Making Lies

This stupid party had been a bad idea from the start. He'd had to dress up in some dumb tux and then try and mingle with a bunch of people where the only common ground was the military, politics and world issues and, of course, the popular one was the trouble with America, at least once they found out where Jet was from.

Luckily, none of them knew he'd had a hand in the conflict or even that he'd worked for the NSA, those records had been wiped courtesy of Frannie and Ivan, but they still felt like it was an okay issue to broach. Like there weren't a thousand others Jet would rather talk about.

But even the niceties and the repeated conversations he could get through with little more than a headache and annoyance, he was there to support Albert after all, he was only at this function because of his partner needing to be there and have a 'plus one.' No, the reason Jet was finding this night so incredibly hard to bear was the fact that, since her arrival only ten minutes after theirs, Albert's boss hadn't left his side. She was a constant presence with her hands on him as often as she could manage--true, always a hand on an arm or shoulder, but every graze of contact sent fire through Jet's veins.

It wasn't even just the touches, it was the way she looked at him, or the way she acted as though they were there together and the way she was constantly in his space like she owned it; if Jet weren't against hitting women, he'd have decked her an hour ago. Jet had been trying to catch his partner's eye all night, but it seemed there was always someone talking to one of them or it was that woman monopolizing the older man's time. Jet was pretty sure that if he could kill her with his eyes, she'd be dead a hundred times over.

Jet sat in a chair in a corner, watching as she linked her arm with his and laughed at something someone was saying. Distantly, a clock chimed nine times, marking their third hour there and Jet decided the niceties were over. There was fire in his blood and in his wake as he crossed the room and none-to-gently gripped his partner's unfettered arm. He turned a sharp smile on the bane of this night's existence and gave a very weak response along the lines of it being late and how nice it was to 'meet' her before jerking Albert along with him and towards the elevator that would take them to their room. He didn't pause or let go until the metal doors slid shut behind them.

He'd had enough.

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.