Weld winced as another strangled gagging fit resounded from the apartment's sole bathroom. She'd been like that all afternoon, making trips between her desk and the toilet. When she emerged, she looked worse than ever: bloodshot eyes, a pallid complexion, sunken cheeks.
He tried to force himself to muster up some sympathy, but it was hard.
For her part, Bakuda just glared at him and stomped over to her desk. She resumed scribbling notes at a dizzying pace. Weld opened his mouth to ask what she was doing.
"I'm fine, you fucking human-shaped I-beam," she snarled. She tore up the paper she'd been writing on and turned to face him.
"I didn't say anything," Weld said.
"I can feel your beady little eyes on me, Tin Man," snapped Bakuda. "You're not exactly subtle about watching. Don't think I miss your little peepers on me after I take a shower either."
"If you're so concerned about it, why did you install a glass wall in my cell?" Weld asked reasonably.
"Fuck you! Just shut up and melt."
She whirled around and swiped her notes off the desk, retreating into the privacy of her bedroom. Weld found himself alone with his thoughts again.
That was okay. Things were actually looking up.
For one thing, there seemed to be a malfunction in his containment unit. Maybe he was just getting used to it, but the molten metal that he was being fed was not quite as hot. He could almost shape it.
If Bakuda didn't figure out what was up, he could regain enough control to escape. She'd be hard to fight, but she'd be unarmed if he waited for the right moment. Then, it would just be a slender young woman against his considerable metal bulk.
Or he could just run. But that stray thought was firmly relegated to plan B.
He had another advantage. Bakuda was slipping. She went to bed far later than she had before and staggered out no earlier than noon. Whenever she wasn't tinkering, she was drinking or smoking or getting in fights.
But even her ventures out were growing infrequent. She could hardly go out to buy food or drinks without a siren lighting up the block. Weld could hear that from his prison here.
Pressure was building. He was recovering. This could all be over soon.
Right on schedule, Bakuda exited her room and made a beeline for the kitchen. She made a point of not looking at Weld, which felt surprisingly good.
Bakuda ripped the cap off a beer bottle, flicking it out of sight onto the floor. Her first draught was long enough to impress even Weld. She glared over the bottle at him.
"Are you jealous or something, Iron Lung? You ever even had a good drink before?" She sneered at him. "Maybe kerosene would make you feel something. I've got some, we could experiment."
"I don't have a stomach right now," Weld informed her. "Ask again on a good day."
She let out a guffaw. "You're almost funny, you know. You got more spunk than I'd expect from a Ward."
"No comment," said Weld.
"How does a beastie like you make spunk, anyway?" she asked. "Do you just melt down some pocket change and go to town? Or is it more room temperature, like mercury?"
"Again, no comment."
"Good ideas aren't lightbulbs, Lugnut, you can't just switch them off." Bakuda drained the rest of her beer in one gulp. "See, I've been tinkering around, you might've noticed, and I'm getting damn close to shitting all over Manton's theories."
Weld kept his mouth shut. He had ideas where she was going with this, but none of them were good.
Bakuda grabbed another beer. "The sorts of things that make you such a million dollar man, the things that keep capes like Bell Curve from hurting themselves...I'm damn close to the key. And that's when the fireworks happen."
"What sort of fireworks?" Weld demanded.
"You'll know it when you see it. Isn't that the fun part?" She licked foam off her lips nonchalantly, like they were discussing the weather, or politics. "The whole point of bombs is the surprise of it all."
"You're threatening me and my teammates. Maybe more lives than that are on the line, I don't know." Weld stared at her through the thick pane of his cell. "I can't allow you to do that. Not while I'm alive."
"And are you? Alive, I mean?" Bakuda sipped her drink. "Do you breathe? Can you reproduce? Does your body maintain a constant and stable system? Do you even move on the inside, Weld, or are you just an empty metal shell?"
He couldn't think of a heroic-sounding response to that. Bakuda's face turned almost sympathetic.
"Don't sweat it, kid. All humans are like shells." She winked at him. "Not the ones animals wear. The explosive kind. We're just a melted mash of casing around a deadly, hair-trigger payload. Some of us just get lucky in what that payload is."
"That's a pretty nihilistic view of people," Weld said.
"Is it? You must really hate fireworks then." She shrugged and went back to nursing her beer.
"You're not even that much older than I am. You got into Cornell at seventeen, right? What happened there that made you like this? Why are you so angry at the world?"
Bakuda took longer to answer this time, or maybe she was just enjoying her drink. "I don't have to justify myself to a toy soldier."
"At least I'm not reveling in people's deaths," Weld replied, feeling stung.
"So what do you revel in? What do you want out of this crapsack shithole of a world?" Bakuda asked. "And don't say a girl or I'm gonna vomit. Again."
He did his best to shrug. "I'm not sure yet."
"Oh my god, there is a girl, isn't there?" She pinched the bridge of her nose like she had a migraine coming on. "Fuck me, I need a cigarette or five."
"Maybe there is."
Bakuda held up a finger as she lit her cigarette one-handed. She sucked in a breath and let the smoke seep out through her lips slowly.
"Don't you want something more than that, though, something for yourself? You know that girl isn't yours, like really yours-yours, right Romeo?" She tapped her temple with her cigarette hand, taking a swig from her bottle in the other. "You need to think for yourself. Egos before hoes, buddy."
"You're saying I should think about myself first, above and beyond anyone else? Like you do?" he challenged.
"That's exactly what I'm saying, you fucking nuthead."
"Well that's exactly what I'm against," Weld said. "I'm a hero."
"Maybe you should consider why you're so driven to self-sacrifice," answered Bakuda. "It's almost sad, knowing you have no idea what you're missing out on."
