Title: Lost and Found
Chapter: Four – Collapse and Admittance
Author: ScathingSarcasm
Pairings/Characters: Chack
Rating: M
Disclaimer: I do not own XS or related characters – and obviously I don't own DARPA or the American Government. O.o
Warnings: Violence, language and gore. Possible future citrus. SLASH.
Word Count: 2498
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"… I want to adapt those experimental electronic 'nerves' that you've been developing – I'll need enough for the normal teenage male muscle weight of a human arm, as well as some extra. I'll also need some of that synthetic skin, and a large sample of the new metal alloy, the one with advanced flexibility and tensile strength, some thin, one thousand PSI-tested metal wires and a decent supply of enriched uranium as well as the proper handling equipment, and put it in a sealed unit, remember that. Think you can manage all of that?"
The blond man suspended on the screen before him shifted nervously too and fro, sweat dripping down his chubby face, his obnoxiously orange fake tan paling to a sickly creamsicle color in his anxiety. Operative 43 could not be said to be a handsome man, and his rat-like, shifty-eyed nature and considerable paunch eliminated any charm his high salary might have lent him. Swiping a damp palm against his sauce-speckled labcoat, the scientist nodded, beady blue eyes staring back through the webcam feed.
Jack had been smart enough to make the video a one way feed, so 43 could only hear him, as well as bug-proofing his equipment and making it untraceable; as complacent as Chase seemed to be towards him now, he doubted he would get away with exposing the location of his lair to the Pentagon. It would no doubt end in much unpleasantry for him, and anyone within a ten-mile radius.
"Y-Yeah… I mean, yes, Muh-Mr. Spicer. I'll get those to you right away. Um… where should I forward them?" the man rubbed his sausage-like fingers together, eager to please and undeniably disgusting. Jack barely restrained a grimace.
"Load the materials into a mid-sized transport-storage unit, but make sure that the uranium doesn't leak! If I die of radiation poisoning, I'll make sure you pay a thousand times over. Got it?" Jack growled, the phantom pains zinging through his non-existent right arm making his mood vicious and unforgiving. The older man squeaked, frightened, and nodded frantically. "Good."
Now shaking uncontrollably, Op.43 opening and closed his mouth several times, giving a fair impression of a fish, before the young genius decided to put him out of his misery and snapped, "What?!"
"Well, M-Mr. Spicer, sir, a-about th-th-that uranium…"
"Yeeeees?"
He swallowed spasmodically. "Ah-I… don't know if I'll be able to obtain it for you. T-they keep it under strict surveillance, a-and if I get caught…"
"Oh, Operative 43…" the saccharine sweetness of Jack's voice froze the overweight scientist's heart with terror and foreboding, "Did I ask you how you would do it?"
When the silence stretched on long enough that the chubby man knew he must answer, he stuttered, "N-no, sir."
"Did I express even the slightest inkling of concern for the consequences you may encounter?"
"No, sir."
"Have you forgotten the favor you owe me, Michael?"
"NO! No, of course, not, I could never…!" he babbled pleadingly, fat tears rolling down his pathetic visage as he denied what was said.
"Good." The redhead repeated, satisfied and smirking domineeringly, though the expression was lost on the scientist, who could only cringe from Jack's frigid voice. "Then you will find a way. I expect the materials packaged and ready for pick up my midnight on Friday."
Operative 43 just nodded his hung head defeatedly.
"Don't fail me." Or else.
The screen clicked into blackness.
Jack sighed at the empty monitor, his one thin, pale hand massaging his high cheekbones vigorously. Keeping his face screwed up in that ominous, serious expression so long made it cramp – he couldn't understand how Chase and that crazy bean did it! Spinning around on his most favored wheely chair, he turned his back on the conversation and focused on the blueprints before him – or "redprints", as the ink was a lurid fire engine red, as were most of his signature inventions, along with his black and gold, of course. Blue was such a mundane color – everyone's favorite color was blue. And Jack Spicer was anything but mundane. As it stood, the redprints were only half-completed – and already ridiculously complicated. Their state of incompletion was mostly due to the fact that Jack couldn't stop adding on new and increasingly violent additions to his arm's design – and subsequently drifting off into a daydream about how he would use said violent additions of a certain evil old hag. This was significantly effecting his time management, which was already lacking to begin with; it needed to be addressed. Taking a little time now to examine himself now would ultimately be the smart, economically sound decision.
