I really enjoy writing Stanley. He's got a great voice. I'm not sure if I'll continue this… but I probably will.
-Nir
The door to the train slides open, but he doesn't leave. I get it. Unfinished business, right? Nothin' less than I deserve. Make it quick, buddy. I get a last request, don't I?
But he doesn't. He just stands there and stares, bathing everything in yellow light. Maybe he's thinking it over, if he can even think. Maybe he won't kill me after all. Heh. Right. And maybe Lamb will wave her magic wand and we'll all appear on a beach in Tahiti.
He reaches out, slowly, offering me a gloved hand that could crush a man's skull. It's black with blood and slime and God knows what else. Holds it there. And holds it. Like he wants me to take it. So he can break my hand? Sure, buddy. I'll humor you. Give me something to concentrate on til the splicers come. Pain's better than nothing.
His fingers close over mine, barely brushing my skin, like he's afraid he's going to break me. I've seen that kind of thing before, with the metal Daddies and their little girls. He'd had a girl at one point. He'd held her hand like this too, I bet. Maybe he's thinking of her.
I try to tug away, but he holds on. Real gentle though. He turns, facing the train. I can already hear Lamb's splicer coming, screeching like a pack of goddamn apes. The train. We have to get to the train. He can take them, sure, but there's no way I can. He seems to realize this and heads out the door, still dragging me along like a kitten on a string.
Already there's bullets pinging off the train car and he shoves me inside, blocking the door with those big air tanks of his. I hear bullets smack into that ugly diving suit he's got on but he stays until the door is closed, and all that comes to mind is why, why is he doing this. I sold him. Sold him like a goddamn piece of meat and here he is, taking bullets for me. It just ain't right, but I sure as hell don't want to die here.
We're on the train. He gets it started down the tracks. I hear shells snapping under the wheels. It's gotta be years since the thing was in service. Once it's going, he sits. Collapses, more like. Makes the whole car shake, and I notice for the first time just how beat up he is. Burns, bullet holes everywhere, shaking like he's gonna pass out. I sent him up against three other Daddies. Guess it's not so unreasonable that he'd be in bad shape.
What am I supposed to do? I murmur a halfhearted apology and sit across from him. He's wheezing real bad. Probably hurt. Dunno what he thought would happen if he let himself get shot in the ass like that. Moron. What if you die before we get to the next station? Then what? You're screwed, and there's no way I'm dragging your fat ass to a chamber.
After a while he just stops. Not dies, I mean. Falls asleep. Passes out. One of those. Can't believe it. Can't fucking believe it. He actually thinks I'm gonna be some kinda help to him. Why else would I be here and not lying dead back in the station with my brains coating the walls? Not that I'm ungrateful or nothing. Being alive is better than being dead, even in this shithole of a city. But playing caddy to a metal death machine? No way. I'm not cut out for that stuff. I'd help if I could, but I can't. What do you want me to do, write a nasty editorial about a guy as he pries my chest open with his meat hooks?
Wonder where we're going, anyway. Lamb's got that girl in Fontaine Futuristics. There's a plaque on the wall showing the train's slow, rumbling progress down a path of little lights. There's a lot of lights. Gonna be a long ride.
Hope he doesn't wake up before we get there. Not because I think he's gonna kill me. He could've done that back at the station. It's just easier, this way. I don't gotta try to make casual conversation with a thing that might not even be human in there.
He's really giving me a chance, though, huh? Maybe I oughta do the same. Couldn't hurt, right?
God, he snores. Like a damn buzz saw. That, on the other hand, I don't know if I can get used to.