Joe found himself on Jet duty more than anyone else, the excuse being that if Jet was sick Joe could use the accelerator to grab the plastic bucket they'd placed by the bed and get it into position before the accident occurred. He saved many sheets and scrubs this way.

Not that Joe minded. For one thing, they shared a room; he spent the most time with Jet anyway. For the other, Joe wanted to learn Jet's mannerisms, minimal as they were, that he could deal with Jet's needs without relying on Ivan. So far he'd had no luck. Jet reacted to very little, his world incomprehensible, staring at nothing and not moving unless forced, and even then only barely.

Jet didn't need constant watching and Joe was free to roam the house, but he stayed close by, using this time to do chores he normally avoided. He did his laundry and cleaned the bathroom, something the rest of the team appreciated. However, most of the time Joe just found reasons to stay in their bedroom, eventually buying a larger screen for his computer so he and Jet could watch movies from their beds.

Or Joe would watch movies while Jet drooled on himself. That was a new habit no one was enjoying. Chang reported that Jet was having trouble swallowing again and Joe worried that Jet was forgetting things even as he relearned them. Yet like the vomiting it was a problem that came and went. Sometimes Jet sat up on his own and stared at his hands or the chair in the corner, apparently aware when someone was in the room but unable to comprehend anything beyond that. Other times he seemed to collapse in upon himself. He would slump against the headboard or flop sideways on the bed, wheeze or stop breathing entirely, and drool on himself. He saw nothing in this state, reacting to neither movement nor bright light.

It would pass, and after a few hours Jet would slowly sit up and turn his head when Joe or whoever was watching him moved. He might cry, or his eyes would lock on the chair in the corner again, his mouth moving soundlessly.

Joe glanced up from his comic book. Jet was staring at the chair again.

"What're you looking at? You're always looking right there. Can you see the chair?" He tossed his comic aside and slid off his bed, moving to the corner.

"Is this chair pissing you off?" he asked, unable to help the slight smile, "Is it looking at you funny? I know you hate that."

Jet didn't look at him, only the chair with a stare that was far too focused for Jet's current mental capabilities. He was seeing something. Joe suddenly got a cold feeling.

He picked up the chair and began to cross the room, intending to put it in the hall, but Jet didn't track him. Joe paused and glanced back at the now empty corner that still somehow held Jet's interest. He should have followed Joe's movement.

Joe set down the chair and stepped into the corner, facing Jet.

"You're seeing something, can you see me now, here?"

Jet broke contact, his eyes dropping to his hands in his lap.

Joe sighed. "I really wish I knew what was going on with you."

Slowly, Jet slid his arm to his side and tilted his shoulders, starting to slump. Joe almost lunged to catch him but stopped himself when Jet's other arm shifted to the same side, supporting him as he ever so carefully rotated himself, turning away from Joe and rolling onto his side.

"You rolled over," Joe said, the weirdness of the corner-stare vanishing under hope, "You rolled over all by yourself! Good job, Jet!"

His happiness bounced uselessly off Jet's indifferent back.


Francoise's plot of garden had been too-long ignored and the encroaching winter was causing damage for which she did not prepare. With everything going on it'd slipped her mind, but now with everyone busy and Albert on Jet duty for the day, it was time to catch up. The days were still overly warm and she took the opportunity to do an extra bout of watering with the hose. She couldn't help a tiny glare of jealousy at Chang's immaculate plot. Geronimo had had a plot of his own once but relocated his flora to the lakeside where he wouldn't be bound by plots or forced to share space. She assumed he was out there now.

A heavy thump and a grunt coming from upstairs had her dropping the hose and dashing into the house even before her vision located the source. Jet. Where the hell was Albert?

She ran up the stairs to Joe and Jet's room. Jet was crumpled on the floor, the blankets and sheets partially pulled down with him from when he slid off the bed.

"Oh, Jet," she sighed and stepped forward to help him.

A metal hand grabbed her arm.

"Wait," Albert hissed.

"What do you mean 'wait'? Were you just standing there while he…"

"I went to the bathroom it's not like I pushed him off the bed, he did that himself."

"Well now I'll help him myself since you're okay with leaving him on the floor!"

"Damnit, Francoise, look!"

