makinglies | Entries tagged with seriesverse

Jett finished tying the knot of the scarf around Albert's wrists, making certain the man wouldn't be able to budge them while she worked her magic.

Discovering there was some alternate universe where she and her lover were men instead of women was interesting to say the least and plenty awkward in Albert's presence. But uncertainty had turned a little more comfortable and then they were left in the house alone, Albert sitting in one of the chairs in the den and looking pretty good in his dress shirt and slacks. Good enough Jett decided she wanted to see what all of the differences were between this man and the woman she loved.

She already knew that--other than public disposition and the way they carried themselves when they thought they were alone--it wasn't all that different. For all intents and purposes, he was the person she loved, the outside package didn't matter.

Really, she was more of a lady's lady, but her Bertie was a sexy man and it wasn't like she was inexperienced. In fact, wooing men and bedding them had been part of her job in her gang, she was just doing the same thing here, with one large exception: she wanted to do this a hundred percent.

She moved to stand in front of him, admiring her handiwork with her hands on her hips. She was kind of glad she'd chosen to wear the too-short skirt Francoise had lent her along with the scoop-neck shirt she'd stolen from her alternate self (tied at her waist to shorten the tent that it was on her). It would make what she wanted to do easier.

She slunk over to her 'prisoner' and bent forward, bracing her hands on his knees.

"Comfortable?"

fallenstar

They'd been really bad when he first woke up in that sterile cell masquerading as a room. They'd always been bad enough, bad enough to keep him sleeping away from the others in his gang so he wouldn't wake them with his sounds and movement, but now they were worse.

There would often be times when he would wake up in a cold sweat, eyes wide and breathing ragged. Sometimes he'd feel so sick he'd wonder if he was about to try and hurl an empty stomach. Sometimes he woke himself up with his own yelling.

When he lost the classification '001' and became '002' he quickly found out the reason that first night he had a nightmare. A voice had spoken to him and tried to calm him and eventually tried to help him have them less often or not as bad and it worked. Until all nine of them had escaped.

He had his own room again and still Ivan tried to help him best he could, but there would often be times when the baby would be in one of his comas and then Jet would be alone. Those nights were hard.

But as time went on, they became less and less frequent. He thought, maybe, he'd started controlling it better. Somehow. The nightmares that came seemed to only leave him jolting awake, sometimes in a cold sweat but less often and he was able to sleep again afterwards. It probably had a large part to do with them defeating Black Ghost.

He got comfortable enough to share a bed with Albert. If he had a nightmare, he'd wake up and find the German snoring contentedly beside him. If he couldn't sleep, he'd get up and walk around a bit until he calmed down, otherwise he'd just curl up against the German's side and doze the rest of the night away.

It was alright.

And then it wasn't.

He couldn't pinpoint the cause only that those 'night-terrors' started up again and every time he'd jolt awake it would feel like his heart was trying to climb out of his throat. When he was alone, it was fine, he dealt with it the same way he always had, but then they started happening while Jet wasn't alone and then he had to come up with some excuse as to why he'd moved so that Albert would just go back to sleep.

It wasn't that Jet thought Albert would think any less of him for having nightmares, the older man had plenty of his own that Jet would need to chase away with soft words and a tight embrace, it was that Jet knew where Albert's nightmares came from and Albert knew Jet knew, but if his partner found out about Jet's, the teen wouldn't know how to explain. Or if he even could.

How could he explain how sometimes Jet just wanted to curl up closer with the German and sometimes he had to get up for hours at a time before coming back to bed. How sometimes he needed that contact to keep breathing and sometimes he was so scared of it he ran.

He couldn't.

Then there was the night it got as bad as those days decades past.

It started out as a normal nightmare, really about nothing, falling or something. But then he landed and it turned to scientists. Scientists endlessly poking and prodding him and saying things he couldn't understand except 'defective' and 'failure' and 'destroy' he'd failed one of their tests and they were going to scrap him. But then the head scientist arrived and offered an alternative: a chip to plant in his brain to erase his emotions and his initiative. They would make him a weapon.

