Chapter Eleven: Déjà Vu
God, what a mess.
Dr. Paul Berkman adjusts the glasses on his nose. He steps to the side as another team with a stretcher rushes past. It's the mercenary, the blonde: Stephens, he thinks her name is. The woman isn't moving. Her skin has taken on an ashen color.
They're getting the hangar door off the ground. They have to cut it away, piece by piece, to get at the casualties trapped underneath. The room is filled with the cries of the wounded.
It's well worth the prize.
Dr. Berkman can see the rainbow sheen of pink spattered around the room. It looks like a lot—there's even some on the ceiling—but Mr. Dante had assured him that it wasn't anything to worry about. The target was quite large, after all. And all they really needed was the head and the power source, both of which Mr. Dante left intact.
God, it had been a brute. Dr. Berkman had seen the whole thing on the surveillance cameras. Fifteen dead and more than forty wounded so far. The ground floor was demolished, elevator number three destroyed. It'll take weeks before everything is back in order.
He'd gotten a look as they hauled it out, started to take it down the hall to bay three. It was a mess. The plastic covering the thing's eyes were gone—melted off. The shoulder mounted weapon was scrap. One of the legs was mangled, the chest partially crushed, whole sections of armor torn away. He's going to have to go in, but the damage to the face should make things easier. Dr. Berkman knows better than anyone how hard it is to crack the thick shell covering the processor. But that gap around the eyes…
Dr. Berkman picks his way through the battlefield over to the pedestal. Hub One is silent, as usual. He checks the vital signs to be sure. Minimal activity. The thing is useless. Dr. Berkman had suggested scrapping it and starting over, but Mr. Dante had refused.
"We've got a, well, you'd call it a hunch, Dr. Berkman," he'd said.
Dr. Berkman shakes his head. Though it appears that the "hunch" had been correct. He surveys the room again.
It went straight here, he thinks, as though it knew. Strange.
His cell phone vibrates in his pocket. He pulls it out.
"Sir?" the assistant on the other end says. "We're ready."
Dr. Berkman checks his watch. "I'll be there in five minutes."
He slips the phone back into his pocket. He casts one, last look around and sighs.
"And you had such potential," he says.
Hub One doesn't respond.
"Ah well. I'm sure this will work out much better."
He turns away. He doesn't see the Hub's mouth twitch. He doesn't see the optics dilate. He doesn't hear the sound it makes.
"Ssss-dzzzz."
Pain.
Everything is pain.
His audios shriek. Agony rips through him, claws up his neck, and lodges in his head, digging hot talons through his mind.
Primus.
Burning, searing heat gives way to icy cold. And he doesn't know where he is or if he's anywhere at all. He needs to squirm, needs to thrash, needs the hurting to stop.
It doesn't.
A quiet whine. A hiss. The awful din around him eases and, for one moment, Sideswipe feels a trickle of relief. And then something taps him on the head.
Optics online and he jerks. A harsh, guttural cough of static erupts from his vocalizer. It almost blows out.
Lights. His one, functioning optic is blinded by them. He tries to lift a hand to shield his face. It won't move.
Wha…?
He turns his head to find out why.
Agh, it hurts too much for me to be dead.
A shadow moves. Someone blocks the light. A face blurs into view. Cybertronian. Something is wrong with the mech's face.
"Who are you?" he tries to say. It comes out a garbled slur.
The unfamiliar mech cocks his head. Sideswipe realizes he's smiling. Something cold seeps through his chest.
He tries again. "Who…?"
Better. Recognizable, if half-slagged.
"Ah, you're online," the mech says. The voice is deep, resonating. There's something about the words, something about the inflection that sets Sideswipe on edge.
"What?" he says. He means to say, "What the slag do you want?" but it's too hard to put the words together.
The mech doesn't seem to hear him.
"We were wondering if we'd gone overboard," it says. "It can be so difficult to remember one's strength. You break so easily."
Sideswipe can only squint at him. The slag is he talking about? What—
The room. The big mech. Trying to dodge the swing coming at him only he's too slow, the thing too fast, and he can't get out of the way. It slams into him, spins him around, he catches a glimpse of Sunny's head—
"You!" Sideswipe says. He jerks up. Or tries to. Because something presses against his chest. He can't sit up, can't move.
Oh no.
He's tied down.
Sideswipe thrashes, tries to rip himself free. Energon spatters. Something inside him shifts and the agony flares. The next thing he knows he's lying flat on his back, staring up at the ceiling.