Jet shifted, slowly pulling his arms under himself, an occasional 'mmph' or 'hnng' escaping his throat. He arched his shoulders, pushing himself up, readjusting his legs until he was on hands and knees, one arm reaching around him, seeking.

"Come on," Albert whispered, "get up."

His hand was uncomfortably tight on Francoise's arm, but she too could only watch Jet and didn't notice.

Jet's fingers brushed the messed blankets and he paused, then gripped them. He turned, awkwardly clawing at air with his other hand until he found the solidity of the mattress beneath his hand and leaned forward. He was moving so slowly the sudden lurch forward into the bed was startling and he let out a small grunt. Francoise instinctively moved but Albert continued to hold her fast.

Grasping the blankets, Jet clawed his way up until his arms and shoulders rested on top of the mattress and then he apparently decided that was good enough. He put his head down and went still. Only then did Albert's hand loosen its grip.

She angrily brushed his arm away and went into the room, kneeling next to Jet.

"Are you going to help me get him back in bed or just continue waiting for him to start struggling again?" she said, glaring.

Albert's mouth twisted in annoyance but he took hold of Jet's shoulders and helped heft him back onto the bed. "He was moving on his own, under his own initiative, that's hardly struggling, Francoise. This is what we've been waiting for."

"We can get him moving again without letting him hurt himself."

"Falling out of bed won't hurt him," Albert couldn't help the eye roll, "He's still a cyborg like the rest of us."

Francoise shot him another glare and angrily pulled the blankets over Jet. "He doesn't know what's going on. It might not physically hurt him but suddenly falling might scare him, he could be panicking and we wouldn't know it. And if just touching him causes discomfort don't you think hitting the floor might actually cause him pain? Are you okay with that?"

Albert stepped back and crossed his arms across his chest in his usual angry-defensive posture. "He doesn't mind a few bumps when trying to do something. Jet hates being coddled, you know that."

"This isn't–!" Francoise cut herself off. She looked away from Albert and began to tuck the blankets around Jet, her movements now gentle.

"What? This isn't Jet? Is that what you were going to say?"

The fight drained out of her. Francoise sat on the bed and began to run her hand through Jet's hair. He shut his eyes and turned his head away. The noise they were making was probably bothering him.

"He's not himself right now," she said, her voice soft and tired, "We can't expect him to react to things like he used to. He can't help himself, so we have to help him." She paused, refusing to meet Albert's eyes as she whispered, "I won't abandon him again."

She heard Albert sigh, though it was not an angry one. "I'm sorry, Francoise."

That wasn't what she was expecting and she glanced at him.

"When we were fighting the Blessed, I accepted being left behind on the satellite; sacrificing ourselves for the greater good isn't exactly new for us. But Jet and Joe were the ones who would have to carry my death with them. Then Joe managed to save me anyway and that guilt was alleviated. But Jet was still gone."

"I left him behind."

"You were in a combat situation and the others were still in danger. Jet understood that. He would have done the same. And you did go back for him, he just wasn't there anymore."

She felt hot tears roll down her cheeks, swatted at them. "I tell myself that every day, but it doesn't help. Had I just stayed and looked for him…" the tears fell in earnest now and she didn't bother to stop them, her perfect vision blurring into uselessness.

Unyielding metal arms wrapped around her and she let Albert pull her into an embrace.

"I'm sorry we left you to carry that all this time."

She wept into his shoulder. There had been no blame from any of them, not a look or a word, probably not even a thought. This was the life they led. And yet the blame was still there within herself, and every time she looked at the metal feather hanging in the Dolphin's cockpit she could hear the festering chant you left him you left him you left him to die. Now Jet was alive but the guilt had only grown fiercer, emboldened from a chant to a cackle.

You left him, and they broke him. They destroyed him. The Jet you loved is gone but here is the empty shell they left behind…

But she wasn't the only one now. The guilt was stronger and so had latched onto the others, leaping from her onto them like sinewy black virus. She wrapped her arms around Albert in kind and squeezed.

"It's not your fault either."

This would not assuage the guilt, only Jet could do that, but the tears helped the ache and their embrace reminded them that it was a thing to carry together. That the whole team could carry, as they always had.