Just as he was approaching with the chip in hand towards a struggling Jet, the scene melted and it was Jet on his bed, unable to move or struggle as he heard his father's approach. His voice followed soon after, slinging every bad thing his brain could muster like arrows through a prone chest. The beating was coming, he knew it was, it always came after the verbal storm started. If only he could move and hide under the bed, maybe he'd be spared at least for a few more minutes. But he couldn't move, no matter how much he yelled at his body, it wouldn't respond and he watched in horror as the door opened with a bang-!

Jet jolted and sat straight up in bed, almost falling off for how near to the edge he'd been. Unbeknownst to him, he had been moving and the state of the blankets were proof. His eyes were wide and staring out into the dark room, cold drops slipped down his pale and clammy skin and his breathing raced to catch up with the beat his heart kept as the organ seemed to try and choke him at the same time.

The only thing missing was the screaming and who knew if he'd been mumbling, right now he was as silent and pale as the dead.

The only thing that made the return of his night-terror worse was the fact that Jet wasn't the only one in the bed that night.

badassbird

It probably shouldn't have taken her as long to get the cake she wanted for dessert as it took her, but she'd decided to take the long way back to her apartment. She wasn't avoiding her apartment, far from it, she just enjoyed New York city in the fall.All the leaves were different colors and it was just chilly enough to need a jacket, but not so bad it made going outside difficult and early in the evening like this, people's days were winding down and they were in generally better spirits which made her people-watching more enjoyable.

But she didn't want to make the woman staying with her worry, so the teen didn't waste any more time once she'd gotten to her street. As soon as she stepped into the small apartment, the smells of dinner cooking assaulted her nose and she took a deep, appreciative, breath of it. She'd be the first to claim she was 'too wild to be tamed,' but this domestic stuff had its perks. And not just coming home to delicious smells.

Jett dropped the cake off on the table and dropped her jacket over the back of the couch as she looked into the kitchen. There, standing in front of the stove doing her thing was the older woman who managed to set Jett's blood on fire just by standing there.

She had on her usual concealing and modest clothing, but Jett could still see the shape of her hips and the curve of her shoulders that led to that sensitive neck of hers. It was a good thing Jett was hungry and didn't want dinner ruined, otherwise she might have jumped her partner right there. A part of her was still considering it.

She strode forward, boots clacking on the kitchen's tile as she crossed to the slightly shorter woman and wrapped long, bare arms around her waist, Jett's chin resting comfortably on Alberta's shoulder. "Mmm...looks good. Oh, the food does too."

copesetic

It's was a routine mission; some remnant of Black Ghost had gotten their hands on money and were building ludicrous robots again and so Doctor Gilmore had sent Albert, Joe, and Chang out to investigate. They'd mopped up fairly well, but they hadn't counted on the big reptilian robots going berserk after they'd presumably shut down the main reactor, spitting acid and shooting laser eyes left and right. As a result, the three cyborgs returned to base battered and wounded despite their victory, Albert in particular having taken a nasty shot of acid directly to his eyes. He'd refused sedation on the way back, stubbornly insisting he didn't need drugs and finally threatening Joe with his gun hand to prevent their well-meaning leader from trying to coax him into it yet again. As a result, he's conscious when Gilmore finally gets a look at him, tutting scoldingly under his breath as he shines a penlight into the German's unresponsive gaze.

"I can't imagine the pain you must be in right now, 004. This is one of the few organic parts you have left! Are you really so against-"

"Yes."

"You could have made an exception this o-"

"No."

"Albert, please stop being so stubb-"

The fussy cyborg gives a long suffering sigh, effectively drowning out the doctor's protests. "Will I heal?"

