He wasn't sure what the bigger mistake was—sending those two women away or running after them.
Tavish knew he was out of his mind, either way. If he didn't pursue them, then the six years he spent in New Mexico would be truly wasted. No prestige to his name. No possessions from his time. Hell, he was out at least five million from last year alone. He wasn't even sure if he could get back into his bank account in Teufort and withdraw the funds. Going after Miss Pauling and the Scout's mother was guaranteed danger. Straight up suicide. Not to mention how this would effectively kill his acting career.
Either way, his mother was going to be pissed.
His vehicle jerked as he swerved into a dilapidated motel. It had two levels, the first only accessible outside. Rusted stairwells were painted red. Drywall was peeling in thick clumps from the sides of the motel. A neon sign with a pink flamingo was all but burned out. It sputtered weakly, its yellow beak bleached white by the Californian sun.
He pulled a matchbox out of his wallet, then gave it another glance. Yep, this was the place where the two ladies were staying. It was hardly the palace for them. Both women were thick-skinned, but this motel's roughness was beneath them. It was the sort of location where dirty deals went down. Not the kind of place to lie down after a hard, fruitless drive.
The Demoman felt dirty as he slunk up to the main office. He expected a woman with green eyes and press-on nails to rake his back. Or, perhaps, a man with a suspiciously clean suit to light a cigarette and give him a sharp smile. He couldn't imagine the going rate of such a motel to be anything but hourly. The thought of what lived on the stained beds and yellowed curtains made his skin crawl.
A short, oily man sat at the front desk. He wasn't dressed to entertain guests. The peculiar blotches on his shirt matched the color of the motel's drapes. He gave the Demoman one look-over, a gray, round eye glaring at him with the same intensity as that of a dead frog's gaze. He lowered his head, squashing his neck between his chin and his chest.
"How can I help you?" the desk clerk grumbled, his tone less than hospitable.
"I'm lookin' for two women," Tavish replied.
That earned a dark laugh from the clerk. "You'll be lucky to get one."
The Demoman's face scrunched. He shook his head, then flashed his matchbox. "Not like that. There were two women that wanted to see me earlier tonight. Both had black hair. Kinda short."
"Hey, a lot of black beauties come through here. I need a name," the clerk grunted.
"Fine," the Demoman sighed. "The young gal in purple, she'll be named Pauling. Not sure on the name 'a the other."
The clerk reached a hairy, flabby arm for a list of customers. He peeled through the pages, then shook his head. "Sorry, bub. No Pauling. Try again."
That was to be expected. Neither woman could use their real names if they were in danger. However, that didn't take away Tavish's frustrations with the desk clerk. If he wasn't sure that he'd lose his fist in the face of the grotesque jerk, Tavish would have hit the man. "Look, mate! You know who I'm lookin' for! Two women, black hair, short, blue 'n purple clothes. One's got glasses. Can't miss 'em."
"Mister, you'd better start mindin' your manners," the toad grunted back at the Demoman. "Now, I've got very sensitive clients, here. It's my duty to make sure they get proper rest. So, why don't you give it a rest, huh?"
The Demoman pulled back from the counter. He could have snapped the top of it off, had he had no peace of mind. He raised his palms, then waved the clerk off. He wasn't going to get any help from that greasy bubble. He threw the door to the office open, then slammed it shut behind him. He was certain that he heard something crass behind his back, but the glass shielded his ears from understanding the full filthiness of the clerk's remarks.
"Could wait here until ten," the Demoman planned aloud. "Most motels force ya out by then. If they're still here—"
The Demoman crossed his arms, then hung his head. Maybe they had already fled. A dark, thick wave of misery settled over him. He'd rejected them. They needed his services, and he'd turned his back on them. How could he have been so cruel? The least he could have done was offer them a drink or a place in his apartment. Now, those two poor women were probably driving back into New Mexico—into the mouth of a monster.
What sort of man was he?
He closed his one good eye, then thought quietly. A soft plan built in his hurting head. There had to be a base he could break into. Steal a set of his weapons. Materials for explosives weren't going to be all that hard to purchase. A little fertilizer and clay went a long way. There was no way he could face an entire army on his own, but he certainly could take out a few buildings. Of course, it would be easier with help, but who was possibly left? His teammates…were they forced into the same docile dumbness he had been in? Would they even want to return, should they awaken as brutally as he had?