Jet shifted, rolling onto his side with his back to them and coughed.

"Quiet, you," Albert said, "We're having a moment."

Francoise couldn't help but chuckle into his neck. "We're probably bothering him. Too much stimulation right now."

"All right," Albert let go and stood, "Let's give him some quiet. You want ice cream?"

Francoise arched an eyebrow. "Really? I get upset and you immediately go for ice cream?"

He crossed his arms and glared. "Well I was going to get some and was offering to share but now I don't think I want to." He even stuck out his tongue at her.

"Ice cream it is," she smiled, "But let's eat it up here in case he tries to make another escape."

"I really don't want to stop him if he tries."

Francoise sighed. No more fighting today. "How about I bring this up at dinner and we can make a plan for getting him on his feet that doesn't involve him falling out of bed. We all want him back on his feet as much as you do."

"I know."

"Now, ice cream."

"Ice cream."


Ivan woke to the usual welcomes and updates he'd come to expect over the decades, followed by a warm bottle of milk. With the team grounded for now, there was little on which to update him, and yet he found himself bombarded with the news that Jet had stood on his own for a full two minutes from multiple teammates.

If one could call that awkward, hunched posture standing. Jet would not stand upright, but bent into himself, arms tucked into his chest and legs knock-kneed. But he was up, and would stay that way for a time when his teammates stopped supporting him. Jet, as always, didn't fight them when they extended his arms or pulled his shoulders back to straighten them, but as soon as they let go he bent back into his hunched position as though it was his natural one.

Despite this, the emotions Ivan was feeling from everyone were hopeful, and they were already discussing the best way to get Jet walking again.

But there was something else. Not just in their emotions, but the way they acted around Ivan. He caught them eyeing him sometimes, a question clearly burning on their tongues but not wanting to ask because they knew he didn't want to hear it. He didn't know why they bothered; he could hear the question projecting from their minds as clearly as if they asked it verbally, if not clearer.

While Jet may be improving physically, Ivan announced during dinner, his mind is the same as ever. I know it's not what you wanted to hear, but you all were dying to ask me so, there.

They all stared at him as though bewildered, then guilty.

"Oh, uh," Joe said, "We weren't going to ask but…thanks."

Ivan rolled his eyes, though not without fondness. He loved his teammates dearly but sometimes they were so weird.

And coming from a telepathic cybernetic baby that meant something.


A cry and the shattering of glass in the middle of the night had every cyborg out of bed and down in the kitchen in seconds, ready for a fight. All they found was Gilmore, standing by the sink and a broken glass on the floor in a puddle of water. He rounded on them not in terror but sudden fury, his finger pointed at Joe.

"009! Put 002 to bed at night! He damned nearly gave me a heart attack!"

Joe glanced at towards the entryway that led to the front room in time to see Jet shuffle-thump his way into the dark and winced. Jet was walking, somewhat, and now capable of moving around the house on his own, but his ungainly steps were painful to watch at times.

Jet still would not stand upright but bent at the waist, moving by tilting himself sideways and catching himself with the left leg, over and over. The right would almost drag behind him. It was slow and made a soft shuffle-thump as he walked. His arms remained tucked to his chest, save now and again when he would reach out one arm blindly, as though trying to feel his way, but he apparently could still not comprehend the feeling of an obstruction under his hand. Joe had watched him reach out and put his hand on the wall in front of him and then walk into it anyway.

Francoise did not appreciate Joe dubbing it Jet's Silent Hill Shuffle, but that's what it looked like and it caught on and now she was annoyed at everyone.

Gilmore wasn't done, "I woke up and decided to get myself a glass of water, and there's enough moonlight coming in through the window I thought turning on the light unnecessary. I turn around and there he is, shuffling towards me out of the dark!" He yelled the last part.

"I did put him to bed, Professor," Joe explained, feeling bad but also trying not to laugh, "but he's on his own schedule now and just gets up whenever he wants."

"Then shut your door at night! He hasn't figured out doorknobs yet has he!"

Gilmore vaguely gestured to the shattered glass with a "someone clean that up" before he stormed out of the kitchen and back to his room. Chang scooped up the mess while Geronimo retrieved Jet.

It was Albert who started laughing first.


