Author's Note: As I predicted, the last chapter was liked, a lot. I am starting to wonder if I have given you all Stockholm Syndrome, yet, with all these highs and lows. Maybe? I'm glad you all stuck with me though. The response has been incredible. I assumed this story would be less popular than the prequel, but boy, was I wrong. I guess you all like sick jokes, creepy humour and death? Nice. Remind me to cross the street if I ever see any of you walking towards me...
Enough of the insults, let's have some more story. Artwork is at sanctuscecidit deviantart com.
Send In The Clones: Part Three
Chapter Thirty-Five: Redemption
He had leapt. It hadn't even been a conscious decision. One second, he was prowling around, cloaked, looking for suitable targets to sap, and the next thing he knew, he was leaping through the air and there was the sensation of a huge fist punching him in the guts. He had tried to land on his feet, but suddenly his legs felt weak and he had collapsed to the ground. Then the pain had started. First a dull throb that within seconds had built up to scorching trails of fire in his midriff. He was dying, due to some stupid, stupid heroic act. Why the hell had he done it?
He had thought 'Oh. So this is what dying feels like.' Yes, it had been painful, but what had caught him by surprise was the dizziness, disorientation and nausea. He had wanted to crawl away into a quiet corner and vomit, but there were people there and he had made some ridiculously selfless speech as everything faded into grey.
Then there was a flash of light, a sensation that he could only describe as feeling like being kicked in the soul, and...he had come back.
Spy shuddered and curled up on his bed, wondering if he would ever sleep again. He knew what it felt like to die. His chest and stomach still ached from the shotgun blast, although he realised that was almost certainly psychosomatic. The worse thing, though, was the odd creeping sense of shame.
The clones died and came back several times a day, and they got up and fought again. They were always far, far stronger than we realised. Stronger than us.
They could have beaten us at any time.
There was a single loud thump at his door. He uncurled and grabbed his mask, quickly smoothing it into place and flicked the bedside light on. The world spun slightly due to the expensive alcohol dancing through his veins.
"Entreé."
The figure that came in filled the doorway and had to duck to enter the bedroom. Spy's eyebrows raised in surprise.
"Heavy? And what can I do for you?"
The large man came in and sat down, staring silently at Spy for a moment. Spy cleared his throat.
"It is rather late to be visi..."
"You saved Doktor's life." Heavy said.
"So I did." Spy said. "I will admit it was a rather painful experience, and completely unplanned on my part."
"You should have died."
"Well, I am so sorry I disappointed you on that score." Spy replied irritably. "I shall try harder to die properly next time- oh wait, no I won't, because I am lying. It is a thing we Spies do, you understand."
"I do not want you to die." Heavy said. His large hands clenched and unclenched.
"You...don't?"
"You killed Gustav. But you risked life to save Gerhardt. You are changed."
"Aren't we all, mon ami." He said with a sigh. "Aren't we all."
"Da." Heavy suddenly got up and paced over to tower over the skinnier man. He held out one of those enormous hands of his.
Spy blinked, before extending his own, currently ungloved, hand. The Russian's hand clasped it and shook it, just once, before letting go.
"Friends?" He asked curiously.
"Nyet." Heavy said firmly. "But we are even."
Spy gave a short tight smile. "I can live with that." And as he said it, he realised that the thought of having one less enemy filled him with a curious, content feeling. When had he started caring about being liked? Mon dieu, I have changed, and it is all the fault of these damned clones.
Heavy turned to leave, but Spy looked at the large man, and found himself thinking of what Heavy had lost, and found himself calling him back. Heavy turned back, looking both suspicious and curious.
I cannot believe I am doing this...Perhaps it is the champagne...
"Heavy, let me ask you a question: have you ever been in love?"
Heavy flinched and then gave Spy a steely glare. "I not answer that."
"Do you know what the basis of love is?" Spy asked. "What it is, when all the reasoning and romance is peeled away? At its core?"
"No one knows that." He stated, turning to leave. "Spy is drunk. I am going now."
"Wait, humour me here. We French are a nation of romantics, oui?" Spy said. He found himself thinking of Rachel, and wondered if she had waited for him. She has. I know it. She has waited so many times before. I do not deserve her. "The basis of love, it is trust. Some say friendship, erotic fascination, or think it is some unknowable magical bond, but they are wrong. To dare to show one's absolute vulnerabilities, to share all those dirty secrets, without shame, and to know that one will be accepted no matter what- that is the wellspring from which love flows."
