Culture Shock
By Riot Gear
Samson Radetsky, formerly known as Mecha Sonic or S-100, sat on his cot. The barracks, his temporary home, were less than luxurious. A mere six days ago, he had been slave of Robotnik. Now, freed from his bondage by his brother Sonic, he was a free man. However, there was a problem.
He was a freak. A hideous, mutilated freak. He had a jet through his spine, half his face was steel, and his arms ended in modular snap on stumps, with mechanical fore arms. He had chaos emeralds stuck in his back and he often had difficulty breathing with all the metal shoved through him at odd angles.
He needed a bath, and badly. Odds were it would kill him if he did, so he had to make due with sponge baths for now, and the shower room was too moist for his circuits; and he certainly was not going to give himself a sponge bath in public.
About the only thing he had left for him was his cloak. It hid his deformity from everyone that didn't already know, and made him more pleasant to be around for his friends. Not that he had many; the only people who didn't find him disgusting were his relatives and the other cyborgs in the Cybernetic Corps.
In the meantime, he had some problems more important. Living in the barracks was all right for now, but he couldn't do it forever. He needed an apartment. To pay for an apartment, he needed money. To get money, he needed a job. To get a job, he needed a skill. He had no skills aside from killing things and leveling buildings; not exactly needed skills around here.
Of course, there was always the obvious: Soldier, mercenary, assassin. But he was getting sick of war, violence, and killing. He preferred a simpler life, and preferably one that wouldn't end in spectacular death. As it was now, he needed advice.
He pulled on his cloak and headed out the door. Sonic would be best to talk to, being his brother, as well as one of the highest ranked officers in the Resistance.
Sonic was never the type to get up early, or even a normal time. As it was, Sam had to wait nearly three hours for his brother to wake up before he could catch him at the officers' hut.
Sonic, engaged alternatively in arm wrestling and poker, was more than willing to take a break from mingling with the privates and chat. Pulling a chair up to Sonics' table, he described his problem.
Sonic frowned. "I can see how that might be a problem, bro. Have you given any real thought on what you want to do?"
"I'm not exactly sure what job skills I should attempt to gain first. I lack the necessary data and information to make that decision."
"Start with language skills."
"Elaborate."
Sonic leaned forward and started making gestures with his hands. "Look, you've spent the last seven years of your life in a binary world. You can't really talk properly at all. You spout information, but it's like listening to a psychiatrist. You sort of drone in a monotone voice that makes me want to kill you. Not really," he added as Samson twitched.
"You recommend I learn proper speech patterns?"
"Yes, but not too proper. What I mean is, don't read a book on the subject, it's not your pronunciation. Wear your cloak and eavesdrop on conversations. Learn from peoples speech patterns."
Samson nodded, said "Affirmative," and sat up to leave.
Sonic got out of his chair and caught Sam's hand. "Don't say affirmative. Ever."
"Affirma- Yes."
He walked out of the building considering where to go as Sonic defeated his twentieth challenger.
Samson followed the two wolves as they jogged down the street, oblivious to him. They were chatting about something or another, and this seemed as good a time as any to learn.
One of them, the male, had a scar on the left side of his face. The smaller one, the female, ran by his side. Both wore wedding rings, and both wore military uniforms.
The male said, "I don't know what General Acorn was thinking when she let Corporal Bunnie start that Corps."
The female looked to her left at him. "Why do you say that? I've met some of them, and they seem like fine people to me."
"Did you notice how they never, and I mean never, take off their cloaks? It's like they've got something to hide, and I tell you it gives me the willies."
"Yes, I did notice that, but what of it? They may be roboticized, but they're still just like you and me underneath the metal." She smiled. "Alex is a good dancer too."
"When did you dance with him?"
"Officers Ball two months ago."
"Hon, I wish you would tell me about this sort of thing sooner. You shouldn't mix with their kind, it's not right."
Their kind.
"Oh, pooh! They're hardly criminals. They may be odd, but what you're suggesting is ludicrous."
The male wolf looked over his shoulder at Sam, who continued to jog. Stooping forward, he grabbed her hand and pulled her ahead, mumbling something or another, as Samson turned on to another path.
He had heard all he wanted to hear.
The diner wasn't a nice place, home to drifters, logisticians, as well as common thugs. This night it was home to a young cyborg named Samson, who was brooding over a cup of coffee alone on the bar.
It wasn't the first time this had happened to him, although it was easily the most depressing. Most of the time when he entered a room all the conversation stopped – just for a second – before starting up again, worried by the tell-tale cloak he wore. All of the cyborgs wore it; it was a status symbol, a badge of honor. For Sam, it was a sign that said Turncoat.
The waitress, a pretty young rabbit with gray fur, walked up to him and dropped a second cup of coffee in front of him. "On me, sugar. From the looks of things, you could use it."
He smiled and gave her cash for the coffee. "I appreciate it, but I don't need charity. Thanks though. By the way," he said as she sauntered off, "Do you all have that accent? Just out of curiosity."
"Yup. Comes from the Southern Continent, which is where all us rabbits came from, you know," she said as she washed out a mug covered with grime.
