The Human Stain: Chapter 8
I'm waking up at the start of the end of the world,
but its feeling just like every other morning before,
Now I wonder what my life is going to mean if it's gone,
The cars are moving like a half a mile an hour if that,
and started staring at the passengers who're waving goodbye
can you tell me what was ever really special about me all this time?
-Matchbox 20, How Far We've Come
Miguel Ramirez was still in love, but he wasn't thinking about it at the moment.
He had taken up the offer of that Walters woman, and the three of them had piled into a car he had never seen her drive before. He knew her to drive an Eclipse of some inconsequential year, but he had never seen her drive something like this.
It was bright blue with splashes of yellow, tricked out to the max. He loved his trucks, but never really knew his cars. Thankfully, this one helped him out
In neon yellow letters, the word SUBARU was painted across the front hood. Beneath that, in smaller but no-less-yellow writing, was 'World Rally Team'. There was a large '8' painted on the top of the car as well as the side doors, and the windows were tinted so dark that it became a challenge to peer into the interior. The vehicle had a ridiculously large spoiler, as well as a hood scoop that he doubted was real. The paint job was custom and striking. Yellow stars and other curving figures decorated the car's sides, and decaling covered nearly every solid inch of free space. The entire car was flawless, a showroom quality that didn't exist on outdoor cars.
Teresa was observing the car thoughtfully. He felt her still beneath his arm and cease any forward movement. He didn't blame her, the car was amazing.
If he didn't know any better, he would have sworn the gringa had stolen the car from a rally track somewhere. It seemed a bit out of place amongst the mono color automobiles that crawled by it. If he had been paying even more attention, he would have noticed how a few of the passing gawkers lost interest in the remnants of The Broken Spoke and instead fixated on the Subaru.
"Whoa, Walters, where did you get this!?" he exclaimed.
"I'm not sure," she muttered.
"What?"
"Hm? Oh…" she looked lost in thought, almost as if she had been studying the car as closely as he had. She made a simple rotation of her hand, as if trying in vain to conjure an explanation out of thin air. "It's… it's a loaner."
"Who loans out these?"
"Uh… long story. I'll tell you about it later," she muttered. She opened the driver's side door, and slid inside. Miguel offered Teresa the passenger seat, and then took the back for himself. The car shuddered, something he never felt a car do, and the blonde woman up front hadn't even put the key into the ignition yet.
"Deal with it!" Claire groused, while smacking the dashboard with the palm of her hand.
"What was that?" It was Teresa. The larger woman was eyeing the smaller one across from her with a wary eye.
Claire flashed Teresa an apologetic smile. "Sorry, it has a few quirks." Her voice was hasty, even as the vehicle gave a discontent rumble as the engine started.
Odd, he hadn't seen her put in any keys.
He was about to question her about this overlooked step when the radio came alive and a song began.
"Ah,
dirrty (dirrty)
Filthy (filthy)
Nasty, you nasty (yeah)
Too
dirrty to clean my act up
If you ain't dirrty.."
Claire hastily slapped at the radio dial. Redman and Christina Aguilera's whispered voices fell away before the song could proceed further.
"What was that?!"
Claire pointed sheepishly down at the CD slot. "Uh… it's broken. Turns on when it wants to. I swear this car has a life of its own sometimes." Her last sentence was muttered.
Teresa made a 'hmmm' sound.
Miguel noticed the white-knuckled grip she kept on the steering wheel. She did not relax her hold even as they pulled into traffic.
Oh, the nerve.
She wanted to ream it by its radiator and curb-stomp the carburetor. She was in enough duress, couldn't it see that?
Smokescreen had gone out its way to pull another fast one on her. Claire had nearly had a heart attack when she turned around to find the dirty Datsun had shifted into a slick Subaru.
Does that mean it can take any shape it wants?
How was that even possible? She had never seen it shift forms – she had always been looking away or asleep. It was like magic. Poof, presto-chango!
She was still bewildered by the time they pulled up into Miguel's driveway. The entire car ride had been a quiet one. Claire did not appreciate the fact that Smokescreen had cringed when all the filthy humans with their leaking, sweaty bodies had piled into its cab. It had voiced its displeasure quite plainly through the radio, something she was now clued into. It had such an unpleasant personality. She didn't know why she was even associating with it.
Oh, right - because she had been forced to.
Claire shook her head. The more she interacted with the thing, the more she began to give it human qualities. Robots might be programmed to be unpleasant, but they were not that by choice. They could not change their personalities, just as they could not change their outer appearances…
Damn, but he did.
