Author's Note: Hello all you loyal readers out there!!! Here's parts II and III of Chapter 4… Uhm… This is a three part Chapter, but the ff.net formatting will say that it's two different chapters. *shrug* Whatever, so long as you all don't mind! Randomness: No, the title of this part is NOT a typo—read it again. Yes—you see? Good. Anyway—all you silent readers out there—drop me a line? I would absolutely adore some constructive criticism. What am I doing wrong, people!?!?! Tell me so I can fix it!! Or… Tell me specifically what you like so I can give you more!!! Thank-you to everyone who has been good enough to review my stuff!!!
Onto the goods!
Part II: Unconscience
When Lydecker entered the room, I was still sitting in my chair, staring blankly at the wall in front of me, my mind slipping back into the downward vortex I'd grown so accustomed to in the months after I first lost my legs.
It's funny. I never thought of it as being paralyzed, as losing the use of my legs… I always thought of it as actually losing my legs. As if the useless limbs dangling from my torso didn't even exist.
Another, more benign form of denial, I suppose…
God, I hope Sketchy gets Original Cindy home all right…
"X6-599," Lydecker announced, by way of a preamble, I supposed, "We'll be ready to get him in about two weeks."
I couldn't help but to furrow my brow, "It only took you hours to organize last time." I protested, annoyed by the delay, until I remembered that I didn't want to help.
Lydecker stared past me, his face unreadable, "Yes. And you see where it got us."
I couldn't come up with a witty response to that one.
Scrutinizing his face, He doesn't seem all that scary now… I debated whether or not to ask what would be needed of me.
I don't care! I don't! Just leave me alone—get out of my house…
I don't trust you—(never trust a man that won't look you in the eyes)--I don't—
"We need you to get back into Manticore files and find out where they're holding him, what security measures they've instituted, how much damage we accomplished the last time—and anything else you can find that would be pertinent. If you can, find X6-599's medical files and anything else about his condition. We'll need to know if he needs special transportation—"
"I'm not one of your soldiers," I said, my voice low, dangerously quiet, "You can't just order me around and expect me to obey."
Lydecker sighed, exasperated, "Look, son—" He saw the look on my face and corrected himself, "Logan, you can help us, or you can refuse. Either way. At this point, I don't really care. But eventually you're going to stop being so damn stubborn and realize that you want to help. So do me a favor and figure it out now while you still can." He glared at me for effect.
Get out of my house! You have 20 minutes to pack and then just
Leave
Me
ALONE.
I stared at him impassively for a few seconds, "When do you need it by?"
"Within three days. We'll be assembling a new arsenal—we have to reconfigure our needs—we've got to wait for the reinforcements that Syl is promising me—and we need a plan."
'We.' There is no 'we.' Not anymore. Max and I, that was 'we.' This is just stupid, pointless revenge—
Whatever helps, I suppose.
"You'll have it." I told him.
There. You got what you came for, you got what you wanted… Now leave. Just leave…
Oh, God, I want to die—just to curl up on the floor—never speak or walk or talk or move ever again—never want to think—Max—my heart, frozen stiff in my chest, beating sluggishly against my will to stop—Max, oh god max i failed you—
We didn't have forever.
We didn't even have a day.
He didn't leave.
"Is there anything else you'll be needing?" I asked acidly.
There were a few more moments of uncomfortable silence. I could tell Lydecker was wanting to tell me something—probably something useless and stupid that he thought would help that would only make me want to kill him even more—but he decided against it.
Smart move.
"No. Not yet, anyway." He responded, still hesitating.
"Good." I announced, and turned my back, feeling curiously detatched.
Finally, I heard his steps as he walked away.
Max… That indefinable weight that had been graying my vision migrated to rest on top of my breastbone. The darkness shifted again and pulled at the weary muscles of my heart. My yearning for her was almost tangible, my loss was physically painful—and I thought losing mobility was loss. That was nothing, is still nothing. But her… To lose her…
Carefully, I took my glasses off and wiped my eyes, but somehow, that made it worse.
Guilt assaulted me, because I wasn't wiping away tears. I hadn't been able to offer Max anything of value while she was here, and now that she was gone, I couldn't even offer her tears. I had made the ride back from Manticore unconscious, when I had woken up—
I just hadn't cried.
I simply couldn't.
That would be admitting something. That would be proof she was gone and she
CAN'T
BE
GONE.
Any moment now there's going to be a rope swinging down from the sky light, and she'll drop down it, laughing, giddy with the scent of the night air, gloating over this little joke. She'll smell like she always does, like an afternoon at the track—cut grass, earth, champagne, cotton, racehorses, old wood under new paint—like the evening slowly fading into night— darkness, hope, starlight, craziness—like her—oil, sweat, woman-scent, cloves. She'll look like she always does—like a fantasy. She'll walk over and say to me…
…She'll say to me…
…Max…
Oh—God—
This is never going to be over.
