Jet Link | 002 (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
metalicarus) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
makinglies2013-06-02 03:20 pm
metalicarus) wrote in makinglies2013-06-02 03:20 pm
Entry tags:
You cannot change what you are, only what you do.
The room was too quiet. The only sound that accompanied his thoughts was the ticking of the clock on the wall and that was too loud. It reminded him that time would keep moving even if he sat here, nothing was going to change just because he didn't move and, most of all, time only ever moved onwards.
As much as he may want to, he couldn't wind back the clock and undo what had been done. He didn't regret his decision to fly into space and save his best friend, without him Joe would have drifted forever and none of them would have seen him again, at least now Francoise wouldn't have to cry anymore. But...maybe it would have been better if he hadn't been saved, if he'd just died like he'd been prepared to do. Of course, sitting there, alive, it was harder to find that kind of resolve again. But, in the end, what was the cost of his living?
He looked down at his hands and how his wrists ended in the crease of a panel, the first sign of a difference. His eyes followed up from his wrist to his shoulders and then back down his own chest, creases ran along the surface of his too-pale skin like a web. They were closed now, but he knew it only took a second, a thought, and nearly all of them could flair up, open, or even separate to allow him better maneuverability and speed.
He knew this was like Pyunma, the doctor had only been trying to save him, to make him stronger. But he wasn't like the eighth cyborg, he couldn't have plated armor to defend from hits; he needed to be fast and light and aerodynamic. What he now had in speed and evasiveness he had gained at the cost of the defense he didn't have much of to begin with. He'd always been light on defense and built more for the get in quick and hit hard tactic rather than the barrel through approach for Albert or G, but he felt fragile and he hated it. Logically, he knew he could still take a hit better than most people, but he would have to rely more on not being hit in comparison to what he'd had before.
It was frustrating beyond belief, he didn't want to feel like this...and he certainly didn't want to look like this. He understood now, what his partners had been through and how they felt about being mostly machine. And it sucked. But it was more than even that. He looked up and into the mirror across the room where someone unrecognizable stared back. Blue eyes, finer features, and blonde hair stood out like beacons and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. Part of him thought that maybe, if he looked long enough and hard enough, he'd be able to see something that told him yes this was still Jet Link...but he hadn't found it yet.
Everyone always said it was what was inside that counted, not outside, but when you couldn't recognize anything of yourself, it was like you were in someone else's body, like one of those movies where it's some mistake and by the end of it everything would be back to normal. Except there wasn't an ending like that waiting for him, only blue eyes, blonde hair, and panels.
As much as he may want to, he couldn't wind back the clock and undo what had been done. He didn't regret his decision to fly into space and save his best friend, without him Joe would have drifted forever and none of them would have seen him again, at least now Francoise wouldn't have to cry anymore. But...maybe it would have been better if he hadn't been saved, if he'd just died like he'd been prepared to do. Of course, sitting there, alive, it was harder to find that kind of resolve again. But, in the end, what was the cost of his living?
He looked down at his hands and how his wrists ended in the crease of a panel, the first sign of a difference. His eyes followed up from his wrist to his shoulders and then back down his own chest, creases ran along the surface of his too-pale skin like a web. They were closed now, but he knew it only took a second, a thought, and nearly all of them could flair up, open, or even separate to allow him better maneuverability and speed.
He knew this was like Pyunma, the doctor had only been trying to save him, to make him stronger. But he wasn't like the eighth cyborg, he couldn't have plated armor to defend from hits; he needed to be fast and light and aerodynamic. What he now had in speed and evasiveness he had gained at the cost of the defense he didn't have much of to begin with. He'd always been light on defense and built more for the get in quick and hit hard tactic rather than the barrel through approach for Albert or G, but he felt fragile and he hated it. Logically, he knew he could still take a hit better than most people, but he would have to rely more on not being hit in comparison to what he'd had before.
It was frustrating beyond belief, he didn't want to feel like this...and he certainly didn't want to look like this. He understood now, what his partners had been through and how they felt about being mostly machine. And it sucked. But it was more than even that. He looked up and into the mirror across the room where someone unrecognizable stared back. Blue eyes, finer features, and blonde hair stood out like beacons and he couldn't take his eyes off of them. Part of him thought that maybe, if he looked long enough and hard enough, he'd be able to see something that told him yes this was still Jet Link...but he hadn't found it yet.
Everyone always said it was what was inside that counted, not outside, but when you couldn't recognize anything of yourself, it was like you were in someone else's body, like one of those movies where it's some mistake and by the end of it everything would be back to normal. Except there wasn't an ending like that waiting for him, only blue eyes, blonde hair, and panels.