He. The gendered pronoun sauntered across her mind, skipping and wheeling. She did not just think that.
No, no, no.
Smokescreen sounded male, sure, but he – it – was merely communicating through a voice recorder or computer that mimicked the deep baritone of the male gender. Nothing more, nothing less. To think otherwise was misleading.
Shaking her head as if to clear it again, Claire exited the Subaru. She gave it a quick once-over as if to ascertain to herself that it was indeed still a Subaru, or a car for that matter, and then turned away.
Miguel's two bedroom home sat on a quiet street. It was a southwestern style split-level with a two car garage. It had vaulted ceilings and a patio made of mosaic tiles, but was otherwise unremarkable. Once inside, Claire immediately took note of the potted cactus adjacent to the door.
"Hey, Miguel? Before we sit down and hash out the gritty details, do you mind if I use one of your bathrooms?"
"Sure," he replied without hesitation. All three of them were in bad shape, and all three wanted to remedy that as soon as possible. "There's a bathroom down the hallway to the left." He turned to the woman that Claire began to think of as her coworker's girlfriend. He spoke more softly to her than he had to Claire, and completely in Spanish at that.
Teresa gave a grateful nod, gave him a weak smile and removed her shoes. She stepped past them both, and disappeared down the hallway.
"She's using the master bathroom. I'll wait out here until one of you is finished."
"That's really nice of you."
He gave a short rise and fall of his shoulders. "Not a problem."
Claire had no need to remove any shoes. Buying new shoes always caused her to gripe – she paid double when she only needed one of the pair. Eventually she wizened up to the idea that she should only purchase shoes when they became ½ off. She was still being charged full price for one shoe but at least she wasn't getting charged double. When there was a sale on shoes, Claire was sure to be there.
"Thanks, Miguel." That said, Claire turned the corner like Teresa had seconds earlier. The moment Miguel could no longer see her was the moment she went from a casual walk to a desperate lope. She lunged into the small bathroom, shut the door, and began to unzip her jeans.
Finally.
Twenty minutes later, Claire finished showering. There was an unforeseen issue (alright, she should have foreseen it, but she hadn't thought that far in advance) that arose. She had no clothes. She had the grungy pajama set, but that was the last thing she wanted to put back on. The blonde woman finished drying herself off with the white towel she found on the rack next to the shower and then wrapped it around her midsection. She found a box of band-aides in the medicine cabinet, and helped herself to one of them.
After applying the band-aide to the sole of her good foot, Claire crept up to the bathroom door. The flimsy door was the kind made with the wood-grain pattern stamped into composite, something she knew by touch. The assistant manager of Ashbury Paints might have been an overbearing presence within the workplace, but he made sure to educate his employees on the various surfaces that customers routinely painted over. Certain materials called for different primers. You wouldn't use the same paint and primer over a new wall made of sheetrock as you would the aging exterior of a barn. It was these little things that made them the 'paint experts', as Zebrowski so grandly put it.
She must truly be paranoid if she was checking out the sturdiness of Miguel's doors. After the 'attack of the clone', she had reason to be.
"Hey, Miguel?" she ventured uncertainly. She had cracked the egress open a notch, just enough that her voice would carry.
No answer.
Widening the aperture just a tad more, Claire tried again. "Miguel? You there?" She hadn't fully stepped out into the hallway yet, but it might not be an option much longer. When there still wasn't a response, she grumbled and shut the door to apply her prosthesis. She had washed parts of the thing in the tub to clean it off before she showered, which was a necessary evil. Her bra and underwear had joined the leg as well, and were only partially dry by the time she got out of the shower. These she had put back on with a grimace, but it would have to do.
Putting on the prosthesis didn't take her long, but she had to let go of the towel long enough to move through the steps while sitting on the toilet seat. After securing her towel once more, she hobbled a few times to the door and then found her stride. Like last time, she cracked the door open and called both Miguel and Teresa's name. And, like last time, she went unrewarded.
Claire moved the door aside enough that she could slip through. Her mismatched legs carried her through the hallway, out to the middle of the living room. From the front door, the house opened up into a foyer that extended into the den and further still into an open kitchenette. From her vantage point, Claire could see the Subaru still parked out in the driveway through the house's bay window. There was no one out there, unless you counted Smokescreen.
And, of course, she would not. Robots did not count.
