Michael stared at the door. Shock held him in place. Somewhere in the back of his mind he knew what was happening, even as the rest of him clutched onto one last desperate hope. That spark died as his locked door gave a final rattle and swung open. Through the doorway strolled a familiar masked figure.
Michael barely noticed the handful of men who poured into the room behind their leader. A row of armed and masked figures stared harshly at him, but he had eyes only for the one in the middle.
"Evening, Michael," Swallow said with a smile. One hand flourished a phone, and he flipped it shut with a soft click. Behind him, the door echoed with an accompanying thud as it closed.
"Again and again you turn down our invitation," the cape spoke, shaking his head. "I'm afraid we've run out of chances to offer. If you aren't with us, your help is no longer required." Faux politeness dripped from his words. "Lucky for you, there's someone else who's very keen to offer you a job. Unfortunately, they aren't quite as good at asking nicely. Instead…" Swallow trailed off with a careless gesture to his side, and around him the mercenaries tensed in anticipation. Armored figures leaned forward like a pack of wolves, moments from pursuit.
Michael found his voice.
"If you think there's a chance in hell I'm going to work for you at gunpoint—" The words caught in his throat, dry as the desert. His heart hammered in his ears as he stared at the guns. The thick barrels were currently pointed at the floor, but he'd seen Splintered Arms in action before. It would only take a moment.
Swallow shook his head, eyes briefly narrowing. "Yes, your refusal was quite clear. However, we aren't going to be your new coworkers. Tonight we're only in charge of… introductions. We are mercenaries, after all." The cape finished with a sardonic smile.
The two stared at each other in silence.
"Come on, now. There's no need to make this any harder than it has to be." The words were soft, quieter than before, and yet Michael could see the truth in the man's eyes plain as day. Swallow was staring at him in anticipation, watching and waiting. The slight slouch, the empty smile, none of it could mask the burning desire beneath. He was more than ready for Michael to lunge. He was eager.
Without any warning, Michael sprang into motion. Not forward, not towards the door blocked by armed men and a maliciously-eager cape, but back. Behind him stretched the large, darkened window, and he launched himself towards the promised escape. Even from this high up, it was better than the alternative. He could use the Machine Army like he had back at the Tombstone—
He smashed against the floor as his leg buckled underneath him. An overwhelming sensation of pins and needles surged up one leg as it twitched and spasmed, barely responding to his will. The sheer intensity left his eyes watering as he dragged himself to his feet. Slowly, he turned back to face the mercenaries.
The guns were up now, trained steadily at his chest. In the center, Swallow slowly dropped his outstretched hand. The cape hadn't even moved. His grin had only gotten wider. The message was clear enough.
The sight of weapons bared was enough to finally spark a reminder in his mind, and he paused for a heartbeat, finally remembering his newest invention. His new shield was untested, not to mention slow to start, and the mercenaries would probably notice as soon as it turned on, but it wasn't like he had any alternative. Slowly, his hands raised as he flicked the mental switch.
Swallow had only taken a single step forward, starting to say something that Michael had already tuned out, when the shield flared to life. As soon he felt the signal arrive, he plowed forwards as fast as his half-working legs would carry him. Not towards the door, but towards the cape in front of him. For the first time, he saw a glint of surprise in Swallow's eyes. It was only there for an instant, and then the cape was already shifting into position to meet him.
There was a sharp clap and Michael felt something skate off his chest and drop to the floor. The mercenaries weren't using live rounds. Relief flooded his gut, but it was a distant thing compared to the sight in front of him as Swallow raised his arms into position. Then there was no more time to think, and he was upon the mercenary.
The collision made the difference between the two of them painfully obvious. Momentum lent his lowered shoulder extra weight, but it wasn't enough. Swallow matched and outmatched him, slamming back with nothing but mundane strength and sending Michael staggering away from the door. The cape didn't hesitate to follow up, a booted foot crushing down on his still-weak leg and knocking him to a knee.
Hissing in pain, Michael stared up at the mercenary just in time to receive a clenched fist to the side of the head. The movement was almost casual, a lazy flick that snapped his head to the side and sent him tumbling to the ground.
"You know, that was actually more than I expected from you." His voice drifted closer as Swallow dropped into a crouch, knees filling Michael's vision. "I mean, you seemed like the clever sort. You should have known how this was going to end. Not that I'm complaining, mind you." There was a low chuckle.
Michael squinted upwards, a haze of anger and pain clouding his vision. Even through the blur, he could make out that wide grin staring down at him. The cape hadn't stopped talking, but the words faded, overwhelmed by an increasingly-loud buzzing in Michael's ears. His pulse hammered, choking him like hands around his neck.
As if in slow-motion, he saw a hand reach down.
No. He wouldn't let them. He wouldn't let himself be taken. Fuck them, for pressuring him, for breaking into his very home. Fuck them, for backing him into the corner.