Heavy turned back, and nodded quickly with a thoughtful frown. "Is possible."
"Gerhardt trusts you." Spy said, leaning forward intently, "Consider it."
Heavy paused thoughtfully, his face slowly contorting into a frown, and for a moment, Spy thought he was going to get punched.
"I realise this is none of my business," Spy said hurriedly, "But, putting ethical issues aside, I believe it is in all our best interests. You make Medic a lot more...manageable."
The man shrugged, still glaring at Spy. "I am going now." He repeated, turning away from him and clasping the door handle.
Spy gave a light snort of mirth. "Goodnight, Mr Cherny."
There was a pause as the large man turned the handle. "Call me Sergei." He said, and then left.
Spy blinked and then lay back, removing his mask. He ran a hand through his thinning hair out of habit, and then slowly smiled. Odd- the world was being torn to pieces and he had seen so many deaths, including those of his close Violet comrades, but he suddenly felt truly happy for the first time in many, many years. He felt...clean.
He closed his eyes contentedly. Definitely the champagne....he thought, as he drifted off into a deep, satisfying sleep.
"Welcome to the ABC Evening News on the 17th of February. This is Howard K. Smith reporting on the latest events from around the world.
"The mystery of the robot attacks deepens today with the voice recording of another member of the mysterious group of fighters who have gained the ironic nickname of 'The Justice League', after their successful destruction of eleven consecutive robot attacks throughout mainland USA.
"This newest recording cannot be broadcast due to its extreme language, but is of a man shouting obscenities at the robots in a strong Australian accent. Further talks have been held with the USA, USSR and Australia, but there is still no sign of any world power admitting its involvement in these attacks. Analysts have theorised that the People's Republic of China could be behind these attacks, but Chairman Mao-Tse-Tung has categorically stated that his country has no interest beyond continuing its Great Leap Forward, although he admires the work the robots have done to 'destroy the capitalist centres of industry in the US'. Chairman Mao has stated that the robots are clearly doing the bidding of a communist sympathiser.
"This defamatory statement has added to the general panic happening throughout America, with many stockpiling essential supplies. A food riot broke out today in Cheyenne, Wyoming, after a local supermarket ran out of tinned food, and there have been mile-long queues for gas throughout the country.
"President Nixon is once again asking people to remain calm and assures that pre-emptive strikes will not even be considered unless the government is absolutely certain of the identity of the aggressors behind these apparently random and brutal attacks on US businesses."
"Robot alert!" Miss Pauling's voice rang out. "Here we go again, guys."
Medic woke with a snort and wondered why his face felt warm and sticky. He blinked and realised he had fallen asleep face down in a plate of spaghetti. His hand groped for the bottle of Benzedrine he kept close at hand, and he quickly gulped down two of the pills.
"...'Fess." He groaned, levering himself upright and peeling pasta and mince off his face.
"Dag nab it." Engineer muttered, taking off his goggles and rubbing his eyes. "We can't keep doing this." He motioned to Medic to pass over the pills.
"Get moving, ladies! War waits for no man. Or woman." Soldier barked, his helmet jammed on his head lopsided so that one bloodshot blue eye peeked out from underneath it. He rubbed his stubbled chin with a harsh scraping noise.
"Ahh fuuuuck." One of the Scouts called from outside the mess hall.
Miss Pauling burst into the room, dressed in combat fatigues and straightening her headset. She pulled on her backpack containing the upgrade control panel and untwisted a few straps until it was comfortable. The all-male team had objected to a woman in a war zone, but Miss Pauling had given them one of her looks and pointed out that if they could patch her into their internal communication system, she could handle the Australium upgrade system for them, freeing them up to fight more robots. Soldier had put his foot down and stated that she would not be coming along to any battle he was involved in, but she had eloquently argued that yes, she would, by shooting him in said foot. Oddly enough, the only team members who had no problems with her coming along were the two Scouts, who pointed out that this was the 70's, women had rights n'shit, and that 'Damn, she looks so hot in that outfit.'
How many fights had they been in? Medic could not truly remember now. It had all turned into a blur of pain, exhaustion and oil fumes. They took Temezepam to sleep and Benzedrine to wake up again, and ate whatever they could, whenever they could. He vaguely wondered when he had last had a wash or cleaned his teeth. Not that it mattered- they probably all stank to high heaven by now. He watched the group assemble, grey-skinned and stubble-faced, running on fumes and desperation.
We are running out of time.
