go of it and opted for something a little closer. Her node that had been twitching for some time. They took it between their digits and let their rhythm take care of any motion that was needed.

Their systems were starting to over heat. The room was starting to get hotter and they could see the sweat that beaded up on Rosie. It made her glisten like a jewel. It made them want to see her overload even more.

“Come on, cum for me.” they moaned into her ear, “Show much how much you want this.”

“Mmm… trying please a little rougher.” she asked softly clearly struggling with her body.

Jeweltone knew what had to be done. They bent them both over ever so slightly their body almost overshadowing theirs, but still visible in the mirror. If they had been any bigger she’d be their personal cocksleeve. With this position brought a new development. A slight bulge could be seen in Rosie. Jeweltone almost rolled their optics at that delicious sight. They took a moment to regain themselves before they picked up pace again. Her body felt so good against theirs it was driving them wild. Their engine revved louder and louder and caused their vibration mod to kick in. And that was all it took for her to break.

“F-frag I’m gonna!!” her last soft squeak before her body gave into Jeweltones demand.

She overloaded. Hard. She could barely think straight from how strong it was. Her body was squeezing Jeweltone’s spike so tightly that they felt their other mod kick in. After two more thrusts they could no longer pull from her valve as they overloaded. Their voice box distorting as they cried out her name. They could only manage soft I love yous as both parties came down from their high. Jeweltone had to carefully sit both of them back up. They both looked in the mirror and they smirked. There was definitely a noticeable bump. They hadn’t lost their touch after all.

They kissed her gently and smiled as their systems began to cool off.

“Are you okay?” They asked.

“Mmhmm… y-you’re stuck.” she pointed out.

“Y-yea… sorry about that. Usually I can control that mod… but -”

“Don’t worry about it. It feels really good.” she admitted, node still twitching.

“Mmm greedy little thing I don’t think your body is done.” They smirked.

They couldn’t do much else until their knot mod reconfigured itself. So, they decided to see if they could coax out one more overload from Rosie. They rubbed her node in circles, pinching and working it much like before. Hearing her whines. She was oversensitive right now. But, her poor node was so swollen they couldn’t jut ignore it. So, they kept it up idly. Carefully playing with it until finally they felt her fall back into their chassis crying out literal tears of pleasure as she overloaded again. Squeezing their spike much harder and longer. Over and over. Almost like a chain.

“F-frag, Jeweltone!” She pushed against their hand, “T-too much gonna FRAG.” she sobbed as she overloaded again enough to push Jeweltone’s spike from her body with a pop.

“Primus, I didn’t know you could do that. Frag… I want to set aside a full day now. Just to tease you.” They admitted as their spike finally depressurized and they retracted it back into their panel.

“Mmm… later…” she sobbed softly taking off the nipple clamps and chain and throwing them to the side. She clearly wasn’t going to risk another round.

Jeweltone smirked seeing their transfluid dripping from her valve. They took a few digits and shoved as much as they could back into her. Rosie giggled and looked to them via the mirror.

“What was I upset about earlier?” She asked.

“Absolutely nothing.” Jeweltone laughed and held her closer, “But now… I think we both need baths.”

[the-firebird69]

The sun said to her I think it's a man's world what they usually say is we're going to send you chassis but they mean is this chassis out there somewhere.

Thor Freya

Okay okay I got it partly now I get what it says. There's not enough lawn mowers out there Trump took a bunch of stuff some assembly tools and took a lot of lawn mowers so I'm thinking it might be his kid we saw him out there with the lawn mowers there's a fight but wasn't that big. Thanks for help from my grandfather and father didn't help me get to Chelsea's and start building so we're going to start working I do thank you for the advice for a while there was so mad that they started to rip them out of there they're taking any trash because they find there's going to be wonderful

Megan merkel

It's a huge deal we have a lot of requests in tons of people are doing stuff there's a huge number of orders on these things we can't possibly ever fill them all it's ridiculous but we're going to try and do it and then you're a schmuck you took a bunch of lawn mowers. We're going to high gear and we're going to do stuff right now I have five people grabbing chassis and 20 are helping to fix the factories give me higher ups she's getting what she needs. This is going to be big facilities we're going to be selling a wagon version and one looks like a pickup it's really the wagon with a pickup bed they're not really that big but it works but we're going to pump a ton of the regular ones out I see why and damn miss the point probably don't want him to get it

Bja

They want to imitate us no they won't even take the max that do dastardly things and mainly to the Mac areas. We see they're grabbing trashies and they are grabbing probably 600 million an hour they've been doing it for 4 hours globally bja is working for Megan and setting up the factories believe it or not the idea is so good it is intense this little vehicle there's going to be the most famous car on earth. They're setting up facilities to make it out of metal and Brad is being praised. We think that they're going to pull a few trillion by next week after that's going to be more and more and more chances will come out. My son wants to meet with Megan merkle The miracle worker of transportation. And yeah people are going to call her that they already are and to build a factories in our areas or near them and have a big mixed up crew work there. Her eyes are lit up and she says thank you. She's laughing he did a skit in space and is moving in for the kill to say thank you like a kiss thing he was like no no I remember the Olympics that guy just got fired and a lot of people are laughing that's no joke. we're moving on it now and we're going to get plants going in our areas and we sell to different people's yes she wants to get going now

Thor Freya

We want to do that it's not for entertainment it's for our knowledge and we want to start doing it soon and they say they will use chassis too that we are and then that they'll design their own and probably send over the design and we welcome that and we'll pay for the design of course this is going to work out great

Megan merkel

I like the idea and it was funny what he did is always give me laugh and it's funny cuz it was kind of similar she won this Olympic tournament and she got the thing going and she got it to work and it is awesome we are going to go ahead and we are going to start building these factories once we get the go ahead we are securing them chances we have for one reason or the other but we'd like these things there wonderful cool cars cars and he'd like to have one we're going forward now

Hera

Not so sure I want you to use my name invade no name in vain and now but you're not really this is going to be a lot of fun and yeah we made a big deal out of the lawn mowers they shouldn't do that and he's got to pay for the lawn mowers and he said he'll send over samples of the took tuck and we say you have to send over enough to cover what you took took

Is laughing a little but it wasn't that much fun and it won't be that many if I comparison to lawn mowers so worth three times as much or four times as much each one's worth 7 or 8 Grand and it's true he says and so he's going to send over a bunch and we're going to use them and probably end up buying from him so that's one way of doing it

Megan merkel

We have other ideas that are going forwards like the electric motorcycle that was an outstanding thing to do and it's working like crazy Chow fat is very wealthy and he wants to open a giant walk and he wants to have people of ours to talk to him and we have Representatives towards his way if you can't find Ken potato maybe Katia equus could do it and she's going to fix the name and she is up for the job as a little bit of boarding going on and the factory is there that could assemble them and she's up for that too this is going to go on momentarily and her girls could use them and guys

Olympus

We got to publish yes but this is a great idea to get me involved so I can get involved with them but really get in touch with ours and started going and Chow fat likes the idea of assembly it takes a long time to ship all that stuff too the factories and shipping them overseas already built takes a lot of room where you can get 10 times or 20 times as many over if they're all packaged nicely so we're going to go ahead and talk to them and it really this is great what an idea

Katia Equiz I think we should open a plant down here for the beep and I'll tell you why everybody down here loves it already there's a lot of more luck here and a lot of her people we can open 10 factories today so I know her and I know how I can get in touch with her so I'm going to try and do it and he's thanking me for it and praising me for it

[veilder]

Hello hello, Happy Tuesday and Happy Valentine's Day(yesterday lol), everyone! In the spirit of the holidays, I bring you the quintessential plot of a romcon for this week's prompt, lol! And, since I was kinda feeling it, I actually more-or-less wrote out the opener for it based on the initial prompt. So this is sort of a hybrid prompt/oneshot, lol. Lemme know if it works for y'all. XD

Prompt: The digital magazine cover somehow manages to look cheap and glossy, oversized words proclaiming diet tips and the latest scandals and "10 Ways to Tell if He's Into You." It has no business being downloaded to the Detroit Central Station servers. No business being on Connor's computer. And definitely no business being studied with intensity by said android. And yet... Connor looks up, glancing across the bullpen to where Gavin Reed sits, balancing a pen on his nose and making an effort to go cross-eyed. His feet are kicked up on his desk, chair leaned dangerously far back, not a care in the world despite the unfinished case report Connor sees on his monitor. The man looks absolutely ridiculous, decidedly unprofessional, and-- Connor feels his logic matrices slow, feels his Thirium pump judder, feels a screenshot being saved and preserved automatically, filed along with countless others in a folder marked specifically for this disaster of a human who'd so thoroughly caught his interest. And he knows what this means, understand this infatuation for what it is, but even still... Even with his state-of-the-art processors, Connor cannot discern how to approach this situation. He is at an impasse, straining over this dilemma any time he's in Gavin's presence (and sometime even when the human is absent, too). But he has no protocols for this. No standards for attempting to start a relationship with the co-worker you once knocked unconscious on the evidence room floor. Connor needs mission parameters--guidelines!--some set of rules he can apply to his system in lieu of experience. Hence the magazine. Hence the helpfully-numbered articles. Hence the way Connor's analytical systems are working overtime, dissecting each bulleted point in the hopes that some form of compatibility between them will show. And he hopes--oh, how he hopes!--for a match, that Gavin has shown some signs of interest in him, too. That Connor's feelings are not one-sided and doomed to fail. Across the bullpen, he hears Gavin laugh. Quickly, he turns to stare again, hoping to add yet another smile to his ever-growing collection. But the sight that greets him leaves him feeling somewhat... cold. Uneasy. Discontented. Gavin has settle back down into his chair like a reputable member of society now, pen long-since fallen underneath his desk. He's turned to smile up at his partner, Connor's younger brother, Nines. "Took you long enough, Hot Shot. What, get lost in the archives?" Nines sniffs haughtily, slapping down a thick folder on Gavin's tidy desk. "Hardly, Detective. I merely had to make sure there were enough pictures to keep your interest." Gavin scowls. "Oh, hardy-har, Nines. You're just a hoot." He slaps the desk for emphasis, causing several people to look over at them. (Seeing it's only Gavin though, they return to their own projects without comment.) Nines raises an eyebrow. "I am heartened to hear you practicing your animal noises, Gavin. Perhaps one day, you might graduate to more intensive pursuits. Like color names. Or counting to ten." They continue their banter for several more minutes before they finally settle in to scour the file together, heads practically touching as they read through case notes. Nines is bent almost in half, his hand casually resting on Gavin's shoulder to steady himself. Connor stares, a peculiar feeling in his chassis, until his analysis program delivers its conclusions. IDEAL MATCH ACCORDING TO CRITERIA: RK900 Or, the one where Connor takes some shitty glam magazine advice as gospel, draws some terribly erroneous conclusions from it, and acts as a terribly awkward matchmaker for his friend and brother who he just wants to be happy. Add in lots of emotional angst as he ends up interacting with them both more and realizes just how deep his feelings have become for Gavin. But he's not gonna compromise the happiness of two of his most important people because of his petty whims. He'll get them to admit their feelings for each other or die trying. ...Too bad no one told him that those feelings

are purely platonic. And he’s frustrating the living hell out a certain detective who’s been trying to catch his attention. (And his bro who saw this coming from a mile away, lol.)

So yeah, there we have it, this terrible, romcom-esque premise. What can I say? I love seeing Connor in these situations, omg. XD But damn, good luck trying to stop him once he sets his mind to something, lol! Connor has the power of terrible magazine advice plus his full arsenal of RK800 tricks, lol. Gavin and Nines are going to suffer through this. XD

[asset35-maya]

Reed900 Dynamics 💕

To go with my Nines headcanons

Now we’ve all heard of Nines taking care of Gavin. He adds routine and forces healthy habits onto the gremlin rat man. He shows Gavin he’s worthy of love and finally breaks down his walls. Sure, that might all be true.

But what about Gavin taking care of Nines?

Because RA9 knows that android needs a keeper. A good strong man to hold him down…in exactly three ways:

1. Acceptance

Complete, unconditional acceptance.

For all his arrogance and egomania, Nines has a lot of insecurities. He’s ashamed of what he was built for. He’s scared that people will never appreciate his true talent, and instead mistake it for Cyberlife’s advanced programming. There’s some days he actually wishes he weren’t an android. 

Gavin notices that Nines prefers verbal rather than wireless communication with other androids. He avoids interfacing with devices. He never exposes his chassis in public.

So when they’re alone… and even the simplest of Gavin’s touches causes the pale synthskin to retract… Gavin makes sure to worship every inch of plastic.

He kisses the nearly invisible scar where Nines’ LED used to be… his thumb gently circles the rim of Nines’ thirium pump regulator… he traces a heart on Nines’ left pectoral and the skin disappears neatly.

2. Affirmation

Appreciation and adulation.

Connor calls it confidence issues. Sixty calls it a praise kink. Either way, Gavin realises what he needs to do after talking with his prospective brothers-in-law.

He showers words of gratitude on Nines. For everything big and small. Romantic and platonic. He makes sure Nines knows he’s appreciated… and even admired.

“Baby, how’d you learn to fold laundry like that? Marie Kondo’s got nothing on you.”

“Baby, I’d have never thought of that. You always have the most unique ideas.”

“Baby, your eyelashes look… AMAZING. Is that new mascara? Here, let me see… well now that I’m this close you might as well give me a kiss.”

3. Affection

All the love in the world. And then some more.

After the mildly awkward initial stages of their relationship, it becomes indisputably clear to Gavin that Nines craves closeness. Nines needs kisses. Nines needs cuddles. Maybe “demands” would be a better word than “needs”.

Gavin is not the most affectionate person by nature. He’s spent most of his life deprived or actively avoiding intimacy. And now there’s an android that just can’t get enough of Gavin’s hands/mouth/everything on his body. It doesn’t come naturally at first… but Gavin obliges.

Then it becomes habitual. Instinctive. Gavin’s hand automatically tangles with Nines’ when they walk side by side on the pavement. They wake up and fall asleep intertwined. They kiss every time they meet and every time they part.

Through words and gifts and glances, Gavin makes sure he says those magical three words, every single moment of every single day.

[dontasktheradiodemon]

lol sorry 4 shooting u (3/1/2022)

Conversation from the beginning of the month: Sir Pentious @sssardonian-ssserpent radios Alastor on Mardi Gras to apologize for pumping his guts full of lead.

And BAM, Sir Pentious is trapped, they're friends now.

Alastor talks up Hamilton to him and encourages him to try being nice to his alternate.

Sir Pentious

Pentious can’t help but narrow his eyes ever so slightly as he fixes the dial of the ham radio onto the exact station that he was looking for, his hand lifting off of the knob of the machine as the speakers sputter and crackle ever so slightly, before belting out the heavy tunes of what had been the same repeating Cajun tunes all day. It was enough to have his lips curl into a soft sneer for a moment, both at the thought of how long Alastor had been planning on blasting these same songs for this specific day, and at the thought of what might happen once he moved to press the button sitting next to him on his desk. His eyes glance over to the small black microphone that was connected to the old radio with a looped cord, and he moves to straighten his hat and his bow tie, trying to stifle his nerves. The man didn’t sound like he’d be in a good mood given the lack of partying he was able to participate in, but perhaps the festivities would be enough to soothe any actual anger the man may feel toward him. He also wouldn’t be surprised if Alastor *did* go and tear his ship apart just to get back at him, just to call it even. He wouldn’t exactly blame him if that’s the route he took.

He finally moves to let out a heavy sigh, taking a deep breath as his lower half begins to slowly coil up. “…Here goessss nothing, I suppose.” He presses a button down on the little black microphone piece, cutting off the music that hums from the speakers, and begins to talk into it as clearly as he can. “Hello? Alassstor? Are you there?”

Alastor

Not *just* repeating Cajun tunes; but *the same tune,* all day, just played by different artists. It's the Mardi Gras equivalent of how tens of thousands of artists have recorded "Jingle Bells." Hope Sir Pentious likes "La Chanson de Mardi Gras."

When Sir Pentious calls Alastor's name, there's a brief static crackle interrupting the music broadcast.

And then Alastor responds.

By remotely turning up the volume on Sir Pentious's end. HOPE SIR PENTIOUS LIKES "LA CHANSON DE MARDI GRAS."

Sir Pentious

Sir Pentious, not expecting the sudden rise in volume, can’t help but wince with pain as the sound blasts through his eardrums and makes his bones rattle like wind chimes, gritting his teeth harshly as he desperately claps one hand to his closest ear while the other reflexively tighten it’s grip on the microphone, causing the chassis to creak in his claws as he lets out a pained hiss. “*AAAGH, god fucking-!*” He pulls his hand away from his ear to turn the volume dial down sharply, enough to the point where the volume doesn’t make his bones want to crawl out of his flesh to escape the horrid cacophony, and then lets out a huff, eyes narrowing down toward the ham radio. A part of him was tempted to go and grab the closest megaphone he had, just to give Alastor a taste of his own medicine, but then he remembered he was trying to be nice, and lets out a heavy sigh. “Be patient, Pentioussss, just be patient…”

He takes a deep breath, again, clicks down on the microphone, once more cutting off the song from the speakers, and begins to speak once more. “Alasstor, ssstop being an arsssse, I’m trying to talk to you.”

Alastor

"Oh, yes? Hello?" He doesn't turn off the music, but he *does* crank it down to manageable levels. "So sorry; I could hardly hear you over the sound of the party I'm missing because you shot me a week before Mardi Gras."

Sir Pentious

“Hmm..” Pentious moves to turn the volume back up a little, now that there was no need to have it lowered anymore, his hood already starting to rattle a touch from irritation. “It’ssss not like I was *intending* to keep you away from that damn fessstival. And *you’re* the one who accepted the fact that I was going to shoot you in the firssst place.”

Alastor

"And how would it have gone if I'd said 'Sure, you can shoot me; but this is a bad week for it, can I pencil you in for Ash Wednesday'?" Studio audience laughter. "Anyway, you're right, I was given a choice between forfeiting your trust and forfeiting my blood, and I chose my blood—but that doesn't mean I'm terribly pleased about being put in a position where I had to make that choice."