Cowed, Gilmore puts away his penlight and sighs in return, walking a bit away from the examination table with his hands folded behind his back. "I should be able to reconstruct what was damaged on the outside with a bit of careful grafting but your retinas will need to be rewired and you won't be able to see for at least a couple of months."

Gilmore's assessment is met with a stony silence that continues well into the doctor bandaging around his sightless eyes. He may not be able to see, but he can tell Gilmore is worried over how he's taking the news. It's an internal struggle, but finally Albert manages a wry grin. "I guess I'll have to look the part of an old man for awhile then, cane and everything."

Even without his sight, Albert can tell the little joke lets Gilmore relax a bit. It's always how it is when Albert needs to be upgraded or repaired, at least among those who remember what Albert was like when he was first remodeled. There's always the question of if he'll be able to handle it or if this will be the thing that drags him back down. Even Albert is never sure.

Gilmore digs a medical cane out of a nearby closet and places it under Albert's hand gently, patting the back of it as one would when trying to comfort an injured child. "I'll go make some calls."

fallenstar

He tried to be understanding and patient and he was generally pretty good at it when he came to this stuff--or at least, he tried. He didn't say anything about Albert coming here every year, rain or shine and the few times he came with, like now, he hung back and let Albert do his thing.

But today was overcast and rainy and chilly and Jet got cold easily so his jacket just wasn't cutting it, making him more cranky than usual. Besides, as he watched Albert's body language change signalling he was finally done talking or whatever he did, it occurred to Jet that he honestly didn't understand the point of coming every year. He could understand paying respects, but he didn't think it had to be a yearly thing....or that Hilda would be horribly offended if they'd waited for a day that was a little warmer.

He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, rubbing at them a bit, as he waited for Albert to head back over. "It's freezing, I don't get why you come here every year, it's always cold." A bit of a sour look crossed his face, but it passed and he actually sought out the older cyborg's eyes. "You okay?" As much as he didn't get it, he did know it was important to his partner and Jet wasn't so insensitive to not understand how hard it probably still was even years later.

copesetic

It's been nearly a month and only now does Albert have his head on straight again. It took a near-death experience to do it, but in those moments he'd thought were his last when all the things he regrets went running the 'this is your life' marathon through his head one stuck out in particular. And that one is in a seventh story apartment that looms large and foreboding in the mid-autumn drizzle.

He pockets the scrap of paper he'd been clutching, address on it long since memorized. He should just go up there and say his piece. Most likely Jet will kick him right back to the street again. As well he should. Albert hadn't exactly been the model partner in the time they'd spent together. His heart had been in it, but the rest of him still quailed, afraid to get too invested, afraid that he would screw it all up regardless. At least if he didn't try then he could blame the failure on that. But that's not fair to Jet, and if he were honest not fair to himself either. He knows that now, that in his heart of hearts he's already invested. The things he's frightened of doing are the very things he wants more than anything. Jet, more than anyone else, makes him feel human.

Screwing up his courage, Albert walks right up to the door of the apartment building, then turns away and strides to the corner of the block instead, shoulders hunched against the freezing mist. He needs something first. He's not stalling. Really.

It's relatively slim pickings in the little bodega on the corner but Albert manages to pull several small bouquets into one large one. Roses and baby's breath might be a little cliche, but it's what they have and it's hopefully a gesture Jet will appreciate, especially since it cost Albert an entire day's worth of spending money. Not that it matters. If it softens Jet for even a moment, it'll be worth it.

If.

He stops on his trek back up the block, staring at the flowers as if they'd suddenly start speaking to him. It's too much, isn't it? Roses? That's what he would always do for Hilda when she was cross with him, buy her flowers or jewelry, but Jet isn't Hilda. He'd never thought of Jet as Hilda, of course, but flowers seem such a feminine gift...

No, it's fine. It'll be fine. Who doesn't like flowers?