Turning to the left, she steered her eyes over and out past the sliding screen doors that led to the patio. Relief flooded her body, only to be replaced by embarrassment. Miguel was currently in a state of lip lock with Teresa. They had closed the sliding glass door, which effectively cut them off from her calls. Teresa had changed into one of Miguel's oversized t-shirts. It hung so low on the short woman that it hemmed at her knees. If she was wearing anything in the way of shorts beneath it, Claire couldn't tell.
No, correction – she simply did not want to know.
Still, it would be nice to secure something in the way of clothing for herself. Forcing the butterflies in her stomach down, Claire cleared her throat and ambled across the room. She balled one fist and rapped it against the glass.
The two broke apart instantly, even though Teresa's lips were still pursed as both sets of eyes settled upon the source of the intrusion. Claire couldn't tell which was worse – having Miguel see her in nothing but a towel or the fact that she had interrupted them.
Mouthing, 'mind if I open this?' and pointing down at the locking mechanism simultaneously, she only proceeded to slide the door aside when she was given a nod to go ahead.
"Sorry," she announced timorously, "but do you have an extra shirt or something I could borrow? I didn't… I didn't mean to…"
"No, it's totally okay," Miguel replied quickly, seemingly abashed. Let me rustle you up something quick." He stepped around Claire, purposely avoiding her eyes.
After Miguel left, Claire dragged her gaze back to Teresa in shame. "Hey, sorry, I didn't want to… but…"
Oddly enough, Teresa did not look perturbed in the slightest. "I understand," she said in an easy way, just as Miguel reappeared with a blue t-shirt and a pair of men's jeans.
"Try these."
"Thanks so much!" She could have hugged him – but Teresa would probably not like a damp, semi-naked woman doing that right in front of her. In any case, she did not see anything in Miguel past their precarious friendship. Snatching up the bundle of clothes, Claire got the hell out of dodge – but not before checking the time on the microwave as she made a pass by the kitchen.
7:00 a.m.
She had to be to work by 8:00, but for some reason she thought she would be calling in sick instead.
Claire would also bet her life that Miguel would do likewise – and, by token of these actions, Zebrowski would not be pleased.
After dressing, Claire knew two things to be fact. The first was that Miguel had a 32" waist, or did.
The second was that she was psychic.
"I called in," he told her when she came back into the living room.
"I figured you would. I need to call in yet too." His jeans fit her in an awkward fashion, but were for the most part baggy. The blue t-shirt had a noveau-art palm tree on the front and wasn't much different from Teresa's – it slung low and ended at mid-thigh.
I feel so gangsta, she thought peevishly.
Miguel was seated at an old computer tucked into the corner of his living room. She wondered why she hadn't seen it before. Teresa was nowhere in sight, and Claire reasoned that she must have gone back into the bathroom.
"You won't believe this." Miguel was all too happy to ignore the fact that she had approached him in a towel, and so was she.
Claire stepped closer to him. He sat facing away from her, intent on what he saw on the screen. "I just checked to see what they were saying about The 'Spoke. They are calling it an 'unexplained explosion'."
Claire's brow dipped low on her forehead at that. "Well, it's partially true…"
"It's not unexplained, though." Miguel pushed away from the computer desk contemptuously. He sat up quickly, surprising her. His voice was rising. "We all damn well saw the thing, but they won't publish that."
The woman wearing his clothes widened her eyes incrementally at the justified anger behind his words. He was tense, humming with an energy that knew no good output. Claire peered past him, zooming in on the monitor. He had been reading the online version of the Boulder City News. Indeed, the blown-up bar was the top article. She scanned it briefly, than happened to drop her eyes to the one below it.
……...
Auto Accident Claims Local Resident
Daniel Kim
Staff Writer
(BOULDER CITY) – A local woman by the name of Teresa Lopez was killed Sunday night in an automobile accident at the intersection of Avenue L and Wyoming Street.
Witnesses on the scene described a police cruiser running a stop sign and colliding with Ms. Lopez's 2005 Volkswagen Jetta between the hours of 8 and 9 p.m. The unmarked cruiser stopped for several minutes before speeding away, according to witnesses. No one could get an accurate description of the driver. Teresa Lopez, 23, was thrown thirty feet from her vehicle upon impact and died at the scene. As a note of interest, the body was found to be missing its right arm upon recovery. Local Boulder City law enforcement is currently investigating the incident.
Boulder City's Chief of Police, Tom Wharton, is currently denying any member of his department's involvement. Witnesses could describe no identifying marks on the police cruiser that killed Teresa Lopez.