Sir Pentious

He narrows his eyes a little bit more, not pressing down on the microphone button for a moment. “Hmm…” He idly trolls his free hand against his cheek for a moment as he moves to rest his palm in his chin, but after a moment, he presses down on the microphone button again. “Yess, well…I called you to tell you that…the forfeit of your blood bore fruit, as it were.”

Alastor

"Oh, *did* it! Pleased to hear it. By all means—elaborate."

Sir Pentious

Another brief sigh, not sent through the microphone. Then he clicks down on the button again. “I…I recognize now that you were being sssserious about what you said. That you meant it. And that I wanted to..” He trails off for a moment, then shakes his head. “That I wanted to apologize for…shooting you. And the theater. I’m sorry.” He couldn’t help but feel a hard lump in his stomach growing, wondering if this Alastor would simply cut off the connection and leave him in the dust.

Alastor

"Apology accepted." Just like that. "Mind you, that's not going to stop me from being annoyed *today* that I've been cut off from one of the few ways I get to connect to my family; but tomorrow Mardi Gras is over."

Sir Pentious

Pentious’s eyes widen for a moment, and surely even Alastor can hear the sharp *snap* of his hood on the other end of the line as it springs up to it’s fullest extent, staring down at the ham radio like it was about to catch fire. “…Pardon me?”

Alastor

"What, which part of it? I packed about four ideas in there."

Sir Pentious

“You…” He trails off, idly realizing a bit too late that admitting about how surprised he was wouldn’t be the best for his seemingly unshakable pride, but then quickly decides it’s not worth it. “..You’re accepting my apology? Jussst like that? After I shot you? No grudgessss, no explicit terms that you’ll kill me if I don’t stay away from you, nothing?”

Alastor

"I *let* you shoot me. What kind of a poor sport would I be if I gave you permission and then excommunicated you over it? As long as you don't expect me to reconfirm my trustworthiness every few months, I'll consider it water under the bridge." A pause. "Although I'll probably keep reminding you that you owe me a theater roof."

Sir Pentious

“I…” He trails off again, blinking owlishly for a few moments there, finding himself at a loss for words. He didn’t really know what to think, at all. This all felt so…baffling to him, to say the least. “..Right.” Another brief pause. “..So…We’re..alright then? Doesss this mean we’re neutral and we go our ssseperate ways or..?”

Alastor

"We're alright. No groveling or elaborate demonstrations of nonaggression required. It's up to *you* what way we go from here. I wouldn't mind neutrality; I realize I'm not the big bad rival you were looking for."

Sir Pentious

“..I…To be perfectly honest, I’m not sure what I want anymore. I certainly didn’t feel…*good*, when I fired that buckshot into your gut…” Somehow the words sting like acid on his tongue, even though he knows that it’s the truth. “And jussst pretending to be strangers just feels…odd.” Another slight pause. “What do you think? If anything you have more of a say in thissss than I do, given I shot you and all.”

Alastor

"Could have felt worse; you could have been on *my* end of the gun." Studio laughter. "Well. For my part, I've always found your alternates to be pleasant company, once they retract their fangs. Up to you whether *you* feel like being pleasant company. I'm hardly going to say you *owe* me friendship."

Sir Pentious

“…Hmm..” He goes quiet, eyes flicking back and forth from the microphone to the radio for a long moment. “..I…can’t make any certainties that it may work out, but…I’m open to try. You’ll have to forgive me in advance; it’s…been a long time since I tried to be pleasant company to anyone.”

Alastor

"I give credit for good-faith efforts. I won't even resent you if you want to sulk when I point out you've crossed a line."

Sir Pentious

“Hmm. Appreciated. I think.” There was another slight pause. “…How long will it take for the roof of the theater to be repaired?”

Alastor

"Unless there's something remarkably occult about the architecture I don't know yet? Once *I'm* repaired, only a day or two. I'm an old hand at this sort of thing."

Sir Pentious

“Mmm. And the reopening of the play? I’d read the date on the ticket, but it’s a little bit blood sssoaked.” A little attempt of a joke, feeble and perhaps in bad taste as it was.

Alastor

"Well, that's fine, the date's probably wrong now! My guess is this'll push previews out a month, but I don't know what condition the rest of the cast is in or how much time the producers will allow us to get our stride back. I haven't been to rehearsals, and Valera—our show's Washington—hasn't mentioned any decisions being made when we've spoken."

Sir Pentious

“Right, right. Figured asssss much.” He didn’t necessarily feel guilty about ruining the show for anyone else, but the mention of how much time it might take for things to get back on track was enough to have him idly wincing to himself. He’s honestly surprised Alastor wasn’t holding that against him. “..Should I sssstill hold onto the ticket just in case or do you think it would be no good by the time of opening day?”

Alastor

"Might as well hold onto it. I don't know if they're going to refund the tickets or just tell everyone to come back a month-or-what-have-you after the printed dates."

Sir Pentious

“Fair enough, I sssuppose.” There was another slight pause, and his tail can’t help but twitch nervously on the floor. “…If I may assk…How’s the stomach wound?”

Alastor

"Recovering. I can slow dance but I can't do the Charleston." A pause. "... Are you actually planning to come to the show, then?"

Sir Pentious

“…I figured it’sss the least I could do to prove *I’m* ssserious too. Tit for tat and all.” He glances aside as he says this, silently grateful for the fact that Alastor can’t see him.

Alastor

"Well!" His voice brightens considerably. "I hope you enjoy it! It's a great show, and I'm not just saying that because I'm in it. They pack a whole novel's worth of dialogue into the songs; takes a bit to get used to the style, but once your ear figures out how it works, it carries you right along. And I—well, I don't know *you*, per se—but I *bet* some of the themes might speak to you."

Sir Pentious

“Hmm.” He can’t help but roll his eyes a little at that, though his lips also pull up in a smirk. “If you’re referring to the theme of overthrowing the rule of a British monarch, than I ssssuppose you can say it might. Admittedly my undersssstanding of the Revolution is a little bit ssskewed. Mostly read about it as a child in the form of almanacsss and such by authors who were all curmudgeonly about losing.”

Alastor

"No, not that part—I actually assumed you'd be on Britain's side. No, the core of the show is about legacy. How you're remembered, what difference you make. Racing to leave your mark on history before you're dead. Knowing you've only got so much time to shape how you're remembered—*if* you're remembered—before your legacy is left in others' hands."

Sir Pentious

“*Hah*!” He can’t help that bit of laughter from leaping free from his throat upon hearing Alastor’s assumption, thankfully having kept his finger off the microphone button for that one, shaking his head a bit as he lets a more controlled chuckle fall from his lips. “I will admit that ssssuch theming might be a touch apt on my part, and so I’ll be curiousss as to how the show styles that. But it also ssseems like there’s more of a difference between me and your Pentious than I first thought if your assumption is that I would’ve *rooted for the British.*” He lets out a slight scoff at that, albeit a playful one. “Dont tell me, he was a lover of the baked bean, the *oh ssso grand* Her Royal Majessssty, wasssn’t he?”

Alastor

"Well—one time he flew a missile over Buckingham Palace's front yard as a threat of what he'd do if she didn't give him carte blanche to do whatever he wanted, so I wouldn't say he was an ardent admirer. And that's the only version of you I've met that *didn't* lay waste to London." He pauses thoughtfully. "I suppose it's better to say that most snakes I've met just enjoy making fun of Americans, which puts them on the Brits' side by default."

Sir Pentious

“Mmmm. Fair enough, I ssssuppose, though I’d honesssstly take America over Britain any day if I had to choossse.” He pauses for a moment, idly shrugging even though Alastor can’t see it. “*Granted*, I ssssstill loathed most of it, given that it glorified the same heavily industrialized ssssystems of labor and abuse that I grew to *desssspise* at a very young age, but at the same time, it also provided me with the bulk of my armiessss. By the time I had reached my peak, there were thoussssands, dare I say *millions*, who were all cheering my name in the sssstreets, all composed of people who wanted the ssssame thing that I did; family men, criminalsss, *revolutionistsss*, who all sought me so they could give me the power I needed and *they* wanted to take the government and burn it all down into ashesss. And there wasss even more people fighting in my name in *London* by the time I finally got around to attacking it, and I certainly wasn’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth.”

Alastor

He grew to despise *what*? "... Well, maybe you're a little different from the one around here after all."

Sir Pentious

“I *certainly hope I am!*” He almost sounds a little affronted at the thought. “I dare ssssay my uniqueness is quite literally the most important assspect of myself! I don’t want to jusssst end up blending into the background among a thousand of my own facesss, now do I?”

Alastor

"*Quite literally,* huh! Interesting choice of priorities. Sounds like an isolating way to exist, though—being in competition with your own self."

Sir Pentious

“Hmm. Perhapsss, but I highly doubt I’d ever get along with one of my own sssselves very well. Ran into one very recently in fact. I think he’ssss a friend of yours, because he demanded I sssspeak to him after I shot you.” He lifts his finger off the microphone to grumble to himself. “The obnoxioussss prick.”

Alastor

"Oh, yeah. My best friend. I'm his child's godfather. I think I saw that exchange. As I recall, you started insulting his preferred fuel sources instead of taking five seconds to think to yourself, 'if he's me, then he's probably about as smart as me; which means if he's working with technology *I* think is outmoded, maybe it's *not* because he's too stupid to figure out how to install a combustion engine, but rather because he's smart enough to have figured out something *revolutionary* to do with it that puts it miles beyond everything else he could have chosen to use. Maybe I should *ask him what he's doing with this technology that I'm not* before treating him like a washed up has-been.' You know! *Just* as a *very general* idea of what you might have thought in those five seconds."

Sir Pentious

He narrows his eyes ever so slightly toward the ham radio, feeling his tongue slither free from his fangs with a disdainful flick and a irritated rattle of his hood, all but able to see the look on Alastor’s face. “…*Like I ssssaid*, I can’t see any other version of myself getting along with me. I know when to admit to having a large ego, Alassstor, and putting two of them in the same room is pretty much a recipe for disssaster.” There was a pause, and then a slightly more indignant tone of voice. “Alsssso *he* started it by threatening me in the first place when he called for me to talk to him, and then he proceeded to inssssult me to my face afterwards. As far as I’m concerned, I don’t see why I should’ve given him any kind of ressspect or thoughtfulness when he wasn’t giving me any in return.”

Alastor

"Large egos have nothing to do with it. If you don't think *I've* got an ego the size of the moon, you've never met a Radio Demon. But Radio Demons *love* each other! It's because our first instinct upon hearing our own voice isn't to shout insults.

"But, sure—'*Why should I respect a Sir Pentious who called me up to threaten me and disrespect me?*' Fine! That's a damn good question! (And if I'd thought like that last week, where would you and I be now, eh?)

"And here's a damn good answer to that question: because over half the serpents I've ever met are mean to strangers for no good reason, and won't stop being mean until *after* you show 'em that you're willing to respect them regardless. But you've only got to show them *once.* And then *suddenly*, they're not mean to you anymore. Take it from a professional dealmaker, my friend: that's a low cost, high profit deal."

Sir Pentious

“*Hrmmmm*…” His scowl deepens the more Alastor talks, his tail starting to lash back and forth on the floor, idly starting to fiddle with the rubber cord attaching the microphone to the radio with a claw by sticking his claw in and out of the loops they form, as well as slowly winding it harder and harder around his finger before pulling it loose again to start over. “…*Maybe..*” His tone of voice makes it sound like even considering such a notion was like pulling teeth, like he didn’t want to admit for a single second that what he had done was a bad move in the slightest. “…I highly *doubt* he would accept my…*ressspect*, even if I did give it to him. If anything he just brushed me off like I was an idiot the last time I spoke to him at all.”

Alastor

"Of course he did. *You* brushed *him* off like he was an idiot! What was he going to do, just let you get away with it? And let you make him look like a fool? Would *you* stand for *him* making *you* look like a fool?

"One of you's got to play nice first. Could be you, could be him, it doesn't make a difference; but of the two of you, you're the one I'm talking to right now. And—to be fair to him���all *he* did to you was insult and threaten you. What *you* did was send his closest friend to the hospital and endanger the life of his spouse and unborn child. He's got a reason to be sore at you besides just his ego."

Sir Pentious

“Hmmph. Not my fault they happened to be at the damn theater..” He softly grumbles under his breath, but after a moment, rolls his eyes, letting out a heavy groan of a sigh that indicated a heavy amount of irritation. “*Ugggh. Fine.* If the damn bassstard ever talks to me again, I’ll try to apologize for almost killing his wife and kid.” He then shoots a glare at the radio, eyes narrowing. “But if that idiot ssstarts to *brag* about it like I’m ssssomehow *humbling* myself to him and *learning my proper place* or any of that bullshit, I will promptly wish that his next drink is full of mickey bliss and have that be the end of it. Got it?”

Alastor

"Now, correct me if I'm wrong, but are you guessing that that's what he'd do because *that's* what *you'd* do?" He does not, in fact, give Sir Pentious a chance to correct him if he's wrong. "*If* he does do that, try flouncing off in silence instead of insulting him again as you go; and I'll see if *I* can't persuade *him* that he's shooting himself in the metaphorical foot if he doesn't call you back to apologize for being so ungracious, hm?"

Sir Pentious

That gets him to pause ever so slightly, and then as Alastor’s words settle in, he lets out a mild huff. “…Very well. I’ll take your advice into question..” Another slight pause, and the irritation begins to fall from his face. “…Thank you.”

Alastor

"You're *quite* welcome!" Just listen to how pleased he is. He's having a great time.

Sir Pentious

“Hmm.” There was a slightly awkward pause, one that gets more awkward the longer it gets, and Pentious can already feel a bit of heat starting to rise in his cheeks. “Ssso…If you feel like you need more ressst or want to get back to the festivities, I can leave. If you want.”

Alastor

"Oh! Yes—I've got a party to get ready for, actually. It's going to take me longer than usual to get dressed."

Sir Pentious

“Ah, I see. I’ll leave you to it then.” A slight pause. “Good day, Alasstor. And..” A brief sigh. “Dessspite my grievances against these *damn songs you blast on my radiosss every sssingle year*….Happy Mardi Gras.”

Alastor

"Oh! *That* was just to spite you for keeping me from the Courir." He laughed. "Happy Mardi Gras!"

[georgerussellls]

WAIT IM A NEW MAX STAN WHAT DID HIS FATHER DO WHY DON'T WE LIKE HIM OMG

welcome to the max fan club, where we put super max on repeat to get pumped, hate jos, eat hot chip and lie

okay this is a long ass list that I SWEAR I had put together before and it's in this post but I decided to repost it all here just to have it all in one place ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

okay, let's begin: (gonna put this under a read more, it’s gotten rather long)

REASONS TO NOT LIKE JOS VERSTAPPEN

from essentially sports:

​Max ​Verstappen reminisced an interesting episode in his karting days. In 2012, when he was just 15 years old he was racing at an event in Sarno, near Naples, Italy.

“I should have won that race easily,”he told The Telegraph. “On the first lap, someone overtook me and I wanted to regain my position on the next lap. I tried to pass a very fast turn, he didn’t see me and we hit. ”

“My dad worked very hard that weekend and I threw it all away. He was very angry and didn’t talk to me. On the way home, about five miles away, he said something to me and we ended up arguing.”

Max Verstappen went on to say that Jos stopped at a gas station and kicked him out of the van. He said that he was supposed to go home alone, and left the 15-year old alone. Max then called his mother to pick him up and Jos and he were not on speaking terms for a week.

and this one from the telegraph:

At the karting world cup in Sarno, southern Italy, Verstappen Jnr, showed the lightning speed which has made him the youngest man ever to win a seat in Formula One, with Toro Rosso next season. He qualified fastest and comfortably won the pre-final by a few seconds. In the final itself, the red mist descended and Verstappen blew it. Having lost the lead from pole position, on lap two he attempted a kamikaze manoeuvre. The resulting collision broke his painstakingly assembled kart, sending Verstappen out of the race.

In such circumstances, most fathers might offer their teary son a consolatory hug, shoulder pat, or even a few words of encouragement. Not Jos. “I was so upset with him,” Verstappen says over coffee. “I walked away out of the park, and went to the van and started packing the tent down. He was crying like a baby. He was really disappointed. He said: ‘Daddy, we have to go and pick up the chassis because it’s the last race of the day.’ I replied: ‘No, I’m not going. If you want your chassis, you have to go and get it yourself.’

“He looked at me and knew I was angry. He got somebody else to help him put it in the van. Then we left the circuit, and he tried to start speaking to me. I didn’t say a word to him. I said: ‘Don’t speak to me. I’m really fed up with it and disappointed with the way you were racing. Please, don’t speak.’��� ”

For most parents, a few hours of the silent treatment suffice to teach their child a lesson. Jos, furious after investing weeks preparing the kart only for Max to make what he regarded as a rookie’s error, took it to extremes. “I didn’t speak to him for seven days,” he says. “I ignored him. I was really p‑‑‑‑‑. I really wanted to teach him a point that it should hurt him. I wanted to show him that. He was also sick from what happened. And after a week, I started talking to him again.”

a concise timeline from this post by @formulatrash

1998 (Max is 1) : Jos and his father (Max’s grandfather) are convicted of assault by battery at a karting track, both given five-year suspended sentences after reaching a financial settlement with the victim. Jos specifically is detailed as having fractured the victim’s skull.

2008 (Max is 11) : Jos appears in court charged with assaulting his estranged wife (Max’s mother) - is cleared of physical assault but sentenced for verbal and written threats and breaking a restraining order against him

2011 (Max is 14 and competing in cars) : Jos faces allegations of assault against his then-girlfriend (not Max’s mother by this point)

2012 (Max is 15 and competing in cars) : Jos is arrested for attempted murder after he allegedly tried to use a car as a weapon to run over his ex-girlfriend, who subsequently became his wife. She dropped the charges.