"I'll have to find them," the Demoman promised himself. "Gotta try."
His meditation was interrupted by a rattling machine. The Demoman opened his eye. There was a shadow from around the corner of the front office. It bent down, then came back up. Someone getting a drink, no doubt. Caffeine sounded like a perfect partner for a stakeout. It wasn't as good as a cup of tea, but at that moment, he'd even take those hyper-sweet soft drinks. He fished some change out of his pocket, then turned around the corner.
Coins dropped from his palms as he saw a woman chug an entire can of Bonk.
There was no doubt where the Scout had gotten such an addiction from. It was his mother! She finished the can in one go, then sighed. She took her left hand, then wiped her face clean. The Demoman stared in disbelief. In the dark, she even looked a little bit like her son. Well, in the nose, anyway. She turned to see who was staring at her, then snorted.
"Geez!" the Scout's mom complained. "Took you long enough to show up!"
The shock of his trauma faded, but the fear of himself did not leave.
The Engineer stared long and hard into the truck stop's bathroom mirror. He was older. Not much, but a little. Ridges on his brow were deepening. He had put on a little weight. About all he had done to sustain his appearance was shaving his head and face. That hadn't changed, nor had his damn dainty nose. He wondered how he could have stared at this face day in and out. To never remember who he was.
There was a creak behind him. The Sniper had returned to the restroom, a small grooming kit in tow. Razors, cream, a comb, fixative, shampoo. A fresh toothbrush and a full bottle of toothpaste. He left those items on Dell's sink, then took the other one. He went about washing his hair. Thick, day-old fixative was stubborn to scrub away. Slowly, but surely, stiff strands melted into soft hair.
The Engineer stared, counting inches in his head. "You didn't cut your hair."
"Never thought about it," the Sniper admitted.
A nervous knot rolled in the Engineer's stomach. He pursed his lips, then unscrewed the toothpaste's cap. If he was brushing his teeth, then he couldn't say something rash. Brushing bile off his tongue cleared his mind. As soon as his mouth was brushed clean, so was his head. The scent of mint floated straight through his mouth. A pleasant tingle settled in his sinuses. His anxiety fled as he spat out the last of his sickness.
Finally, he had the strength to say something more substantial. "You're goin' to go kill Gray?"
The Sniper bobbed his head, water dripping from his hair. "Yeah. Least, root him out."
"Alone?" the Engineer asked.
A smile faded into a stoic, flat expression. The corners of the Sniper's eyes were dark. Lack of sleep. Fear. Something terrible hid there. "Truckie, I…" He pulled himself away from the sink, water rolling down his back. Fingers traced the sink's porcelain sides. "I couldn't—"
"Couldn't what?" the shorter man interrupted.
"Couldn't ask you," the Sniper confessed.
The Engineer furrowed his brow, trying to remember when he'd seen the Sniper hesitate like this before. Memories were slow to return, but he walked through them carefully. The man was cautious when it came to hiding, sure. Slow to take a shot, making each one count. Soft when his job required a gentle touch. Loud when he needed help, quiet when he was in the gravest danger.
Right now, he seemed very quiet.
The Engineer lowered his head. "This happen to you, too? The whole sickness?"
The Sniper nodded. "Rough, isn't it?"
"And the cut?" the Engineer asked.
The Sniper brought a calloused hand to the side of his face. His fresh, red slice burned in shame. He already knew what was going on in the Engineer's mind. Questions about how it happened. Figuring out how best to treat it. Guilt. Frustration. Neither man did a great job of protecting each other, but not due to lack of noticing. Both were so guarded about asking for help. Especially now, of all times. They were just barely no longer strangers, and neither knew what that meant.
"Got in trouble," the Sniper said. "Was out scoutin'—part 'a my job, it was—'n ran into some poachers. They gave me a rough go. 'N I…"
The Engineer knew the angry flush that burned in the Sniper's face. "You killed them."