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Still, that time apart left Jet, still jobless and uncertain what to do with himself, at a loss for things to do. He'd spend some time watching T.V. and even reading a few select books, but then the vast silence and emptiness of the house just made him antsy and he had to walk around.
Luckily, Venice was still entertaining enough to walk around, even after all their time there, and he could always find one of the others to hang around with if they were available. He was supposed to meet Frannie and Joe later, but that was hours from now and not very helpful for his current predicament. His wanderings took him past the tourist beacon that was the Basilica and stopped at one of the piers, just looking out at the water sparkling with sunlight.
It was a lovely day and part of him wanted to just jump off the pier and shoot into the sky for a while, but if something went wrong or he flew too far, he'd get stranded and then be in a whole slew of trouble he really wasn't looking for. Besides, if he did anything reckless that got him into a position to worry Albert, he'd be in for more trouble than what Gilmore could throw at him. It had been a while, but his last Great Stunt had really put him on thin ice for any reckless things he thought sounded like a good idea. Possibly forever.
He wasn't willing to test it just yet.
Which meant he was grounded for now and left with just enjoying the nice day from the pier. The warm weather and peaceful setting were making him relaxed and completely unaware of anything any of the usual crowd of tourists were up to. That was why it wasn't hard for a man that had come from that group to sneak up behind him and press the prongs of a taser right into the middle of Jet's back.
Electricity, made more effective and easier to conduct due to all the metal parts throughout his body, coursed through him and he felt like he was left to watch as his body did what he didn't want it to do and fell to his knees. The man who'd caused it seemed distant to Jet's ears as he heard the guy act as if Jet's collapsing was entirely random and he just had to get the poor blond to the paramedics as soon as possible.
He could feel himself being manhandled to some place he knew for a fact was not in the direction of the closest medical center and he really just wanted to punch all of their faces in and fly off, but he couldn't even get his mouth to work, much less any other part of his body. His eyes darkened as his body gave in to the effects of the electricity and the last thought he was aware of was how he hadn't even done anything and he was going to worry Albert anyway. He couldn't catch a break.
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"It's been quite a year. I'm not certain where to begin." His hands find their way into the pockets of his long black overcoat, silver buttons glinting dully in the overcast light. "Jet returned, finally. It took the world nearly coming apart again to do it but I'm sure you've gathered he never does anything plainly."
He chuckles quietly, even fondly, able to finally let go of the residual hurt. It's freeing, talking to Hilda here, better than any sort of formal confession. "He's calmed down, though, generally speaking. He's more willing to listen. I think you'd find him more agreeable now than you would have at first, though he has the same bad habit of leaving shoes out to trip on. I'm understanding now why you used to get so frustrated with that. Even so, I think I can finally put my reservations to rest and trust him as he says I can. He's really not going anywhere this time."
There's a sentimental pause before he goes on in his mother tongue, softly recounting the past year in full. Every small event and working his way up to the "His Voice" and all that entailed, as he sees it. By the time he's done, the November weather has turned colder and small flakes of snow drop from the sky at intervals then stop, as if the sky can't decide what it wants to do. He can faintly hear security going around the area and ushering tourists out. "I should go. I have to check in at work and catch my flight in the morning. Ich vermisse dich."
Fingers raise to lips and Albert passes a gentle kiss from the fingertips of his left hand to the wall above the flowers, the corners of his eyes crinkling slightly as he smiles. "Ich werde bis zum nächsten Jahr."
Hands again concealed in his pockets, the German makes his way from the world heritage site and back onto the streets of Berlin, feeling peaceful and wondering if he should perhaps call Jet when he gets back to the hotel, maybe see if he'd like some sort of kitschy souvenir, though Jet doesn't really collect anything. He does tend to leaf through the comics whenever Albert drags him out to the book store. Perhaps something like that? The irony of an American superhero in German language would give him a laugh, if anything. Decided, he makes his way to a local bookshop and browses through until he finds a Superman comic, which stays in its bag all through the GSG meeting despite his growing urge to read it instead of listen to officials go on and on. Honestly he's not even certain why he's there at all.
Exhausted, Albert collapses back at his hotel post meeting, the digital clock on the nightstand declaring it to be a little before midnight. He only makes it through taking off his coat before his drowsiness takes him.
Ten minutes later his phone rings, an obnoxious polka tune that Jet had likely changed his phone to in a fit of childish boredom. Albert snorts, annoyance tempered by the reminder of home - funny how Venice had become home now - and reached over to answer. "Hallo?"