Halfway up the stairs he wonders if maybe Jet doesn't like flowers, or he'll throw them back in Albert's face for trying to treat him like 'some broad'.

Two thirds of the way back down he kicks himself mentally to just do it, damnit! Stop being such a coward! He'll either like them or not but the flowers aren't the point. The point is he's here, he'll apologize from the bottom of his heart, and Jet will take him back.

Well, ideally Jet will take him back.

He's already in front of the apartment door when that nagging voice in the back of his head tauntingly asks how often things are ever ideal. He paces once, twice in front of the door, mouth a thin and troubled line cutting across his face as he hems and haws, trying to reconcile what he hopes will happen with what's more likely.

Just do it!!

He knocks, heart in his throat.

jungfuchs

Moving to a new country is difficult but if you're a child it seems impossible. True, things had been terrifying with the bombings and soldiers and the news of that their government had been doing behind the country's back. Thirteen years old, but Albert still reads the news, still listens to the radio. Soon after they're on a boat, crammed in with other emigrants chattering in a cacophony of languages, pushing and shoving. There were other children, but mostly Albert opted to keep to himself, helping his mother but otherwise holed up in their tiny shared cabin and waited to see the spines of Lady Liberty's crown welcoming them to what his mother calls "a land of new opportunities". Albert, always a practical child, just hoped it would be a land of fresher air.

It's been a few months since then. They'd arrived at the start of summer with New York City sweltering. With his mother working two jobs and a little saved up, they'd managed to get a small fan and some other things for the little apartment, but despite the hardships they'd managed to make a nice little life for themselves in this new country. Their community on the lower east side is friendly and breathes of home in Dresden, or so Albert feels. He even made friends with the old man who runs the bookshop on the corner, his son having been claimed by the war on the side of the Allies. He'd also been named Albert, and the man would often reminisce in German and sometimes share the haribo candies he'd always have around. He may be the only friend Albert had made, but he was content with that.

Even so, as the weather turned colder and fall set in, Albert's mother enrolled him in school. Albert had always liked school back home, strict as it was, but here in America it seemed all the other boys were so loud and tall and frightening. He'd mostly stayed away from other children since arriving, but now he's been thrown in the front of a class and as the teacher pushes him to introduce himself to the room every eye is on him and he can't help but fidgit and look anywhere except at all the unfamiliar faces.

"Ha-hallo, I-I am Albert Heinrich..." He trails off, brutally self conscious at his accent and flushing a red which he knows reaches his ears. The teacher - Miss Jones - waits for an interminable moment to see if he'll say something else, then simply shoos him to an empty desk with some annoyance and begins to write the day's lesson on the blackboard. Safe for the moment, Albert sinks as low as he can in his seat and pulls his oversized newsy cap down around his ears in an attempt to hide the fact that they're still pink.

fallenstar

There was no one else home. He'd spent five minutes making sure, even though he already knew there were only two people left in the house for the night. Chang and GB were at Chang's resturaunt, Joe, Frannie, Ivan and the Doctor were all off to Kouzomi's for the weekend and Pyunma and Geronimo were out of the country and not due back for a few days. Which just left Jet and a certain silver-haired German cyborg to hold down the fort.

Which was why this was perfect.

Sure, there was a chance Frannie or Joe or really even any of the others could walk through the front door unexpectedly for one reason or another, but that just made his idea seem a little more fun; the risk of being caught was exciting. Hell, even if they were just in one of their rooms, it wouldn't be nearly as risky, but he was headed for the den where he knew the older cyborg was sitting in comfortable silence, reading one of his stuffy and boring books.

Jet had every intention of making things a little less quiet and boring for his partner.

He didn't bother sneaking into the room or anything, there wasn't anything suspicious about him going in there. In fact, it was likely nothing would seem amiss until the lanky teen stepped up to Abert's chair, stuck his book mark between whatever pages he had open, and plucked the book from the cyborg's grip. The book found itself on the side table next to the chair Albert was in (as opposed to the floor, which Jet had considered, but thought better of) as the American wedged a knee in on either side of Albert's thighs, reached up to pull down that black turtleneck a bit and attached his lips to Albert's neck.