"Calm down, now," the big mech says. "You'll only wear yourself out and you're going to need all of your energy."
That sets off alarms.
"The slag do you mean?" he says.
The mech grins at him. "Oh, no need to go and ruin it for you. The surprise is half the fun."
What is wrong with that thing's face? The mech stands silhouetted against the light, his face hidden in the gloom. But there's something… the way the plating sits together that's just wrong.
Seams. Big ones, running across it like a road map. It's not a face, it's a jumble of pieces locked together to suggest a face. He's seen this before: on Hunter, on all the Headmasters.
"What are you?" he says.
The mech gives a short bow. "You may call us Scorpinok."
"What is this place? What…"
They're not alone. There are humans in the room, too, clustered on the floor beneath him, some standing on the edge of the table he's strapped to. Other shapes along the walls: tools, equipment. They're all silent, all waiting, all watching this freak standing over him.
"It's you," he says. "You're the one… you're Machination."
The mech, no, the thing laughs.
"You worked it out! And so quickly, unlike poor Sunstreaker."
Sideswipe snarls.
"He had no clue," Scorpinok says. "Kept babbling threats, even as we started to cut into him."
Sideswipe's audios ring. He finds he can't move, can only stare up at the monster as it talks, not even looking at him, anymore. Can only lie there and feel the cold burn its way through him.
"That didn't last long. Soon he was begging us to stop. It was too late, of course. Though he asked so nicely."
His vision swims. The table seems to be swaying. His body feels off, like he's floating. Pressure builds. He's going to pop, going to explode, going to burst off the table and bury his fingers into that freak's face and tear it off while it screams—
Tap-tap.
A pincher clicks against his helm. The room shifts back into focus. The thing still looms over him.
"You know, when you first showed up, we thought you might have been the first of a rescue operation," the freak says. "But you had such a knack for finding our Headmasters. It took some time to figure out. We weren't sure, you see. It wasn't until we found what was left of Mr. Jones that we knew."
What the slag is it—oh.
"He was the first one you found, wasn't he? Quite the mess you made of him. Very personal touch. You hid the remains so well, we would never have found him if it hadn't been for the tracker, but I'm sure you know all about that. That was how you found your way here, is it not? Mr. O'Nion? You're Sunstreaker's twin, aren't you? What was the name? Sideswipe?"
The burning fills him. He doesn't feel anything else, just the awful cold.
"I'm going to kill you," Sideswipe says.
"Your brother said the same thing," Scorpinok says.
He backs away. The humans move in. The whine of machinery fills the air as a laser-cutter lifts over him and sinks into his chest.
He's awake. No gradual awareness, no dream sequence, no slow return to the senses. One moment, nothing; the next, he's staring up at the ceiling. Boom.
What the hell?
And he feels good. Not at all like the half-dead zombie he was earlier. His legs don't even hurt—
Hunter almost flails. He almost bolts upright, which probably would have ended with him rolling off the table and crashing to the floor and totally blowing his cover to the two voices he hears. Instead, he catches himself and concentrates on staying very, very still.
Oh god.
He remembers. The helicopter, Sideswipe, Simmons scooting forward, pressing his face to the windshield to get a better look as the red mech dematerialized and left him there. Machination.
Oh my god.
They have him. Machination has him again. It's some god-awful case of déjà vu.
Hunter turns his head and looks around. He's in a room, fluorescent lights overhead. The walls are white, the floor is tiled. He's lying on his back on what looks like stainless-steel, what looks like an autopsy table.
He shudders.
Two voices, both male, chat away outside the door. He looks to his left and freezes.
What is that?
It's a tube. It's curving up and away from… from his neck. A ripple of cold nausea washes through him. Hunter lifts one hand to run his fingers up his shoulder until they hit where the tube connects. It's filled with dark, thick liquid. It's coming out of what looks like a water cooler.
Oh. Shit, I… oh.
He has to calm down. He can't freak out. Not here, not now. Those two guys in the hall will be coming back in. He's got to get out of here. And that means staying calm, keeping his head.
You can do this. Figure it out.
The tube. He's got to disconnect it. Both hands now, probing where it sticks out of his neck. He doesn't want to touch it. Touching it means making it real and if it's real—
There. A clasp of some sort around the base holds it in. He starts to twist it—oh god, get it off me—and then stops.
What if it sets off an alarm?
His hands fall back. He stares dumbly at the water cooler and its viscous content.