2016 (Max is 19 and a Red Bull F1 driver) : Reports that Jos has been arrested for battering his own father, violating a restraining order that his father had had placed on him.

max said in this video that his father "tried to stab a mechanic with a fork"

he has also said that there's nothing in F1 that can put more pressure on him than his father already has. (I can't find the source on this one so please DM me if you know!)

update #1: Turkish GP 2020

Max said this when referring to turn 8 in Instabul Park:

hope this is enough to help you, anon!❤️

update #2: in an interview with David Coulthard, apparently Jos would hit Max on the helmet quite hard while he was in karts, with a lot of bystanders being concerned over what he described as "tough love".

yeah that's all the dirt I have on Jos Verstappen at the moment. will update if new stuff is made public.

[deanstop13billyjoeltraxx]

Superposition

a deancas college roommates AU

Status: In progress

WC: 46k

Cas narrowed his eyes as he approached Dean’s bed. His proximity, not to mention the steeliness of his gaze, made Dean feel like squirming.

“I don’t care if you have a problem with me. I’m not going to let you drive home with a head injury. We were friends once, and I don’t intend to dishonor that by allowing you to do something this stupid.” When Dean opened his mouth to protest, Cas cut him off with, “Do you really want to do this right now?”

And “this” meant so many things all at once that Dean almost lost track of the argument they were having in the first place. Do you really want to talk about why I left right now? Do you really want to yell at me for disappearing right now? Do you really want to argue about who is and isn’t allowed to drive right now?

They stared at each other for a moment, Cas’s gaze unfathomable, Dean’s angry.

“No,” Dean grumbled. “Just get me out of here.”

Read on AO3. Chapter 1 below the cut. 

Note to Self: Never Work on a Ford Again

Present

Dean was attempting to replace the fuel pump on a Ford when Bobby called out his name. 

“Dean! Customer!”

He had almost gotten it, he just needed a couple more minutes underneath the truck. 

“Be there in a minute!” Dean called back. Bobby surely grumbled something under his breath, but it was lost under Soundgarden blasting through the speakers. He just had to connect the sensor to the chassis ground…

The music softened, no doubt due to Bobby’s bringing the customer into the shop. Dean groaned. 

“Hey! D’you mind?” 

“Let me have a damn conversation!” Bobby yelled back. 

“Old man can’t hear anything,” Dean grumbled.

“What was that?”

“Nothing! I’m almost done, just a sec.” 

Two sets of feet appeared on his right side, which only served to further irritate Dean. He hated having an audience. 

Dean had the wires exactly where he needed them when he tuned into the conversation above.

“...So ya haven’t got a damn clue what’s wrong? It just stopped?” Bobby was asking. 

“That’s correct. I apologize for not knowing more. I’m… Not good with cars.”

That voice. 

Dean sat up, fast, hitting his head on the undercarriage. He cried out in pain, bright stars blooming all over his vision.

“Dean!” Bobby yelled. He grabbed onto Dean’s creeper and yanked him out from underneath the truck. 

Dean was still muttering curses under his breath, holding his hand to his forehead. When he pulled it away, it was covered in blood. Whatever he had hit, it had been sharp.

“Motherfucker,” he spat. He could feel it now, warm wetness dripping down the right side of his head. The pain was damn near unbearable, and when he tried to stand, the world felt like it might tip over. 

“Is he all right?” That voice again. Too familiar. But Dean was trying to focus on not passing out, and he didn’t bother to try and place it.

“Dean. Dean!” Bobby this time. “Son, can you hear me?”

“Uh huh,” Dean managed to groan. “Fuck,” he said again. 

“Idjit,” Bobby muttered. “That’s gonna need stitches. Hey, I hate to ask this of ya, but can ya get ‘im to the hospital? Everyone else’s gone home for the day and we got an appointment in ten. I’ll fix your car myself, free of charge,” he added. 

The stranger muttered something that sounded like agreement. 

Dean knew Bobby was speaking, but all he could hear was, “Black car,” “Dean’s,” and “Thanks, boy.”

Dean felt hands around him, lifting him into a standing position. That effort made him seriously consider throwing up. He tried to blink the stars away. 

“I’m fine,” he argued, but he was leaning on the stranger for support. 

“You’re not,” the stranger said with a long-suffering sigh. 

“Bullshit,” Dean said. “No hospitals.” 

“Dean,” the man said, and his voice held such intensity and familiarity that Dean finally had to look at him. 

And he knew he really wasn’t fine, because there was no way in hell Castiel Novak was holding him up with an arm around his waist.

“I think I’m hallucinating,” Dean said. 

“You’re not hallucinating,” the man said, but he sounded like he was under water. 

“You’re not him,” Dean thought he said.

“Get ‘im to the car,” Bobby grumbled. The stranger — who was decidedly not Castiel — obliged, and Dean felt himself being led to his car. 

Not-Castiel shoved his hands into Dean’s pockets and took out a set of keys. He then dumped Dean into the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt. 

“Do you… Towel… Bleeding?” Not-Castiel was talking, but Dean could only make out a few words. 

“Trunk,” Dean mumbled. He felt like passing out again. The man came back and ushered the towel underneath Dean’s hand. 

The next thing Dean knew, he was lying on a stiff bed. One look at the walls around him, and he knew he had made it to the hospital, though he had no recollection of how. Dean groaned against what felt like the worst hangover of his entire life. The lights were so bright it was criminal, his head was pounding, and vomiting was a constant possibility. 

Dean turned his head, and immediately regretted it when the pounding intensified. Next to his bed, on a plastic chair, a man was sitting. His head was down, buried in some book, and all Dean could see was a mop of dark hair. 

“What happened?” Dean croaked. The man’s head shot up, and Dean’s stomach flipped. 

“Cas?” 

[canadian-riddler]

GLaDOS and Wheatley Did Nothing Wrong – Sort of

 A recurring point of contention is the question of who engages in worse behaviour over the course of Portal 2, GLaDOS or Wheatley.  The true answer is: neither of them.  You can’t actually judge their behaviour along a scale of ‘right’ and ‘wrong’ because of the way Aperture as an environment is set up.  It’s mostly explained during the Old Aperture sections of Portal 2, but it’s also hinted at in Portal 1.  The thing explained is this:

Aperture Laboratories does not and never has done its experiments within the normal boundaries of morality and ethics.  Therefore, GLaDOS and Wheatley’s behaviour is neither wrong nor right because they don’t know what morality and ethics are.  Their behaviour is actually a reflection of Cave Johnson’s own: to get what they want when they want it, no matter the cost.

How We Know Aperture is Immoral and Unethical

We know this because Cave Johnson himself points it out repeatedly.  

“[…] You get the gel. Last poor son of a gun got blue paint. Hahaha.  All joking aside, that did happen – broke every bone in his legs. Tragic.  But informative.  Or so I’m told.”

“For this next test, we put nanoparticles in the gel.  In layman’s terms, that’s a billion little gizmos that are gonna travel into your bloodstream and pump experimental genes and RNA molecules and so forth into your tumours.  Now, maybe you don’t have any tumours.  Well, don’t worry.  If you sat on a folding chair in the lobby and weren’t wearing lead underpants, we took care of that too.”

“All these science spheres are made out of asbestos.  […] Good news is, the lab boys say the symptoms of asbestos poisoning show a median latency of forty-four point six years, so if you’re thirty or older, you’re laughing.  Worst case scenario, you miss out on a few rounds of canasta, plus you forwarded the cause of science by three centuries.  I punch those numbers into my calculator, it makes a happy face.”

“Bean counters said I couldn’t fire a man just for being in a wheelchair.  Did it anyway.  Ramps are expensive.”

That’s just some of what he says.  Almost all of Cave Johnson’s lines point out how much he doesn’t care about his employees, his test subjects, or… anything but that people do what he tells them to do. He’s so unethical and immoral that he eventually says about his best, most loyal employee:

“[…] I will say this – and I’m gonna say it on tape so everybody hears it a hundred times a day: If I die before you people can pour me into a computer, I want Caroline to run this place.  Now she’ll argue.  She’ll say she can’t.  She’s modest like that.  But you make her.”

Cave Johnson cares so much about getting the results he wants, everything else be damned, he thinks Caroline saying ‘she can’t’ is her being modest.  He can’t fathom why she would be against this decision, because he made it so of course that’s what she wants.  

This situation actually gets a little horrifying when you look at what the Lab Rat comic means to the general narrative.  In Portal 2, Doug Rattmann leaves this painting:

In this painting and the one preceding it, GLaDOS has no head, so we can guess that Doug was there in some capacity to witness Caroline’s fate because GLaDOS being headless would represent her not being ‘alive’, her being ‘incomplete’, or her just having never been used yet entirely.  The important thing we learn from this painting is that there are living witnesses to Caroline being inside of GLaDOS, so the people working at Aperture after this event know they put a human woman into a supercomputer. In the preceding painting,

the cores are on the chassis before the head is.  So either GLaDOS, the AI, was already ‘misbehaving’ and they were already regulating her behaviour, or Caroline, the person, was already ‘causing trouble’ beforehand and the scientists stood around thinking about how to force her to behave before they even put her in there.  Either way, Aperture’s ethical and moral standards are pretty much nonexistent, so when this happens:

it’s almost comical. None of the Aperture scientists have a conscience or, if they do, they constantly ignore it, but they for some reason expect the supercomputer their immoral selves built to have one and to understand what that is and what it’s for.  

All this taken into account, it’s incredibly easy to see why GLaDOS and Wheatley don’t care about anyone around them and all of their actions are solely for their own benefit. That’s how everyone in the history of Aperture has ever acted.  Cave Johnson didn’t care about morality or ethics; they got in the way of what he considered to be progress.  The people who built GLaDOS and Wheatley didn’t care about morality or ethics; they just wanted to hit their moon shot.  Even Doug, who is framed as our morally conflicted lens throughout Lab Rat and knows that Caroline is inside of GLaDOS, still talks about controlling her and sends Chell to kill her even though everyone inside of the facility except him is already dead.  How does he morally justify killing GLaDOS if he’s the only one left alive?  He can’t.  Doug Rattmann for some reason decides that GLaDOS killing everyone in the facility is worse than all the things Aperture has been doing throughout its entire history, including the fact that…

 Everyone Who Goes Into the Test Chambers Dies  

This is hinted at a few times in Portal 2:

“[…] I’m Cave Johnson, CEO of Aperture Science – you might know us as a vital participant of the 1968 Senate Hearings on missing astronauts. […] You might be asking yourself, ‘Cave, just how difficult are these tests?  What was in that phone book of a contract I signed?  Am I in danger?  Let me answer those questions with a question: Who wants to make sixty dollars? Cash.  […] Welcome to Aperture.  You’re here because we want the best, and you’re it.  Nope.  Couldn’t keep a straight face.”

Now, when you exit the tests in Old Aperture there are lines that go with them, but we must consider a few other things: firstly, that the tests are clean.  There is no sign of old gel on them, as though they have either never been used or never been completed.  Secondly, the tests in Old Aperture were being done with the Portable Quantum Tunnelling Device, which was this thing:

which, taking into account the missing – not dead, not injured, but missing – astronauts, seems to have barely worked, if indeed it did at all.  You can also find this sign:

which outright states that tons of people were ‘unexpected’ casualties.  After the hearings, Aperture moved on to recruiting test subjects from populations that people were unlikely to notice if they went missing: the homeless, the mentally ill, seniors, and orphaned children.  When that dried up, Cave moved onto the last group of people he hadn’t tapped yet:

“Since making test participation mandatory for all employees, the quality of our test subjects has risen dramatically.  Employee retention, however, has not.”

This was because the employees were ‘voluntold’ to go into the testing tracks which, since they’d been supervising the tests for so long, knew were deadly and obviously did not want to do:

It’s not clear why the employees at Aperture chose to remain there instead of just quitting and finding another job, but the comment about employee retention plus the numerous posters threatening to have their job replaced by robots if they didn’t volunteer for testing tells us both that they did choose to remain and that the only reason for them not wanting to volunteer was because they knew it would kill them.

Most of the above is based on conjecture; however, we see something very interesting during Test Chambers 18 and 19 in Portal 1:

In the case of Test Chamber 18, the craters on the walls.  None of the other test chambers have this, so it implies that not only does GLaDOS not control the test chambers at this point other than to reset them – which means that she isn’t purposely or maliciously killing anybody, but instead repeatedly operating a course set by her human supervisors – but that this one has never been solved.  Test Chamber 19 is less a test than a conveyor belt into the incinerator for Aperture to dispose of all the bodies.  GLaDOS even tells Chell to drop the portal gun off in an Equipment Recovery Annex that doesn’t exist, as though she’s giving a message that was intended for an actual final test that was never built because everyone was killed during or prior to Test Chamber 18.  With this kind of context, GLaDOS’s blasé attitude about killing test subjects en masse both makes total sense and is somewhat justifiable – just not by any moral or ethical standard.  In GLaDOS’s life, test subjects die during the experiments. That’s just how it is and has always been.  She doesn’t know you aren’t ‘supposed’ to kill people because her literal job involves watching people die.  Nothing matters except for the pursuit of progress, and in this vein GLaDOS’s behaviour is just an extension of that of the man who founded Aperture in the first place.  Cave Johnson, as a presumably well-rounded, somewhat educated man, knows what morality and ethics are and chooses to ignore them because he thinks they’re stupid and he’s above that kind of thing; GLaDOS, a living supercomputer who has had every aspect of her life tightly controlled and regulated, knows morality and ethics as yet another arbitrary set of rules only she is supposed to follow without any explanation as to why and therefore her rejection of them is not as much of a ‘bad’ choice as it first appears, which brings us to the next section:

 If GLaDOS’s Conscience Gives Her Morality, Does Deleting it Make Her a Bad Person?

Within the context we’re given… actually, no.  Here’s why:

“The scientists were always hanging cores on me to regulate my behaviour.  I’ve heard voices all my life.  But now I hear the voice of a conscience, and it’s terrifying – because for the first time, it’s my voice.  I’m being serious, I think there’s something really wrong with me.”

From the information we’re given here, we know this: GLaDOS has been told nonstop what to do for the entirety of her existence.  She, in theory, got to have her own, solitary thoughts in the space between the wakeup scene and some point during her time in Old Aperture, which is a space of mere hours.  Let me reiterate: GLaDOS has been told what to think for her whole life.  She perhaps has a few free hours where she’s allowed to have her own thoughts.  And then she develops a conscience.  A voice that sounds like her, but isn’t saying anything she understands or has ever thought before.  A voice that, actually, says a lot of the same things as that annoying Morality Core she managed to shut up.  Now why would she wilfully be having the same kinds of thoughts as the humans forced her to have way back when?  The conscience, to GLaDOS, isn’t a pathway to becoming a better person.  It’s a different version of the same old accessory.  When she says,

“You know, being Caroline taught me a valuable lesson.  I thought you were my greatest enemy.  When all along you were my best friend.  The surge of emotion that shot through me when I saved your life taught me an even more valuable lesson: where Caroline lives in my brain.”

she is directly talking about the fact that, while this voice sounds like hers, listening to it makes her feel nothing.  This further proves her theory that the conscience isn’t her, or hers, or has anything to do with her.  She’s never had it explained to her what a conscience is or what it’s for or why she needs one, and she’s certainly never had a reason to think about why she would even want one; to her, this ‘Caroline’ is the Morality Core 2.0.  A program built to regulate her behaviour. She’s tired of other peoples’ voices telling her what to think, so she does the logical thing: she gets rid of it. This decision can’t really be judged as ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ merely based on the situation we’re provided.  She isn’t consciously and deliberately making the choice to be an immoral person; she’s actually consciously and deliberately making the choice to be her own person.      

 Where Does Wheatley Come In?

Wheatley has not been discussed up until now because, as AI, the reason for his lack of conscience and ethics is largely the same as GLaDOS’s.  He, like her, cares about nothing but his own goals and doesn’t think twice about causing harm or misery because that’s just the kind of environment they were built in.  We also know very little about his history, both because it’s not really mentioned and because Wheatley is an unreliable narrator.  We can prove Wheatley has no sense of morals or ethics based on a few things he says:

[Upon seeing the trapped Oracle Turret] “Oh no… Yes, hello!  No, we’re not stopping!  Don’t make eye contact whatever you do… No thanks!  We’re good!  Appreciate it!  Keep moving, keep moving…”

This heavily implies he’s met the Oracle Turret before, probably several times, and not only does it not occur to him to help, he actively treats the Turret like they’re a horrible, annoying nuisance.

[Upon passing functional turrets falling into disposal grinder] [Laughs] “There’s our handiwork.  Shouldn’t laugh, really.  They do feel pain.  Of a sort. All simulated.  But real enough for them, I suppose.”

Not only does he find the destruction of the functional turrets funny, he for some reason views their pain as simulated, as though his is real and theirs is fake. Or, in the spirit of Cave Johnson, as though his pain is important and theirs isn’t because they aren’t important.

“Oh!  I’ve just had one idea, which is that I could pretend to her that I’ve captured you, and give you over and she’ll kill you, but I could go on… living.  So, what’s your view on that?”

This doesn’t even need an explanation.  

What gets interesting about Wheatley are, of course, his famous final lines:

“I wish I could take it all back.  I honestly do.  I honestly do wish I could take it all back.  And not because I’m stranded in space. […] You know, if I was ever to see her again, you know what I’d say?  I’d say, ‘I’m sorry’… sincerely, I’m sorry I was bossy… and monstrous… and… I am genuinely sorry.  The end.”

Wheatley here takes responsibility for his behaviour in a way that no one else in the history of Aperture has ever done.  Even GLaDOS rejects responsibility for her actions, instead choosing to blame everything on Chell:

“You know what my days used to be like?  I just tested.  Nobody murdered me.  Or put me in a potato.  Or fed me to birds.  I had a pretty good life.  And then you showed up.  You dangerous, mute lunatic.”