"Albert? It's Francoise." Her voice comes to him sounding strained and worried. He sits up, running his hand back through his hair as he makes an acknowledging sound, waiting for her to tell him what's wrong. "Did Jet change his mind and go with you to Germany after all?"
He feels his blood turn to ice in his veins as she asks the question but somehow his voice remains even. "No, he's not with me."
"I-I see..." she pauses, then regroups in an effort to sound cheerful. "I'm sure it's nothing! Joe's out looking for him right now, but he probably just lost track of time or forgot we had dinner plans. Don't worry. We'll see you tomorrow, alright?"
"Verstanden. I'll see you then." He hangs up the phone mechanically, staring at the call ended screen and attempting to dispel the heavy feeling in his gut that Jet had gotten himself into something dangerous. Albert knows the American is bored beyond measure, puttering around the house with little to do, but to go missing...
Mouth pressed in a thin line, Albert looks up the number of his airline and calls to move his flight up, holding the phone with his shoulder as he stuffs everything into his suitcase haphazardly. If it turns out to be nothing, Jet is going to get it. He'll be on the couch for a month, at least.
If not, Albert can't take that risk.
no subject
When he did finally regain full consciousness, it was slow and the first thing he was aware of was how everything organic about him hurt; no doubt thanks to the volts that had been pumped through his system. Slowly, he moved to sit up as his eyes cleared and adjusted to the bright lighting.
The room reminded him of when he first woke up in Black Ghost's facility and, for just one panicked second, he thought that was exactly where he was. He clung to the assurance that it had been nearly thirty years since there'd been any activity, so it wasn't very likely that it was them, but there was still a small part of him that feared he was wrong.
It wasn't just for himself either, he was plenty afraid that if this was Black Ghost, they'd completely cybornize him or even rip him apart for scrap, but he was more afraid for his family if they managed to figure out where he was and decided they needed to rescue him. He appreciated the thought but the last thing he wanted was to be the reason they all got captured again after all they had done to prevent that.
He sat on the bed that was just as colorless as everything else in the room and let his attention fall to the floor. All he could do now was wait and hope whoever these assholes were would tell him their Grand Plan so he could work on breaking out of there. He had nearly begun to think they were just going to let him rot by the time someone did show up.
It was a man in a suit with a shiny FBI badge clipped to his pocket that sent both relief and apprehension through Jet, accompanied by two stoic looking men with weird guns in their hands. Protection, no doubt, from the volatile, captured, cyborg. For one moment, Jet thought he might be able to trick them into letting him go by listing off his I.D. number for the NSA, but they shot that down quickly enough by proving they knew exactly who he was. In fact, that was why he was here.
Jet Link, the man who loved his country enough to choose it over any other and serve it the best way he could, was considered a dangerous traitor and enemy of said country. He'd 'attacked' the Pentagon on top of being in line to take the fall for the bombing of Dubai, so there'd been a warrant for his arrest...and they'd eventually tracked him down.
His chest suddenly felt tight at the thought that, if they knew where he was, that might mean they'd go after the others too, but just a few well placed questions told him they didn't know he hadn't been alone. Nor did it seem like they really cared. Well at least there was that.
He was informed there wouldn't be a trial and that he was facing either permanent incarceration or death by whatever method seemed best for someone 'like him.' And then he'd been left alone to stew in his thoughts.
He was feeling so many things at once. Anger at the fact that it hadn't been his fault that he'd done what he had at the Pentagon and that he was being betrayed by his own government. a sliver of acceptance because, whether he meant to or not, he had killed innocent people. Anxiety at the thought of being trapped and enclosed for however long it would take for him to eventually break down and die on his own accord...if that ever even happened. Sadness because the people he cared about probably had no idea and what if they thought he'd just up and left on his own? Why should they be surprised, he'd done it in the past. Worse of all, though, was the knowledge that, should they decide death for the 'dangerous traitor' was the best course of action, he wouldn't even get a chance to say he was sorry for checking out early again.
That anger and sadness did result in him trying to escape one day, but it had ended in him finding out those weird guns shot electro-magnetic rays that caused a complete shut down and instant loss of consciousness. That hadn't been a fun morning for him.
Some official came to check on him later that day and Jet had tried to pull the whole 'I'm an American citizen, I have rights' spiel to which he was informed that 'toasters don't have rights so why should he?' Jet had never wanted to punch someone so much in his life. Regardless, the message the man gave him was that a decision had been reached. Due to the political circumstances surrounding him, his execution would be in a week.
