3: I Shift

"You rotten sonofabitch!"

The metal-armed man watches dispassionately as I hurl yet another three-ring binder across the bunker. It strikes the sealed steel door with a dull clang, just inches from the Silent Guard's head. He seems more intimidated by me than his American counterpart, but after several hours of watching me throw curse-laden tantrums, he seems less easily rattled.

I continue to dig through the pile of manuals, flinging pages and schematics in every direction," What volume was that in? 43? No, 43 was still outer shell construction. Well?" I bark at the metal-armed man. He shrugs with just his good shoulder," I decided to stop risking your vengeance by answering after the fourth binder you threw at me."

"Well you should risk it; you probably have a metal skull to match your metal arm," I snap, and to my astonishment, he suddenly chuckles. It's small, and momentarily, but absolutely a sound of wry amusement. He catches my incredulous stare, and quickly switches back to staring impassively off into the distance.

"Didn't know your vocal cords could do that," I observe quietly.

He throws me the very smallest glance, as if suddenly afraid of meeting my eyes. "…I think it's in manual 87."

I quickly bend back down to my pile of manuals, pushing aside my fifth meal, left forgotten on its plate, making much more of a show in searching for number 87 than is strictly necessary. For some reason, I abruptly don't want to meet his gaze either; strange, since I'd been doing almost nothing but looking at him for nearly two straight days. Part of me senses I will never forget his gaze, wary and watchful and cryptic, and the way my skin prickles when I catch him covertly examining me. He is still just as intimidating as he'd been, and yet, something has changed. I no longer fear him; probably inevitable when you lock someone in a room with a bunch of strangers, even when you give those strangers guns, that everyone is going to eventually get used to each other. He knows me now; knows that I reflexively sang old Celtic ballads when I am really concentrating, knows what I look like when I haven't showered for days, and how I hate orange juice.

Without even trying, I realize I know him too; the subtle shifts of expression on his face, the cycling tension and exhaustion in his body as I tweak his nerve endings, his sardonic and unpredictable sense of humor. Even the smell of his skin, sweaty and musty in a way that reminds me more of a sunset beach than a locker room. His level stare is different now, still vigilant, still guarded, but almost as if he could look right through me, down into the messy core of everything I was and am and will be. It's frightening, but in a wholly different fashion.

"You missed it," he interprets my train of thought," It's by your foot."

I snatch up the manual I'd been mindlessly overlooking, trying to ignore the blush spreading across my face. For no reason I can pinpoint, I feel utterly ridiculous. "Good," I clear my throat, trying to appear professional as I flip through the pages," Ah, yep, here it is. Flick your wrist again."

He does, the movement natural and smooth. "You've made good progress," he says approvingly.

I can feel my face burning even hotter now. "Um-well, thank you, but I've still got a long way to go, so if you could just shut up, that would be wonderful."

"I have conditions," he replies.

I snort," I think I'm still in the middle of fulfilling one of them."

"Sing that one song again; about the ghost and the grave."

I look up at him in surprise," The Unquiet Grave?" I hadn't even realized I'd sung it in front of him. There were some songs I sung so frequently while I worked that my coworkers had begun to join in, hollering out the lyrics from across the lab, but I thought I'd only ever sung that one alone.

He nods, still looking away from me. After a pause, he asks, "Where did you learn it?"

I duck my head, focusing on the mechanics of his arm with unneeded attention. "My mother," I reply quietly. I haven't figured out if the silent guard speaks English, but I don't want him to hear, not this. "She used to sing it when she was sewing. I think my dad and I- we started doing it, too. One day someone walked into our shop, and said all three of us had been singing it together, with none of us really noticing. She and Dad sounded great singing together." I clear my throat again, embarrassed by the slight waver in my voice.

He notices. "Something happened to them," he states simply.

I nod, still concentrating hard on the wires around his elbow. "Car accident, right before college."

"I'm sorry," he says, and I think he means it.

I have better command of my voice now. "It's okay. It's been a while. I'm okay now. It was tough at the time, but I moved on. I have a pretty good life." I glance around at the bunker," Okay, well, usually."

"The song reminds you of them," he says, again in his matter-of-fact way. Before I can respond, he continues," It reminds me of something too; sad, but also comforting. Like feeling you are somewhere familiar, somewhere you belong. It makes me…. Miss something."

"Oh? What?" I ask, intrigued. He shakes his head very slightly," I'm not sure. I think it reminds me of-someone. Someone who I haven't seen in a long time, but I can't think of who."

"Perhaps your one true love?" I tease, and am rewarded with a partial smile, though no reply. I pause, unsure if I should risk it, but finally say, feeling courageous," What about your parents? They still around?"

"I don't know."

I try to casually look at him, without betraying my intense nosiness," Lost touch with them?"

There is a ghost of an expression haunting just around the corners of his mouth and eyes, something like pain and confusion. "No. I don't remember them."

"Did they die when you were little?"

"I don't know."

My curiosity is piqued, perhaps dangerously so," Were you adopted?"

"I don't know." His confused gaze finally meets mine, and the force of the emotion in his eyes feels like a battering ram to my chest. "I don't know anything about my parents. Or about my childhood. I don't even know my name."

Suddenly the Silent Guard is on his feet, marching towards us, his gun up and ready. He snaps something in Russian at the metal-armed man, and instantly, almost as if it was never there, all emotion disappears from the metal-armed man's face. The metal-armed man looks disinterestedly up at the guard, and waves him off with something that sounds dismissive. The Silent Guard hesitates a moment, looking back and forth between the two of us, and then grumbling, returns to his post.

The metal-armed man turns his attention back to me. "I believe you have work to do," he says expressionlessly.