The pressure was on, you know, writing these next two chapters? Because I just got a compliment on how I write Raven and Cyborg, so I had to really bring it this time. So here it is.

Chapter 33- Victor

I'm out of the hotel at the crack of dawn. I have my toolkit under my arm and one objective. Get transportation for me and my friends. We've wasted too much time and money trying to be inconspicuous, if we have a ride then we can do anything, get anywhere, and fly right under the radar. Robin and I talked a long time last night, deciding what to do, and this is the way I can help. I'm a little scared, to say the least, to pull from my reservoir of weaponry. I don't want to mess up again and hurt another innocent person. I've struggled my entire life to fit in and be seen as human and… I've been doubting myself.

So I have to get my hands dirty. I need to do something, make something. Dad used to love restoring cars and taught me everything he knew. He was always so good at fixing junk. He fixed me, after all. He wanted to fix mom. Bring a corpse back to life. I can't imagine… I just can't imagine.

I walk through a reeking junkyard searching for the perfect piece to restore. Something to put my all into. I'm doing this for selfish reasons, though my talk with Robin made it seem this was all for the group, it's not. It's for me, for the connection I have to machine. For the belief I've held that if you work hard one day you'll have something to show of it. It's silly, but I don't want to go back to them without something to show. I can't let this family down, they're all I have now. I know that none of them expect me to have all the answers, and none of them expect me to be perfect, but I expect that of myself because it's always been expected of me. There's suddenly an ache in my hand, where mom's ring is supposed to be, but I'm soothed knowing Ray has it. She'll keep it safe, I expect nothing less of her.

The silence isn't so bad. I pick a car and go to work. It's in decent shape but there's still a lot to do. It would be stupid to pick something that seemed impossible, but it isn't a beginner level project. I'm not a beginner. I seem to see all of the pieces laid out in front of me. Every step engraved into my mind from the time I spent in dad's garage, fixing up another rust bucket. I thought it was extremely dorky and lame then, and I loved it. My dad only felt real, felt human, when he was fixing stuff. If my humanity could be doubted for my machine parts, my dad's humanity could be doubted for his distance. Though he wanted me to have friends and be involved, he only ever had work acquaintances. He was overprotective, but he was so from a distance. He never came to my football games, we ate dinner together sometimes, and we fixed cars. I only ever breached the distance when we had a project to restore. I don't know how anyone else ever reached him. Maybe things were different when mom was alive. I can't remember.

There is a lot of time to just think, and my head is swirling with thoughts. I guess that that's what makes me human. The consciousness. The guilt. I try to keep a positive mindset, I've always tried, but I can't pull positivity from thin air. I try to focus on the task at hand, but it's such second nature, my mind still wanders. I've been avoiding thinking about my weaponry. Trying to push away the guilt. If I don't think about it, then maybe I didn't shoot a police officer. If I don't think about it, then I didn't become the mechanical monster people always assumed I would be when they looked at me. My whole life I fought for normal, thinking I could be a hero as they compared me to a brute. I was close when I was on the football team. People liked me. I was lauded as an athlete. Only around Gar and Rachel did I dare act any less than normal, geeky and obsessed with heroics, and every bit the machine I was made to be.

And that is the biggest struggle. Am I man or machine? How can I fit those pieces together, so that I know how to be both? I have had 13 years to mull over these questions and I'm not any closer to the answer. Instead, I just have more questions, like which half is flawed, man or machine? Who is to blame, Frankenstein, or his monster? If the monster, with his mechanics, is fully to blame then why is the novel named Frankenstein? And where do I get off blaming the programmer as opposed to me, the one who used the programming? You can just build a weapon and not suppose the weapon could be used to hurt someone, and even if it wasn't wouldn't someone still be threatened and strive to build a bigger weapon? Doesn't my existence just challenge someone to build a bigger gun? What if I'd killed that man? Wouldn't that make me no better than Raven's dad? I would hate myself if I ever hurt her, loathe myself if I ever reminded her of the man who ruined her life. I promised her family. I promised to be her family. She doesn't know I promised, but my heart would break if I ever let her down. I have too much time to think. Too much time to myself, and I hate it.

I revamp and trick out the group's official ride, but I misspoke. The silence is pretty bad. I wasn't built to be alone. I wasn't built for this silence and solitude. I am going to lose my mind.

"Hey,"

(To Be Continued)