"We are currently contacting the state patrol and other local law enforcement," Wharton said. "We have no leads in this case as of yet, but it's unfortunate that one of our own might have done such a heinous thing. We are here to serve and protect, and this vehicular hit and run is something I can't condone in a fellow officer of the law."
……...
Claire blinked. Her blood ran cold at a sneaking suspicion.
"Hey, Miguel."
The man stopped pacing the carpet long enough to catch the odd catch in Claire's breath.
"What?"
"…What did you say Teresa's last name was?"
He frowned. "I didn't say."
"Nevermind that. What is it?"
"Lopez. Why?"
I'm in hell. I've died and gone to hell and no one saw fit to inform me.
Claire swallowed thickly. "I think you need to look at this. Read the second article."
Miguel made a frustrated sound, and then stood over her shoulder to squint down at the computer. Claire stayed perfectly still as she waited for him to digest the block of type displayed across the screen. After approximately half a minute, she felt him start to shake.
Slowly, both of their heads turned to regard the other. Disbelief reflected upon their faces, perfect mirror images of the same expression.
"Where did she go," Claire breathed. It wasn't a question.
"S-s-she said she was going out to look at your car."
"Aw, shit." Claire cursed tacitly.
A reverberating rumble from outside seized their attention and shook the house. The front door opened shortly after the awful sound, and someone stepped inside. It wasn't Teresa.
Both Miguel and Claire's eyes pinned themselves to the newcomer. It was a man in his mid-to-late twenties with dark brown hair. He wore a leather jacket and faded jeans, which somehow worked to describe the rest of him – he seemed washed out. His tanned complexion seemed overwrought with a gray hue, as did the lines in his face. It was unexplainable unless seen, and it was definitely something both of them had never witnessed. Perhaps the only thing that seemed even remotely vibrant were his eyes – they were quite blue. The man was frowning.
"Who… can I help you?" Miguel was the one who broke the silence first. He seemed unsure of himself, crestfallen even.
Claire just stared.
The man's shocking eyes flickered between both of them, and then he began to advance.
Miguel and Claire wound up backing up a step for every step he took forward. He had an intimidating air about him, and something seemed off.
"Get out of my house!" Miguel shouted, growing restless with the man's silence. Claire's back was brushing up against the sliding door that opened up into the patio. The cool press of the glass through the thin cotton wall of her t-shirt reminded her of this.
Miguel finally acted. He sidestepped to the right, reaching outwards for the knife block in the kitchen. His eyes never left the stranger, which was ditto for Claire.
What happened next was swift mayhem.
Miguel had managed to reach the kitchenette. His fingers wrapped firmly around the wooden handle of a butcher knife. Claire's mouth was open, breath coming in short pants of panic as she watched the Mexican-American man. He looked positively fearsome. There was still the bloodied cut over one cheek that had yet to be washed, the unkempt hair and the dangerous visage – all of these things made the hair on Claire's arms stand on end.
Miguel hunched over in the next second, and then charged while holding the knife aloft.
The odd man did not move.
Claire closed her eyes and made a strangled sound as she waited out the inevitable.
It never came.
Slowly, the blonde cracked one eye open. Miguel was now a meter or so behind the man, still holding the butcher's knife.
Miguel looked dismayed. It was a look she was beginning to familiarize herself with. Her coworker pivoted in a slow circle, catching Claire's dumbfounded gaze in the process.
They shared another baffled moment. Miguel had not managed to sink his weapon into the intruder. It wasn't for lack of trying – he had certainly attempted it to the best of his ability. His aim was straight and his projection was on the mark – but something went wrong where the material had met with the immaterial.
Miguel would have been successful had he not run right through his target.
The strange man shimmered, or flickered, or some variation of that. He opened his mouth, and the two could not tear their eyes away even if Japan wanted to do a sequel to Pearl Harbor in the skies over Miguel's house at that moment.
"You couldn't harm me if you wanted to, human." He paused, then added, "I'm sure you will take this example to memory."
A spasm of recognition lit Claire's face. She bit her lip and wished the fleas of a thousand camels on whatever higher power concocted this arrangement. They were surely getting their jollies out of this one.
It's him. For once, she didn't doubt the gender.
"H-how…" Claire trailed off. She wasn't sure where to begin, or how to.
"I am merely in my holoform, nothing more," he explained.
Miguel dropped the knife. It landed with a dull 'thud' on the carpet, and danced a bit by bouncing back and forth. When the object finally settled, Miguel spoke. "What the hell are you…?"
"I'm the only thing that stood between you and that remodeled Trans-Organic."
Here he goes again.