There was a meaty smack, and the figure in front of him was gone. A dozen feet away, Swallow slammed into the far wall. With a jerk, Michael was suddenly in the air, and then his feet were beneath him once more. The moment he was standing under his own power, his tendrils ripped themselves out of the floor, whipping through the air with a screaming whine. They blurred and lashed in circles around him, leaving long scars along the floor and sending furniture clattering away.
Another impact bounced uselessly off his chest, followed by three more in an off-kilter volley, before he lunged forwards towards the mercenaries. The tendrils smashed back and forth, scattering men like bowling pins as he approached. It was only the faintest thought that kept the metal whips blunt, clubbing instead of slicing through flesh like razor wire. He didn't want to kill them; he hadn't wanted to fight at all. It was all their fault to begin with.
The thought brought him up short, turning away from the mercenaries and over towards the adjacent wall. Below a wide dent in the drywall, Swallow had managed to push himself up into a seated position. Even now, he was still gasping for breath, face scrunched in pain. The mercenary's eyes caught his own, and the cape made an abortive twitch towards something under his jacket before breaking off with an involuntary groan.
There was the ringleader, the one who had caused everything to go wrong. He was the reason Michael's apartment was a mess of splinters and dust, and the one who had destroyed the sanctity of his home. Michael bared his teeth as he stumbled forward. Even now, Swallow's power still coursed through his leg, leaving it faintly numb. Behind him, his tendrils rose to sway ominously above his shoulders.
There was an ear-shattering bang, and Michael felt like he'd been punched in the back, stumbling forwards more in surprise than from the force. The noise cracked out again and again, echoes overlapping with each new sound before everything vanished under a piercing whine. As the final earth-shaking blast sounded out, Michael felt a sharp tug on the side of his neck. Blinking, he stopped and swayed, turning to look behind him.
On the floor, one of the mercenaries clutched a pistol, drawn from an empty holster on his thigh. The two of them stared at each other in surprise.
A small part of Michael watched as a tendril scraped along the floor, coiling around the base of his broken lamp before launching at the mercenary and smashing the gun from his hands. The rest of him was distracted, as he pressed a hand to the side of his neck and felt something hot and wet beneath his fingers.
Ah. That's right. The shield. The shield barely reached his chest. Suddenly everything around him was sharp, so clear that it hurt. Beneath his fingers, a line of fire burned to life, and his teeth ground against one another, barely suppressing a scream. He stumbled towards the door. His tendrils turned the shuffle into an uneven dash.
Nobody was collected enough to stop him as he darted out of his home.
~~~~ ~~~~
Michael finally collapsed in a dingy alley, flares of pain from his neck forcing him to the ground. He leaned against a rough brick wall, chest heaving. Apart from his gasping breaths, the alley was silent.
He wasn't exactly sure where he was. He hadn't traveled far, fleeing deeper into the city and away from the chaos of his ruined apartment, but at night the streets blurred together. He had nothing more than a vague sense of direction, a constant push from behind keeping him on his feet. The glow of Downtown shone to the west, but here everything was dark and quiet.
Reaching up, he brushed his hand along the cold metal wrapped around the base of his neck. The tendrils pressed down across the wound, clamping the bleeding flesh shut with a strength that his own fingers lacked. Submerging himself into the Machine Army, he tried his best to filter the incoming information and gingerly explore the gouge.
More than a graze but less than a true bullet hole, it wasn't life-threatening. Relief flooded through his veins, leaving him sliding down the wall to a seat. A minor miracle, considering how close it had come. The feeling vanished as quickly as it had come, draining away with the rest of his strength. Laying his head back against the bricks, he couldn't help but let out a rattling, bitter laugh. He had gone to Splintered Arms to get help with the Machine Army, and now it was the Machine Army holding him together against the mercenaries. No matter what he did, it seemed that he couldn't catch a break.
Soon enough, he would have to turn to the machinery again. Life-threatening or not, it wasn't like he could just walk into a hospital and get stitched up. Without any other options it would be the same as before, another piece of him patched together by artificial threads.
Damn Splintered Arms. Damn them for throwing him to the side the moment he refused to join. Why had he expected any different; why had he made the mistake of going to someone else for help? Mercenaries or the Machine Army—either way, he ended up bleeding in the end. His eyes clouded at the vicious thoughts, anger and frustration churning in his head and leaving him blinking back tears.
At the end of the alley, a silhouette stepped out into view. They stood still for a moment, outlined by the glow of the city. Then, the quiet sound of approaching footsteps rolled down the alley. Looking up, Michael met a masked face marked with blocky lines.
Jolt stared down at him, eyes invisible behind her mask. Again, she had found him when he thought he was safe. Part of her power, it had to be. As long as she was looking for him, he didn't know what it would take to escape. Behind his back, his one free tendril coiled across the ground, ready to strike.