This is never going to be right.
Nothing is going to be right, ever again, because you were the only thing right, you were the only thing making sense and now…
…And now…
Max…
*RING*
Not now.
(Someone, stop the world, I want to get off…)
I can't deal with this right now.
*RING*
I looked at the number on the caller ID.
(Because there is no one else.)
(Because she'd want me to.)
I picked up the receiver.
Part III: Uncertain Terms
It was the call I had been waiting for, from Matt Sung, telling me all about who owned the high rises I was currently investigating as Eyes Only.
I was expecting a crime syndicate, a rich tycoon gone bad; in short, I was expecting a name that I recognized.
Well, I did recognize the name, but it wasn't a name that I ever wanted to hear about in Seattle.
I had spent too many hours researching Manticore to the point that I practically had a list of names memorized that were involved with the project—as a government program, there was a roster, a list of employee salaries was included in Colorado's yearly budget. For a program that classified, I could only get a fraction of the names I needed, and none of the ranks or positions of the names I knew were available to me. For all I knew, they could have been janitorial staff.
But one of the names on my woefully abbreviated list of staff, was Wesson. Common enough for a last name—but when the first name was Abdiel, how many of them could there possibly be?
Whoever it was that owned those high rises most likely earned more then a government employee. Which meant that Manticore was using the name of one of their employees to gain access. No surprise there, using a personal name, rather then the project moniker. But why use a name connected with them? If I could trace them… God, I was a journalism major, hacking is practically a hobby for me. If I can gain access to this information, how many other people could know?
Which means they either want to be found, or what they're doing is very, very temporary.
Temporary…
The word stuck me.
Ephemeral.
So, either way, they're not going to be there long.
I sighed heavily and scraped a hand through my hair. I knew what I was about to do, and nothing that I was feeling would change what came next, but I still didn't have to like it. I still didn't have to enjoy the way I was tethered to responsibility even with my world crumbling around me. I still didn't have to, period.
But I was going to.
"Bling!" I shouted, my voice echoing ominously. The pieces of art that I had sold opened up pockets for sound to reverberate in. Huh… I probably should buy a rug to fix that… "I'm going out!"
***
I found it ironic that I still had to use the hand controls for my car. No matter how well I could walk with my exo-skeleton, I still couldn't feel the ground beneath my feet. I could move my legs, but with no help from nerve endings that were still damaged. I figured out that it would be a bad idea to try and drive a car when I couldn't feel where exactly the gas pedal or the brakes were.
So when I pulled up a block away from the complex, it was my fingers that engaged the brakes, even though I walked away from the car under my own power.
Alright… What to do first? God, it's been how long? A year since I stopped doing these things on my own… Where to go? Did I even remember all the equipment I need? Hell, do I even NEED equipment? This is just going to be recon, right? Nothing fancy… Then why did I bring my gun? Stupid me, you always need your gun…
I found myself staring up at Readen Tower, owned by one Abdiel Wesson, not knowing what I was supposed to do. Just like all my memories before I lost my legs and gained Max, this was hazy. Did I use my credentials? Pick the lock? Go in under the guise of visiting a family friend?
What would Max do?
I almost laughed, that was easy, she'd use the skylight…
Why am I here? I am too under-prepared. I don't know what it is that I'm up against… Anything could happen, anything could go wrong… I don't think I care, though. What's the worse case scenario? That I die? Fine. Bring it.
The funny thing was, I didn't need to agonize over it, the answer of what was going on was dropped in my lap. I heard the sound of a truck engine turning over, sputtering, then failing. There was a few moments pause, and I sidled over to the alley on the left side of the building where I was greeted by an empty strip of concrete, dotted with discarded flyers. The truck engine sputtered and died once more, louder this time. Hurrying on my mechanical legs, I poked my head around the corned and was greeted by the back door of a bright yellow truck that proclaimed, "RYDER: The Post-Pulse Solution To…" followed by an elaborate gang insignia done in spray-painted forest green.
Unconsciously, I adjusted my glasses higher on my nose, narrowing my eyes, trying to take in every detail that I possibly could. Unlike Max, I couldn't rely on a perfect memory.
She'd have been in and out of here by now… Probably on her way back to the penthouse—picking the lock—creeping up on me as I write another poem dedicated to her eyes or her lips or the smell of her hair—probably… Never again.
There was a man there, standing on the loading dock, medium height, dark eyes and hair, skin pale and sallow, "What's taking you?" He called, presumably to the driver of the truck.
"Engine won't turn over," A female voice called, "I think we're going to have to wait for the next shipment to get a truck."
The man sighed, raking his hand through his hair, a very young gesture coming from a man who looked to be around forty or so, "Should we ditch this one for spare parts?"
There was a pause before the unseen woman answered, "Yeah. After the incident, the program will be needing all the money they can get."
Manticore. It could be—it HAS to be… Who else? After our " incident" Manticore probably is losing all its funding—makes sense, but—journalistic integrity—got to verify.