For the first time in a long time, Jet let a few tears escape his eyes that night. Partly for himself and partly for the family he was leaving behind who would likely only find out in the morning newspaper what had happened to their errant flyer. Jet wasn't particularly familiar with the feeling of hopelessness, but he recognized it when it flooded his system and left him doing nothing but staring at the whitewashed ceiling.
He didn't know when it showed up or who put it there, but eventually he noticed the bright yellow cover of a book lying on the floor near the door, as though someone had thrown a bone to a scary animal before hurriedly shitting the door before it bit them. For that thought alone he nearly didn't check it out. He fetched the novel and retreated back to his original, desolate, position on the bed. That was when he noticed the name of the book and a small, fleeting, smile touched his lips.
The Maltese Falcon was about the only title that could possibly do that. It hurt to even look at the cover, the title brought back fonder memories of a time when nightmares were just things that haunted you when your eyes were closed and ran away like cowards when you opened them again. However, he couldn't resist the temptation to try and get through the story before his rapidly approaching execution date. He got through it in two days. He smirked a bit as the thought 'Albert was right.' ran through his head.
The next morning, he was greeted by the same official who'd come to tell him his government's decision and Jet was convinced he'd lost track of the days and was now facing a long walk off the impending plank. That wasn't the case. What 'big, bald, and ugly' as Jet had dubbed him (he didn't care enough to remember the guy's name) had come to tell him was that the plans had changed a bit. He was definitely still going to die but the method had changed. The NSA wanted him back so they could do exactly what he'd been thinking of when he'd thought the place was Black Ghost, they wanted to strip his parts and use the technology for their creepy Lazarus Cyborgs.
He almost preferred the idea of firing squad or whatever had been waiting for him.
It probably said something that the very thing he'd expected from the evil organization that had made him was what he was facing at the hands of the very government he would have sworn was better than that, but he didn't have much time to dwell on that irony. They wasted no time in knocking him out so they could transport him back to Maryland.
Everything was a whirlwind after that. He woke up in a new cell, strapped face first to a gurney that was wheeled out of there shortly after and into a room filled with scientists, soldiers, NSA officials, and doctors. This was it. He smiled ruefully to himself as he remembered his fear of not being able to say good-bye. Now he wondered if there'd even be some sort of press release or if no one would ever know what had happened to him.
The smile was quickly wiped from his face as pain ripped through his back and right arm. They were trying to pry open the booster panels on his back and the navigation panels on his arm. The pain ripped a sound from him and he felt whoever was working on his arm hesitate. That was met with a reassurance from some douchebag doctor he couldn't see that Jet couldn't feel pain like they did. He wasn't human anymore, just a machine. The pain started afresh and for the first time since he'd become a cyborg, he wished he hadn't been given the pain sensors in his artificial skin. Now he just wanted it over.
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When he'd touched back down in Venice, only Francoise and Joe had met him, both looking anxious and neither having seen any trace of Jet. There was nothing, no contact. His phone went straight to voice mail and no one in the city had heard a thing. Albert took the news with an air of placidity, the same sort of charged calm you get before a large storm. He collected his bag wordlessly from the carousel and took long-legged strides towards the door, Joe and Francoise forced to hurry in order to catch up. "We're going to Gilmore."
He knew the other two cyborgs exchanged a look. He didn't have to turn and see them, just listened as he stepped out into the cooler air of the city. The misgivings were not unfounded, he knows, and the reason for the pause is confirmed when Francoise speaks up hesitantly. "He has disappeared bef-"
"Not like this." Albert cuts her off curtly, adjusting the glove on his right hand before turning to look at his teammates. "Not without a word or reason. He always makes a big show of it, you both know that."
And he made me a promise, Albert adds privately. He made me a promise that he wouldn't leave again and I believed him. "There's something more to this."
Joe is the first to be convinced, nodding determinedly and starting again to lead the small party to his car. Francoise still has her doubts but the look on Albert's face - that blank but somehow driven look - pushes her onward regardless. She says nothing else to doubt Jet, just puts a brief but gentle hand on Albert's shoulder as she passes, following after Joe.
Gilmore has no leads either, to start, but some digging in Francoise's computer rig, hooked up to all the major government networks, reveals American extradition notices to the custody of the FBI for the perpetrator of treasonous acts. Albert doesn't need to see the photo to guess what happened. None of them do. Discussions ensue, Francoise trying to see where Jet's being held, when the trial will be - finding out there was to be none was a shock and took a supreme amount of digging. Joe pushes to call the group together, to send everyone on a mission to save one of their own. Geronimo preaches caution, but consents that they should all discuss it as a unit. Gilmore, even more wary in his old age, wonders aloud how many more times that boy will make him worry. And Albert is silent through it all, almost like Ivan but without the pale blue staring eyes, taking in all the information.