He's seen it before, when he got shot the first time. That stuff had bled out of his shoulder. The black goo smeared on his palm where he clapped a hand over the wound.
It's… it's like blood, only for his cyborg body.
That is so goddamn creepy, he thinks.
A click; the door handle turns. Hunter pulls his arms back to his sides and closes his eyes.
"—and it's not like they don't have the staff for it."
"I know. It's ridiculous. Berkman's been tearing his hair out all week."
A snort. Hunter can hear the squeak of shoes on the tile.
"And now this," the first guy says. "It's too much, you know? It came right through the front entrance. It's fishy, you know?"
"What do you mean?"
"That's one hell of a coincidence. We get one, and then another just shows up on the doorstep? I've always said we don't give them enough credit. They must have found a way to talk to one another."
The first guy, Mr. "Fishy" comes to a stop next to Hunter's head.
"What, you think they planned it?" the second one says.
"I dunno. It's just… oh." Fingers on his neck. The guy leans over. Hunter can feel the body heat radiating onto his face. "It's done."
He cracks an eye open. Blue, the edge of what looks like one of those scrub shirts. He shuts his eye.
"Could you get that for me?" Mr. Fishy says.
Movement above him; something soft brushes his nose. He smells some kind of aftershave. A click and a slight tug on his neck and the tube is gone.
"Get the door, would you?" Mr. Fishy says.
"Yeah," the second guy says.
The table starts to move. They're rolling him across the floor, taking him out, into the hall. He opens his eyes.
Mr. Fishy is right over Hunter. He's pushing the table. The lower half of his face is covered in one of those paper doctor's masks; his hair is tucked up under a blue, paper cap. He looks like he's about to go into an operating room.
Mr. Fishy adjusts his grip on the table, looks down, and meets Hunter's eyes.
"Hi," Hunter says.
Mr. Fishy's eyes bug out. He recoils from the table.
The second man stops. He looks back. Hunter doesn't give him time to react. He sits up, lunges forward, snags the back of the guy's scrubs. The man stumbles. Hunter's fist catches him right under the chin. Teeth clack together. His head snaps back and he goes limp.
Mr. Fishy backs away, hands up, eyes wide. Hunter drops the second guy and swings his legs over the table railing. Mr. Fishy's eyes dart from the half-empty water cooler to Hunter. His hands shoot out, grab the top of it. The next thing Hunter knows it's flying through the air, right at his head.
He ducks. Mr. Fishy scrambles past to the left. Hunter catches a fistful of cloth and pulls. Mr. Fishy flails; one of his feet manages to tangle with Hunter's and they both go down.
Mr. Fishy makes an "oomph!" sound. Hunter lands with a crash. Then Mr. Fishy is up, feet scrabbling, shoes squeaking on the floor as he tries to run.
No you don't, Hunter thinks.
He rolls over and tackles the guy.
"God, no! Please!" Mr. Fishy says. His hands claw at Hunter's head. They slip off the armor over his scalp and ears and dig into his face instead.
"Agh!" Hunter says. He rears back.
Mr. Fishy twists below him, starts to kick, starts to squirm away. Hunter grabs him again.
"No! Get off me!"
"Calm down!" Hunter says. "I'm not gonna hurt you!"
"Please, please no!"
The man is somewhere in his thirties. He's got big arms. There should be no way for a scrawny teenager to hold him down. It takes Hunter two seconds to grab the guy's wrists and pin them to the floor.
Mr. Fishy starts to scream.
"No! Shh!" Hunter says. It does no good. The guy's eyes are crazy. He's thrashing around so much Hunter is worried he's going to hurt himself. "Quiet! I won't hurt you, I promise!"
Shit. He's totally losing it. He's shrieking like a wounded animal.
Someone's going to hear this.
Hunter switches both of the man's wrists to one hand and clamps his other over the guy's mouth. Mr. Fishy tries to bite him. His hand is made out of metal; Hunter barely feels it.
"Listen to me," he says. "Look at me. I don't want to hurt you. But you need to shut up."
The screams get weaker; Mr. Fishy's too busy panting through his nose. Hunter keeps his hand over the guy's mouth. Eventually, the screams die down into whimpers and then stop altogether.
Hunter waits until his eyes lose the glazed look and says, "I'm gonna move my hand now, okay? But you start doing that again and it goes right back. Nod if you understand me."
