So a vampire, a robot and a Slayer are stuck in a lift. Seriously, there's got to be a joke about that somewhere. The elevator itself feels like something straight out of Willy Wonka's chocolate factory, and the speed it moves at gives the ever pleasant sensation of your own intestines turning inside out.
Not one of my better experiences.
"Does this actually lead to an exit?" I ask, grimacing as the lift takes a dip and causes one or more organs to leap to my throat. "Because that's a really dumb design if you put an exit in the same room as sixty super-powered robots which, say, anyone could accidentally end up activating. Not that I'm complaining about it right now or anything."
"Not exactly. There's still a ways," Kenney replies. She's leaning against the side of the elevator, her arms folded under her chest. Subject Fifteen, who is in extremely close proximity to the both of us with the nakedness, stands rigid with a look of surly apathy on her face. I'm getting the idea it's her default expression.
More memories are grouping up in my head, retrieved from the drug haze and scrambled pit holes peppering my brain like Swiss cheese. There's still blanks: large, glossy and impenetrable barriers wiped of recollection. Dwelling too hard brings a dull headache.
Time has been taken from me, and I have no idea just how much.
Nervously, I consider our current situation. On the run. Ill-equipped for the task of doing so but with super strength, desperation, and a weapon on our side.
Okay, so we're not really sure how said weapon works, yet. Subject Fifteen busted out of her solitary confinement and found the lift, but for all the help she's given us, we're really only scratching the tip of the iceberg. We have no idea what she's capable of, and just how much she's prepared to obey me over.
She's what I guess they call a loose cannon. And isn't there stories where they turn on their shiny new owner when their true master comes along? Or something.
"Do you think we'll get out?" My voice leaves me, more Scared Little Girl than intended.
"Course," Kennedy scoffs. "We didn't dramatically break out and set every demon loose in the facility just for some snacks from the vending machine."
I let out a weary chuckle. With the adrenaline high wearing out, I feel immeasurably exhausted and achy all over. Also, hungry. Staring down at the small bloodstain on the hospital gown, I touch around the area. The stomach wound is sealed.
Slayer healing. Gotta love it.
Kennedy watches me for a moment. "That had to hurt."
I shrug. "Eh. Was a little more concerned with escape at the time."
Kennedy shudders. "Actually, I have to confess. Thinking about it is kinda freaking me out. With the tubes ripping out and stuff. Gross."
Okay, now that Kennedy has forced me to consider it, I agree. It is freaky. And gross.
Thank you, Kennedy. I now feel nauseated as well as hysterical.
The lift stops. The door slides open to an unlit corridor, which sparks into life the second we step out. Before Kennedy and I can adjust, Subject Fifteen is already striding off into the unknown, and like lost sheep, we follow her. Fifteen's been told to help us escape. Since, really, we're just a couple of traumatised inmates, we're happy for her to lead. We're also pretty sure she'll provide a good distraction for anything to get in the way.
Sure enough, some walking later, some knocking out more unwary guards and stealing their tasers, some discovering and screwing up of the camera security system for the sections we've infiltrated; some explanation from Kennedy about certain parts of the facility being less advertised than others - we get out.
To be more precise, we stumble out of a dumpster, and end up in a dingy, grubby alleyway smack bang in the middle of a city. Which one, I have no idea. The dumpster entrance closes up behind us. Sunlight filters down to us through the toxic smog of congestion. Also, Kennedy does not light up like a candle. Huh. Guess she was telling the truth about not being a proper vampire.
So. Now we're out, more immediate problems become apparent.
I'm not much of a fan of this new situation. True, it's outside, and the air is fresher, and there isn't a ceiling load of bright fluorescent lights glaring at me anymore, but what we've effectively done is trade one complicated problem for another.
Goodbye, frying pan. Hello, fire.
"What are we going to do?" I ask Kennedy, like she somehow has all the answers. Looking around, Kennedy blinks, dazed. Probably secretly relieved she isn't currently burning to cinders.
Taking advantage of her silence, I begin to list our issues. "We have no cash. No idea where we are. No decent clothes. We have a naked robot. You look like a leper, I look like a Halloween prop. And people are already staring." I shrink out of sight as a small child gasps at us behind his mother. He starts pointing furiously, but the poor kid is unceremoniously hauled off, his mother too distracted to bother checking down the alley.