Albert simply waits.
Eventually they decide to wait for the rest of the group before they act. There is some time, after all, and Great Britain could possibly use his government connections to pull strings. It's a decent idea.
Only whatever time they perceive themselves as having is too short for Albert's tastes. He'd heard what Jet had said before he'd flown off to get himself killed, that the US was planning on using the zero zero cyborgs to take the blame for the bombing of Dubai, likely for the rogue missile launch as well. Jet was to be a scapegoat, a pariah for the American people. After all, it's easier to blame the man who's not quite like you, who's got the sills you're afraid of.
Perhaps they're just not afraid enough.
Albert leaves in the dead of night, pulling every string he has left to get to Washington D.C. on a private charter, stopping only once in Amsterdam to refuel. Twelve hours later he steps foot on the snow-dosed tarmac and immediately gets to work. Ammunition he has in spades, a mask to hide his features he procures easily; it is ski season after all. It's the planning that takes too long.
A week of greasing palms and dodging calls of his comrades only to finally relent in answering so as to ask Francoise to locate where Jet's being held, saying it's reconnaissance for their joint rescue effort. He told the lie blandly, as if asking for a cup of coffee, and somehow she'd believed it. Soon after, he made his move.
The plan was to sneak in under the guise of a security guard or a paper pusher, one of the faces that simply blends into the background, who's rarely noticed. That plan fell apart within the first five minutes when Albert's stolen access code didn't work and alerted the guard station to his presence.
So much for that.
He throws caution to the wind and storms the facility instead, an unstoppable force of bullets and missiles and balled up rage.
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These things were what led Jet to make it as difficult as possible for the scientists working. He couldn't move his arms, legs, or torso thanks to the metal restraints, but he could snap the panels closed again with a smirk as soon as they got them open. Of course, this resulted in them deciding to cut the panels they got up off, starting with the wing-like ones on his back and one panel on each arm. Luckily, it seemed they were smart enough to notice those only served a purpose when he was in the air and didn't even have anything but more arm under them, so they left it at one.
He could feel someone poking around at the jets on his feet when the fist sounds of something wrong reached him. Gunshots and shouts and chaos erupted, first in the hall out side of the 'operating theater' and then in the room itself as the doors flew off their hinges with an explosion. Scientists and doctors scrambled and ran for the nearest way out, although a couple of the lead scientists stayed where they were by their 'project' and kept working. They trusted the military to do what it was suppose to.
The soldiers indeed did what they were suppose to and fought back, shooting at the intruder and standing between him and what they assumed to be his target.
Jet had turned his face in the door's direction in an attempt to see what was going on. At first, he couldn't see the cause of the chaos, but it didn't matter, he knew the sound of that particular 'machine gun' and a surge of emotions rushed through him. Relief, concern, and love all mixed together that he couldn't identify them separately, but they brought a small and genuine smile to his lips. "Albert." His voice was barely a whisper, it wasn't meant for the scientists around him. Just seeing that grey hair and those light eyes swept the hopelessness and resignation away, all he wanted to do was stand up and fight with his partner.
The American wrenched at the restraints, not caring that they bit into his skin, and tried as hard as he could to snap the metal and get free.
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Albert yanked the man to standing, holding him in front like a shield as he babbled the way to the operating theater, another building over connected to this by a glass covered catwalk on the third floor. Albert said nothing in return, instead using the man as insurance to get past the positioned soldiers by digging his gun against his forehead - not his attached machine gun, but a pistol he'd brought with him. If he can keep his own identity as a cyborg secret, then it would be one less way to track them down once he escaped with Jet.
Once back in the hall, he shoved his hostage back at the group and made a run for it. They immediately opened fire once the soldier was out of their line of fire, but Albert managed to round the corner and bust into the stairwell before more than a couple bullets sent holes in his jacket, though they did little else besides scuff the metal on his right shoulder.
The entire building erupted in alarms as he kicked open the door to the third floor and Albert was forced to dive to the floor as machine gun fire erupted around him. He hadn't quite counted on them being able to mobilize so quickly. Pinned down behind a structural pillar, Albert tore off his glove and returned a barrage of his own, having no choice but to take out those in his way. Instead of aiming low, at head level, he aimed high to drop the ceiling on them, an entire air duct dropping down across the squad of soldiers blocking he exit.