Settling himself more comfortably in his seat, he began his own personalized "systems check", one that he normally used when he ran into the bane of every young genius; 'inventor's block'. As opposed to his usual "after battle" system's check (a quick limb count, anything broken, bruises, cuts, scrapes, etcetera etcetera), this was more… goal-oriented, so to speak.
What can I do to make this situation more convenient for me?
Even after all of his epic 'transformations', his sense of self-preservation was still firmly intact. Chuckling quietly to himself, he allowed his mind to fall back into contemplation in the darkness of his sleeping laboratory, the soft whirring of his machines lulling him to peace.
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When he entered the calm serenity of his inner courtyard, nothing was capable of disturbing him. The very second his bare feet touched the lushness of the emerald grass, it was as if his entire body transformed. He became as light as air, as fluid as water, solid as a stone pillar and as agile as a lilting flame. That was one concept that he had always felt the monks has tossed aside; to be a truly skilled warrior, one must obtain a perfect balance of all four elements within them selves. Concentrating on one specific aspect of one's nature gave you such a narrow-minded view of the world.
Jack Spicer, he realized with a jolt of unsuspected knowledge, was the perfect example of balance. It was not only in his talents, but in his nature; Jack was both utterly predictable, and outlandish to a fault. While one could certainly preconceive that Jack, if snuck up on from behind, would scream like a frightened prepubescent girl-child. However, after he had finished screaming, he now realized that when Jack turned around, he would most likely to have some sort of souped-up layzer gun at hand, ready to dispatch anyone in his way.
He sighed with uncharacteristic frustration, unsuccessful in his attempt to shake the thought of his new resident from his mind. It was bad enough that he found himself unable to stop checking up on the albino at least once a day in his newly deemed Lair, but now, fleeting phantasms of crimson hair and porcelain skin haunted him in his free time, as well! It was obvious that he would attain no peace until whatever issue haunting him was resolved. An issue involving Jack Spicer.
The calmness that meditation normally brought left him with naught a thought towards his pleasure or will; the fates, it seemed, were conspiring against him. Even in Spicer's newly-competent and tolerable form, he was far from what Chase would call good company. He had a strong notion that under more suitable circumstances, without the undeniable stress of rebuilding his own arm and being uprooted from his usual dwelling, the young genius would have made for a pleasant companion on a quiet evening such as this.
As it stood, though, he was petulant and easily irritable; though he refrained from outright rudeness towards his keeper, (whether out of fear or respect, he couldn't tell,) the thin veneer of politeness failed to mask that subtle strains and cracks in that boy's demeanor. Even with the help of countless JackBots at his disposal, the sheer intellectual work that needed to be mired through was no doubt getting to the boy. Meanwhile, the fact remained that the building of the albino's new arm was a time-sensitive project. While the genius toiled away on it's design, precious time was slipping away from him; the wound healed over, scar tissue formed a spider web of white flesh over the sickening surface of what once was a living, warm blooded limb. Chase didn't know for certain what Jack was doing to keep the socket clean and clear of scar tissue and open for the arrival of his new appendage; but in the dead of night, his feline warriors sometimes reported that flashes of unnatural red light and the sounds of horrible, bloodcurdling screams arose from the entryway to Jack's lab, detectable only by their sensitive ears. His imagination could pick up the slack.
Before he could surrender to further musings on his young guest, said albino entered, draped limply over the back of a very disgruntled tiger. Shooting up to his feet, he was at the feline's side in a flash, harshly demanding as to what was wrong with the teen, dread like a lead ball in the pit of his stomach as he saw, over and over again in his mind, Jack standing, slightly triumphant look still lingering on his face, then Jack falling, expression one of pain and his arm just gone…
Sensing it's masters hidden question, was Jack dead, he growled out a negative, primal mind conveying a sense of fatigue and overwork, and nodding it's great head towards the unconscious genius.