"Christ," Kennedy mutters, stepping in front of Subject Fifteen. "We'll be arrested for pubic indecency if your robot keeps standing in the open like this."
Oh, so it's robo-toy, now? Obviously Kennedy wants to shift some blame. "Hey, she got us out, right? It's pretty much the best thing to happen to me, today." I peek, seeing the droves of people skimming by. Most don't check the alley, lost in their own, personal little bubbles.
The situation is looking worse and worse by the second, as a few home truths land. There is no way we're not going to be noticed. No doubt the facility below will be searching for escapees outside the parameters around about now, if they're any good at their jobs. You don't want your secret and extremely illegal experiments walking out in broad daylight where any random person can gawp at them, I guess.
"We need clothes," Kennedy says, her eyes drilling into me as a telepathic way of saying I should probably do something about shifting Subject Fifteen out of sight.
"We need a car," I reply. "It's the only way we're going to get out, and I'm pretty sure none of us happen to have one magically floating around - "
Kennedy gives an indignant squawk as Subject Fifteen ploughs through her, walks to the entrance of the main street - and then straight out. Gasps and cries come racketing over about 0.3 seconds later.
Holy motherf-
"Fuck! Fuck! Fuuuck. What the hell?" Kennedy curses, moving fast to join me in my impromptu cringe spot.
"I- I didn't give her any orders…" I'm shaking as I say it. Both of us are in a state of disbelief. Mostly because we're pretty sure the gig's up, and we're about to be slammed back in the loony bin once Subject Fifteen is detained. Another possibility springs to mind. She's insanely strong. Something a lot worse could happen to people out there if she's running unchecked.
God. I'm so going to miss my few seconds of freedom.
Both of us perk up when we hear the squeal of tyres, and an elongated shadow stretches down the alley to touch at the wall we're grouped behind. A black SUV is parked right up on the pavement. The window by the driver's seat is conspicuously broken. Subject Fifteen has her hands on the steering wheel, and she's staring at us with that bored expression I'm beginning to hate.
"Well, what do you know!" Kennedy crows. "Bitch got us a car."
"I don't get it," I reply, mouth open in astonishment. "I didn't order anything … oh. Wait." My mind rewinds back a minute. "I did. Sort of. I did say we needed a car. But that wasn't a direct order to her…"
"Yeah, yeah, whatever. You getting in or what?" Kennedy's already tugging the back door open. I'm still blinking in dazed amazement, but quickly boot into gear and dash towards the shotgun seat and prospective freedom. Kennedy slams shut her door and buries her face into the leather seat, obviously wanting to hide her deformity from view. I scramble into the car and barely manage to close the door and clip my seatbelt on when Subject Fifteen stamps on the pedal. It causes the SUV to do some crazy, drunken lurch forward, scattering pedestrians like skittles as they dive for cover. I have a fleeting vision of my life flashing in front of me as we crunch and fold around some innocent lamppost. Squeezing my eyes shut, I'm not prepared for the first sharp turn Subject Fifteen executes. Neither is Kennedy, as she lets out a whoop at the speed we're accelerating at, then yelps as she rolls off the seat onto the floor.
"Ow!"
I can't be too sure, because my eyes are firmly glued together, but I think at one point we do crash into something. The car gives a great buck and I'm jerked in my seat, silently thanking whatever power is out there that I had the incredible foresight to strap myself in - unlike Kennedy, who gives another: "Ow!" Followed by, "Holy crap! My teeth!"
Another bone-jarring bump causes me to squint at Subject Fifteen. The muscles in her arms are flexing with each swerve and twist, and her foot is pressed down to the max on the pedal. My eyes swim to the scenery in front and the extremely non-existent amount of time it takes to reach each new obstacle, and I absently perceive through my terror how Subject Fifteen is able to keep up this blinding speed and more or less avoid whatever happens to be in the way. She has reflexes like a race car driver. About to tell her to slow down, I hesitate when I hear the blare of police sirens in the background.
I clamp my mouth shut instead, and clutch tightly onto the door handlebar. Whatever life insurance I have is never going to cover this. Ever.
