Motorplex

A great many ideas were contributed by my friend Red and my friend whose pen name is Lust_Demon!

He set out at midnight.

He had taken a nap to clear his head, recharge a little, and rest his legs. Forty-five minutes to the second he slept, and once his timer flashed on his comm screen, Mike was moving. He popped batteries into his good flashlight. He opened the dried peas and slipped them into his pocket, leaving the bag. He wrapped his last bit of rope over his shoulder, and once his eyes had fully adjusted to the dark, he left his safe spot. Midnight on the dot, long enough for the managers to fall asleep after "closing time" by his estimation, should let him move through the Motorplex with a degree of privacy. At least that's what he hoped.

The managers must have made a stack of boxes to get up to his floor after he toppled the stairs. There was a flat panel of boxes below the hole now. It had to be some kind of trap. The boxes were probably full of glass, or dog toys, anything that would make noise if Mike put his full weight on them. He tied off his last bit of rope to a support beam and lowered himself down. Before setting himself on the ground, he simply toed the boxes aside and put his feet flat on the floor with no trouble. They weren't even heavy. He made fast work of pushing them aside and making it out of the trap before, just out of curiosity, he took a peek inside one with an open flap. It was full of squeaky rubber chickens. He knew it.

Night in the Motorplex was eerie. No neon, no shuffling, no crowd noises buzzed his ears. Without windows, the place was oppressively dark. Mike popped the flashlight on, first shining it into his palm to hide the light and then keeping it pointed directly in front of him. No point in shining it out into someone's eyes. The reflective sheen of slime on the floor lit little pockets of sleeping shoppers in a faint glow. They were all tucked into stores, sleeping on the bare floor in puppy piles with the managers slept above them in improvised beds. Hammocks, wash basins, kayaks, freezers with the doors pulled off, anything big enough to hold a person became a bed. All the managers slept off the floor for good reason: everywhere Mike directly shined the flashlight, cockroaches scurried away. The sight made him sick. More than once, the roaches scurried up and over sleeping shoppers, making them shift together in one big mass. Mike couldn't let himself linger. If he wasn't careful, he'd wake someone up that way.

He didn't trust the rope bridges. Wherever he could, he shimmied down walls and set his feet on solid structure rather than chance a rope snapping or waking someone with creaking stairs. It meant a lot of shimmying down wall recesses and climbing across canopies instead, where he could look down and see the worn paths in the floor where the shoppers walked most often. It was a long agonizing creep down to the third floor, but there he could at least rest his legs and plan his next move. It didn't take him long to decide going in from the top of the sloppy structure was easier than trying to go around the dogs and fencing at the bottom. It was only a quick dash and a jump to the Front Desk's rooftop. He wondered if anyone ever tried this before, for how easy it was. He quickly guessed that no, they didn't, because his footing almost immediately gave out against the slimy algae-coated concrete. He slide silently down, fast and uncontrolled, until his heel hit the slightest bump in the slope. Throwing all of his weight on it stopped him, at the cost of pain shooting up his ankle and into his hip, but he was still. He huffed in relief and checked what he had landed on: a windowsill. He crouched low and hooked his toe into the bottom of the window to test for give. It opened to the outside. With a hard twist of his knee, he hooked his foot into the window until his heel was firmly pressed against the interior wall. With that, he slid inside.

Luck would put him in Lickety-Lips's room, wouldn't it? He just knew it was her room, because everything was pink. Every single thing, the walls and the nightlight and the plushie toys and the dolls, all pink, and the glittery jeweled necklaces and rings, all pink, and the carpet that had long since been pressed into a linoleum-like flatness, pink. Not a clean pink, but a grimy abused pink, like it had seen a lifetime of cigarette smoke, like it had been flooded and never quite dried, like she was part snail and had dragged oozy fingers over all of these things over and over again. The woman herself was asleep in one of the few actual beds- the only actual bed- he had seen since he arrived. Mike dragged his feet and parted a layer of doll heads and tiny plastic bricks that clicked and clattered against each other. He hated it, and Mike was seriously considering if he could drop his elbow against her temple just for the fun of it.