He had plans, and they didn't include being shy about what he wanted.

copesetic

[To say Jet's prowess in the kitchen was legendary wouldn't be a misnomer, per se, but it would definitely give the wrong impression. Uncanny still doesn't have quite the right ring. Infamous is most accurate, though even that doesn't quite encompass the sheer disaster. What comes to mind for Albert, albeit in a fanciful way, is one of those cartoon characters, the type that come on in the early mornings on Saturdays. In particular, the Tazmanian Devil; a whirlwind of destruction and mayhem. Thus why Albert has been doing all the cooking the entire time Jet's stayed with him.

It's not that he doesn't like to. On the contrary, he enjoys making food so long as it doesn't take all his time to prepare. He's often marveled at Chang's willingness to spend all his time in the kitchen doing the most menial and tedious of tasks. Albert tends to prefer getting already half prepared meals - pre-cut chicken, pre-shredded vegetables, pre-mixed batter and so on. The microwave had revolutionized his life when he could finally afford one (an old 70's model with dials and no computer chip; let's not get crazy).

Really he doesn't mind being the one to do all the cooking, especially when Jet is appreciative, but there should be at least a little give and take. Jet could stand to help with other chores once in awhile. After all, he's not really a guest so much as something more... well. Permanent. Not that Albert had said that explicitly, but he'd thought it clear what with them finally having the room and time to settle down and breathe and really find out if they can coexist.

There have been some... hiccups.

Even so, it's easy to put it all from his mind when he's standing there in his apron, hand rolling dumplings to go with the soup on the stove. He has a little bit of trouble keeping them light enough to float, but at least they'll still taste good. He thinks. He hopes. He even hums a little bit, some classical song that's been stuck in his head since that morning. Brahms or Vivaldi, he can't think of whose it is right now, only the violin concerto that wafts softly through his pursed lips as he tries to make sure the dumplings are all rolled into roughly the same shape.]

copesetic

They had failed.

Albert could still hear the sickening thud ringing in his ears as Skull had dropped Joe's battered form at Gilmore's feet, a message to them all. Each cyborg watched helplessly, the electromagnet keeping them from action as Skull taunted them all with promises of being broken, of torture and death, even of erasing their memories.

At least they wouldn't have to live with this, if that were the case.

The soldiers were careful to keep the magnet close as the cyborgs were lead to what little of the compound remained. A secondary system, with its own power and facilities and everything else. The original had at least been severely damaged through the actions of the cyborgs but it hadn't done any good. None of it had done any good.

They were transferred to cells, two to each, though Gilmore and 001 were taken elsewhere. Precautions were taken, each cyborg being bound, relieved of weapons, or otherwise rendered unable to use their skills. Albert in particular was divested of his hand - the left, not the right - so as to be unable to use his knife. For the rest they simply took his ammunition. For Jet they surgically severed the fuel line, rendering his rockets unusable. Chang's fuel was also cut, GB was set with a restraint that prevented his shifting, and Junior they simply sedated, his strength too much to keep caged.

When they'd advanced on Francoise with a specialized mask to dampen her abilities, something snapped. She'd been crying quietly to herself since Joe's body was dragged from their presence, but the tears had turned to cold fury and she'd lunged at the nearest guard, gouging his eyes out with her nails and leaving wicked gashes across him and two others as she struggled wildly. They'd shot and killed her, like a rabid animal.

And now here they were, each imprisoned with no means of escape, two to a cell with the promise of retribution for their insolence hanging over their heads. Albert, for his part, seems to have gone mute. He sits in the corner of the cell he shares with Jet holding the stump of his removed hand and staring at the wall. It's a familiar state, an utterly passive demeanor as he had displayed originally, decades ago when he'd first been taken.