Scrambling, Albert managed to get past them before they recovered, the group from downstairs still hot on his heels. He'd have to put an end to that. The glass corridor seems a good place to end the pursuit. A couple of the soldiers get caught in the blast from Albert's missile that shreds the middle of the catwalk, falling the three stories to the pavement below. It would have to do.
Resistance is lighter in the second building and Albert manages to find the room he's looking for without too much trouble, running right past or through any security he encounters. Of course, there are other barriers to consider.
The Lazarus cyborgs, dead men reanimated through the use of cybernetics, block the hall. Four of them, all dressed in matching black suits with sunglasses as if pulled from that terrible Matrix movie Jet had made him sit through. With a smirk, Albert pulls back his thumb, reloading his arm. At least he doesn't have to feel guilty for killing something that's already dead.
"schließen Sie die Augen!" The first words out of Albert's mouth as he mows down the Lazarus cyborgs at the room's entrance are a call to Jet to close his eyes as the German throws a smoke bomb, sending the scientists hacking and coughing to the walls of the room. He's by the blond's side in a matter of moments, using his knife to sever the remaining restraints and helping Jet to rise from the table. "We have to hurry, they'll regroup quickly."
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He glanced at Albert before looking around for some sort of exit. "Didn't expect to see you." That was about as close to admitting he thought he was going to die as he was prepared to get at the moment, but he shot his partner that same small smile he'd felt when he realized the rescue team had arrived. He took hold of Albert's arm and tugged it in the direction of a door in the back of the room, he didn't know where it led, but it was the only other one besides the one covered in Lazurus cyborgs.
"Where're the others? Don't tell me you stormed a government facility all by yourself just for me." That would be stupid and dangerous and something more likely that Jet himself would do than the more cool-headed German...but then again, maybe he was a bad influence like that.
no subject
The door swings out into a storage room, almost large enough to be a warehouse. Eerily humanoid parts hang from each wall, from arms and legs to sections of spine with metallic skulls attached, digital retinas dark and unpowered. At the far end an exit sign blazes a welcoming green and Albert quickly taps Jet on the shoulder and jerks his head towards the door, hurrying through the jungle of cybernetic parts and trying to ignore the sensation of his skin crawling. What exactly were the Americans doing here?
Still, there's no time to deal with that now, he has to get Jet out. He turns his head as they get closer to the exit vaguely wondering why the Lazarus cyborgs weren't hot on their heels yet. Maybe he'd actually put them out of commission. "Are you hurt?"
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The question is met with Jet's usual nonchalant smirk. "Naw...nothing that can't be fixed." The short answer was yes. He was still sore and the parts that had been damaged that had pain sensors were screaming at him and there was probably some emotional trauma he was refusing to acknowledge at the moment, but none of that mattered until they were both safe.
Jet pushed the door open as they reached it and froze, his damaged arm flying out to catch his partner. "Shit..." There, surrounding the area that would have been the perfect way to escape, were lines of soldiers. The hazards of trying to escape from something closely tied to the military.
no subject
Shit, he hadn't thought they could mobilize quite that quickly.
"C'mon, we'll have to go the other way." He turns to stalk back the way they'd come, only to be confronted by the same zombie cyborgs he'd thought he dispatched in the operating theater, now armed with machine guns of their own.
Double shit.
"Cover me!" Albert turns, Jet at his back with the lone pistol against the four Lazarus cyborgs, and crouches to fire one of the missiles at the wall halfway through the warehouse, hoping to open up another way to escape. Dust and smoke temporarily crowds the room, the ceiling shaking and Lazarus parts rattling and falling from their perches in the impact, but when the haze clears, there's simply a dent in the wall, not a hole.
The soldiers from outside start to file in the door, guns to bear on the fugitives. Each group, Lazarus cyborgs and regular soldiers alike, start to slowly close in around them. Albert clenches his jaw, making a soft 'tch' sound at his own stupidity as he stands back to back with Jet, possibly for the last time, and prepared to go down fighting.
no subject
So it looked like he was checking out early anyway. Even though a strong part of him wanted to find some way to get Albert out of there at least or even just find a way to protect him from the impending attack, he did gain a bit of peace feeling the other man at his back. Besides, they'd made a promise, he wasn't going to break it twice. He Let his shoulder brush back against Albert's and kept his attention and gun trained on the units before him.