Instantly, the worry that took over his mind withered and died, only to be replaced with frustration and annoyance. The fool had merely overworked himself to the point of exhaustion and collapsed, no doubt right over the steel surface of his workstation. Disgusted at his own dramatic reaction, he gave the order to return the fatigued genius to his quarters and retreated back into the solitude of his inner courtyard. Already, he had developed an alarming attachment to the young man who had taken up residence – rather unwillingly, he might add – in his domain. He wouldn't go so far as to call it affection just yet, for the memories of Spicer's past follies and betrayals were still far too vivid in his mind to consider such a thing. Still, there was no doubt that a kind of protectiveness – and a deep anticipation of how both the events henceforth and the young man's potential would play out, were developing within him.
Sighing, he emptied his mind of thoughts pertaining to a certain red-headed genius – of course being unsuccessful, as that prompted a new thought within him. During his stay at Chase's mountain lair, Jack had been deprived of nothing – given all the food, clothing and comforts he'd asked for, which coincidentally, not counting his lab equipment, was not much. However, the one thing that he'd refused to provide for the inventor was his, so-called, "beauty products". That included both his eyeliner, and as he had recently discovered, his red hair-dye. Of course, he had figured out early on that the paleness of Jack's skin was not caused by the excessive use of white makeup powder, but rather his albinism. Jack had protested this restriction vehemently, one of the sole instances where he had raised his voice against the overlord. His defiance was crushed immediately, of course, and the Spicer was given a scathing rapport on how the chemicals in his dye would no doubt reduce his brain functions and cause health problems with repeated use. Jack had seemed dishearten, but cowed no the less.
Now, several weeks after the incident, Jack's hair was beginning to grow out, white tresses peeking out from his scalp of what was previously fire-engine red, but had now faded into a dull pinkish color that embarrassed the young villain so much he had take to wearing a thick skullcap at all times to cover his, quote-unquote, "don't". After one of his warriors had playfully stolen a protesting Jack's cap, he'd had to restrain the urge to comment that the pure white color of the albino's true hair was quite fetching indeed. In fact, relieved of the majority of his heavy gothic clothing and makeup, Jack's true form had begun to reveal itself. Working himself down to the bone in outfits of tank-tops and tight-fitting jeans, he had shown himself to be developing into a lean, very lightly muscled form that Chase found strangely appealing in it's own right. Most would label the young genius as 'scrawny', however the warlord fancied the teen to look delicately fragile – the missing arm only adding to this air, as his balance was severely impaired and he tended to totter endearingly from place to place, often clutching onto the seemingly sympathetic arm of JB-1. That is, in the times that he wasn't forced to transport himself via wheelie chair from place to place. Early on, when Chase had discovered that Jack had been over-stressing himself by pacing around the lab in thought, he'd cornered the goth and forced him to give the command to his JackBots to force him into his wheelie chair as soon as he showed to barest sign of fatigue.
He had recently become rather less fond of his previously treasured chair as a result.
Unlike his innate rejection of any form of attachment he might feel for Jack, he had no qualms about admitting his attraction to the young man's physical form. Over his 1,500 year long life-span, he'd loved many men and women, and never tired of the practice of lovemaking itself. He doubted that if he lived a thousand years more, he would tire of it. However, in recent years he had been experiencing a brief dry-spell, momentarily loosing his interest after the death of a treasured love-time lover whom he had allowed himself to become too attached to over the years.
Jack Spicer had shocked his libido back into action, it seemed, he thought with a hint of amusement and a bit more than a hint of unease. Jack Spicer was nearly his polar opposite, and though similarities were emerging from the woodwork, it was far from a match made in heaven. They would no doubt, in time, after the initial shock and drama wore off, rub each other the wrong way. It was nearly inevitable.
That didn't stop him from abandoning his meditation to check on Spicer's sleep, and steal a secret kiss upon the innocent smoothness of his resting brow.
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Yup. Chapter four's up. Sorry it took so long – I've had it done for a while, but I went on vacation planning to finish it there – only to find out that they have no internet. Sorry again for the wait.
As you can see, things are starting to develop for my character's relationship – not too long until the dangerous fluff levels arrive. Just a warning.
And to all my reviewers – I'm glad you are enjoying the story! I hope you'll all keep reading and reviewing, as I always love feed back – it makes me want to write even more! (hinthint).
Looking forward to your comments!
-SS