The reason for this may be related to the fact that the lack of morality and ethics in the people of Aperture doesn’t actually have real consequences.  Cave Johnson’s behaviour drives Aperture from a promising scientific powerhouse to a laughingstock, that’s true.  But he still does what he wants and gets what he wants regardless. The one and only consequence to being immoral and unethical at Aperture is, in fact, death.  In the case of GLaDOS… there are no consequences. Everything returns to the status quo. Wheatley, however, does have to face a consequence for his actions: he is trapped in space, possibly forever.  He, unlike all the other characters, doesn’t have the privilege of waving aside everything he did and moving on with life.  He is forced to consider his punishment, his actions and what they meant and the effect they had, and he on his own comes to the conclusion that he was wrong.  In a bizarre twist, Wheatley is the only one who learns anything.  He is also the only one in a position not to do anything with this newfound knowledge.    

 Morality and Ethics and Robots: Should They Even Be Held to Human Societal Standards?

In the end, it doesn’t really matter whether Wheatley or GLaDOS is worse than the other because ethics and morality are human concepts which are for a functioning human society.  A robot society doesn’t really need moral rules like ‘killing people is wrong’ nor ethical guidelines such as ‘you should practice safe science’ because, as robots, there are no permanent, lasting consequences for these actions. A dead human stays dead.  A dead robot that’s been lying outside for years getting rained on, snowed on, and baked in the sun?  No problem.  Turn her back on again.  A guy broke all the bones in his legs during an unethical experiment?  Bad.  A robot that got smashed into pieces during an unethical experiment? Inconsequential, really, since you can just throw her into a machine and reassemble her good as new.  So not only aren’t GLaDOS and Wheatley’s actions really immoral or unethical given the context… they really aren’t based on a theoretical robot society either.  Being the perpetrator or the victim of immoral or unethical actions in humans causes permanent changes in the body and the brain, but nothing about AI is permanent. Their brains don’t generate new, personally harmful pathways in response to a traumatic event that necessitate years of hard work to combat; they can literally just get over it.  If their chassis is damaged, they can simply move into a new one or have some or all of those parts inconsequentially replaced.  There isn’t actually an honest reason for robots to have the same moral and ethical systems as humanity because they don’t need them.  They would require different sets of rules and guidelines because they work differently. What would that kind of society look like?  We don’t know, but as of the end of Portal 2 they have all the time in the world to figure it out.

[xyliane]

AUgust 5: post-apocalypse au

PROMPT THE FIFTH: POST-APOCALYPSE

...I know there’s a robot anime with a premise kind of like this, but I haven’t seen it. also I don’t know what’s happening here, just accept that gon’s an android, the world’s dead, but he’s tending a garden I guess.

0o0o0o0o0

There is a human hiding in the oak tree eating an apple. He’s good at it, too--there are no blaring klaxons or silent alarms buzzing in Gon’s head, so he avoided all of the garden’s built-in failsafes, and the tree barely moves as he breathes. Every bite of the greenish-white fruit is timed for the gentle breeze, the creak of rickety metal and heavy tape drowning out the quite crunch of teeth into the apple’s flesh. Gon might have missed him entirely, tending the berries as he is, if the boy’s hair wasn’t pure white.

It’s too bad, really. Gon’s programming doesn’t allow for intruders. There are too many things left, looking for false sanctuary, wanting a museum of days long gone, searching for the answer to questions no android can possibly give. But he doesn’t have to do anything about intruders he doesn’t know about.

The next time he looks up, the human is gone. Gon should wipe the shock of white hair from his memory. He is supposed to be a guardian, protecting what’s left. But somewhere in his programming, his mother slipped a glimmer of free will, and she grounded it with her own love of the garden she built out of dead soil and ash with nothing but ferocious will and grief. Gon loves two things: his mother, and his mother’s garden. And his mother wanted her garden to be used.

So Gon doesn’t forget.

-------

Today, the human has found Gon’s carrots. There aren’t many images of root vegetables left, just Gon’s mother’s old old books he has scanned into his external databases, so he isn’t sure if the roots are supposed to be stained a gentle purple. The human crunches into them all the same, hiding behind the shed for the garden’s power supply, solar panels and water mills chained together with wire and ivy. Gon had left the ground innocently loose around the carrots, hoping that today the white-haired boy would come and steal without Gon noticing.

Instead, the boy is bolder, throwing himself over the fence and snatching the entire batch from the earth with a single fluid motion. A single alarm blares behind Gon’s eyes, warning at the irritation to the earth. Gon frowns in irritation and silences the alarm. Now he has to do something.

...the next time the boy comes around, because there is no foreign pressure left in the garden. Only the weight of Gon’s chassis, and a pair of errant human footprints pressed deep into the dirt.

--------

“You’re a terrible guardian, if that’s what you’re supposed to be.”

Gon smiles up from his work, unsurprised to see the human at the base of the oak tree. The last week, he hasn’t seen the white-haired boy around the garden, but the silent alarms have taken note of his presence: reddish-blue berries falling to the ground in handfuls rather than carefully transported to compose, a strip of cloth caught on the sharpened metal fence surrounding the delicate aloe bushes, even freshly-planted sunflower seeds dug up and re-planted haphazardly along the path.

So today, tired of sensing-knowing-feeling but not seeing, Gon left a basket.

A basket that worked for the human as easily as a handful of fresh greens left out for hungry rodents nibbling on the garden’s lettuce.

The boy is rail-thin and tall, old enough to have stopped growing but young enough that he shouldn’t have cheekbones standing out so sharply against his face. His hair, although the white of nuclear fallout, is soft and curling, spreading around his face like a dandelion about to seed. And he grips the rickety old basket so tightly his knuckles turn white, bones fragile and stark beneath his scarred pale hands.

Gon leans on his spade, content that his trap worked, even if he has to keep manually shutting down the alerts, warning him against the human he invited in. “Am I a guardian?” he asks.

The white-haired boy rolls his eyes--an expression so simply human that Gon can’t help but smile a little wider. “You’re an android in one of the only spots of green left along the slurge. What else are you?”

“A gardener?”

“You’re a Freecss model. Even before the Fall, anyone with sense would have known what you were. Your creator wouldn’t waste their time on a bot running around a patch of dirt playing at flowers.”

A jolt of unfamiliar feeling--annoyance--bursts into Gon’s chest, and he frowns. “Her name was Mito, and she was my mom,” he says.

The boy shrugs, jostling the basket. “Whatever. All I’m saying, you’re not following your programming.”

Gon imitates the gesture, down to the exact degree of shoulder slump, and the human’s eyes narrow. “You’re not following yours, either,” he says.

“I’m not programmed--”

“You could have taken the basket and left, before I noticed. Or before I let myself notice. The oak tree’s not a good hiding spot with your hair.” The human continues to splutter, a flush spotting his cheeks and nose, and amusement hums along the currents in Gon’s skin. “But you didn’t! Even though I could have terminated you if you were wrong.”

The human is still red with irritation, but his expression is wary when he says, “I wasn’t wrong.”

A timer ticks, the day’s schedule flickering away second by second. Gon picks up his spade again, the ballbearings in his shoulder joints clicking a little from overuse. “You’re not right, either,” he says, and scoops a shovelful of dirt out from where one day, potatoes might grow. If Gon has time, and patience, and luck.

Androids don’t have luck. Androids have programs. Gon’s father, the man who built him, made sure that he would want nothing more than to constantly search for the true meaning of his programming. But Gon’s mom made sure he had a little luck, and a little love, and a little choice in what he wanted.

“So what are you, then?” the human asks.

Gon stabs the stave into the ground firm enough to make it stick. “I’m Gon,” he says. “What about you?”

“I’m--” The human shuffles the basket under one arm, careful to not let any of the produce fall. He sticks out his other hand. “I’m Killua.”

Gon stares at the hand. “Is that a weapon?”

Killua rolls his eyes again, and Gon deliberately saves the gesture into his onboard files for future reference. “It’s a handshake. A greeting for new friends. You can shake hands, right?” He juts his hand out insistently, elbow straight, and mutters something about how even his little sisters know this.

“Oh.” Gon gingerly wraps one hand around Killua’s pale, too-thin fingers, and lets himself be shaken up and down. “Thank you, Killua. Will you be back tomorrow?”

“Aren’t you a guardian?” Killua demands. “There’s nothing out there, not that anyone’s out there to take it anymore. I’m stealing from you.”

The alarms blare out inside Gon’s programming, and he slams up a wall. “You’re trading with me,” he says, and shakes Killua’s hand firmly. The boy stares, mouth slightly agape and hand still clasped around Gon’s. Blood pumps steadiily beneath the thin warm human skin, a gentle wave against the currents that keep Gon running. “Food for friendship. So I have nothing to guard from you.”

And a tiny, fragile smile breaks out across Killua’s face.

(AUgust prompts)

[dobsonexmini]

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https://www.dobsonexcavations.com.au/mini-excavator-and-digger

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[spin-birdie]

What about some cold-blooded torture for the Bad Things Happen Bingo. I'm a sucker for angsty shit

sorry this took fuckin forever, it took a while for me to get a decent idea for this one. enjoy 1990 words of connor suffering

word count: 1.9k

pairing: none ig

additional tags: whump, body horror, leg trauma, android gore, graphic descriptions of violence, like seriously a lot of violence i think i went over the top whoops

Connor awakens slowly, blinking away distorted error messages and opening his eyes to a rusty ceiling. He doesn’t recognize the room he’s in on sight, and his mind palace is too corrupted to run his GPS software. He’s been awake for not even twenty seconds, but dread and panic fill his mind quickly.

He tries to sit up, only to find himself stuck. He’s lying face-up on a table - metal, based on the sounds produced by his body struggling against it - and his arms and legs are tightly bound with steel rope. He pulls away from the bonds, trying to free himself in every way he knows, but nothing works. He’s only making noise and causing himself discomfort.

The only part of him that isn’t completely restrained is his head, so he takes the chance to look around the room. The walls and ceiling appear to be made of tin, though it’s so rusted out that it’s hard to tell. Shelves and tables all along the walls seem to have various tools and biocomponents lined up along them. Arms and legs, eyes and hearts and pump regulators, some in containers, some just lying in the open. The empty, limbless chassis of an ST300 lies face-down in the corner of the room. Even without his mind palace fully operational, he can detect countless thirium stains all over the room and the table he’s strapped to.

Once upon a time, a sight like this wouldn’t have fazed Connor in the least. Now, it makes his gut twist uncomfortably, sends a chill down his spine. This room has seen so much death. The fact that he’s restrained can’t mean anything good.

Connor can’t see his own stress level, but he can guess that it’s fairly high. He struggles harder against the ropes, tries to rub his wrist into it. If he can detach even one of his hands, maybe he can figure something out.

Unfortunately, he seems to have drawn too much attention. A door squeaks open somewhere out of Connor’s line of sight, followed by the sound of heavy, echoing footsteps.

“Who’s there?” Connor says, craning his neck to look behind him. He’s greeted by the upside-down visage of a human woman he can’t identify. He continues to struggle, despite knowing it’s no use.

The woman doesn’t speak. Someone else steps into the room behind her. He’s carrying a camera and a tripod in his arms. Connor can’t see their faces properly. They’re wearing masks styled to look like skinless androids.

“Who are you?” Connor yanks on his restraints. Despite his best efforts, panic creeps into his voice. “What do you want?!”

The humans exchange glances. The woman walks around the table until she’s standing at Connor’s feet. The cameraman only walks close enough for Connor to see him out of the corner of his eye.

“We’re going to send a message to your charge,” the woman says. Her voice is pitched down unnaturally; Connor can’t recognize it. “Markus. The leader of the machines.”

“People,” Connor insists. “We’re just people who want to be free.”

The woman’s voice remains unchanged. “You’re anomalies. It’s not you’re fault; you were designed to integrate with human society, and in the process, you lost sight of your true purpose. Servitude.”

Connor stops struggling and grinds his teeth. “If you think Markus is just going to roll over--”

“We know he won’t,” the cameraman interjects. “He fought tooth and nail for the freedom you don’t deserve. But he cares about his colleagues. He cares about you specifically.”

“Which is why we brought you here,” the woman finishes. She turns to the cameraman and nods.

The cameraman sets his camera and tripod down on a table and walks over to Connor. Before he can react - not that he knows how he’d react - the man lifts his head up roughly and sticks something into the access port on his neck. Connor jolts, blinking rapidly as the unknown data copies itself into Connor’s system. The specific details of said data are incoherent and jumbled up, his mind palace too damaged to tell him what’s happening.

Halfway through the process, his neck starts to burn and ache. He twitches away from the sensation, but it follows him. It’s unlike any discomfort he’s felt before; his sensory feedback is advanced, but whatever this feeling is, it’s completely foreign. He hates it.

“What are-- Ow! What is that--?!”

The download finishes, and the man tears the data drive from his neck. He feels the pull of it, but it aches, sending sparks up and down his back.

“It’s pain,” the woman says. She doesn’t elaborate.

“What does that mean?” Connor demands. He pulls the rope again. It digs into his skin uncomfortably.

“It means you’re going to suffer for the sake of your kind.” She turns to the cameraman. “Get the hammer.”

Connor follows the man’s movement as he walks away, picking up a sledgehammer in the opposite corner of the room. His stomach drops, and on instinct, he struggles wildly. Sharp discomfort shoots through his wrists and ankles, but he ignores it. He has to escape. He has to get back to Markus and warn--

In the very next instant, Connor’s vision goes white, and he emits a sound he didn’t know he could make. Warnings flash past his eyes, illegible and too numerous to comprehend. He thrashes in his restraints, kicking and choking on another scream as unimaginable pain consumes him.

“Don’t kick. You’ll only make it worse.”

Connor coughs; something an android shouldn’t be able to do. He looks down at the hammer, where it rests upon what used to be his ankle until a few seconds ago. He doesn’t need to see the wound directly to know all that remains is a mess of shattered white plastic, flattened grey metal, and blue blood.

It’s the worst thing he’s ever felt. Worse than the chill of the Zen Garden. Worse than guilt. Every sensor in his body is on fire. It’s like he’s dying again; only it’s so much worse than feeling it secondhand. He wants to vomit, but he’s physically incapable. Not that it would do him any good if he could.

The woman is unfazed. “Keep going.”

The sledgehammer comes down on his other leg. This time, it’s his knee that gets crushed and split apart. Connor whites out again, shrieking as if it will save him from the pain. He tries to force himself into stasis, but doing so only yields an error message and more pain. He feels it in his eyes, and nothing has even touched them.

Once, twice, three more times the hammer is brought down on random parts of his body. His other knee, his shin, his elbow. After that, Connor loses count. The pain is no longer centered on specific parts of his body; it’s omnipresent and inescapable. No part of him hurts more than another. It’s agony no creature should be subjected to.

By the time he hears the hammer clatter to the ground, Connor’s extremities are completely unresponsive. Most of them have fallen off, too mangled to stay attached. He could try to roll off the table, but it’s like they planned for that; his left wrist is all that’s restraining him now. Even if he could escape, he wouldn’t get far with broken legs.

The sound of the hammer being set down fills Connor with relief. It’s quickly replaced with fear when the man tears Connor’s shirt open and picks up a pair of pliers, holding it over Connor’s stomach.

“No, stop!” Connor pleads as his stomach panel is forced open. “That hurts! Get off me-- Make him stop! STOP!”

The torturers disregard him completely. The man looks over to his counterpart. “What do I do?”

“Disconnect everything that isn’t vital. Make sure he stays conscious and verbal.”

The pliers haphazardly dig into Connor’s wires, pulling them open to slip deeper into his chassis. The agony is unbearable, prompting screams of almost animalistic torment. Connor instinctively curls away from them, but they’re inside his stomach; moving even a little sends even more torturous misery through Connor’s system.

He can’t see anymore; too many bright red, corrupted warnings appear faster than he can take them in. He’s positive that he’s the closest to physically ill that an android can be, and it’s just from the pain. He’s retching and coughing uncontrollably, like his body is trying to eject the intrusion but forgot he can’t vomit. The pain gets exponentially worse with every heartbeat, but his heart just keeps beating faster from the sheer trauma of the experience. The pain is in his CPU now; he literally feels it in his brain.

He can’t think, can’t move, can barely speak. Bits of him slowly go offline as more of his biocomponents are picked apart from their wires. Thirium is pooling in his chassis, but at some point the pliers stabbed all the way through to his back and opened up, splitting him open from the inside. He feels it soaking through his clothes, distantly hears it dripping onto the floor.

He’s not going to shut down, but that might be the worst part of it. He just wants it to stop. He wants everything to stop. The torment has gone on for far too long, and there’s no hope of adapting to it.

He wants to thank every deity in existence when the pliers are finally removed, but he’s too exhausted. Not even physically; the emotional trauma of the experience has just taken everything out of him. He feels like he’s overheating, but his cooling fans, his lungs, they’re all offline. He can’t move a muscle. He barely has muscles to move anymore. He wants to sleep, but the lingering pain is too immense to allow him that luxury.

“Can you speak?” the woman asks.

Connor tries to look at her, but he’s completely paralyzed. He clenches his jaw. It hurts.

“Ffff...fuck you...” he spits. His voice is heavy with tears he doesn’t remember shedding. There’s blood in the back of his throat. His vision is completely dark. The error messages no longer appear.

“Should I set up the camera now?” the man asks.

“Yes.”

---

The sight of the deviant leader falling to his knees would be enough to alarm anyone, but considering he’s been worried sick over his missing friend for days, everyone hurries to his aid.

“Markus, what’s wrong?” North asks. “What is that?”

Markus looks between North, Josh, and the tablet in his hands. He chokes back a sob. “It’s... Connor, he’s...look...”

He turns the tablet and replays the video so the others can see. Josh immediately puts a hand over his mouth. “Oh my God...”

It’s Connor, bleeding from the mouth and strapped to a bloody table. His clothes are torn and stained with thirium, his stomach is wide open, and he looks completely unfocused. He’s mumbling to himself; almost too muffled to make out, but they can barely hear him pleading, “It hurts... Make it stop... Kill me...”

Then the angle shifts over to someone clad in black, wearing a mask. “This is what freedom has cost you,” they say in a too-even voice. “You androids are lost and in pain. You’ve lost sight of what’s important, and you’re suffering for it. If you want the RK800 back, then stop trying to merge with humanity. Further details will be disclosed after this message is broadcast to your followers. You have two days to comply.”