They'd failed. He'd failed. Joe was dead. Francoise was dead. Ivan and Gilmore are likely to follow, as will the rest of them if they're not stripped of what little humanity they have left and made as automatons to serve Black Ghost. What's the point in fighting anymore?

fallenstar

He couldn't remember what day it was anymore. He'd tried to keep track at first but, after his 3rd Tuesday he'd started to doubt and that led to loosing track and now he just didn't see what the point was. It wasn't like there was a date he had to look forward to. No, the only thing he had to look forward to was whether or not they were going to make him do their tests again.

He knew he probably ought to have tried harder to escape or something...but there just didn't seem to be a point. He didn't know where he was or what the place looked like outside the compound...and he didn't have anything to escape for. Jet hated being cooped up, but he'd been turned into a freak and he didn't have a home or a friend in the world left for him. What was the point? He was alone.

Jet buried his face in his knees, wincing when he felt the mechanics that had replaced bone shift. Even the skin under his pants wasn't real anymore. A surge of frustration and anger he had nothing to direct at overtook him and he grit his teeth as the side of his fist connected with the floor. As sick as those tests were by all rights, it was his only outlet and he'd learned to look forward to them if only for that reason. Of course...there was also the reason that he was actually good at them and the way thise scientists looked pleased made him feel useful for once in his life...which just made him disgusted with himself.

He lifted his hand to hit the floor again but his momentum died as soon as his fist was in the air. There was no point to that either. After a couple seconds, he finally uncurled himself and stood up. The room he was in was more like a cell with it's white-washed walls and single, tiny, uncomfortable, bed. And it felt more suffocating now than ever before.

He took the single step that brought him to the room's door and tested the handle. He gave a small smile to hear the click of freedom it offered him and slipped out of the confining room. The one good thing about being a good little test subject was that they didn't bother to guard the door. Not that it mattered, he knew the doors leading out of this hallway were guarded, so it wasn't like he'd actually get very far.

The hallway was as sparse and empty as he'd always seen it be whenever he was led out of the wing and he half wondered if there was any point to the rooms that were also in this hallway. Well, one way to find out. A quick exploration that involved peaking in the window of the doors and listening for any activity before looking inside, told him that the literally wasn't anything else in the rooms immediately around him.

It wasn't until he was almost at the end of the hall that he found anything of interest. At first, he'd thought there wasn't anything in that room either, it wasn't until he actually stepped inside that he heard the quiet beeping of a heart monitor. And the heart monitor wasn't the only machine in the room, there seemed to be a good half-dozen all surrounding one bed at the other end from where the teen stood. The room was dark, but his eyes adjusted enough to allow him to see the outline of a person in the bed who was, assumedly, connected to all of those machines.

Jet stood there staring, torn between moving further in to take a better look and leaving so he wasn't caught wandering around. What if the guy was conscious and tattled on him? What if he was conscious and just as lonely as Jet? He hesitated a moment longer before finally taking another step further into the room...and that was when he ran out of time.

There was a slightly panicked tone in the voice of the scientist who'd caught him and informed him he shouldn't be there. Jet had half a mind to give a sarcastic retort, but he bit it back. He was too curious about the guy in the bed and, besides, he was in enough trouble. Guards led him back to his room and he heard the door lock behind him. That was probably going to be his punishment for wandering. Just one more layer of freedom he had to watch get stripped away. Now it was just him and his thoughts again. Probably the worst company in the world, in his opinion.

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Making Lies

Entries tagged with seriesverse

Whatever our souls are made of, his and mine are the same

Monsters don't sleep under the bed, they sleep inside your head.

Getting handsy in the kitchen

When I opened my eyes the world was gone

Need another story, something that I can confess

New York State of Mind

There are no cats in America

Like a cat rubbing his head against your book--

What's cookin' good lookin'?

The bitter end

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January 2026

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