The only exception was Heavy, who had refused any stimulants and looked about as winded as a man who had been for a healthy short run. While the rest of them fought with hissed curses or grim silence now, he still roared with laughter when his minigun minced robots, cheered when they won and carried injured team members to the doctor for him to heal or revive them. The man was remarkable, and Medic found himself lost in admiration of his sheer courage and determination.
We can't keep going like this. Sooner or later, we will fall.
As the group charged out of the teleport into the latest battle, Medic found himself remembering when he thought he had been dying of cancer. This was a similar sensation to then- a feeling of the clock ticking down to an uncertain but unpleasant future. This constant fighting was a brutal regimen, and they were all living on borrowed time. Bruises were not healing as quickly, infected cuts were becoming more common and even though they were victorious, time after time, they were slipping. He had had to treat Pyro for an asthma attack, Bobby had had a terrible blinding migraine, and Engineer had collapsed with low blood sugar twice. Still, they kept fighting.
If not us, then who?
They all knew it. They were not the heroes, they were not even the good guys, but there was no one else left. Medic dully watched the robots explode and healed mercenary after mercenary as fire spat and smoke roiled around him. All they could hope for was that their hidden opponent would run out of robots before they ran out of strength. It seemed unlikely, though: the latest battles had had more robots, not fewer, and some of them had been towering leviathans that took huge amounts of damage before they fell. Medic realised he barely felt the passage of time any more. He just mechanically listened for shouts and cries of pain, healing and reviving, saving shields for the larger waves and running away from rockets as the sun rose and set, and oil and blood splashed onto the rocky ground.
This is turning me into a robot too.
Today's battle ended with a fight against a giant Soldier robot which fired enormous glowing rockets that blasted huge craters where they landed. Medic gritted his teeth, and shielded the group as they used their inhuman aim and enhanced vision to take it down with a final metallic shriek.
After that first victory nearly two weeks ago, they had celebrated and partied. After the second one, they had quietly drank and enjoyed a large dinner. The third and the fourth left them tired, but satisfied that they had done a good job. After that, the victories stopped feeling quite so euphoric. It was just a punishing routine that was pounding them into dust.
"I think that's the last of them." Miss Pauling reported in their ears, her voice dull with exhaustion. "Let's go home."
"Wish we could find out which wankers are behind these attacks." Sniper growled, trudging over to join the battered group.
"There has to be a way." Spy said, lighting a cigarette with shaking fingers. Once he had lit his own, he passed them around to all the mercenaries except for the Scouts.
Soldier suddenly fell to the floor, his helmet rolling off a short distance.
"Sol!" Demo cried, kneeling down. He slapped his face and the burly man twitched and started to snore. "Huh. Wish I could do that."
"Exposure to nerve agents can cause long-term narcolepsy." Medic explained, stretching his shoulders until they creaked audibly. "Or he might just be sleep-deprived."
"Sol, wake up, I'm not gonnae carry ya. SOL!"
"Hrrr wrrrhh." Pyro said with a shrug. He picked up the larger man and slung him over his shoulder without any apparent difficulty.
"I am not ashamed to admit I cannot continue like this much longer." Spy said, blowing smoke out of his nostrils.
"Uh, fellas?" Engineer said diffidently. "Got somethin' I've been meanin' to tell y'all."
"We keep fighting until they are all dead." Heavy said. "There cannot be many robots left now."
"The number of attacks has gone down to one a day, though the individual attacks are now bigger." Miss Pauling said thoughtfully, walking over to them and putting her upgrade control back into her backpack. "So...maybe we're winning?"
"Hrrr crrrn hrrrdhrrrsss hsss." Pyro said, shaking his head sadly.
"Y'all, I...kind of have a confession to make." Engineer said.
The group turned and looked at the short Texan.
"Ja?" Medic asked.
"Well see, I reckon I've figured out where all these robots are comin' from."
"Vhat! Vhen did you do zhis?"
"I got the last data I needed today." Engineer took off his hardhat and swallowed. "Thought it'd be a mighty fine idea if we took the fight to them for once. Thing is though, the way I found out, well...y'all gonna be pissed. Real pissed."
"What did you do?" Miss Pauling asked suspiciously.
"Think it might be better if I show you." Engineer said. "When we get back to the base, I got somethin' for y'all to see in my workshop."
In Chapter Thirty-Six: Engineer knows he's gone too far this time, but who will be the angriest? Soldier, Miss Pauling...or Medic?