"Yeah. Got sick, remembered who I was, and—" The Sniper's shoulders sank. He looked like he was going to melt into the sink. "I'm not on the lam, if you're worried 'bout that. Talked with the cops. No charges pending. But I couldn't—"
"—stay," the Engineer finished.
Both men paused again. An unasked question received a silent answer. The Sniper had reawakened in a terrible situation and was fleeing for the last good thing he had known. He had no attachments to his false life. All he had from that was a beat-up car and a fresh cut across an old wound. What did Dell have? Not much, granted, but he had a little quiet place. A good job with decent people. Nights drinking with women he didn't love but didn't hate. He had some semblance of normality with his memories suppressed.
Now, in the wake of his own trauma, he had met another wounded beast. Neither had the strength to fight each other, never-the-less a megalomaniac with a fleet of robots. The Australian would gladly jump into a fire if he could get even a pyrrhic victory. He had nothing gained over the past year, and little left to lose. But, the Texan did have a slice of a simple heaven. A bit of chaotic peace.
Something as valuable as what he had lost, perhaps. Something that would be foolish to risk.
"Do you like it here?" the Sniper asked.
The Engineer smiled. "Lived in worse places, I reckon. Not much goin' on 'round these parts. Just dumb tourists."
He gave the Sniper a nudge in the ribs, which earned him a small, protesting grunt and a toothy grin. His friend continued with a low, gentle growl. "Well. Long as it makes you happy, yeah?"
"Yeah. 'N it does," the Engineer admitted.
He smeared spittle away from his mouth with the back of his robotic hand. It felt so heavy to him. The fake skin was rubbery, squelchy, disturbing. He picked away at the empty hole over his damaged fingers. Slowly, he pulled the fake skin away. His face lit up. This prosthetic was much more delicate than his former hand. Beautiful, in its skeletal nature.
Gray's parting gift to him.
"I suppose, if I were a rational man, I'd make an argument for you to stay here," the Engineer pondered.
The Sniper grinned. "Ya already know you'd lose that, mate. Don't ya?"
The Engineer agreed. "If you 'n I were thrown away like this, then I reckon the rest of our team was. Hell, maybe even more. And there's no gettin' 'round the fact that one Mister Gray Mann has New Mexico torn into chunks. Someone ought to teach that man some manners."
"Figure shootin' him's quicker," the Sniper replied.
"You were always one to cut to the point, weren't you?" the Engineer snickered.
"That's my job," the Sniper laughed. "You made it that much easier."
A slow, quiet pause built between the two of them as their laughter waned. The Engineer lowered his head. This was wrong. He was staring at his best friend, in awe and joy. They were joking over something as mad as killing an old man. An evil tyrant, to be sure, but still murder. The dark predator in the Engineer's heart stirred at the thought of war. The chance for revenge was threatening to destroy his gilded cage and the last chance for freedom from his family name and their dirty, deadly business.
Dell blew hot air through his burned throat and nostrils. "Did you at least call your parents?"
"Yep," the Sniper smirked. "Got their blessin', more or less."
"Then, don't you dare let them down." The Engineer grabbed the Sniper by his shoulders. The motion felt so natural, his thumbs sliding below the Sniper's bony shoulders, fingers wrapped on top. "That madman won't let you go again, Mundy. 'N neither will I."
Blood brought bright energy to the Sniper's face. In half a second, his face aged backwards, from that of a middle-aged man to a young adult. Wrinkles fell into a natural, crooked smile. The cool, distant air that he used to proclaim as a mark of his professional, distant nature was nowhere to be found. The Engineer found himself beaming as well. His mind was churning with confusion and regret, but this—his hands on another friend's shoulders, this sudden burst of energy—this felt like himself again.
"Got a truck?" the Sniper rattled. "Lost my van, 'm afraid. All I've got is that hunk 'a tin outside."
"Of course. We'll take it," the Engineer nodded.
Plans were forming quickly in the Sniper's head. He paced around the bathroom, trailing water in his steps. "Good. Does your boss take trade-ins? Figure I could make a couple hundred there. We alternate drivin' shifts 'till we get to New Mexico, yeah? Two of us—yeah, this could work. Sneak in, sneak out. Watch each other's backs. Do the whole team thing."