Mr. Fishy nods enthusiastically. Hunter releases him, watching him as he pulls back. Mr. Fishy is too preoccupied with gulping air to try anything.
"You okay?" Hunter says.
Mr. Fishy nods.
"Where am I?" Hunter says.
"Sub-basement," Mr. Fishy says.
"Where is this place? What city?"
"Detroit. You're in Detroit."
"How do I know you're not lying?"
Mr. Fishy shakes his head. "No. Corner of… of Clark and West Fort. Right near the highway. You can look it up.
Hunter blinks. Forty seconds and a wifi-tap later and he confirms it.
Huh. That's, like, four hours from the ship.
"Why are you telling me all this?" Hunter says.
Mr. Fishy looks at the second guy, crumpled in a heap behind the table. Hunter can hear the whistle as he breathes.
"Okay," Hunter says. "How do I get out of here?"
He's not expecting a reply. Maybe a, "Wouldn't you like to know?" or even a, "You'll never make it out alive." But Mr. Fishy goes and ruins it with, "Out the door, down the hall to the right. There's a set of stairs. Go to the first floor, take another right. There's a fire exit through the last room on the left."
Hunter stares.
It sounds easy. If he can manage not to run into anyone, he can be home free in a couple of minutes.
I'm in the heart of Machination. This could be my one chance to find a way to bring them down. But then what? Who could possibly—
His eyes widen.
Oh god. I can't believe I'm gonna do this.
"Last question," he says. "There was another person with me, when they took me in. Where is he?"
Seymour Simmons floats through space. It's dark. He's warm. Every time he exhales he feels hot moisture on his mouth and nose. It kind of smells like onions. His shoulder and face are a distant ache. If only it weren't so damned hot.
"Could you maybe turn that off now?" he says.
He can hear the goons moving around him, can smell sweat and aftershave and hair gel. They're feeling the heat, too. Those lamps can toast a small room like this fast. Simmons knows.
"So tell me again, Agent Simmons," Goon One says. He's the Talker, the needle guy, the one in charge.
"No, no, no," Simmons says. "I already told you, that's not my name."
"Please, Agent, if you'd just—"
"Agent? No. No. I've told you. If you'd just listen—"
"Cut the crap, Simmons," Goon Two says. Simmons's chair lurches as the goon grabs the arm rests. "We know who you are and we know who you work for. We just want to clarify some things."
Simmons sighs. More air trapped under the hood. When the hell did he eat onions, anyway?
"I told you," he says.
"About the robots?" Goon One says.
"Yes, about the robots. I swear, I have no idea what they wanted. I mean, you guys got me out of there—big thumbs up, by the way—but you might want to rethink your tactics. That shit hurt like hell."
"Agent Simmons—"
"I'm not an Agent."
"—tell us about the ship."
"What ship?"
"The robots. We know they have a ship—"
"Really?"
"—and we think that's where they were taking you. After they kidnapped you."
"Who knows," Simmons says. "Didn't tell me anything. Just grabbed me—"
"So you've said. But I think you know more than you're telling us."
"Why would I do that? I like you guys. Well, not like like you, but I owe you."
Silence. Sweat trickles down his back. He fidgets in the chair. He can't tell how long he's been in this damned room, marinating under the spotlight. He thinks it might be a while.
"Agent Simmons—"
"Are you guys stupid or something? I told you—"
A shift in the air, a cool breeze.
"Who—"
"What the hell—"
A muffled grunt and a thump! Simmons knows that sound: something hard hitting flesh. Then another, louder thump as something heavy—a body—hits the floor.
"Johnny! Grab—" Goon One says.
Too late. Simmons hears "Johnny" yelp, hears something crack and then a loud bam! Johnny lets out a low groan and falls silent.
"Shit!" Goon One says. Rustling and then the familiar sound of a gun being un-holstered. "What the—ah!"
Noises, sounds of a scuffle. Goon One curses. His assailant makes no sound. Another hit and a clatter and a whump as Goon One hits the table.
Seconds tick by. Or maybe it's minutes. Hard to tell. Cool fingers touch his throat, fumble with the edge of the hood. It slides up, over his head. Light slams into his eyes.
"Ah, shit," Simmons says and ducks his head.
He waits and blinks a few times, lets his eyes adjust before he looks up. The first thing he sees is metal pieces, plating and cables bunched together. A face moves into his vision. Dark helmet, coming down over the ears like some kind of high-tech astronaut cap. A human face, brown eyes, big nose. Young.