Winter settled in and Francoise finally made use of the giant woolen sweater she bought Jet when he was first brought home. He was, indeed, adorable as Francoise had promised. Not that he noticed.

Despite Jet moving around on his own, the schedule they devised for his care changed little. He still had to be fed and dressed and would only get out of bed sometimes. Some days he remained slumped in bed, coughing, drooling, and registering nothing.

When he was up, he would wander the house in shuffling, meandering lines until he walked into something, in which he would turn slightly then try again. Jet could get stuck in a corner for hours, unable to remember which way he had been facing prior and attempting the same direction over and over. When he grew tired, he would flop down onto the floor wherever he was. The team learned to be careful where they stepped after several trips over him.

Shut doors remained impassable; Jet seemed to view them the same as the wall and didn't try to find a way through them. This proved advantageous as the cyborgs could control his wandering by simply shutting a door without having to watch him every moment.

The real problem was the stairs. After a few stumbles when he walked into the bottom step, Jet learned he could keep moving forward by crawling upward. Joe was delighted by this discovery, taking it as a sign of improving cognizance, at least until Jet tried to go down the stairs.

In this, Jet's teammates were glad he was a cyborg, for he did not walk down the stairs but fell down them. His foot would step into nothing and he'd tumble down after it. At the bottom he would get up and continue on like nothing happened, or just lay there awhile.

Cyborg or not though, they couldn't stand it. Every time they would hear him bang and tumble down the stairs and they'd all go running. They tried to deter him by carrying him downstairs to let him wander there, but he'd sometimes ascend the steps when no one was looking and then inevitably come back down. Great suggested buying a baby gate so Jet couldn't get back up the stairs.

It was Geronimo who, with endless patience, repeatedly showed Jet he could descend the steps safely by crawling down backwards. Eventually the trick seemed to penetrate Jet's brain and he would slowly back down the stairs on all fours. It did little good; Jet couldn't see when he approached the stairway and would continue to step into nothing and tumble down.

That was the last thing Jet was able to learn. He made no further improvements.


They'd grown accustomed to Jet's meandering and paid little attention as he shuffled into the dining room as they ate their dinner, save Pyunma who gently steered him away when he nearly walked into the table. He continued to watch as Jet trapped himself in the corner before giving up and dropping to the floor.

"We need to decide what to do with him," he said, well aware no one was going to like this conversation. Still, it was one they needed to have.

"What do you mean? He's getting better," Joe argued.

"No, he's not. He's plateaued. There's been no improvements in weeks."

Joe looked to Ivan, silently asking for backup.

He's right, Joe, the infant sent, a sense of sorrow underlining his telepathy, I have sensed no changes and even his physical improvements have stalled. We have to accept this may be the best Jet will ever be able to do.

"Fine, so what? We'll take care of him, as long as it takes."

Pyunma didn't let it drop. "So we're going to stay grounded forever? No more missions? What if some world emergency happens?"

"We have friends, they can look after him if necessary!"

"Sure, but what if something happens to us?"

Joe glowered, his mouth pursed like he wanted to say something, but he didn't, instead looking at Jet still on the floor.

"He's right, lad," Great said, "We have to make long-term plans. If something happens to us, who's going to look after him? Who has the training to keep up his maintenance that we trust? Who would even be willing to, possibly for the rest of his life?"

Joe shut his eyes, unwillingly imagining Jet, unable to care for himself, falling apart as his cybernetics failed. And, if he was maintenanced properly, he would most likely outlive his caretaker. Then what? Could they find someone to look after him? Would he be handed off, generation to generation, scientist to scientist who would care for him and treat him well?

Unlikely.

"If we start going out again," Joe said, slowly, "he comes with us."

He expected the many voices as they argued, but most noted was Francoise's too calm "Joe, we can't." He held up a hand for silence and the team obliged, though the room practically hummed with their disbelief.

"He comes with us," he repeated, "There is no other option. He'll stay on the Dolphin, out of the way, and then…That way, if we all go down, he comes with us, like he's supposed to. It's what he'd want."

Joe stabbed at his food and didn't look at his teammates, unhappy with his decision, but knowing they would agree with him. Their silence said enough, and they continued eating.

Jet coughed and sat up, staring at the wall.