Team. There was a word that sounded so good. The Engineer crossed his arms. "Now, Sniper. We don't have to rush this. Let's take it slow, 'n see what we can find out. I reckon we've still got the others to look out for. We can't go stormin' a base, just the two of us."
The Sniper halted in his pacing. He gave a short nod. "Roight. Roight. No arguin' there. But mate, I—we—"
The Engineer took the Sniper by the hands. He didn't flinch as warm metal and flesh brushed his calloused fingers. "Ye're right. We can. All of us."
In the gentle silence, two shattered pieces of a broken team melded together.
One out of nine was a fluke. Two was peculiar. Three was troubling. Four was a definite problem. Five was unacceptable. There was no other way Gray Mann could look at this situation. What had started as a peculiarity had grown into a trend. The data soured the saliva in his mouth. He would have shattered his coffee mug, if such a violent gesture wouldn't have cracked his own thumbs.
For once, one of his machines was defective.
He tensed up, then reviewed the data. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek as he thought. "First instance—last month. Second through fifth—this week. That first one must have been an outlier. Strange. How did it not—"
"Maker?" a metallic voice peeped.
Gray raised his wrinkled brow. He glanced at a slim model standing in his doorway. A Scout model, slightly rusted from disuse. He would rather not interact with these models. They had AI built to mimic their human counterparts. Therefore, this one was rather rudimentary. Still, his machines were instructed not to bother him unless they had something important to share.
"What is it?" Gray asked.
"My counterparts have reported a situation in Teufort," the robot Scout said.
Gray nodded. "Describe it."
The machine responded in its peculiar way. "Freaky ass."
"I'm going to require more information than that," Gray sighed. He should have been more sensitive with the sass protocols for this robot.
His creation was more than eager to report his findings. "Scouts for the Teufort area report that Miss Pauling is no longer present at her apartment. Nor the grocery store. Nor the library. Nor—"
"—get to the point," Gray growled.
"Miss Pauling has not been spotted in town. Therefore, we conclude that she is not in town," the robot said.
"Impossible!" Gray responded. "I've told you what she looks like. You have reports on her vehicle and checkpoints at all roads exiting the town. She couldn't have just vanished!"
The robot Scout stood for a moment, processing the information. Gray thought that the machine was going to fry its circuits out. There was only so much fuzzy logic that he could program into their personalities. Even technology and his intellect had limitations. The machine snapped back to life before Gray had to reset it. "Understood. What should we do, Maker?"
Gray turned back to his data. This was perplexing—not in its complexity, but in its irritation. At least five memory-suppressing devices had failed. His enemy's wily assistant had given his machines the slip. It wouldn't take long for two problems to create a third. His enemies weren't as skilled as him, but they had an infinite well of dumb luck. That little mouse of Helen's wasn't strong enough to fight him, but she could lead any army with comparable—if somewhat lesser—strategy as him.
He had to get control of this situation as soon as possible.
"Scour the area. Find her," Gray demanded. "Investigate all leads. Find out what you can. Order additional sentries for my base and the surrounding territories. Nothing comes in here, and nothing leaves unless I give authorization. Is that clear?"
The Scout robot gave a jerky salute. "All hail the—"
"Yes, yes. All hail me." Gray roared. "Get out!"
The genius technician rubbed his temples as his robot scurried away to carry out his orders. Such a point of frustration. He would have hounds breathing down his neck before the month was through. Perhaps by the end of the week. If he put a fire wall up now, he could burn his enemies before they could out-maneuver him. He snapped to his monitor, then began estimating arrival times. The one from California would be here in no time. The ones from the Midwest would take perhaps a day. That strange first one—it hadn't moved, but he couldn't be certain that it wouldn't. Perhaps it wasn't as stupid as his—
Gray didn't finish that thought before two more devices started failing.
Author's Note
Okay, kids! Here's the deal—I'm signed up for NaNoWriMo. As a part of this project, I am going to try and punch out chapters for this story as much as possible. You should see updates every three or four days, if I keep to the schedule.
So, please let me know if I'm doing this right! I want to do this right for you all! No more leaving you hanging for months at a time!