"Guess this is it, then. Could be worse." He could be facing death by being ripped apart and all alone. At least neither of them would be alone this way. "I didn't think I'd get a chance to tell you this, but I read The Maltese Falcon. You were right, it is better than the movie." He wished he could turn and kiss Albert, just one last time, but then he wouldn't go out fighting and how disappointing would that be?
There was probably something he could say here to make up for that lack of a final kiss, but he didn't bother trying. He wouldn't be able to and it was probably really lame to say it right before they were going to die anyway. He'd just have to settle with the way they always did things.
no subject
He wishes he had said something else, but it's too late for other words.
One of the soldiers in front of Albert, a corporal judging by his stripes, yells in an authoritative voice for them to surrender. Albert plants a burst of bullets right past his ear in response. He can see the rest of the squad tighten their grips on their triggers, waiting for the hammer to drop, and everything slows down. Albert has to wonder if this is what Joe feels like when accelerating, that all the world suddenly moves at a snail's pace and your own heartbeat comes tinny and loud in your ears. He fires another round, this time aiming to hit as he sees the array of firearms before him go off, his vision turning blue around the edges and indistinct. A cry rips from him as several shots impact into his left leg below the hip and another two bounce from his chest, ricocheting back towards the enemy. Blue sparks rise in his eyes and for just one more moment he wonders if he's been hit that badly.
But no, it's the opposite.
Blue light finishes engulfing the two cyborgs and suddenly the scene before them is not certain death at the hands of misguided American military might, but instead the familiar conference room of Doctor Gilmore's base of operations in Venice.
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By the time he had a chance to wince he was staring at safety and not certain death.
He let the gun fall, forgotten, to the floor as he whirled around both to see the family he thought he wasn't going to see again and to support Albert if he needed it. There was no way the other man hadn't gotten shot.
"Good timing."
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"Why didn't you wait for us? You said you would." That would be Joe, face earnest as he approaches and hugs them both before trying to take some of Albert's weight from Jet's shoulders and guide the injured man to a chair. The German winces, not just from the pain (as considerable as it is), but more from Joe's scolding. He's not given a chance to answer before Gilmore joins in.
"009 is right! I swear, out of everyone you and 002 are going to be the death of me! Always running off, getting into trouble. I've come to expect it from 002 but I thought better of you, 004! You usually think things through. As it is, 001 had to wipe the memories of nearly the entire NSA!" He huffs, red faced and leaning on his cane.
"It took quite a bit of effort." Somehow, Ivan sounds amused more than castigating.
"You're right, I was reckless." Albert just agrees amiably, that same lopsided smirk he wears so often plastered to his face. He wants to laugh, he almost does in realizing he'd done exactly as Jet would have were he the one taken.
And for some reason that's a comfort.
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He wasn't entirely certain how he felt about that.
It was years of his life and while he can look back and realize he hadn't really gone about those years the best way when it came to the people who mattered, he didn't regret the work he'd done for his government. Of course, it wasn't his government anymore, he didn't even exist. Ultimately, it was for the best.
He pushed that thought process away for now, choosing to focus more on what was going on right that second. Jet watched as Pyunma helped Albert to get to Gilmore's lab as the elderly doctor and Francoise prepared to fix Albert up. Jet wanted to go with them, but he knew he'd just get in the way; besides, Albert was going to be fine. Jet could chastise his partner himself when he was all patched up.
The blond smiled at Albert as he left and waited till he couldn't see the other man anymore to find a chair to sink into. He needed patching up as well, but he had every intention of doing it himself, there was no reason he needed to wait for the doctor when he knew plenty about doing his own maintenance at this point. He needed to find something to fix the skin on his chest and he needed to find replacements for the panels he'd lost, but all of that could wait a moment. Right this second he just wanted to take a moment to breathe.
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He smiles brightly at his friend, pulling the roll of peach synth-flesh from a cabinet and bringing it over to had the blond, bottle of sealant ready in the other hand. "We were all really worried, Albert especially, though I'm sure you know that. He's always pretty reckless when it comes to you."
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He accepted the patching material with a small but grateful smile and worked at getting the amount he needed. Joe's statement makes him pause but he just moves to pluck the bottle out of his friend's hand. "Yeah...sorry about that." He was decidedly ignoring that last bit, otherwise his response would have been a bit more defensive.
He knew Joe didn't mean anything more or less than what he was saying, he was honest and earnest to the point of being easily annoying. It was that earnestness that just made Jet self-conscious.
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"I just don't get why Albert didn't wait for back up to go get you."
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The real answer was that he knew exactly why, it was the same reason he wouldn't have waited if the situation had been switched.