Uneasily, I waited, not knowing what, if anything, to expect. I must have stood there for five minutes with the woman's voice drifting, muffled, from the truck. Her voice—what I could hear of it—rose and fell as if in conversation, I could only assume she was speaking on a phone.
Suddenly, the voice got louder and I heard a door slam. Sliding back as far behind the wall as I could, I watched the woman walk around the truck, cell phone in hand. She was rather unremarkable, a stout woman in her thirties with blond hair and ruddy skin, she walked leaning forward as if she always moved into a strong wind. She didn't look evil or mean; she looked like someone's kind aunt or cousin. For a moment, I was ready to relax, I almost felt silly, after all, they could have been speaking about almost anything—
"Think we should check on the 'goods?'" the man called as the woman pocketed the phone.
Her head jerked up, as if she hadn't thought of this, "Probably, they'll be needing food… Go inside and see what you can get." The man disappeared into the building.
'Food'? So what… It's not unheard of to transport live cargo… It could be dogs, cats, mice for lab experiments…
I watched, fascinated, rooted to the spot as the blond woman produced a key from under her maroon business suit and opened the door.
I heard the faint sound of sobbing and I knew that what was in the back of that van may have been for lab experiments, but it certainly wasn't mice. Still, I couldn't move from where I stood, though every single nerve ending above my waist screamed at me to run.
Far from being cautious, the woman flung the door upwards, sending it sliding with a faint screech that made me wince. The sobbing swelled in my ears, a strange counterpoint to the nails-on-blackboard sound of metal on metal.
"Please!" One voice shouted from the truck, it was either a very feminine or a very young voice, "Let us go! We haven't done anything…" The voice trailed off when it became obvious that the woman either wasn't listening or didn't care.
"Where are you taking us?" Another voice shouted, this one duskier, but still sounding feminine.
The woman placed her hands on the grate covering the door of the truck, keeping anything from escaping, "A military retreat." She told them, indulging her sense of humor.
Stay right there—that does not count as confirmation…
"Crowder!" A voice called from the loading dock, "I couldn't find anything! Want me to—"
The woman cut the voice off, "Don't bother. It's only a few more hours anyway—then it's up to the Chimera—not our problem anymore, Daniel."
I almost threw up.
Reeling, I backed out of my hiding place, wincing at every whirr that my legs made.
Chimera… Chimera… It can't be anyone else… Dear God, what do they want with human children? They have to be regular kids, any of the X-series could have broken through that grate easily… Why?
Stop asking stupid questions and get out of here.
By the time I rounded the corner, I was running, sprinting as far away from that truck, from the mention of Manticore, as I could get. Miraculously, no one followed me. Mentally, I corrected my initial assessment, It must be VERY temporary… Someone should have noticed me… There should have been some guard—I didn't even see the "buff doorman" they supposedly have at the front. What exactly is Manticore trying to pull?
Panting with exertion, I yanked open the door of my trusty Aztec and stumbled in, catching the exo-skeleton on the seat and listening with dismay as a cervo motor whined in protest. Fumbling the key in the ignition, I almost wondered at my own panic… Why was I so upset, anyway? Everything was making me on edge—as if I was walking on eggshells—on pins and needles—on broken bodies—why was I so jumpy?
Max.
Oh.
Right.
That.
As I drove home rain began to fall, beating a steady tattoo on the roof of the car, almost driving me up a wall. I was hyperaware of everything around me… Following the movements of a man in a yellow poncho for as long as he was in sight of my mirrors, scanning pedestrians frantically for signs of them packing heat. Pensively, I waited for a car to pull up alongside mine and present me with the business end of a sawed-off shotgun.
Twilight had descended and blanketed my vision in purple-gray, lending its pallor to the faces of the few people who were hurrying along, trying to get home before they were caught outside, alone in the darkness.
Alone in the darkness…
After an indeterminable period of time, I was back in my parking garage, staring blindly past the windshield at the number painted in garish yellow in front of me; 43.
We are each a number. Only that. A faceless, meaningless set of—
X5-452… Return to base immediately…
Gingerly, I placed my heavy head on my folded hands, resting all my weight on the steering wheel.
Alone in the darkness…
Hurrying home…
Brown eyes and soft lips and legs that go on forever and light and life and hope and gone.
Just gone.
One year—that's all. That's it. My quota. This is as far it goes. This was all I was allowed.
Then alone.
Alone in the darkness, waiting for her to come home.
"She's not coming home…" I whispered, my voice sounding strange and thick to my ringing ears, "She's not—"
There was simply nothing left to do.
Alone in the darkness…
I began to weep.
More Author Rambling: Hey all!!! Read this and weep! I'm going to be away from Monday to Saterday—so no new posts at LEAST until Sunday… Sorry about that! Hope this can tide you all over until then! Thank you to everyone who reviewed!!!!