"You mean, that was... they are called what?"
Claire couldn't finish. Smokescreen cut her off with a curt nod and a sober stare. "It was exactly like the one that was fashioned after your likeness. Long ago, before the first sparkling of my people ever made its first computation, there were the Trans-Organics. They were created by an ancient race that fused biology and technology to create the first prototypes, but these were found to be too unpredictable to be controlled. Thus, they were destroyed."
Miguel's eyes were as wide as dinner plates. He looked spooked.
"B-buh-buh… she's dead. That woman, she died on Sunday… H-how…" Claire hadn't realized that she was still planted firmly against the door. It was becoming an acutely uncomfortable position, so she relaxed and took a small step forward. If Smokescreen had wanted to kill her, he would have done it already.
"Exactly," came the ghost-figure's simple answer.
"What do you mean, 'exactly'?!" It was Miguel, and he sounded furious. He hadn't moved from his position, and seemed quite cautious of anything Smokescreen might do. "She… we…" he sputtered, and Claire had a moment of sympathy for him. Miguel had really liked her.
Smokescreen appeared exasperated. "Think, fleshling. I know this may come as a challenge for you, but tie the ends together."
Claire stepped forward, a bit peeved that he was salting Miguel's loss. "Excuse me, but would it kill you to be just a tad nicer? I know you don't come by it naturally, but you could at least…"
"Wait, you know this guy?" Miguel's indignant squawk carried across the room, causing Smokescreen's human shade to visually sputter.
"Yes. We've been acquainted, unfortunately."
White hot anger spiked through her brain, causing a reflex action that Claire had long since despaired of ever curing. Sarcasm.
"I like you too," Claire bit back.
Miguel looked lost.
"By your tone, I can see you share the sentiment." Smokescreen interjected humorlessly.
"Explain Teresa!" Miguel was the one to finally step in and redirect the conversation.
Smokescreen put a virtual hand to his equally virtual forehead. His brow furrowed as if pained by the prospect of explaining what seemed blatant to him. "The Decepticons…"
"…Those are like the bad guys," Claire supplied for Miguel, cutting off Smokescreen in the process.
Smokescreen shot her a pointed glare, and then continued in a professorial tone. "As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted… the Decepticons have found a new way of hiding themselves amongst humans. We…"
"…the Autobots, the supposed good guys… although that may be dependent on interpretation…" Claire once again disturbed Smokescreen's smooth composition.
Miguel was beginning to go from befuddled to annoyed. Smokescreen, on the other hand, was already there.
"Would you let me finish?" he retorted with a snide clip.
"I'm just trying to fill him in. He doesn't know all of this stuff," Claire shot back.
"Would you both just shut up and get to the point!?" Miguel had had enough. He looked awfully close to using the sharp blade he had dropped minutes earlier on his own ears. Their verbal sparring was sending Claire's coworker into a psychotic slide.
Claire fell silent, but did not look happy about it.
Smokescreen regarded the seething male behind him with a wry expression. "If the Decepticons can get a sample of tissue that is large enough, they can use that to create a new kind of Decepticon… one that weaves among the masses of your planet with ease. Somehow, the Decepticons have found out how to recreate the Trans-Organics without any of the issues the original creators had. These upgrades take the form of their donor, which is in most cases already dead. However…"
He turned to Claire. It took her a moment to realize that he wasn't looking at her – he was looking somewhere much lower. Her face flushed, and she nearly launched into a string of obscenities about perverts when it suddenly made sense.
Her eyes dropped with his, and she saw what he was looking at. Peeking out from beneath one jean leg was her prosthetic.
A missing leg, and a Decepticon that looked just like she did when she parted with it.
Aw, shit.
Disclaimer: I do not own Transformers. All recognizable characters are the property of HasTak. All original characters are mine.
A/N: Haha, I'm evil. Notice how I never went into Teresa's point of view when I've stated before I was only doing this from the perspective of humans… muah.
soaringphoenix:I'm glad you like the interaction between them! I'm having fun with it too, since it's not really directed by me… more by them. Okay, so maybe it is by me in my subconscious somewhere. At any rate, it just sort of happens. I don't plan it, I just write it as I go. Smokescreen kept the blue, but dropped the red for yellow! You were right about the quiet car ride and the fact that Smokescreen did not want human fluids all over his interior. Yucky.
Elita One: Thanks for the review – and for every chapter that you have commented on this far. ) I thought their discussion was awesome as well. I'm usually not one to put a discussion about 'lubricating' into stories, so that was a first!