Chuck first, he decided. Chuck could do the elbow drop. It was good motivation.

The house made him seasick. Like the Motorplex, it was obvious the place started small and slowly been built up by people who had no clue how to build. The floor pitched to the side at random spots, the walls were uneven and sagging under their own weight, and next to nothing was lit. Mike kept the flashlight forward instead of on the ground and accidentally found several doors that either didn't open or lead to foul-smelling bathrooms that he didn't dare look into. He just kept moving farther down, keeping an eye out for-

He nearly slapped himself and just turned on him comm. "Chuck, make some noise for me. This place is like a maze."

Like music to his ears; he could hear Chuck's gagged yelling and stamping feet nearby. It only took a few more seconds of searching to find him.

He was being kept in a basement, one of the few rooms in the house with lighting. Mike flipped the switch on as he entered. Surprisingly, the place smelled almost clean, if only the antiseptic chlorine clean of a public pool, like any other place that was constantly wet. The center of the room held a weird assortment of furniture, with two desks, a dentist's chair, a floor lamp, and an air compressor making a small workstation. Cages framed every wall, each one only big enough to hold a single, crouching person inside. Each one of them was blond, and now, each one of them was awake. They looked at Mike with tired eyes, not recognizing him, and he gave them a quick shush before rushing to Chuck's side.

There he was, in the corner right by the door. Chuck slammed into the cage wall shoulder first just as Mike dove to his knees. The tight grid of the cage was too small to even get his fingers through, but he still had to try, and he touched just the barest fingertips to Chuck's hair and cheeks.

"Easy buddy, easy easy easy-"

He was telling himself as much as he was telling Chuck. He had to take stock of the situation, one thing at a time. Chuck had been gagged with duct tape, and his hands bound behind his back.

"Gotta get the key to the cage-" Chuck shook his head while Mike thought aloud. "Or pick the lock, gotta pick the lock and-" Chuck turned his back to Mike. His wrists were tied with plastic zip-ties which pressed visibly tight against his skin. "Gotta get a knife."
Chuck whimpered.

"Or scissors! If that would help, right, no knives next to your wrists." Chuck turned to face him again, one eye peeking out through his bangs. "You tried what I taught you? Getting your hands out from behind your back?"

Chuck nodded with a mournful sound and flexed his fingers. Mike guessed Chuck was telling him it didn't work, for whatever reason. More than likely Chuck had only pulled the zip ties tighter.

Focus, Mike told himself, Chuck could tell him details when the tape was off his mouth. "Be right back, buddy."

Mike dove over to the desk and started pulling open drawers. He opened three automatically before he realized there were knives in the first one he opened. There were also knives in the second one, and the third, and when he opened the fourth, there were even more knives.

"Okay, I'm still looking for scissors right now, but I found a lot of knives." He carefully placed the knives on the desktop in a frantic attempt to find scissors. Underneath the knives was a layer of more knives, these being smaller precision knives to the long kitchen knives he'd grabbed before. Something pointy glanced his fingertip, and following the shape of it, he pulled out a long, thick sewing needle. "Hey! I can use this to pick the lock."

His eyes fell on the dentist chair, and the knives, the endless knives and the needle, and something dark crossed his mind. It settled low into his belly and slowly leeched the warmth out of his blood. The clean smell, the overhead light... when he looked down at his feet, he saw the drain in the tile floor and the dark, sticky stains around the grate. The thick silence hung over his shoulders. His throat ran dry. Mike passed his gaze over the slave cages.

Every single one of them, from bent and elderly women to young teen boys, was watching him. Staring out at him with sunken, tired eyes, their callused hands pointing at the last drawer he hadn't pulled open. All of them blond. All of them thin and weak. All of them with their lips sewn shut.