Our frantic, helter-skelter journey ends a short while later. I don't know how we did it, but we manage to evade the cops and roll out of town with nothing more than a few nasty bruises and some possible whiplash. The times when I wanted to ask whether Subject Fifteen actually had a license to drive like this got suppressed by the next near disaster and flash of angry police cars.
We're parked out by the edge of a small, heavily wooded clearing, somewhere in the middle of nowhere near a convenient gas station. Huddling up against a tree, I slide my hands into my sleeves until I'm touching each elbow, and stare at the small fire we've got going. The sweater I'm in is way too big and is shaded a tasteless grey. My pants are a matching colour with two white streaks down each side. I'm still barefoot, but considerably warmer. Kennedy's in a similar getup, courtesy of what Subject Fifteen managed to shoplift during our exciting stint of criminal activity.
A small pile of food is next to me, mostly chips and sweets, and a few drink cartons as well. I've dug into some of it, and watch as Kennedy tears open a packet.
"You can eat that?" I ask in surprise. She gives me a withering look, the firelight making her face appear even more twisted and demonic. It's kind of offset by the oversized sports clothing.
"Duh?" She chews on a salted potato chip. I rub my elbows, quickly glancing over to see what Subject Fifteen is doing. The answer; not much. She's finally got some clothes on so I don't have to keep trying not to stare/compare, and I can't help but notice her clothes are a little better fitting than mine or Kennedy's. Her black hoody is still baggy, but the pants are the runner type, designed to hug around the leg. I think it's unfair she got better clothes for herself than for me. She's completely rigid as she stands. Also, her attention is entirely on me.
"I mean, don't you like blood?" I continue with Kennedy, unnerved by Subject Fifteen's unwavering fixation.
Kennedy stops munching. Her eyes expand, giving the distinct impression the idea hadn't yet occurred to her. "Oh. I don't know. I never was given it or anything…" She halts, looking worried. "Maybe?"
Lifting my head to expose my neck, I tug my arm out of the sleeve and trace a finger over the pulse point. "Look at all this yummy blood. Pumping. Away. Don't you just want to take a great big bite? It's all there on exhibition, just for you."
Kennedy stares at my neck, her brow furrowed in bemusement at my lame attempt. She ogles my jugular a lot longer than I feel comfortable with… then snorts.
"Nope." She shovels a big haul of chips into her mouth. "Ain'tno ur'gs." She gnashes on them, the sound grating on my ears. "Heh…'es e'dunte bud."
"Speak English?"
Kennedy laughs, half choking and spraying her chips. She wipes her mouth after swallowing the rest down. "Sorry. Not feeling any compulsion or sudden desire to pounce on your neck and suck your blood out, so I'm good. I'm just a regular girl with a facelift."
She says the last few words with a heavy degree of irony.
"That's a bit more than a facelift…" I mutter, examining her face again. I test my slayer senses. "You feel like a vampire."
Kennedy's face falls, crestfallen. Quickly regaining her bravado, she shrugs. "Huh. So I 'feel' like one? That a slayer perk? Guess I have lots of things to look forward to." Hesitating suddenly, her eyes bulge in guilt. Maybe because the only way for her to become a slayer, if even possible for her anymore, is me dying. I scowl.
"Slayer perk it is. I guess it's not quite the same, though. I mean obviously you've got vamp stuff in you. B-but I can tell you're kinda human, too?" I flounder, as Kennedy tenses up. It's then I perceive how much of an issue the whole vampire thing is to her. The last thing she probably wants is to be labelled as an enemy of the Slayer. We seem to be digging into the sore spots very well tonight. Yay, us.
"And not all vamps are bad." No, that isn't helping either, she screws her face in disdainful disbelief. "Well, just one," I amend, "But only 'cause he has a soul. He still drinks blood, though. And you don't. And the last time I checked, you were room temperature. You're also so very not crispy. Since that's such a good point, I'll even say it again. No crispy vamp goodness."
Kennedy's lips twitch in a half smile, but she's still not fully convinced. Before I can attempt any more effort at appeasement, she holds up a hand.
"Thanks. As much as I appreciate the effort, I think I'm gonna get some sleep before either of us say something we might regret. More." She creases her forehead up, before curling over to face the fire, her back to me. "Night." Her voice is muffled.