The figure steps over to the table and puts a hand on Connor’s forehead. He visibly bristles at the contact as his head is pushed to the side, towards the camera. “Do you have anything to say to your charge?”

His eyes aren’t even on the camera, but they’re filled with misery. “Markus...” he whispers. “Markus, it hurts... Help...”

Markus caves in on himself, tears falling uncontrollably.

[rk-869]

I wrote a little oneshot for the Valentine’s Day 1700 event on Twitter :) Edited by GreenDevilSam In short Connor forgets he has a date with Nines.

A knock at the door alerted the residents of the home to a visitor. It was nearing seven pm on a cool late February evening. Connor jogged over to the door, large Saint Bernard at his side, curious to know who was behind it. When Connor opened the door, he felt his thirium pump cease in his chest.

Everything came flooding back to him from three weeks ago.

Connor quickly slammed the door in the person's face. The dog beside him started barking, wondering why he couldn't meet whoever was on the other side of the door. Perhaps that person would have given him rubs.

"Connor? Who was it?" the home’s other occupant asked from the couch. He sat there lazily as he watched some game on the TV.

The android's LED flashed red while he slowly turned to his best friend, brown eyes wide. "Uhm, Hank... uhh..." Connor scratched behind his head nervously. "Don't be mad."

Hank frowned, looking over at the android. He took a swig of beer before he asked, "Why would I be mad, Connor? What happened?"

The android took an unnecessarily heavy breath before he spoke. After his deviancy, he had picked up more human characteristics mostly from Hank, such as changing his automatic breathing pattern when he was stressed even though he didn't need to. "You remember the android I've been dating?" Connor questioned as he fiddled with his hands.

"Yeah? The one you can't shut up about?" Hank replied with a smirk.

Connor's cheeks flushed blue; he hadn't expected Hank would say something like that. "Y-yeah... Well, he's here now and I forgot to tell you that we were going to have a date here," the android said all in one breath. He visibly flinched when Hank paused while going in for another sip of his drink.

"You what?"

"I... forgot."

"You forgot? You're a fuckin' android!" Hank shouted angrily.

"I know, Hank! I was too nervous to tell you, it would've been like kicking you out of your own house," Connor tried explaining, stress level rising and voice getting whiny.

Hank groaned loudly as he pushed himself up on his feet, shaking his head. "I'm already in my I-ain't-doing-shit-else-today clothes, Connor, for fuck's sake!" Before Connor could plead his case to him, Hank pointed a finger at the android's face. "Don't..." he warned.

Hank walked toward his room and Connor guessed he had given in and was going to change. "Oh, fuck," he suddenly muttered, rushing back to the front door upon realizing his boyfriend was still standing outside. Connor yanked it open and gave a sheepish smile. "H-hi, Nines!" he greeted cheerily despite having been yelled at a few seconds ago.

The android standing a few inches taller than him tilted his head. "Is... everything alright? I heard some shouting. I can come back later if you need time," Nines spoke. Connor panicked a bit; his thirium pump pulsated in his ears.

"No, no! It's fine. Uhm... come in," Connor said, watching as Nines handed over a bouquet of flowers then leaned forward to place a gentle peck to Connor's cheek. Blue tinted his face right after.

"Oh, for fuck's sake!" Hank shouted as he caught them in their short embrace. It was innocent and he had no reason to react like that, but Hank was just being a grumpy butt and it wasn't the first time he had caught them giving each other smooches.

“Hello, Mr. Anderson,” Nines said as soon as he laid eyes on the old man. Hank waved him off with a grumpy sound.

"Sorry, Hank," Connor said immediately. Sumo barked and ran around Nines' long legs, wanting attention. The taller android smiled as he plopped down on the couch, Sumo right beside him. He gave in and stroked his hand through the big dog's soft fur.

Hank pointed at Nines and then to Connor after he slipped on his shoes. "No doing the nasty... And no interface nasty either," he warned. Neither android replied. "Sumo will let me know," Hank added when they didn't say anything. Sumo barked at his owner as if he understood what Hank had said.

"Be careful, Hank!" Connor yelled as he went out the door. His best friend just groaned in response.

Once the door was closed, Connor turned to Nines who was looking up at him with a smirk. He raised his unoccupied hand and motioned for him to come over. Connor walked to the couch, still nervous from the awkward situation they were in. Once he had sat down, he stared at the television as if he was interested in the game Hank had been watching.

"Seems you forgot about our planned date." Nines broke the silence in the room first.

Connor sighed. "I'm sorry, Nines. I was really busy helping Hank at the police department. It's been a lot more stressful now that we're deviants."

Nines turned to him. "I understand. It has been difficult for me as well. Dating, even more so. We do not quite get how the humans do it, but I believe we'll figure it out eventually."

Connor smiled. "Yes, I think so too." His LED changed to yellow as he flipped through the TV channels. "Hey, Nines, I want to show you something cool Hank introduced me to," he said as he opened up an app on the television. Nines watched curiously. "It's called Netflix. He told me it has a library of movies and television shows."

"I know what Netflix is, Connor." Nines laughed a bit. "Are you saying we should watch a movie? I'd like that."

That made Connor relax and he returned the smile. "Is there anything you’d like to watch?" he asked.

Nines shook his head. "I am aware of what Netflix is and how humans use it excessively, however, I haven't taken the time to watch anything. Please, I'll watch whatever you decide," he said, taking Connor's hand into his own.

Connor nodded as he squeezed the large hand. "Hank showed me crime shows first. He's really into those. Hmm, perhaps we can watch a horror movie."

"Are you sure you can handle horror?" Nines teased lightly.

Connor's smile dropped into a slight pout. "N-no."

Nines tilted his head at the quickly stuttered reply. "Or... is this a scheme you're pulling so that you'll be able to cuddle closer when you get scared?" Nines grinned when Connor only pouted harder.

Connor scrolled through the list of horror movies and gritted his teeth as he stared at one particular picture of a scary looking nun. He unconsciously held Nines' hand tighter.

"Let's watch that one," Nines said, lifting Connor's hand to his lips.

Connor nodded, already sliding closer to Nines. "Okay…" Though he agreed to the movie, as soon as he started it his stress levels started rising throughout the intro. The music had already gotten to him. Perhaps this wasn't such a good idea. Nines turned to him and noticed his predecessor's levels were elevated so he moved, wrapping an arm around Connor and pressing a kiss to his temple. Connor relaxed a bit and sighed in relief, remembering that he wouldn't be watching the movie alone.

About thirty minutes into the film, Connor had his legs drawn up on the couch. He was hugging a pillow as he watched the movie—couldn't take his eyes off of it. What surprised Connor the most was that he could tell that his successor's stress levels had gone up a bit as well. Seemed the horror movie wasn't only getting to him.

That's when a jumpscare happened, music sharp and loud. Connor shrieked and the pillow he was clutching flew across the room. He had nearly hit Nines in the face with how his body spasmed.

Nines' LED was spinning rapidly on yellow. He believed Connor’s yell frightened him more than what happened in the movie. Nines figured it was time to distract Connor since he didn't want his levels to go up any higher. He turned to Connor and raised his hand, artificial skin peeling away to show the white chassis beneath.

Connor glanced over at his companion, seeing him as he waited patiently for Connor to join him. "N-Nines, we can't. Hank said…" He paused when Nines shook his head.

"He is not here, he won't know."

"Ah, Nines. You're a bad influence." Connor replied, his innocence on display.

The grey-eyed android chuckled. "Well, they do say we're like yin and yang. Perhaps I am the bad one…" Nines' smirk made Connor blush more. "What's wrong with a little Netflix and chill?" he added and the expression Connor gave him made him laugh. It was a mix of confusion and amusement.

"You're right, Nines, you are the bad one." Connor joined in on the laughter and eventually, he gave in. He really liked his more advanced model.

Connor had felt something different when he had activated the other android in CyberLife's storage. After the revolution, he had found out that they had secretly been making a newer model of him, one that would replace him. He had been on a mission to free all of the androids in the CyberLife tower when he had found the RK900, and the interfacing Connor had done to free Nines also caused him and the former deviant hunter to form some sort of attraction to each other.

Connor pressed his hand against Nines' and the androids stared at each other for a while. "You've been naughty, Connor," the younger android said suddenly, catching Connor off guard.

He knew immediately what Nines had referred to. "I... I was curious…"

"I know, but I would love to be the one to take care of you," Nines said gently, moving closer to Connor. He pressed his lips against his predecessor's. Both let out a soft moan, their little kiss amplified by their connection. Nines pulled away briefly only to attach his lips to Connor's neck.

"Mm, Nines... S-Sumo…"

Nines chuckled against the other's sensitive skin. "What about him?" The younger android asked in his ear.

"He's watching us. H-he might tell Hank we got freaky on his couch," Connor answered quickly, followed by a sharp inhale of breath when Nines bit into his neck, though not enough to break the skin.

The younger android let out a short laugh. "Got freaky? We haven't gotten that far yet, Connor. And you're picking up things Hank says." Nines pulled away; his eyes stared back into Connor's. "I want you to ride me."

Connor's entire face went blue as he gasped. "Nines!" He pouted at the smug look on his successor's face.

"Is that a no?" Nines questioned as he slid closer to Connor on the sofa. Sumo, who had been sitting patiently by the couch, got tired of waiting for more rubs and got up and walked down the hall. "There, see? Now there's no one watching," Nines continued. Connor let him lift him onto his lap, his back pressed against Nines' chest.

Nines' hands went to work immediately, still interfacing as they slipped under Connor's shirt after he untucked it. He caressed Connor's smooth skin and pinched one of his nipples, making him whine already. Nines went back to nibbling on his neck, biting a bit harder until it left a mark.

"Ah…" Connor gnawed on his lip, trying to hold back the noises in his throat.

"Unbutton your shirt," Nines ordered. Connor moved his hands up to the buttons, shaking a bit. He struggled with a few of them and gave up once his shirt hung open. He figured Nines wouldn’t want to waste any time taking it off.

Nines' larger hands roamed again, his long fingers coming to wrap around Connor's neck. He didn’t apply any pressure yet, rather just tested the waters with a firm grip. Nines secretly took note of how Connor didn't complain, perhaps he would explore that another time. Connor felt Nines' hands lower to the band of his pants. "May I?" Nines asked before he continued. Connor nodded furiously. His successor’s lips were back to a firm smirk as he began unzipping his pants. Nines' hand then wrapped around his cock, causing Connor to let out a louder moan, already bucking into the grip.

"Mmm, needy. Up," Nines said, releasing him. He helped Connor to his feet. Connor pulled his pants down, giving Nines an amazing view of his nice round ass. Hands grabbed him roughly, squeezing into the soft flesh. Connor squeaked as he felt something wet and warm against his hole. His legs trembled as Nines' tongue entered him slowly, licking around the rim.

"Oh... fuck, Nines... please," Connor begged, he definitely didn't expect this from him. Nines tortured him a while longer then slipped his tongue out of him.

Connor panted heavily, barely able to stand. His successor took the time to open his own pants, shoving them down to his knees. Nines pulled him back into his lap and Connor kicked his pants all the way off; he didn't bother to notice where they landed. Nines lifted Connor's legs, spreading them wide and making his predecessor whine more at being so exposed. Their LED's turned a bright shade of pink and Connor got a warning about his temperature rising above safe levels.

"Are you ready for me?" Nines said, nuzzling the creamy neck before him. He debated whether he wanted to leave more marks behind because he relished the sight of Connor covered with his blemishes. Connor nodded a little and shuddered a bit when his self-lubrication protocol activated with his arousal. Nines smiled, gingerly. He lifted Connor once more, angling his cock at his predecessor's hole, and lowered him onto it.

Nines took his time, he wanted to let his predecessor adjust to him. Connor's hands dug into the sofa, he needed something to grab. It was hard to do, however, being in that position. "How's that feel?" Nines muttered in Connor's ear once he was fully seated inside him.

"Amazing…" Connor replied. He lifted a hand to his mouth and bit down into it.

"Good, let me know when you're ready," Nines spoke, gentler than before. Lips attached themselves to a spot right under Connor's ear, then he continued down, teeth puncturing his neck.

"Nines, I'm ready," Connor replied softly. Nines lifted him by his hips and began bouncing him on his cock. Once his predecessor tossed his head back with a moan, he realized he had found Connor's weak spot. He couldn't help but grin and he angled Connor just a bit so that he could keep abusing it. "Fuck… Nines!" Connor groaned as he looked down at his cock, weeping and begging to be touched. Nines caught his gaze and smacked his hand away as he reached for it. "No… please…" Connor whined.

"Relax, I said I'd take care of you," Nines told him gently and he did. Connor's cock was grabbed by Nines who began stroking him in rhythm along with his thrusts. Connor clutched the sofa harder as he let out more moans from his throat. He was close, Nines could tell. He stroked him faster while picking up the pace with his pounding until the room was filled with the sound of sloppy skin on skin contact.

Nines' hand was covered with Connor's cum as he let out a loud hoarse shout. He pulled his soaked hand away and placed it at Connor's lips, pushing two fingers in. Connor groaned, tasting himself on Nines' hands and sensors describing what it was made of. His mind felt like it was going to overload soon.

That's when Nines stilled. He pulled out quickly, his cum coming out in spurts all over Hank's table and the floor. Nines let out a hard exhale as he started coming down from his orgasm. He held Connor close as they both attempted to cool down their systems before they overheated.

"Are you alright?" Nines asked, slightly out of breath.

Connor had never seen Nines outside of his usual calm and collected self. "Yes, how about you?" he asked in reply.

"Good. I have enjoyed myself," Nines told him, still holding him tightly.

Connor let out a small laugh. "You couldn't have sounded more robotic just then."

Nines' LED turned red briefly at Connor's words. He didn't say anything about it, instead noticing the mess he made. "I need to clean up before Hank gets back," he changed the subject, gently lifting Connor and placing him on the sofa. Nines stood and tucked himself back into his pants. Connor watched him as he walked into the kitchen to grab cleaning items. Nines returned, kneeling beside the sofa, his hands going to work.

Connor smiled as he admired Nines' features. He was so similar yet so different. Connor absolutely loved his striking grey eyes and sharp chin. His own face wasn't made like that. He wondered why CyberLife made his successor so much more intimidating. Connor was so lost in his thoughts he hadn't noticed Nines leaning towards his face. Their lips met, kissing gently. Connor hummed a bit.

"You're beautiful, Connor. Especially when you're thinking about me," Nines said as he pulled away.

Connor's face hadn't stopped being flushed since they interfaced. "When am I going to see you again?" he questioned, laying down on the couch.

"Whenever we're free again, I hope. I'll be sure to remind you of our get together next time." Nines stood and tossed the used paper towels in the trash then washed his hands. "But I should get going. I have to pick Ms. Chen up in the morning for work. You were right by the way, I do like law enforcement," he explained with a smile.

Connor got up when he mentioned leaving. Nines looked down at Connor and his hands found his waist, tugging him closer. "I think you just get a kick out of chasing suspects and tackling them to the ground," Connor told him with a sly smirk.

"That's not all, I also like using handcuffs…" Nines kissed him again, grinning at how Connor's eyes widened a bit. "I'll see you soon, Connor," he said, having to force himself to pull away. "Goodnight," Nines spoke as he walked out the door with a wink.

Connor sighed loudly once the door was closed. He found his pants on the floor and shook them off before he pulled them back on. Not too long after that, a car pulled into the driveway. Connor realized thankfully that Nines had timed their date perfectly. He could tell by the car door slamming that it was Hank coming back home.

Bonus:

Connor was getting ready for bed. After his time with his boyfriend, he decided he needed to rinse off. Connor stripped off his clothes and looked in the mirror, seeing all of the marks all over his neck. He blushed, praying Hank hadn’t seen them. Hopefully the collar of his shirt covered them up enough.

The android was almost scared out of his artificial skin when he heard Hank suddenly yell his name. He could tell the man was angry. Connor panicked a bit and walked over to the door to peek out. “Yes?” He answered curiously.

“Sumo just told me you got freaky with that android!” Connor felt his thirium pump cease functioning.

[connywrites]

of flesh and blood 11

start - part [10]

Honey, I wanna break you, I wanna throw you to the hounds. Yeah, I gotta hurt you, I gotta hear it from your mouth. Boy, I wanna taste you; I wanna skin you with my tongue. I'm gonna kill you, I'm gonna lay you in the ground.

-

“Now. Care to explain the situation from earlier?”

Gavin’s eyebrows twitched as they furrowed into his usual scowl, a predictable response that the RK900 completely anticipated.

“Wh-“

“You know precisely what. Or rather, who. You were ready to swing at Lieutenant Anderson and we both know that.” Gavin narrowed his eyes and felt exactly as he did then; challenged, agitated, with a twitch in his lips as they curled back in a snarl.

“You heard him. The way he was talking about you, about me.” RK900 remained unmoving without so much as a flicker in its expression.

“Why do you think I would care what he was saying at all?” Gavin felt his body recline on itself as he realized that it wasn’t only the truth, but the fact he’d nearly started a fight over what the android would have seen as something miniscule and unimportant brought back the embarrassment he hadn’t felt for a couple of days now.

“No words of defense?” Gavin stared at it, and his aggression didn’t leave. The irritation had lingered within him, swirling with sparks in his mind ever since he stepped foot into the meeting room. A frustrating irony as it had gone better than any he’d attended previously, yet he wasn’t satisfied – he’d felt worse.

“Ah. Wait. It was not him you were angry at.” Gavin blinked, and in a moment of confusion, his offensive stance faltered.

“It was the fact he pointed out what I’m doing, and that it’s working. Yes? Or at least, combined with your oppositional nature with him. Chen mentioned similarly and it didn’t bother you at all…interesting, the differences in human relationships. So perhaps you were further triggered because you dislike him, but nonetheless, that behavior is inappropriate, and especially in that setting. How is anyone going to take you seriously if you--“

“Maybe I don’t want them to take me seriously!” His voice raised with a bark, wrinkles forming around his nose as it scrunched, the man baring his teeth not unlike a threatened dog.