Samson faltered for a moment. "Could could I talk to you about something."
She stared at him, ready to be furious at what he might say.
"Do you know of any night clubs around here?"
"Hon, you really should just go home."
"I know. I'm not looking for a party, I'm looking for a job."
It was called The Marshall Stack, and it was not the highest-class nightclub in town. Neither was it the lowest. It was a fairly respectable place, but it was also the kind of club targeted by kids trying for a night out, and hoodlums looking for a good time. Most importantly, it had a help-wanted sign, and that made it Sam's next destination.
He opened the door to one of the loudest noises he had ever heard, on par with a plasma shell detonating. YES music filled the air as a brawl played out in a corner, with cheering teenagers urging the combatants on. Lasers played across the ceiling highlighting industrial décor with artificial rust tainting the girders. Dancers filled the central floor, representatives from the more hedonistic of every species. It was exactly what Samson was looking for.
He looked for a door marked Employees Only and found it. Before he got there, though, he was pulled in to a dance with some one he had never met – some red haired squirrel in a mini skirt drew him in to a swing dance. He tried to pull away, but she was irritatingly insistent.
She laughed airily. "So, tall, dark, and handsome," she yelled over the music, "What brings you here? Looking for a good time? Or looking for a new girl friend?"
He considered getting angry but decided against it and continued to dance. "Neither, actually. I'm looking for a job. I was thinking bouncer."
Again, she laughed. "You, a bouncer? You're too good a dancer to be a bouncer!"
For the first time in a week, he grinned. "Maybe so, but I'm too ugly to be a good dancer. It all balances out."
Cocking an eyebrow, she said, "You don't look ugly to me."
He removed his hood.
She raised the other eyebrow. "I see. That would be a problem now, wouldn't it?"
"Yep. I think I'll get the bouncer job; I'm certainly intimidating enough, don't you think?"
She laughed again. "Not as much as you'd think. Good luck!" she yelled as she whirled away and grabbed some other poor sucker and began to dance.
Smiling, he headed for the employees-only door.
"You're applying for the bouncer job, eh? Well, pull up a chair."
As he pulled up a chair, he briefly ran over his credentials again in his mind. He was a cyborg thus he was intimidating. Being intimidating would stop fights before they could begin. If some fool started a fight any way, he was a trained commando and capable of incapacitating and removing a delinquent instantly.
If all went well, he would be employed by this squirrel and would be able to feed and shelter himself with out charity: The desired result.
The squirrel, a big fat boorish man, stuck a cigar in his mouth with a great flourish, drawing in the poisonous herb savor. "So tell me, Sam," he said with his peculiar drawl, "What makes you think you're the right man for the job as my bouncer?"
Moment of truth time. Samson drew himself up and shed his cloak. Immediately he hopped over the edge of the desk of the squirrel as his future employer neatly swallowed his cigar and began to choke to death. He quickly performed the Heimlich maneuver as a smile crept unwillingly across his face.
Hacking and coughing the overweight squirrel staggered back up to his desk, red in the face and eye. Wheezing, he gasped out, "What do you think my club is, a drug trading house? I needed a bouncer, not an enforcer!"
"On the contrary. From what I've seen in your respectable club, you need an army to get this place orderly again." With a flourish, he bowed, and said:
"I am that army."
Still coughing, the squirrel rubbed his chin, considering what this freak was saying. Sure, maybe my club was a bit rowdy, but it wasn't that bad! The last time a fight had broken out, aside from today, was what, two weeks ago? And what gives this jerk the right to barge in here and starting badmouthing my club?
He angrily drew him self out of his chair, shaking his finger at Samson. "Now you listen here, jerk-off. I don't care if my club was a roman coliseum, complete with lions; you never come in to a job offer badmouthing the club your would-be employer runs! Now you just march back out there, turn around, come back in, and try again, and do it right this time!"
Looking a bit startled, Samson stepped back out in to the club, quickly donning his cloak before disappearing.
The squirrel looked at his watch, waiting for the cyborg to return. Shortly the door opened.
The squirrel smiled. "Hello, Sam, I've been expecting you. So I hear you're a qualified bouncer. Tell me about your achievements in the field of police duty."
This time, Sam decided his cloak would best remain on. "For approximately seven years I have remained under the control of Robotnik, an unwilling slave to his evil. I was his chief enforcer, the vicious, infamous Mecha Sonic."
The squirrel only stared.
"I own diploma's in Tae Kwon Do, Karate, and my own self taught discipline that served me well as an enforcer and assassin. I'm skilled at incapacitation, martial arts of all forms, and riot control."
Slowly, the squirrel opened his mouth. "You're hired."
Samson bowed again, somehow even more smugly. "Thank you."
Sonic lay on his back in his cabin, considering what sort of trouble his brother was probably getting in to. Probably getting arrested right about now
There was a knock on the door, an impatient knock. Slowly and reluctantly Sonic got out of bed to answer it, hoping he wasn't in trouble for anything – famous as he was, he had had more than his share of misdemeanors over the years.