Chuck whimpered behind his gag somewhere behind him, and Mike only just heard it through the fog around the edges of his vision. His hands hit the desk hard and heavy to keep himself upright. He didn't have food to keep down, but he was going to, whether his stomach liked it or not. Focus. Focus on getting out. Focus on Chuck. Focus on the beat of his heart and the sharp whistle of his breath until he could think straight again and the blood was back in his veins.

Chuck rattled his cage walls, and Mike snapped back into his body with a start. Reality came back in stinking, slimy high definition. He shook his head hard to get the feeling back in his brain. Opening the last drawer found the kind of thick, heavy scissors that could cut through the tendons and small bones of butchered meat, and Mike noted that it sat strangely in his hand. The answer came when all the slaves frantically gestured to get his attention and pointed to their left hands. He swapped them into his other hand and they fit perfectly. Why did it have to be left-handed scissors? He didn't even remember the little manager being left-handed. Did she use the scissors in her off hand to-

He killed that thought in its tracks. Long needle in hand, he settled in front of Chuck's cage and started at the lock. Picking locks was so stupid, he hated it, why couldn't it be a rope instead? He could untie a knot easy, or he could just slice it open with one of the six million knives. Mike growled and turned backwards, fiddling with the needle behind his back.

Chuck groused at him behind the gag.

The other slaves were all watching him, and it was making him a little self-conscious. Mike snapped back, "So I can do it better this way! Big deal!"

Chuck was thoroughly offended by the fact.

"Well it's just how I learned to do it! I don't see you complaining!"

Of course Mike couldn't see him complaining, he could hear so clearly even with Chuck's mouth completely covered, Mike's back was turned.

"Are you seriously sassing me while I'm breaking you out of a cage?"

The lock popped, and the door opened into Mike's palm.

He was snapped around in an instant, throwing the needle and scissors to the floor so he could pull Chuck into the tightest hug he could give. Chuck leaned into him so hard, Mike swore Chuck was trying to climb him. He threaded his hands into Chuck's hair to pull his bangs aside and check his face. His eyes were red from crying, as was his upper lip from wiping his nose on his shoulder.

Mike's fingers hovered at the corner of the duct tape. His gut clenched. "Sorry for this, Chuckles."

Chuck braced himself.

Mike grabbed the tape and pulled. It came away wet and sticky.

Chuck gasped, "Pocket knife! That's what I forgot to pack-"

"You're okay!" Nothing had happened to him! Mike hugged him again out of sheer relief. Chuck's mouth was completely stitch-free, probably untouched for as long as he'd been gagged! "JEEZE when I saw the knives and then the needle and the chair-"

"I know! I know, that's what she's planning on doing!" Chuck whispered frantically. "Every time she tried getting me out of the cage, I kept kicking her!"

"Good!" Mike gave Chuck one last hard squeeze and pulled away to collect the scissors. "Let's get you free and make a break for the front door. Once we're in the boat-"

"Mike, that's not gonna work!" Chuck whispered.

"What?" Mike wrestled the scissors into the little gap between the zip ties and Chuck's skin and slowly squeezed down. "Why not?"

"Because I tried! When they first brought me down here, I made a break for the door, and- AH!" Chuck yelped once the scissors finally cut through the plastic and glanced his skin. Mike kept the other wrist while Chuck flexed his freed hand. "And it's locked! It's always locked unless a manager goes and unlocks it! That's how they keep everybody inside."

Mike wrestled with the stupid left-handed scissors and their stupid dull edges that only just cut through the zip ties. The rotten little strip of plastic fell to the floor. "That's what I have a staff for!"

"And that's what they have the attack dogs for, Mikey!" Chuck hissed. "Would you please just listen to me for once?!"

Mike froze.

Chuck continued, finally facing him. "Look, I know you don't like taking the way out that doesn't involve fast cars and fighting and blowing shit up, but between you and me and every single person in the Motorplex going for our throats, we're better off sneaking out through the roof where nobody's expecting us. We can either go down the side of the building to get to the boat, or if the reception's good, we can call Dutch and he can send ROTH to airlift us, and if we leave that way, at least we can leave here with some of the stuff. Sound good?"