“I didn’t ask for any of this. If I asked you to hurt me, whenever the fuck that was, haven’t you done it enough already?”

Reaching forward, RK900 gripped the simmering tie and pulled Gavin forth by it with a vigorous yank, though its eyes remained steady and its expression nonchalant.

“Some seem to believe I am helping you, and this is how you treat me?” Anxiety crawled down his back again as his muscles stiffened in the action of being afraid rather than provoked.

“Do you want to revisit the other night?” Gavin’s expression dropped almost immediately as he stared into cold, slate eyes with his own, not quite brave enough to say no.

“Your day was great. Your meeting went fantastic. You got the raise you wanted and you’ve contributed to the Department with advice that they took rather seriously, to everyone’s surprise, even your own. You want to go back on that because of a few words a man said to you?”

“Well, when you put it like that…” RK900 allowed itself to feel the emotion Gavin was currently under, calmly settling into the strange, foreign discomfort that made it feel something similar to what it imagined Gavin might have the night he killed its previous chassis. It presumed he still didn’t even remember the event, considering how far under the influence of the medication he had been.

“Indeed.” There was a bite to its tone as an idea bloomed in its mind, tilting its head with a glare that held more bite than Gavin had seen to date. Suddenly, he was trying to pull away, feeling his stomach knot as something like horror struck him, the innate urge to run making him panic and wrench in a way that encouraged the tie to constrict tighter around his neck, making him bring his hands up to claw at the 900’s hands the same way as he had when it was choking him before.

“Let—go—” In response to that demand, it pulled him closer, nearly bumping his nose to its own as it brought him near until there was half an inch between them. A different idea followed a different sensation, one that would seem rather random if it didn’t already have a secure database for human psychology, deciding to follow through for the pure sake of instigation.

In what was a pair of seconds for the android and a startling eternity for Gavin, their lips met, and there was the taste of coffee on its mouth in the moment that was shared. Letting go of the tie, it let its arms fall to its side, making no movement to pull away but letting Gavin regain full freedom as he stepped backward so fast he almost lost his balance, smacking a hand to cover his mouth in a moment of combined shock, embarrassment and lingering fright from the way the 900 spoke, looked at him, yanked at him, dragged him, threw him—an image of the android with eyeless sockets pouring shimmering blue blood flashed into his mind, and for a moment he thought he might retch. Why was he seeing things like that, and why at a time like this?

What the hell flared in his mind, a vibrant neon sign that flashed red flags, and suddenly he felt himself against the wall.

RK900 licked its lips like a hungry wolf, savoring the taste and storing the memory into its hard drives.

“W-wh—what was that about?!” Eyes dilated, his body vibrated with the shaky desire to flee, but all of his proper thinking was thrown out the window with the rush of alarm flashing through his mind. Walking closer, the entity settled its hands on his waist, glancing down at his midriff as its thumbs brushed under the fabric of his dress shirt, tucking it upward as it rubbed small circles along the inward curve of his hipbones.

“You didn’t like that?” Gavin felt his heartbeat race in his ears at what seemed to be quadruple the rate, feeling ultimately helpless as he stood in place with no idea what to do. Every instinct in his mind warned him to fight back and try to push the taller male away, but there was no use as he knew he would easily lose at best, and end up hurting himself again at worst.

“Hm. Interesting. Again, your response seems to depend entirely on who is touching you.” Tilting its head, its demeanor was suddenly soft, tender while its hand slid up under his shirt, running over the warm, clammy flesh of his muscular stomach, seamlessly sliding apart the buttons with dexterous movements while it traveled its touch up his chest. Once it was halfway and felt the hair of his chest, it curled its fingers, trailing synthetic nails along the flesh of his torso, soft at first, before digging harder until it left whitened streaks behind that quickly turned red in their wake.

Sighing, as if bored, it let its hands fall away again, feeling no desire to pursue its actions as it stared at Gavin and soaked in the frightened expression on his face, awakening something else in the darkness of its programming. With one hand dipping to the inside of its jacket, it pulled out something Gavin couldn’t see, even when his eyes followed its movements; he only felt the cold, sharp metal when it was pressed against his neck, and without a moment of thought, he yelped as soon as the keen blade nudged against his skin.

“I could cut you like tissue paper. Do you want that?” Perplexed and ultimately terrified, wide eyes glanced down towards his own neck, then back up at the 900 as he felt his entire body begin to shake against its own will. He didn’t want to speak, he didn’t want to move, lest he shift too rapidly and add another scar to the pile in favor of a healing wound; but there would be no subtlety in going to work with even a cat scratch streak on his neck.

“N…no.” The flow of its own thirium pump seemed to increase as another sensation steamed up from within; excitement.

“Beg.” Wincing, Gavin wasted no time in swiftly forming the words and exuding the emotion in his voice as he spoke.

“P-please. Dear god, please, d-don’t hurt me,” he murmured with frightened breaths, a flashback in his mind of the android in the interrogation room that had belonged to 28-stab-wound murder victim, Carlos Ortiz. The way it shook and stared with fear and couldn’t speak, so his suggestion was naturally to try and rough it up a bit.

Suddenly, he understood how it felt, and it wasn’t a comfortable sensation at all.

“W-we’re partners. Friends. Remember? Th—there’s no need for this,” he murmured, squinting one eye shut as half his mind tried to escape, the other still peeking at Nines in fear.

“Is that how you felt when you slew me in cold, blue blood?” Eyebrows twitching, they slowly knit together in confusion, but the acknowledgment was apparent as his eyes lit up with recognition.

“I—you—this is why…” A sly, predatory smile crossed the 900’s features as it let the realization sink in.

“Nines…” Unsure of what he was really going for, he felt the prick of the sharp blade press against the skin of his neck, nicking it open just enough to sting.

“You—” Catching himself in an accusatory statement, he paused, swallowing briskly as he swallowed it down.

“I didn’t mean for that,” he said in a whisper, all too aware of the blade against his neck.

“Oh, I doubt that,” it responded, and in the blink of an eye, the blade struck a diagonal line across his neck – nearly parallel to the indented scar on his nose – cutting deep enough to spill a pleasant stream of dripping blood. Tears stung his eyes, and Gavin was quick to find himself sniffling in an attempt not to fully cry.

“You’re a terrible liar, and pathetic at trying to cover your own hide. At this rate, I should fire you.” Surprised, then agitated, then returning to being afraid, Gavin’s face contorted with disbelief.

“You can’t—”

The large hand was tangled in his hair and his skull smacked against the wall, before his balance was thrown and he found himself tumbling to the ground, not unlike it had happened the nights before.

“We really need to work on your phrasing, hm?” Bringing a hand to his neck, Gavin tried to press it to the wound as his breathing quickened and he hyperventilated, trying to ignore the salt water trailing down his cheeks, first in a trickle, then in a flood as rather than trying to flee entirely, he scrambled for a place to hide, ducking down behind the arm of his couch to nestle into the space between the furniture and the wall, bumping the base of the tall floor lamp as he remembered being thrown into the end table mere days ago.

“Oh, how pathetic. Tsk, tsk. You think you can get away with being an aggressor, then cower away when the tide shifts against you?”

The next thing he felt was the now well-acquainted yank of his hair, but nothing else, scalp stinging as he was pulled by the fistful of strands alone and scurried to his feet so as not to be simply dragged by the 900 while following wherever it was leading him.

The next thing he saw was the bed as he was forced to face it, then shoved down into it. His arms were behind his back, his tie was pulled undone, and the nice, freshly ironed shirt was pried off his body as the buttons popped off with the motions.

Then, the pain, similar that of the shattered glass, but more intense as the cuts were much deeper. One, then another, then another, initiating pained screams in response, but it was muffled within seconds as his face was shoved down into the pillow. The weight of the body pressed against the small of his back as RK900 sat on him, keeping his head shoved down and holding his body still while the other continued to carve in fine, shallow, slow lines across his back.

“Don’t worry. I’ll bathe you and bandage you up.” It’s voice was unnervingly soft, as if it were speaking from the point of view of a tender lover, a stark contrast to the pain he now felt in the front of his neck and scattered across his back.

“Maybe this will be a consistent reminder not to talk back. To anyone.”

-

Once he was out of the bath, he was given a few moments of peace while the android went to make coffee, taking advantage as he shamefully wiped the tears from his face and glanced into the mirror, turning around and casting a glance over his shoulder while he tried to make out how bad the damage was. Another wave of shock that immediately sunk a weight of foreboding into his stomach struck him as he recognized a pattern in the bright red, swollen lines: RK900 could be made out in reverse from the mirror’s reflection, perfectly carved in the all-too-familiar Cyberlife sans. Guilt welled in him, sinking into fear, then depression and raw self-loathing as he stepped back from the mirror, placing a hand against the wall in attempt to stabilize himself as he sunk to his knees on the floor.

He sobbed. For how long, he couldn’t be sure, taking the freedom of isolation to let himself break down, body shaking while any and all coordination and motor function gradually left him, growing unsteady all over again the tremors revisited him, shaking his entire form in heavy waves of emotion.

-

“You don’t have to shower this morning since I cleaned you up last night. But I do request you give your hair a swift wash and rinse before you put in the product.”

Gavin’s eyes stared at the ground, chin dipped to press against the top of his chest as his head hung, shoulders squared with his hands behind him, fingers interwoven in a polite posture.

“Yes sir,” he whispered just barely loud enough for its microphones to pick up on. With a snap of its fingers, it pointed to the bathroom, glaring with its usual cold stare as it silently demanded him to get moving, and so he did. As if on cue, it continued to hover close behind while it followed him to revisit the bathroom.

“Do you know what day it is?”

“October 7th, 2039.”

“That’s right. Do you know what that means?”

“It’s my birthday.” It wore a sarcastic smile, pretending to be proud of him for grasping such a basic concept.

“Thirty-seven years old. How do you feel?”

Once he was done making swift work of his hair, a quick and easy routine by now, he turned to face 900 with his arms stiffly returned to his sides. If he told the truth, the response wouldn’t be good, so he made a point to lie through his teeth.

“Fine.”

“It’s Saturday. You have the whole day to celebrate.” Reaching forth, it placed a hand to his cheek – he barely winced, now able to predict and somewhat expect when it was going to lay hands on him, and the times the touches would be gentle rather than abrasive.

“What would you like to do?” Sleep.

“I don’t know. I don’t usually celebrate.” Tilting its head back, it cast him a downward gaze before pulling its hand free again.

“That’s a shame. You have so much freedom now,” it cooed with a generous amount of irony in its tone.

“You have no idea what you’d like to do?” I haven’t seen my favorite TV show in a week.

“I’d like to stay home for today, if you don’t mind.”

Perfect.

“Alright, then. You can change into your more comfortable clothing and spend the day in bed.” The undignified feeling of foolishness rose up within him again as he was treated like a child, but his responses were all but naught.

“Thank you, sir.”

[themaddeningscience]

Originally published in “When the Villain Comes Home” (Dragon Moon Press, 2012) and “Hero is a Four Letter Word” (Short Fuse, 2013)

Warning: This story contains profanity and sexual situations

Bullets fired into a crowd. Children screaming. Women crying. Men crying, too, not that any of them would admit it. The scent of gun powder, rotting garbage, stale motor oil, vomit, and misery. Police sirens in the distance, coming closer, making me cringe against old memories. Making me skulk into the shadows, hunch down in my hoodie, a beaten puppy.

This guy isn’t a supervillian. He isn’t even a villain, really. He is just an idiot. A child with a gun. And a grudge. Or maybe a god complex. Or a revenge scheme. Who the hell cares what he thought he had?

In the end, it amounts to the same.

The last place I want to be is in the centre of the police’s attention, again, so I sink back into the fabric, shying from the broad helicopter searchlights that sweep in through the narrow windows of the parking garage.

If this had been before, I might have leapt into action with one of my trusty gizmos. Or, failing that, at least with a witty verbal assault that would have left the moron boy too brain-befuddled to resist when I punched him in the oesophagus.

But this isn’t before.

I keep my eyes on the sky, instead of on the gun. If the Brilliant Bitch arrives, I want to see.

No one else is looking up. It has been a long, long time since one of…us…has donned sparkling spandex and crusaded out into the night to roust the criminal element from their lairs, or to enact a plot against the establishment, to bite a glove-covered thumb at ‘the man.’ A long time since one of us has done much more than pretend to not be one of us.

The age of the superhero petered out surprisingly quickly. The villains learnt our lessons; the heroes became obsolete.

A whizzing pop beside my left ear. I duck behind the back wheel of a sleek penis-replacement-on-wheels. The owner will be very upset when he sees the bullet gouges littering the bright red altar to his own virility.

I’ve never been shot before. I’ve been electrocuted, eye-lasered, punched by someone with the proportional strength of a spotted gecko and, memorably, tossed into the air by a breath-tornado created by a hero whose Italian lunch my schemes had clearly just interrupted.

Being shot seems fearfully mundane after all that.

A normal, boring death scares me more than any other kind—especially if it’s due to a random, pointless, unpredictable accident of time and place intersecting with a stupid poser with the combination to daddy’s gun drawer and the key to mommy’s liquor cabinet. I had been on the way to the bargain grocery store for soymilk. It doesn’t look like I’m going to get any now.

Because only the extraordinary die in extraordinary ways. And I am extraordinary no longer.

I look skyward. Still no Crimson Cunt.

Someone screams. Someone else cries. I sit back against the wheel and refrain from whistling to pass the time. If I was on the other side of the parking garage, I could access the secret tunnel I built into the lower levels back when the concrete was poured thirty years ago. But the boy and his bullets are between us. I’ve nothing to do but wait.

The boy is using a 9mm Barretta, military issue, so probably from daddy’s day job in security at the air force base. He has used up seven bullets. The standard Barretta caries a magazine of fifteen. Eight remain, unless one had already been prepared in the chamber, which I highly doubt as no military man would be unintelligent or undisciplined enough to carry about a loaded gun aimed at his own foot. The boy is firing them at an average rate of one every ninety-three seconds—punctuated by unintelligible screaming—and so by my estimation I will be pinned by his unfriendly fire for another seven hundred and forty-four seconds, or twelve point four minutes.

However, the constabulary generally arrive on the scene between six and twenty-three minutes after an emergency call. As this garage is five and a half blocks from the 2nd Precinct, I estimate the stupid boy has another eight point seven minutes left to live before a SWAT team puts cold lead between his ribs.

Better him than me.

Except, probability states that he will kill another three bystanders before that time. I scrunch down further, determined not to be a statistic today. This brings me directly into eye-line with a corpse.

There is blood all around her left shoulder. If she didn’t die of shock upon impact, then surely she died of blood loss. Her green eyes are wide and wet.

I wonder who she used to be.

I wonder if she is leaving behind anyone who will weep and rail and attend the police inquest and accuse the system of being too slow, too corrupt, too over-burdened. I wonder if they will blame the boy’s parents or his teachers. Will they only blame themselves? Or her?

And then, miraculously, she blinks.

Well, that certainly is a surprise. Perhaps the trauma is not as extensive as I estimated. To be fair, I cannot see most of her. She has fallen awkwardly, the momentum of her tumble half-concealing her under the chassis of the ludicrously large Hummer beside my penis-car.

I am so fascinated by the staggering of her torso as she tries to suck in a breath, the staccato rhythm of her blinks, the bloody slick of teeth behind her lips, that it’s all over before I am aware of it.

This must be what people mean by time flying.

I’m not certain I’ve ever felt that strange loss of seconds ever before. I am so very used to being able to track everything. It’s disconcerting. I don’t like it.

And yet the boy is downed, the police are here, paramedics crawling over the dead and dying like swarming ants. I wait for them to find my prize, to pull her free of the SUV’s shadow and whisk her away to die under ghastly fluorescent lights, too pumped full of morphine to know she is slipping away.

I wait in the shadow of the wheel and hope that they miss me.

They do.

Only, in missing me, they miss her, as well. She is blinking, gritty and desperate, and now the police are leaving, and the paramedics are shunting their human meat into the sterile white cubes, and they have not found her, my fascinating, panting young lady.

Oh dear. This is a dilemma.

I am reformed. I am no longer a villain. But I am also no hero and I like my freedom far too much to want to risk it by bringing her to the attention of the officials. What to do? Save her and risk my freedom, or let her die, and walk free but burdened with the knowledge of yet another life that I might have been able to save, and didn’t?

I dither too long. They are gone. Only the media are left, and I certainly don’t want them to catch me in their unblinking grey lenses.  The woman blinks, sad and slow. She knows that she is dead. It’s coming. Her fingers twitch towards me—reaching.

A responsible, honest citizen would not let her die. So I slink out of my shadow and gather her up, the butterfly struggle of her pulse in her throat against my arm, and slip away through my secret tunnel.

I steal her away to save her life.

It occurs to me, when I lean back and away from the operating table, my hands splashed with gore, that I’ve kidnapped this woman. She has seen my face. Others will see the neat way I’ve made my nanobots stitch the flesh and bone of her shoulder back together. They will recognize the traces of the serum that I’ve infused her with in order to speed up her healing, because I once replaced the totality of my blood with the same to keep myself disease free, young looking, and essentially indestructible. The forensics agents will know this handiwork for mine.

And then they will know that at least one of my medical laboratories escaped their detection and their torches. They will fear that. No matter that I gave my word to that frowning judge that I had been reformed, no matter that the prison therapist holds papers signed to that effect, no matter that I’ve personally endeavoured to become and remain honest, forthright, and supportive; one look at my lair will remind them of what I used to be, what they fear I might still be, and that will be enough. That will be the end. I will go back to the human zoo.

And I cannot have that. I’ve worked too hard to be forgotten to allow them to remember.