"Hey!" Simmons says. "Kid! What are you doing here?"
The kid blinks at him and draws back.
"Simmons?" he says.
"Yeah."
The kid makes a face at him.
"What? Something wrong?" Simmons says.
"You look like crap."
Simmons looks down. His arms are cuffed to the chair, his shirt is rumpled and sweat-stained, his face feels all puffy.
"Yeah, well," he says. "What brings you down here?"
"You know this is stupid, right?" Simmons says.
"Yes," Hunter says. "And like I told you the last three times, I need to get another body. Or do you want to try to catch a bus when we get out of here? Because I don't think they'll let me on."
"I'm just saying. We should get out now, before someone realizes we aren't where we should be. Do you even know where you're going?"
Vaguely, Hunter thinks. Mr. Fishy's information had been good. It had led Hunter right to Simmons. When asked if they had any more Headmaster bodies, he'd gotten all flustered, started babbling something about a hanger on the other side of the building. Which is turning out to be huge.
Hunter peeks around the corner. The next hallway is empty. He turns to tell Simmons that only to find a gun in his face.
"Jesus," he says. "Would you watch where you point that thing?"
Simmons rolls his eyes. "It's not aimed at you, kid."
"It's close enough."
The Agent makes a noncommittal grunt, the guns shifts so Hunter's not staring down the barrel.
Hunter slips into the hall. He's gone about six feet when he realizes he doesn't hear Simmons behind him. He turns. The man stands where he left him, back to the wall, gun up. He's bruised up, banged up, and his clothes look like he's been wearing them for three days. Despite all this, he seems happy.
At least one of us is having a good time, Hunter thinks.
"Come on, Simmons," he says.
The man glances over and makes a shushing motion. He's staring back the way they came.
"What?" Hunter says.
"You hear that?" Simmons says.
"Hear what?"
Even as he says it, he catches the small chirp.
What is that?
The visor shows nothing. Simmons shifts the gun and brings it down to eye-level, arms out. They wait. Seconds later, the sound comes again, louder this time.
"Is that—" Hunter says.
"Radio," Simmons says.
"Shit."
Someone is coming toward them and he's not showing up on Hunter's scanners.
"Run," he says.
He doesn't need to; Simmons belts past him and Hunter turns to follow. He can hear footsteps if he concentrates, thick soles, boots of some kind.
Crap, crap, crap!
The hallway branches off up ahead. They're running in blind and with no cover.
"Door!" Simmons says.
Hunter spots it: to the right, up ahead.
"—ection 13, say again?" the man with the radio says.
Simmons reaches the door first. He slams into it and fumbles for the handle. It twists. He practically falls in, Hunter right behind him. Simmons whirls. He shuts the door with a soft click.
The only light in the room is the blue glow of his visor. He presses himself against the wall and listens to Simmons breathing. Outside, the radio squawks. The man mumbles something back. He's right outside the door. Footsteps stop. Simmons tenses up.
Wait for it, he thinks. Two seconds. Three. He can end it fast, punch through the wall and grab the guy. The only problem is the radio. If he manages to—
The footsteps continue. Hunter sags against the wall.
"Whew," Simmons says. "That was fun."
"Uh huh."
"Alright, he should be gone in a minute or two. We can…"
But Hunter isn't listening. Simmons voice echoes. Hunter looks into the darkness, he listens to the way the sound bounces off walls, distant ones.
Huh?
He walks further in. The glow of the visor doesn't reach anything.
"Hey, Simmons, do you see a light switch anywhere?"
"Why? I thought you were all gung-ho to—"
"Just… just turn on the lights, will you?"
Clothing rustles. The switch clicks on. The room is flooded with light and Hunter has to shield his eyes. Behind him, Simmons lets out a low whistle. Hunter looks up and feels his brain stop working.
The room isn't big, it's enormous. Three stories high, maybe more. On the far wall is what looks like a giant garage door with a ramp leading up from the pit below them. They're standing on a balcony over it. Hunter latches onto the railing to steady himself.
"Oh my god," he says.
The entire floor is filled with rows and rows of cars, in blue and silver and yellow. All of them identical, all of them Lamborghinis. They're all empty Headmaster units.
"This," Hunter says. "They're building an army."
lildevchick and Starfire201, you two continue to rock. And tsukyasha! I've got another reviewer! (This deserves booze!) KayDeeBlu continues to keep me from getting too wordy and for that, thank you.
Next chapter: Do You Have a Plan