"Why can't you just leave me be?" Michael hissed, voice breaking. He choked on the words, furious tears beading at the edges of his eyes. As he spoke, Jolt stopped. Now that she was closer, he could make out her face. She looked uncertain, stricken at his slumped form, and the sight fanned the flames of anger higher. His hands clenched, knuckles white.
"What's going on? What happened to the meeting with Swallow—" Jolt started to ask, and Michael interrupted her question with a harsh laugh.
"Meeting? A meeting? Is that what you all call this?" He threw the accusation at her, words twisted in disbelief. "A nice meeting at gunpoint? A good old chat between friends?" His eyes darted past her to the mouth of the alley, waiting for a squad of mercenaries to pile around the corner. Instead, his words faded into the stillness.
"What are you talking about?" Jolt asked, taking a half-step closer, and Michael couldn't tell if the confusion in her voice was genuine. "You said you didn't want to join us. Swallow was going to call off whatever agreement you had."
"Bullshit," he spat. "You knew this was coming." As he spoke, Jolt took another step forward, and he tensed. However, she stopped again, still out of reach.
"No. You should have been just kicked out." Her words were confident, uncertainty gone. "The mercenaries that decide not to stay—they're left alone. I've checked. I've found them afterwards, days or weeks later, living normally. Splintered Arms doesn't do this…" This close, she could probably see the blood. He didn't try to hide it.
The silence stretched as they stared at each other. Michael refused to speak. Across from him, Jolt came to a decision.
"You're bleeding. You can't stay out here. I don't know what happened, but this isn't right. You need first aid, at least." Again, she started to move towards him.
"I don't need your help," Michael hissed through clenched teeth. "I don't need anyone's help. It's gotten me so much shit already." Staring up at Jolt, he refused to flinch. He hated having to look up at the other cape, but the thought of standing was exhausting. From behind his back, the spare tendril rose up to glint ominously in the dim light.
Jolt paused. She looked at him, then at the unmistakable threat. Slowly, she reached into a pocket, and withdrew a small black object. Looking closer, Michael could make out the shape of a cheap, disposable phone. At the sight, the tendril ratcheted higher. However, Jolt didn't try to make a call. She crouched down, setting the phone on the ground like a peace offering. Straightening, she looked like she was going to say something for a moment, but held herself back. Instead, she retreated towards the mouth of the alley.
With one last uncertain look, she vanished around the corner. As she disappeared, Michael slowly exhaled, slumping further against the wall.
Splintered Arms had tried to kidnap him, drag him off to work at gunpoint. Did they think he was a nobody, someone they could snatch off the street without any consequence? They had no idea what he could do. With the Machine Army under his control, he could go toe to toe with anyone in the city. All he needed was time. The more time they gave him, the stronger he would get.
He would continue. He'd fill himself with as much tinkertech as it took to make sure that nobody could force him to do anything again. He'd gotten the jump on Swallow—next time, a dozen mercenaries wouldn't be enough to stop him. After that, he'd steal as much tinkertech as it would take to build a new, clean body. He'd replace every piece of the Machine Army with something of his own design. Finally, nothing would be left to get in his way.
The vengeful fantasy floated higher and higher in his mind, and then his neck flared once more in pain and the idea popped like a soap bubble. All around him, the dark, dirty walls of the alley closed in.
What was he doing? The last of the anger drained away, leaving a hollow hole in his chest. He scrubbed his face with his hands, pushing back at the throbbing, tingling buzz. Him against the entire city? There wasn't enough anger in the world to fuel that delusion. He'd almost died today, a few inches away from laying sprawled out on his own apartment floor. It had taken one team—a handful of men and a single cape—and he'd been forced to flee his own home. Now he was all alone in a city that seemed far more foreign than it had a day before.
Staring blankly down the alley, he slowly dropped his gaze to the phone, half-cloaked in shadow. It sat immobile, right where Jolt had placed it. The tendril that had lain coiled beside him stretched out, snaking across the ground. It wrapped around the fragile plastic shell.
He breathed in. He breathed out.
The tendril retracted carefully, carrying the phone into his waiting hands. On the screen there was only a single number. His fingers shook as he pressed the button. From the tinny speaker, he listened as it rang once, and then again. Before it could sound out a third time, there was a click.
"Fathom?"
He swallowed, coughed. The words were stuck in his throat. He didn't know what she would say. The other end of the line was silent, waiting. Finally, he spoke.
"I need your help."
He clutched the phone tighter, waiting. The speaker remained dead. He could feel the pressure in his head, squeezing like a vice. Then, there was a noise. It came not from the phone, but the end of the alley. The sound of approaching footsteps grew louder.
Inch by inch he pulled himself to his feet. His shaking stilled.
"Thank you," he said hoarsely.