"Maybe you should consider that you're not a good person," he shot back."
"Do you think I wanted this?" she demanded. "Do you think I wanted to kick it like a fucking crackhead, run from the cops like my life depends on it every other day? Life doesn't always work out peachy keen."
"So, what, the world was unfair and now you hurt people?"
Bakuda yawned. "About sums it up, I guess. Call it a Chekhov's gun no one saw coming."
"That's ridiculous. No one is that guiltless," Weld told her. "Least of all someone who seems to enjoy being a villain as much as you."
"Villain. That's rich," she scoffed. "I hate this cape bullshit."
"You use your powers to break the law. If that's not a villain, what is?"
"It must be so nice to be blessed with a wiped hard drive," said Bakuda. She laughed. "You think I'm a villain? What would you say about the asshole parents who beat their kid every day like clockwork? The ones who can't deal with the fact that they made something good out of this shit world, so they feel the need to taint it?"
Weld didn't have a good response to that.
"Maybe you'd say that they're the real villains. That when they break a finger because she got the second highest score, they're doing a disservice to society. Or when they lock her in her room over a slipped swear word, they're setting off a ticking time bomb."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Weld said. "Really, I am. And I can't relate to your situation like that. Your parents hurt you, and-"
"Hurt? I wasn't hurt," Bakuda said with disgust. "Pain was the first thing they trained out of me. Goals and dreams were next, of course. You of all people should have an idea of what it's like to lose all that."
"I don't remember losing it," he replied. "But I know what it's like without. It's hard."
"Try twelve years of it. Going through school like a robot, all yessir and no ma'am. Smiling, nodding, fuckin' dazzling everyone on the outside, but on the inside...empty."
Weld had lost count of what beer Bakuda was on.
"Time I got to Cornell, think I was about ready to be done with the whole thing. Either school, or my life. Lucky me I got to quit both."
"They said you were failed by a professor," Weld said quietly.
Bakuda didn't get angry like he expected. She didn't throw her beer or pull out a grenade or even start ranting like she often did. She just looked down at the drink in her hands. Her eyes were very blue, and very sad.
"They're being nice. I bombed a test, that's all."
"Bakuda," Weld began. He hesitated before continuing, "Maybe we could talk to the PRT together. We could work something out that makes everyone happy."
"Don't play games with me, Nickelback. If there's one thing bombs can teach me about life, it's cause and effect." Bakuda made her way around the kitchenette counter to collapse into her chair. "My folks did things, and accidentally made me. I did things too, and now here we are. I can handle my own fallout."
"My point is, you don't have to. No one should."
"What, you wanna a little quid pro quo action?" she said. "Something like, I do yours and you do mine?"
Bakuda stretched her arms above her head and arched her back in the chair, drawing Weld's eyes to her lithe body. He wasn't one for voyeurism, despite what she'd claimed, but he wasn't blind either. Whether or not he could feel sensations, he still felt the need, the drive in the back of his head.
Her ratty t-shirt stretched up with her to reveal a tanned stomach. Where Gigi's taut belly was built by hard work though, Bakuda was more like a hungry animal. Didn't eat, sleep, or even fuck much, from what Weld saw of her. He could tell from the wiry muscle of her bare shoulders and the lines in her otherwise unblemished face. She was the type to fight over scraps.
She was looking at Weld like he was more of a meal, though. A meal she had all to herself. Her eyes were lidded, teeth showing in the cat-like smirk on her face. It took him a second to realize he hadn't answered her.
He cleared his throat, so to speak. "You've made it pretty clear you're not interested in engaging with heroes."
Bakuda licked her lips. "Depends what we're engaging in."
Her face was flushed a light pink. Was she hitting on him? Or was it just the alcohol? Weld was pretty sure this sort of hero-villain soiree was frowned upon. It never even ended well in the comic books or movies.
"You don't have to make fun," he said. "I'm not trying to turn you, I'm only trying to help."
When did she pull her chair so close? She kicked the glass pane of his cell lazily with a bare foot. With nowhere else to look, his eyes traveled up her legs, bronze as his metal bones and just as smooth. Her thumbs were tucked in the front of her pants, a pair of jeans cut so short it was criminal.
"You can help me," she told him. Her fingers drew lazy circles on those long legs.
Weld wished he was normal. Not normal, but just human at least. He couldn't remember if he used to fantasize about falling into situations like this, but it was pretty likely. A half-dressed girl, practically flashing her breasts at him, begging for attention. For any red-blooded guy, it was a dream.
But Weld's blood was distinctly not red.
"That's not in the cards, and I think we both know it," Weld said firmly. "You're just drunk." And lonely, probably. He didn't mention that aloud.
"And you're no fun." Bakuda pouted. "You should know, Metal Gear, that I don't give up as easy as you. Consider this bomb armed."
She gestured to her figure and winked at him for good measure.
"Let me out of this thing and you might have a better shot at it," Weld tried. "Until then, I'm about as useful to you as a trophy husband. Maybe less."
"A trophy husband!" Bakuda cackled. "I should put you on my desk and polish you until you gleam, huh? A little spit shine and elbow grease, is that what you're looking for? You crack me up."
She teetered out of her chair and sauntered back to the bedroom. He watched her leave, eyes glued to her ass as tight as those shorts were. How had she put it? Quid pro quo? Weld smiled to himself.
"I'm going to go wet my willy like a dying woman," Bakuda announced. She turned to point a finger at him before she disappeared through the door. "Seriously, think about what your manic pixie dream girl really does for you. And maybe what you could do for yourself."
The smile dropped from Weld's face. The door slammed behind Bakuda, more a force of habit than any indication of mood.
Another night, alone with his thoughts. He was beginning to think he'd never get used to this.