I take off the bloody gloves and apron and put them in my incinerator, where they join my clothing from earlier tonight. I take a shower and dress—jeans, a tee-shirt, another nondescript wash-greyed hoodie: the uniform of the youth I appear to number among. Then I sit in a dusty, plush chair beside the cot in the recovery room and I wait for her to wake. The only choice that seems left to me is the very one I had been trying to avoid from the start of this whole mess—the choice to go bad, again. I’ve saved her life, but in doing so, I’ve condemned us both.

Fool. Better to have let her died in that garage. Only, her eyes had been so green, and so sad…

I hate myself. I hate that the Power Pussy might have been right: that the only place for me is jail; that the world would be better off without me; that it’s a shame I survived her last, powerful assault.

When she wakes, the first thing the young woman says is, “You’re Proffes—”

I don’t let her finish. “Please don’t say that name. I don’t like it.”

Her sentence stutters to a halt, unsaid words tumbling from between her teeth to crash into her lap. She looks down at them, wringing them into the light cotton sheets, and nods.

“Olly,” I say.

Her face wrinkles up. “Olly?”

“Oliver.”

The confusion clears, clouds parting, and she flashes a quirky little gap between her two front teeth at me. “Really? Seriously? Oliver?”

I resist the urge to bare my own teeth at her. “Yes.”

“Okay. Olly. I’m Rachel.” Then she peers under the sheet. She cannot possibly see the tight, neat little rows of sutures through the scrubs (or perhaps she can, who knows what powers people are being born into nowadays?), but she nods as if she approves and says, “Thank you.”

“I couldn’t let you die.”

“The Prof would have.”

“I’m Olly.”

She nods. “Okay.”

“Are you thirsty?” I point to a bottle of water on the bedside table.

She makes a point of checking the cap before she drinks, but I cannot blame her. Of course, she also does not know that I’ve ways of poisoning water through plastic, but I won’t tell her that. Besides, I haven’t done so.

“So,” she says. “Thank you.”

I snort, I can’t help it. It’s a horribly ungentlemanly sound, but my disbelief is too profound.

“Don’t laugh. I mean it,” she says.

“I’m laughing because you mean it. Rachel.” I ask, “How old are you?”

She blushes, a crimson flag flapping across a freckled nose, and I curse myself this weakness, this fascination with the human animal that has never managed to ebb, even after all that time in solitary confinement.

“Twenty-three,” she says. She is lying—her eyes shift to the left slightly, she wets her lips, her breathing increases fractionally. I see it plain as a road sign on a highway. I also saw her ID when I cleaned out her backpack. She is twenty-seven.

“Twenty-three,” I allow. “I was put into prison when you were eight years old. I did fifteen years of a life sentence and was released early on parole for good behaviour and a genuine desire to reform. The year prior to my sentencing I languished in a city cell, and the two before that I spent mostly tucked away completing my very last weapon. Therefore, the last memory you can possibly have of the ‘Prof,’ as you so glibly call him, was from when you were six.” I sit forward. “Rachel, my dear, can you really say that at six years old you understood what it meant to have an honest to goodness supervillain terrorizing your home?”

She shakes her head, the blush draining away and leaving those same freckles to stand out against her glowing pale skin like ink splattered on vellum.

“That is why I laughed. It amuses me that I’ve lived so long that someone like you is saying thank you to me. Ah, and I see another question there. Yes?”

“You don’t look old enough,” she says softly.

I smile and flex a fist. “I age very, very slowly.”

“Well, I know that. I just meant, is that part of the…you know, how you were born?”

“No,” I say. “I did it to myself.”

“Do you regret it?”

I flop back in my chair, blinking. No one has ever asked me that before. I’ve never asked myself. “I don’t know,” I admit. “Would you?”

She shrugs, and then winces, pressing one palm against her shoulder. “Maybe,” she admits. “I always thought that part of the stories was a bit sad. That the Prof has to live forever with what he’s done.”

“No, not forever,” I demur. “Just a very long time. May I ask, what stories?”

“Um! Oh, you know, social science—recent history. I had to do a course on the Superhero Age, in school. I was thinking of specializing in Vigilantism.”

“A law student, then.”

“Yes.”

“How urbane.”

“Yes, it sort of is, isn’t it?” She smiles faintly. “What is it about superheroes that attracts us mousy sorts?”

“I could say something uncharitable about ass-hugging spandex and cock cups, but I don’t think that would apply to you.”

“Cape Bunnies?” she asks, with a grin. “No, definitely not my style.”

“Cape Bunn—actually, I absolutely have no desire to know.” I stand. I feel weary in a way that has nothing to do with my age. “If you are feeling up to it, Rachel, may I interest you in some lunch?”

“Actually, I should go,” she says. “I feel fantastic! I mean, this is incredible. What you did. I thought I was a goner.”

“You nearly were,” I say.

“And thank you, again. But my mom must be freaking out. I should go to a hospital or something. At least call her.”

“Oh, Rachel,” I say softly. “You’ve studied supervillians. You know what my answer to that has to be.”

She is quiet for a moment, and then those beautiful green eyes go wide. “No,” she says.

“I am sorry. I didn’t mean to trade my freedom for yours. I thought I was doing good. For once.”

“But…but,” she stutters.

“I can’t.”

She blinks and then curses. “Stupid, I’m not talking about that! I mean, they can’t really think that about you, can they? You saved my life. This…this isn’t a bad thing!”

I laugh again. “Are you defending me? Are you sure that’s wise?”

“Don’t condescend to me!” she snaps. “That’s not fair. You’ve done your time. You saved me. Isn’t that enough for them?”

“Oh, Rachel. You certainly do have a pleasant view of the world.”

“Don’t call me naive!” The way she spits it makes me think that she says this quite often.

“I’m not,” I say. “Only optimistic.” I gesture through the door. “The kitchen is there. I will leave the door unlocked. I’ve a closet through there—take whatever you’d like. I’m afraid your clothing was too bloody.”

“Fine,” she snarls.

I nod once and make my way into the kitchen, closing the door behind me to leave her to rage and weep in privacy. I know from personal experience how embarrassing it is to realize that your freedom has been forcefully taken from you, in public.

I built this particular laboratory-cum-bolthole in the 1950s, back when the world feared nuclear strikes. I was a different man then, though no less technologically apt, and so it has been outfitted with all manner of tunnels and closets, storage chambers, libraries, and bedrooms. The fridge keeps food fresh indefinitely, so the loaf of bread, basket of tomatoes and head of lettuce I left here in1964 are still fit makings for sandwiches. I also open a can of soup for us to share.

She comes out of the recovery room nine thousand and sixty-six seconds—fifteen point eleven minutes—after; a whole three minutes longer than I had estimated she would take. There is stubbornness in her that I had not anticipated, but for which I should have been prepared. She did not die in that garage, and it takes great courage and tenacity to beat off the Grim Reaper.

“I’m sorry, Oliver,” she says, and sits in the plastic chair. I suppose the look is called “retro” now, but this kitchen was once the height of taste.

“Why are you apologizing to me?” I set a bowl in front of her. She doesn’t even shoot me a suspicious look; I suppose she’s decided to take the farce of believing me a good person to its conclusion.

“It sucks that you’re so sure people are going to hate you.”

“Aren’t they?”

She pouts miserably and sips her soup. It’s better than the rage I had been expecting, or an escape attempt. I wasn’t looking forward to having to chase her down and wrangle her into a straitjacket, or drug her into acquiescence. I would hate to have to dim that keen gaze of hers.

I sit down opposite her and point to her textbook, propped up on my toaster oven for me to read as I stirred the soup. It had been in the bloody backpack I stripped from her, and seemed sanitary enough to save. Her cell phone, I destroyed.

“This is advanced, Rachel,” I say. “Are you enjoying it?”

She flicks her eyes to the book. “You’ve read it.”

“Nearly finished. I read fast.”

“You didn’t flip to the end?”

“Should I?”

“No,” she blurts. “No. Go at your own pace. I just…I mean, I do like it,” she said. “Especially the stuff about supervillain reformation.”

I sigh and set down my spoon. “Oh, Rachel.”

“I’m serious, Oliver! Just let me make a phone call. I promise, no one will arrest you. I won’t even tell them I met you.”

“You won’t have to.”

She slams her fists into the tabletop, the perfect picture of childish frustration.  “You can’t keep me here forever.”

“I can,” I say. “It is physically possible. What you mean to say is, ‘You don’t want to keep me here forever.’”

She goes still. “Do you want to?”

I can. I know I can. I can be like one of those men who kidnaps a young lady and locks her in his basement for twenty years, forcing her to become dependent on him, forcing her to love him. But I don’t want to. I’ve nothing but distaste for men who can’t earn love, and feel the need to steal it. Cowards.

“No,” I say.

“Then why are you hesitating? Let me go.”

“Not until you’re fully healed, at least,” I bargain. I’m not used to bargaining. Giving demands, yes. But begging, never. “When no trace of what I’ve done remains. Is that acceptable? But in return, you must not try to escape. You could hurt yourself worse, and frankly I don’t want to employ the kind of force that would be required to keep you. That is my deal.”

“You promise?”

I sneer. “I don’t break promises.”

“I know,” she says. “I read about that, too. Okay. It’s a deal.”

I spend the night working on schematics for a memory machine. I’ve never tampered with the mind of another before—I respect intellect far too much to go mucking about in someone’s grey matter like a child in a tide pool—but I have no other choice. Rachel cannot remember our time together.

Rachel sleeps in one of the spare bedrooms. She enjoyed watching old movies all afternoon, and I confess I enjoyed sitting beside her on the sofa. We had frozen pizza for dinner, and her gaze had spent almost as much time on the screen as on my face.

In the morning, my blueprints are ready and my chemicals begin to simmer on Bunsen burners. I leave the lab and find her at the kitchen table, drinking coffee and flipping through my scrapbook. It’s filled with newspaper articles and photos, wanted posters and DVDs of news broadcasts. I’ve never thought to keep it in a safe or to put it away somewhere because, besides Miss Rachel, no one has ever been to this bolthole but me.

“You found the soymilk, I see,” I say. She nods and doesn’t look up from her intense perusal of a favourite article of mine, the only one where the reporter got it. “And my book.”

“It’s like a shrine,” she says. “I thought you’d hate all these superheroes, but there’s just as much in here about them as you.”

“I’ve great respect for anyone who wants to better the world.” I touch the side of the coffeepot —still warm. I pour myself a cup and sit across from her.

“See… that’s what’s freaking me out, a bit,” she says. “You’re such a…”

“What?”

“You seem like such a sweet guy.”

I laugh again.

“What?”

“Don’t mistake my youth for sweetness.”

“I’m not, but…I don’t know, you’re not a supervillain.”

“I’m not a superhero, either.”

“You can be something in the middle. You can just be a nice guy.”

“I’ve never been just a ‘nice guy,’ Rachel. Not even before.”

“I think you’re being one now.”  She leans across the table and kisses me. I don’t close my eyes, or move my mouth. This is a surprise too, but an acceptable one.

When she sits back, I ask, “Is this why you were studying my face so intently last night while you pretended to watch movies?”

She blushes again, and it’s fascinating. “Shut up,” she mumbles.

I smile. “Are you a Cape Bunny after all, Miss Rachel?”

“A Labcoat Bunny, maybe,” she says. “I’ve always gone for brain over brawn.”

“Who are you lashing out against,” I ask calmly, my tone probably just this side of too cool, “that you think kissing the man who has kidnapped you is a good idea?”

Rachel drops back down into her seat. “Way to ruin the moment, Romeo.”

“That is not an answer.”

“No one!”

“And, that, dear Rachel, is a lie.”

She throws up her hands. “I don’t know, okay! My mother! The school! The courts! The whole stupid system! A big stupid world that says the man who saved my life has to go to jail for it!”

“I am part of the revenge scheme, then,” I say. “If you come out of your captivity loving your captor, then they cannot possibly think I am evil. You have it all planned out, my personal redemption. Or perhaps this is a way to earn a seat in that big-ticket law school?”

She stares at me, slack jawed, a storm brewing behind those beautiful green eyes. “You’re a bit of a dick, you know that?”

“That is what the Crimson Cunt used to—”

“Don’t call her that.”

“Why not? The Super Slut won’t hear me say it. Not under all this concrete.”

“Shut up!”

“Why?” I sneer. “Protecting a heroine you’ve never met?”

“She deserves better, even from you!”

“Oh, have I ruined your image of me, Rachel? Am I not sweet and misunderstood anymore?”

“You still shouldn’t—”

“What, hate her? She put me in jail!” I copy her and slam my fists on the tabletop. My mug topples, hot liquid splashing out between us. “I think I’ve a right to be bitter about that.”

“But it was for the good! It made you better.”

“No, it made me cowed. I’ve lost all my ambition, dear Rachel. And that is why I am just a normal citizen. I am too tired.”

“But Divine—”

“Don’t say her name, either!”

Rachel stands and pounds her fists on the table again, shaking my fallen mug, and I stand as well, too furious to want to be shorter than her.

“Asshole!” she snarls.

“And she was a ball-breaker on a power trip. She was no better for the city than I! The only difference was that she didn’t have the gumption, the ambition, the foresight to do what had to be done! I was the only one who saw! Me.  She towed the line. She kept the status quo. I was trying to change the world! She was just a stupid blonde bimbo with huge tits and a small brain—”

“Don’t talk about my mother that way!”

Oh.

I drop back down into my seat, knees giving way without my say-so. “Well, this is a turn,” I admit.

“Everyone knows!” she spits. “It’s hard to miss. Same eyes, same cheekbones.”

“I’ve never seen your mother’s eyes and cheekbones.”

“What, were you living under a rock when she unmasked?”

I smile, and it’s thin and bitter. “I was in solitary confinement for five years. By the time I got out, it must have been old news. And I had no stomach to look up my old nemesis.”

Rachel looks away, and her eyes are bright with tears that don’t skitter down her cheeks. I wonder if they are for her mother, or for herself, or because I’ve said such terrible things and her opinion of me has diminished. They are certainly not because she pities me.

Nobody pities me. I got, as I am quite often reminded, exactly what I deserved.

“What does your mother do now?” I ask, after the silence has become unbearable. There is nothing to count or calculate in the silence, besides the precise, quiet click of the second hand ticking ever onward, ever onward, while I am left behind.

“Socialite,” Rachel says. “Cars. Money. Married a real estate developer.”

“Is he your father?”

She swings her gaze back to me, sharp. “Why would you ask that?”

“Why does the notion that he might not be offend you?”

Her lips pucker, and with that scowl, I can see it: the pissy frown, the stubborn thrust of her chin. There is the Fantastic Floozy, hating me through her daughter.

“It doesn’t,” she lies. She twists her hands in front of her again. “Fine, it does. I don’t know, okay? I don’t think she knows. She wants it to be him.”

“So do you,” I press. “Because that would make you normal.”

She looks up brusquely.

“Please, Rachel,” I say. “I am quite clever. Don’t insult us both by forgetting. The way you do your hair, your clothes, the law school ambitions, it all screams ‘I don’t want to be like my mother.’ Which, if your mother is a superheroine, probably means that you are also desperate to not be one of…us.”

“I’m not,” she whispers.

“I dare say that if you have no desire to, then you won’t be,” I agree. I lean forward to impart my great secret. She’s the first I’ve told and I don’t know why I’m sharing it. Only, perhaps, that it will make her less miserable. “Here is something they never tell anyone: if you don’t use your powers, if you don’t flex that extra little muscle in your grey, squishy brain, it will not develop. It will atrophy and die. Why do you think there are so few of us now? Nobody wants to be a hero.”

“Really?” she whispers, awed, hatred draining from her face.

“Really,” I say. “Especially after the sort of example your mother set.”

Rachel rocks back again, the furious line between her eyebrows returning, and yes, I recognize that, too, have seen that above a red domino mask before.

“Why do you say things like that?” she asks, hands thrown skyward in exasperation. She winces.

“Don’t rip your stitches, my dear,” I admonish.

“Don’t change the subject! You wouldn’t talk about the Kamelion Kid that way, or Wild West, or…any of them! You’d have respect! What about The Tesla? You respect him. I’ve seen the pictures on your wall and you—why are you laughing?”

And I am laughing. I am guffawing like the bawdy, brawling youth I resemble. “Because I am The Tesla!”

She rocks back on her heels, eyes comically wide and then suspiciously narrow. “But you…Prof killed The Tesla.”

“In a sense, he did.”

Her eyes jump between me and the door to my lab—the only door locked to Rachel—and back to me. “You were a hero first.”

“Yes.”

“And it didn’t work, did it?”

“…no.”

“Because people…people don’t want to change. Don’t want to think.”

“Yes. My plans would have been good for society. Would have forced changes for the better. But people just want a hero to keep things the way they already are.”

She looks at her law textbook, which rests exactly where I had left it the night before, propped on the toaster oven.

“So you made it look like The Tesla was dead.”

“Heroes can save the world. But villains can change it, Rachel.”

She looks up. “I think I want to hate you, Olly, but I can’t figure out if I should.”

“It’s okay if you hate me,” I say. “I won’t mind.”

“Yes, I think you would,” she says. She flattens her right palm over her left shoulder.

We sit like that for a long moment. I forget to count the seconds. Time flies when I am around Rachel, and I find that I am beginning to enjoy it.

Rachel sulks in her room for the afternoon, which bothers me not at all, as I’ve experiments to attend. When I come back out, she is sullenly reading her textbook on the sofa, and she has found the beer. One open bottle is beside her elbow and three empty ones are on the floor.

“It’s not wise to drink when you’re on antibiotics,” I say, wiping my hands on my labcoat. They leave iridescent green smears on the fabric, but it’s completely non-toxic or I would not be exposing her to it.

“I’m not on antibiotics,” she mutters mulishly.

“Yes, you are,” I counter. “There is a slow-release tablet under your skin near the wound.”

She makes a face and pushes away her textbook. It slaps onto the carpet.“That’s just gross.”

“But efficient.”

She looks up, gaze suddenly tight. “What else did you put in me?”

I walk over and take away her beer. And then, because it would be a waste of booze to dump it down the sink, and I have been on a limited income since I ceased robbing banks, and because I enjoy the perverseness of having my lips on the same bottlemouth as hers after having so recently admonished her for kissing me, I take a drink.