It was something terrifying and electrifying, something he'd known for a while without actively thinking about it, something he'd nearly expressed only minutes before when it would have been far too late in coming if Ivan hadn't saved them.
His only outward response is to pause a moment as all this runs through his mind before continuing his own patch job, not once looking over to Joe, especially not when he asks the question he hopes will give Joe his answer. "If Frannie got kidnapped and was in danger, would you wait around to go after her?"
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Hard for him not to considering it was just the point he was trying to drive home with Jet. He'd been watching for it and seen the spark of recognition in Jet's face. Joe's grin collapses into a soft, knowing smile and he leans back in his chair, tipping it on the hind legs just a bit in a decidedly teenage posture he rarely ever displays anymore with anyone aside from Jet. There's something about sitting around with his best friend that just puts Joe at ease, as if none of the baggage of the last three decades ever happened.
"Have you told him?"
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The answer was no and the only reason was because, for who knew what reason, he hadn't been able to tell Albert. He'd tried, he knew he'd tried, but he'd always just hoped his actions would speak the words he couldn't string together.
He sighed and leaned back in his chair, decidedly not looking at his best friend; he didn't think he could be honest with that much earnestness being poured out at him. The truth was: Joe wasn't stupid, he knew Jet as well as Frannie did, in some cases even better; he could probably guess Jet was only asking his question out of a desire to avoid the answer a little longer. "No. I don't know. It's not that simple."
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So with Jet and Albert having been together for some time even before their 27 year split, and back together for awhile since then, it's beyond Joe how Jet could hold it in. It's obvious the two love each other, so what's the hold up?
Francoise said it's simply because they're "stupid boys" the one time Joe had mentioned it to her and that had been her entire explanation. Not exactly helpful. "Don't you want to tell him? I mean, he sort of holed up all on his own after you left. That's what they tell me, anyway."
He'd been made to reenter high school over and over and wasn't present for some of it, but Geronimo and Francoise had filled him in once they'd gotten some breathing room after His Voice. "They didn't see him very much. Francoise thought it was because of his work with the German government but Pyunma said Albert had more leeway than anyone else since he's mostly just a special instructor."
Joe leans in almost conspiratorially, as if imparting a great secret. "It sounds to me like he didn't want to be around if you were gone."
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"I've never said it to anyone before." That seemed like a silly reason, but to him it was what made it intimidating. He knew it was all build-up from things around him, but it was one of those things that seemed so final, so solid, it put something out there that he couldn't take back in time if something tried to crush it. Just the thought made him feel vulnerable; it was easier to just not say anything at all.
But it wasn't going to be crushed, was it. Maybe when they'd first been starting out, it would've been too soon with how new everything was and Hilda and the way their lives were, but time had passed and while their lives weren't a walk in the park, things were more stable. What Joe had said about Albert pulling away, the rescue mission that had just transpired, the memory of how tightly the German had held onto Jet even after punching him full in the face. Almost as if, if he let go, Jet would leave again.
No, if anything, it'd make more sense for Albert to feel that way, to feel like he might have something to lose if he put himself out there. It was Jet who had nearly died twice, who always seemed to get himself into a position where he got hurt. Jet was the one always leaving. And it was Jet who needed to stop being a coward.
He finally looked over to Joe, the hesitation and sliver of fear he'd had moments before replaced with a quiet determination that lay behind the warm look he had to offer his friend. "Thanks, Joe." For more than just helping with his repairs, but for also doing that thing of his where he knocked some sense into the blond with barely a nudge.
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With that, Joe claps his hands on his knees and stands. "I've got to go. Francoise needs to be in France before tomorrow night. She's dancing at one of the little venues in Avo... Aver..." He makes a strange face trying to pronounce the town name and eventually gives up.
"Some town outside Paris. You can get Albert home on your own, right?" Is that a mischievous grin? Possibly. He bumps Jet's shoulder gently with his fist in a show of camaraderie and heads for the door. "I'll see you soon, ok?"
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If he hadn't been thinking about everything they'd just discussed and what he felt like he needed to do right that second, he might have turned a teasing remark of his own on the teen.
Instead, he was already getting up and off to find a shirt for himself before going to wait for Gilmore to finish with Albert. Even by the time he'd gotten a new shirt and stood, back to the wall opposite the door to the lab, Gilmore still hadn't finished.
Whatever, he'd wait, neither of them were facing down the barrel of a gun this time. Besides, now that he was there, alone, and only a relatively thin piece of metal between himself and Albert, there was a small coil of nerves nestling itself in his stomach. He'd do it, he would. He just needed to not chicken out.
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