"Night…" I sigh. That ends that conversation. I consider Kennedy's situation, scratching around the stitches on my face. She really does feel like a vamp, even without the usual side effects of being a creature of the night. My slayer senses aren't too happy with her. Speaking of senses…
I discreetly peek at Subject Fifteen. It's not like I can always sense vampires and Subject Fifteen, but when I'm in the zone, it buzzes, and it can get really annoying. Subject Fifteen doesn't strike my inner radar as a baddy. It's an familiar tingle, and I have no idea why it is. It's like I should be able to recognise it, but it constantly eludes the tip of my thoughts.
I match gazes with her for a while. She blinks, but at a slower rate than I do. Our saviour/criminal activist of the day hasn't made any effort to relax, either. Instead, she stands in a stiff and uncomfortable manner, constantly facing me.
Like a faithful dog.
I start to gather myself upright to move to her, before allowing a lazy smile to take over.
"Come here," I order her. Immediately she paces to me, passing Kennedy who snuffles sleepily. When she pulls up in front of me, I shake my head. "Next to me." I pat the ground, "And sit down."
Complying, she lowers herself next to me. Our shoulders brush. She still somehow manages to make the whole process awkward, and her limbs are stiff and puppet-like in comparison to my sprawled slump. I worm my hand to her neck and press against it, testing both the body temperature and whether she has a pulse or not in an onslaught of curiosity. It's warm to the touch. My fingers find her heartbeat, and I swallow. Yup. She's very much alive. No robot could copy the pores around the nose, the sweat on the skin, the pulsing bloodstream, like this.
I take my hand off, regarding her carefully. Shadows flicker across her face from the fire. I have no idea what kind of modifications have been done to her, but the idea that she could have been like me before the creepy scientists got their mitts on her clogs up my throat in disgust and sympathy. It's clear over the time we've spent together that Subject Fifteen is incapable of doing anything unless ordered or spoken to by me.
I can't keep calling her Subject Fifteen in my head.
"What's your name?" I ask.
"Subject Fifteen," she replies, somewhat laconically. I hug my legs and prop my cheek against my knees, frowning.
"No. Your real name." Holding my breath, I wait to see if she changes her answer. There is the faint possibility that the brunette could be too heavily modified. Like when they remove the brain and stuff and replace it with a robot one or something.
Oh God.
Compulsively, I feel the stitches on the side of my face. All the thoughts retaining to some form of brain surgery is making me jumpy. I'm a giant freak as it is already, but remembering the times when the scientists were bent over me back in the facility is starting to edge me into a bad zone.
Subject Fifteen's eyes flutter slightly. Her mouth opens. Shuts. Opens. "Subject… Fifteen…" This time it sounds forced and clipped, like she's straining with a impossible weight.
"Subject…" she tries again. I watch in amazement as a couple of beads of sweat pop out on her head, the first time I've seen Subject Fifteen display exertion. Her brows furrow in the tiniest of movements whilst her mouth does the fish thing. Chill realisation hits me. She's struggling with the sheer effort to tell me her own name.
"Fifteen. Fif… teen. Fffff." She stops. Her face suddenly contorts in a flash of frustration and agony, but falls neutral so fast, I can't be certain of what I just saw. For one brief moment though, her eyes were as bright as stars. "System and firewall malfunction. Potential breach of behavioral impulse motherboard and I.P.A.I chip. Databanks determine full automatic shutdown for reset and subsequent recovery of firewalls." Her eyes snap shut and her entire body goes all rigor mortis, becoming unresponsive. All the while when she blurted out the random techno-gibberish, my attention was riveted to trapped moisture around her left eye. When she stiffened, it broke away to trail down her cheek as one solitary tear.
"Are you alright?" I probe. A pretty lame question, but I didn't know what else to say. "Answer me?" Gets added when she ignores me.
Still no response.
Okay. I think she just officially went blue screen of death on me.
I reach out frantically to her neck, finding the pulse still beating. I transfer the touch to her hair afterwards, stroking through the gnarls. All the while, I wonder what could prevent someone from being able to tell me something as simple as their own name. I'm rethinking my soulless theory now, though.
I glance at Kennedy, now properly asleep by the fire, if her snores are anything to count by.
What a sorry bunch we all are.
My hopes drift to the phone call I need to make in the morning. Maybe there will be an answer to all this madness.