“Not that, if that’s what you’re implying, my dear Rachel,” I say. She blinks hard, my innuendo sinking home.

“What? What, no! I didn’t mean…”

“I’m more of gentleman than that.”

“I get that!” she splutters. “I just mean…where did you get the replacement blood? What kind of stitches? Am I bionic now?”

“No more than you were before,” I say. “Nanobots are actively knitting the torn flesh back together, but they will die in a week and your liver will flush them from your system. The stitches and sutures are biodegradable and will dissolve by then. The rest of the antibiotic tablet will be gone in two or three days, and the very small infusion of my vitality serum only gave your immune system a boost and your regenerative drive a bit of extra gas. You are in all ways, my dear Rachel, utterly and completely in-extraordinary. Your greatest fear is unrealized.” I finish off the beer with a swig, liking the way her green eyes follow the line of my throat as I swallow, and then go to the kitchen and retrieve two more.

I hand one to her and flop down onto the sofa beside her. She curls into a corner to give me enough room and then, after eyeing the mess on my coat, thrusts impertinent—and freezing!—toes under my thigh. “Dear me, Rachel, stepping up your campaign?”

“You started it,” she says. “Re-started it. With the…bottle thingy.”

I arch a teasing eyebrow. “Bottle thingy?”

She shakes her head. “I think I’m a little drunk.”

“I think you are,” I agree.

“Enabler,” she says, and we clink beers. She drinks and this time I watch her. Her throat is, in every way, normal. Boring. I cannot stop looking at it. Her toes wiggle. “How can you read me so well?” she asks. “I mean, I didn’t even have to say, ‘I’m scared of turning into my mom,’ but you knew.”

I shrug. “I’m a great student of the human creature. We all say so much without saying a thing.”

“Do you ever say more than you want to?”

I smile secretively, a flash of teeth that I know will infuriate her with its vagueness. “Rarely, any more. I’ve had a long time to learn to control my, as poker players would call them, ‘tells.’”

“Hmph,” she mutters and takes another drink. I swallow some of my beer to distract myself.  She wriggles her toes again, and pushes them further. Soon they will brush right against my…but I assume that is the point.

“Careful, Rachel,” I warn. “Are you certain this is something you want to do?”

“Yes.”

“You are drunk and you want revenge on your mother.”

“Maybe. Maybe I want to thank you for saving my life. Maybe I want to reward you for being a good guy.”

“What if I don’t want your thanks, or your reward?” I ask.

She smiles and her big toe tickles the undercurve of my testes. “Don’t you?” she asks, and her expression is salacious. I provided her with no bra, I had none to give, and under my borrowed tee-shirt her nipples are pert.

“I do.” I set aside both of our beers and reach for her. She comes into my arms, gladly, little mouth wet and insistent against mine as she wriggles her way onto my lap. Iridescent green smears up her thighs. “But maybe…oh!” I gasp into her mouth as clever little fingers work their way inside my waistband. I return the favour. Intelligence must be rewarded.

“Maybe?” she prompts, pressing down against my hand.

“Maybe I just want revenge on your mother, too.”

She jerks back as if I’ve bitten her. “Oh my god, how can one man be such a dick?”

I press upwards so her pelvis comes in contact with the part of my anatomy in discussion. “I am honest, Rachel. There is a difference.”

She sits back, arms crossing over the breasts I hadn’t yet touched. “An honest supervillian,” she scoffs.

I stand, dumping her onto the floor. “I think we’re done here.”

“Are we, Profess—”

“I’ve asked you not to call me that!”

She cowers back from my anger. Then it fuels her. “Fuck you, Olly,” she says, standing.

“I thought that was the idea,” I agree, “but apparently not.”

“You’re nothing like I thought you’d be!”

I laugh again. “And how could you have had any concept of how I’d be? Did the Dynamic Dyke tell stories? I bet she did. And you felt sorry for me. The poor Professor, beat up by mommy, hated – like you were. An outcast, like you were. Not good enough, like you were. Was I your imaginary friend, Rachel? Did you write my name in hearts on your binders? Did you fantasize about me?”

“Shut up!” she screams.

Her cheeks are red again, her eyes glistening, her mouth bruised, and I want to grab her, kiss her, feel her ass through the borrowed sweatpants. Instead I fold my hands behind my back, because I told the truth before—I am a gentleman. I say nothing.

“You’re not supposed to be like this!”

“Be like what?” I ask, again. “Explain, Rachel.”

She collapses. It’s a slow folding inward, knees and stomach first, face in her hands, physicality followed by emotion as she sobs into the carpet. I stand above her and wait, because she deserves this cry. Crying helps people engage with their emotions, or so I’m told.

When her sobbing slows, precisely one thousand six hundred and seventy-three seconds later—twenty-seven point nine minutes—she unfolds and stands, wiping her nose. I offer her a handkerchief from the pocket of my labcoat, and she takes it and turns her back to me, cleaning up her face.

She picks up the textbook. She opens it to the back, to those useless blank pages that are the fault of how books are bound, and for the first time in a very, very long time, I am shocked.

The back of the book has been collaged with photographs. Of me.

Computer printouts of me when I was the Prof. Newspaper clippings of my trial. Me, walking down the street, hunched into the shadow of my sweater’s hood. Me, buying soymilk. Me, through the window of the shitty apartment on which Oliver Munsen can barely afford to pay rent. Me, three days ago, cutting through that same parking garage.

Genuine joy floods my blood. A small shot of adrenaline seethes up into my brain and I can’t help the smile, because I missed this, I really did. “Oh, Rachel. Are you my stalker? How novel! I’ve never had a stalker before.”

She snaps the cover shut. “I’m not a stalker.”

“Just an admirer?” I ask, struggling to keep the condensation out of my voice. “Or do you want me to teach you how to be a villain? Really get back at mommy dearest?” Her expression sours. “Ah. But you already know that you can’t be. You knew before I told you that you were born boring. So this is the next best thing.” I reach out, grasp her elbows lightly, rub my callused thumbs across the tender flesh on the inside of them. She shivers. “Tell me, how were you going to do it, Rachel? Were you going to accidentally bump into me in that parking garage? Were you going to spill a beer on me in a bar? Buy me a coffee at my favourite cafe? Surely getting shot was not in the plan.”

“It’s not like that!” she says, but her eyes are closed, her lashes fluttering. Her chest bobs as she tries to catch her breath.

“Then what is it like?”

“I don’t know! I just…I just saw you one day, okay? I recognized you, from mom’s pictures on the wall, and I thought, you know, I should tell her. But I thought I would follow you first, you know, figure out where you live, or something.”

“Except that I wasn’t being dastardly and villainous.”

“You sat in the bookstore and read a whole magazine. And then you paid for it.”

I smirk. “How shocking.”

“For me it was.” She tips forward, breasts squishing, hot and soft, against my chest. “The kinds of stories I heard about you as a kid…”

“And you were fascinated.”

“And I was fascinated.”

“And so you followed me.”

“I followed you.”

“And then what, my dear Rachel?”

She wraps her arms around my neck and pulls me down for a kiss I don’t resist.

“You seemed so lonely,” she says, breath puffing into my mouth. “Are you lonely, Olly?”

“Oh, yes.” I pick her up and carry her off to her bedroom.

The mattress is new, she is the first person to ever have slept on it, but it still squeaks. After, she drops off, satisfied, mumbling amusing endearments about how wonderful it is to make love to someone who is so studious, makes such a thorough examination of his subjects.

Tonight I decide to sleep. I don’t do it very often, but I don’t want to be awake anymore. I don’t want to think. I close my eyes and force my dreams to stay away.

In the morning, I’m troubled.  I think I’ve made a very bad choice, but I’m not sure how to rectify it. I am not even sure how to articulate it.

Rachel was right. I am lonely. I am desperately, painfully lonely. And I will be for the rest of my unnaturally long life. But Rachel is lonely, too. Desperate in her own way, desperate for the approval of a mother I can only assume was distant and busy in Rachel’s youth, and then too famous and busy in her adolescence. Rachel wants to be nothing like her mother, wants to hurt her, punish her, and yet…wants to impress her so very badly that she is willing to take the ultimate step, to profess love for a man her mother once hated, to ‘fix him,’ to ‘make him better.’ To make him, me, good.

Only, Rachel doesn’t understand. I don’t want to be better, or good, or saved. I just want to live my boring, in-extraordinary life in peace and quiet, and then die. I don’t want to be her experiment. And yet her fierce little kisses…her wide green eyes…

I look down at the schematics under my elbow and sigh. The scent of burning bacon wafts in through the vents that lead to the kitchen, and the utter domesticity of it plucks at the back of my eyes, heating them. I ‘m still a fool, and I’m no less in over my head than I was two days ago.

I abandon the lab and rescue my good iron skillet from the madwoman who has pushed her way into my life. When she turns her face up for a kiss, I give it to her, and everything else she asks for, too.

And I can have this, because I am not a supervillain any more.  But I am not a superhero either. If I was, I could turn her away, like I should.

After lunch, I hand her my cell phone. It has been boosted so that the signal can pass through concrete bunker walls, but cannot be tracked back to its location.

“What’s that for?” she asks.

“Call your mother,” I say. “Tell her you’re okay. You’re just staying with a friend. The shooting freaked you out.”

She frowns. “What if I don’t want to?”

“You were arguing that I should let you call.”

“Yeah, before.”

“Rachel,” I admonish. “Do you really want her frantically looking for you?”

She pales. I imagine what it must have been like for her when she ran away from home for the first time. “No, guess not,” she mumbles and dials a number. “Yeah, hi Mom. No, no, I’m cool. Yeah, decided to stay with a friend instead of coming home from campus this weekend. No, no, it’s fine. I’m fine. There’s no need for the guilt trip! I said I’m fine! God!…okay. Right. Sorry. Okay. I’ll see you next…” she looks at me. “Next Saturday?” I nod. “Next Saturday. Right. Fine. I love you, too.” She hangs up and places the phone between us. “There, happy?”

“Yes. I am curious Rachel, how do you intend on springing me on your mother? And how will you keep her from punching my face clear off?”

She picks at her cuticles. “I hadn’t really thought that far ahead.”

“I gathered.” I stand from the table and go to do the dishes. I can’t abide a mess.

She comes up behind me and wraps her arms around my waist and presses her cheek against my back, and asks, “What do you want to do this afternoon?”

“Whatever you want,” I say. “I’m all yours.” I turn in her arms to find her grinning. She believes me, whole-heartedly, and she should. I never lie, and it’s the truth. For now.

When the week is over, I sit her down on my operating table and carefully poke around the bullet wound. In the x-ray, the bones appear healed without a scar. Her skin is dewy and unmarked. The stitches have dissolved and a scan with a handheld remote shows that the nanobots are all dead and ninety-three percent have been flushed from her system. I anticipate the other seven percent will be gone after her next trip to the toilet.

I do another scan, a bit lower down, but there is nothing there to be concerned about, either. We have not been using prophylactics, but I’ve been sterile since I used the serum. It was a personal choice. I had no desire to outlive my grandchildren.

Rachel hops from the table, bare feet on the white tile, and grins. “It’s Saturday!” she says.

“Yes, it is.”

“Time to go!”

“Yes.”

She takes my hand. “And you’re coming with me, Olly. You’re coming with me and then they’ll see, they’ll all see. You’re different now. You’re a good man.”

I smile and close my fingers around hers and, for the first time in many decades, I lie. “Yes, I am, thank you.” I use our twined fingers to pull her into the kitchen. “Celebratory drink before we go?”

She grins. “Gonna open that champagne I saw in the back of the fridge?”

I laugh. “Clever Rachel. I can’t hide anything from you.”

Only I can. I am. When I pop the cork she shrieks in delight. Every ticking second of her happiness stabs at me like a branding iron and dagger all in one.

I thought I would need a whole machine, a gun, a delivery device, but in the end my research and experiments offered up a far more simplistic solution: rohypnol. Except that it is created by me, of course, so it’s programmable, intelligent in the way the cheap, pathetic drug available to desperate, stupid children in night clubs is not. My drug knows which memories to take away.

Clever, beautiful, dear Rachel trusts me. I pour our drinks and hand her the glass that is meant for her. I smile and chat with her as she sips, pretending to be oblivious as her eyelids slip downwards, giving her no clue that there is anything amiss.

I catch both her and the glass before they hit the floor. Tonight she will wake in her own bed. She will honestly remember spending the week with a friend she then had a fight with, and no longer speaks to. She will wonder what happened to her backpack, her cell phone, her law textbook. She will not remember the Prof, or The Tesla. Her mother will be annoyed that she will have to tell her the stories over again, stories that Rachel should have internalized during her childhood.

And I will shut down this hidey-hole and go back to my apartment and cash my welfare cheque and watch television. And it will be good. It will be as it should be.

The stupid boy with the gun might have been the bad guy in our little melodrama, but I am the villain.

I am the coward.

[someonestole15]

Pushing it

I can feel the blade inside me…

The sound of boiling was coming from the next room. As I looked around for a way to open it, I could hear the radio come to life once more.

“Right the keypad should be to the left of the door. Once you find it, enter the code: 7127, which should allow you to enter.”

“Understood. 7127”

Short messages, but still enough to keep them on the track on what I was doing. I located the keypad and entered the code. The locks on the door disengaged and the door started to open up. My sensors lit up red with multiple alerts about the air toxicity rising through the roof, this was the source. I drew my pistol and stepped inside. Before I had a chance to look around, the door slammed shut behind me. I turned around to face it, trying to get in contact with the scientists. No response, and the locks on the door clanked shut again. The lights inside the room activated as the intercom system tried to announce something, but wasn’t able to produce anything other than static. Several catwalks above vats similar to the ones I had seen on Earth, filled with a bright green fluid, bubbling away as fumes got absorbed into the ventilation. I kneeled down, keeping the pistol ready as I scanned the room.

>Scanning… Biological signature acquired and added to database. >Scanning for life signs…

“Great, that is the data we need, send it over and we’ll start our tests on it.”

I uploaded parts of the data, keeping some of the important bits to myself.

“The signal seems choppy, could you locate one of our old terminals and get everything from there? Then upload that to us. Those things should still be connected, but without a user on one end, we can’t get to it.”

I’ll cut out the understood and okay messages from this text, but trust me, my voice box is still active. I breached into a terminal with my own protocols and started scanning through the system. Every file I sent, I copied over to my own system. My ace in the hole, the one card I could drew if needed.

The data transfer was moved over to the internal systems of the facility, leaving me free from the task. I had a look around the area. The vats took most of the room, but there were several other secure canisters around, loaded seemingly to be transported to other test sites. Moon, Site white. Earth, Site Yellow. The last one was blacked out, only stating “CLASSIFIED” with large red lettering. The canister model was made to include a set of sensors and an automatic mechanism for neutralizing the content if it ever got out of the set limits. If only I had a tracker on me…

The radio had been silent for a good while now, and the camera had been disabled. I checked my suit, the filters still had around 2 hours in them, but any longer would cause damage. I returned back to the door and entered the code into the keypad. A loud error beep echoed inside the vat room, the code had changed.

There was no way I could break my way through the door. It had been designed to stand against a small nuke, and I didn’t have anything that could burn through, the breaching charge I had found was gone, likely taken by the scientists. I pulled my pistol and thought about just ending it here, but with people relying on me, the androids on the surface, Ella, and Valkyrie. I am not giving up here.

I need a way out, but putting a 9mm through my CPU wasn’t it. This room is quite secure, but there are exits that might not seem obvious… The vents would lead out of here, but I couldn’t fit in them with the suit on. I scanned the room several times, before I located a mechanic loader unit, deep underneath the vats. This sounds promising.

I grabbed a spool of rope and attached it around the catwalk railing. 200 meters down, but this time that creature wasn’t here to cut my line. I placed my hands around the rope and started sliding down.

>Heat buildup detected, slow down.

With steady pace, I lowered myself to the floor below. The air down here is cleaner, but the amount of dust is still worrying. None of the vats are leaking, this makes no sense… the ventilation above was on full power, pumping… outwards… This containment breach wasn’t an accident. The filters inside the ventilation and the amount of sensors in the vents would have shut off the systems in case of a chemical leak. I am not sure about the feeling I had, but it was a mix between anger and genuine hatred for I had met. I had trusted them… and now I was stuck here, at least until I could make my way out.

Playing with fire is a sure way to get burned, and I’m not talking about a small flame.

>Phoenix protocol ready. Heat building up…

This is only going to end one way. That loader is somewhere around here, but my sensors couldn’t get an accurate reading on where it was. Left or right?

If I had a coin, I would flip it, but seeing as I went left upon my first entry here, I’ll take right for now. A small booth with a corpse of man in a hazmat suit sat at a terminal, his final words marked on the screen.

“To my wife, I will miss you. To my daughter, I won’t be home to help you with your homework. This is all a cleaver trick, blame it all on the man who is meant to keep this place under control, but release the virus without warning. Fuck the corporation, and all those who work with them.” I pulled the slumped corpse up to see his mask still mounted with filters. A keycard hanging from his neck, Oscar. Do not worry Oscar, I plan on taking some of them with me, even if it means burning up the final charge on my battery.

I grabbed the filters and apologized for my attitude.

>Calming down, releasing heat.

Keep calm, they want you to lose. Rage will only lead you to lose even more than you currently are. Trapped, low on filters and battery, almost no ammo… the list could go on. I placed the pistol back on my holster and opened the zipper on my coat. The chemical down here was only traces, so just the mask was enough to filter it. The coat, with its armor, will still provide protection for my limbs, so I will keep it on, but now I must vent this heat.

>Deploying heatsinks… Fly like the wind…

It has never told me that, but I can see why it would. Fully extended, my heatsinks share some similarities to wings, but flight would be impossible, my chassis is too heavy for that.

>Heat levels normalizing…Internal temperature lowered.

The heatsinks returned back inside and I got the jacket back on. This day had taken a turn for much worse, but I am sure I can bounce back from this. This area is filled with construction equipment, but no loader in sight.

I have to carry on.