He opened it to his brother, wearing his trade mark cloak, who staggered over to a chair and collapsed in it. Sonic rolled his eyes. "And where have you been, my friend."
"Night club."
Sonic sat down with a sigh, wondering what in the world had gotten in to Samson's head. He was probably on the run from the law at this very moment.
"I was out getting a job. As a bouncer. Thought I should take some more responsibility for myself, you know."
As Sonic sat down hard on the floor, Samson took off his hood and ran his fingers through his hair, trying to wring out the sweat from dancing for two hours in The Marshall Stack. It hadn't been easy, although it had been a lot of fun. Turns out bouncers just hung out until someone unsavory showed up. Of course, you had to wear a uniform, but no one noticed it behind the cloak. As it was, he had a job. What he needed next was a home.
People walked by him on the street as he stood staring at the map; people who were not exactly the top of the social heap. The sort that were often thought of as thugs, hoodlums, and gangsters, while they were really just desperate people fighting their way back to the top of the social food chain.
His would-be home stood in front of him somewhere in an apartment building simply labeled Housing, $35 A Month, but Samson was no longer sure he wanted to live here. It wasn't really his class; perhaps two rungs below. Still, it was close to The Marshall Stack, and places like this often had interesting residents.
He kicked open the door - lightly, so as not to wreck it or cause undue disturbance. The place was a mess. Cheap, eroding ceiling fans held flickering light bulbs within them. To his right, next to the wooden unlocked push door behind him, lay a dead shrub, which was somehow more depressing than the hooker in the lobby was. At least, she dressed like one. He might have been wrong. (Note to Shax, NR and co: I put this bit in for atmosphere, but it isn't important. I would understand it offending you, so feel free to dump it.)
Sighing, he headed up to the desk.
"I'd like to rent a room, what do I do to go about it."
The hedgehog looked up from the newspaper and quickly perked up, folding his paper and laying it on the table. He was an unusually pale brown, more like birch than Samson's hickory hue. It was likely he didn't get enough iron. He wore what looked like a Rioxo gold watch but was probably a cheap fake bought from some con artist. Slicking back his hair, the hedgehog said, "Sorry. We don't get many people wanting rooms here. Any particular floor you want?" he said, licking his thumb and flicking through the registry.
Samson considered the offer, but decided it was pointless. "Doesn't matter."
"Gotcha." The hedgehog reached a certain page and stopped there, whipping a pencil off the desk and scribbling in the date. "Name?"
"Samson Radetsky."
"ID Sequence?"
"KnotholeNC00007."
The hedgehog looked up. "That's pretty low."
"I was here when Knothole was founded."
"Wow. That's really low. I mean, mine is KnotholeNC13204!"
Samson sighed, but stowed the number in his RAM. "Anything else you need?"
He slapped the book shut and pulled out a plastic thing with a glass face. "Just your hand print."
Samson froze. He had given his handprint when he had become a citizen, but did he really want to reveal his nature to this person?
Slowly, he pulled off his glove and laid his hand on the scanner.
The hedgehog stared for a moment.
Suddenly, his eyes lit up, and a cry escaped his lips. "Wow!"
Samson began to back away, but the hedgehog was surprisingly quick, grabbing his hand and shaking. "Oh wow, oh wow, oh god, I ban't selieve, I mean I can't besleeve, I mean I can't believe it's really you! I've read all about you in the tabloids!"
What in the..?
"I mean surely you know? Everyone knows you're back!" He winked. "You can't hide anything from the tabloids, you know."
"They they know I'm back?"
He smiled. "Sure! I mean, you're the brother of a celebrity."
"But why would anyone care?"
He frowned. "I just told you, didn't? You're a celebrity too, now." He chuckled. "Maybe I'll get some press out of this."
Samson rubbed his head, wondering what in the Halo he was going to do now.
"Look, Alex," he said, glancing at the nametag, "What can I do to keep this covered up between you and me, hmm? At the moment, all I want to do is recover - I've been through hell lately."
The other hedgehog considered this. "I want two things, one of which is free."
"Okay."
"One: I want your autograph."
"Okay."
"Two: Ten more dollars a month."
"Okay."
"Oh, and three - "
"No."
"Oh, fine, fine."
Samson stood near the window of his room, watching the world go by. Salesmen hawked their wares, children tugged on their parents arms near stores, and the bums sat in an alley watching the world go by - from a different point of view.
The room was cheap, but not as bad as the lobby. Two room, not counting bathroom; no tub, but not many species needed one, Samson included; windows grimy, but useable, and television, phone service, and an electric space heater. Of course, the posters glued to the wall would have to come down promptly.
He had a home.
Samson sat down on the fold out bed, considering this. He had a home and a job steady enough to pay for it, food, and education for later jobs more dignified. He was now an independent entity.
He laughed, finally, as the weariness he had felt since he had first awoken fell off.
Smiling, he stood by the window, watching the sun go down, the bums fade away, the children run home, and life wind down to a more - manageable pace.
He went to bed, deeply sleeping in five minutes.