Mike struggled for the words. Every little thought waged war in his head, trying to come up with the right response to that, for so long that Chuck started to look at him funny.

Mike croaked, "You honestly think I still care about the stuff?"

Chuck, staggered, rubbed at the back of his head. "Well, I mean-"

"I haven't cared about that since-" and he stopped himself, because the thought that he sent Chuck away like some misbehaving pet still physically hurt him to even think about. Out of frustration, he just pulled Chuck into another tight hug. "Do you know how scared I was that- I couldn't- I was stupid, okay! I'm sorry! This is all my fault and I didn't listen to you and-"

Chuck's arms wrapped around him and patted his hair, and Mike's voice cracked. He muffled it in Chuck's shoulder. "-and I'm a little freaked out still, okay? I don't... have words big enough to apologize. I'm just sorry. I don't want anything out of that stupid clearance section. I just want you back."

"Mikey, I didn't go anywhere, I..." Chuck paused in thought. His hands threaded into Mike's hair and held him closer so he could soothingly ruffle his bangs. "Oh... oh you mean, like... as a friend."

Mike nodded into Chuck's shoulder.

"Oh Mike... you're breaking my heart here, bro." Chuck nuzzled their foreheads together, and if Mike caught the light he could just see Chuck's eyes through his wall of hair. They were sincere and soft, and Mike lowered his gaze to Chuck's shirt. He wasn't ready for that kind of... feeling, yet. He didn't feel like he'd earned it. "I never even thought about it like that. I wasn't mad, I was just hurt."

"I would've been mad," Mike admitted. "I was being a total ass."

"Yeah, well, I had a long time to sit and think about it."

Mike's heart sunk.

Chuck's hands were suddenly all over his face, catching up his cheeks while Chuck chanted, "Oh no, oh no, I did it again. I'm sorry! I'm sorry."

Face trapped in one of Chuck's hands, Mike stayed still while his friend nervously shuffled the hair out of his face and tucked it behind his ears. With everything out in the open, Chuck went back to holding Mike's face. "Look, I really did think about what I said. I had no reason to be that mean, or snide, or just- I spent all that time just trying to make you feel bad about doing anything instead of really stopping you when I felt overwhelmed. Don't take this all on yourself, okay? This isn't your fault."

Mike wriggled just enough to where Chuck released his cheeks, so he could talk without his lips being smushed. "I'm kind of the reason you're here, Chuck."

"This isn't entirely your fault." Chuck gave him a little smile that dropped as fast as it appeared. "I mean it, though. I had no excuse to be as cruel to you as I was. Please forgive me? Even... I'm sorry about what I said when you were getting me out of the zip ties."

Mike gave him a little nod. "I'm sorry I was shooting down your ideas for getting out of here. We're leaving this place the way we came in."

Chuck visibly pondered over that. "Escorted by Marcus?"

Mike took Chuck's hands in his and squeezed them. "Together, you doofus."

"You sap! Oh my gosh-"

Chuck finally sincerely smiled and laughed and pulled him into one last hug that finally felt right. Not desperate or panicked or sad, just him and Chuck, finally back together without that weird tension between them. Those words felt weirdly overdue, and he capped off the hug with a little smooch to Chuck's cheek for good measure.

"Mike, come on..." Chuck covered his bright red blush with his bangs. "In front of everybody."

Mike's own blush reached his ears once he remembered, right, they were surrounded by people. He reached down to the floor and picked the scissors and needle right back up. "Chuck, you pick the locks while I cut some stitches?"

The slaves all startled, looking between each other, while Chuck huffed. "You? With left-handed scissors? Give them to me, I'm more ambidextrous than you, and you can pick the lock behind your back because it's so much harder to do it forwards."

"It is!" argued Mike. "You've gotta do it by feel! Being able to see it makes it harder!"

Still, doing it backwards also gave him an amazing view of the slaves's faces lighting up as they realized that Mike and Chuck were about to set them all free.