by Red, Lynn
“What,” the static gasmask began, speaking without being prompted for the first time. “What are you?”
“Me?” Rogue laughed and cocked one of those half-smiles that made Jill weak in the knees. “I’m a robot, and all I can say is no.”
The figure took a step forward and pushed a series of buttons on the panel beside the door, which slid aside. Rogue tried kicking at him, but the shackles on his legs prevented that, and those on his arms barely gave him enough slack to move his hands. He flexed his fists and found they were completely free. But before he could make a move, a blinding flash of white pain shot through the bear’s nerves, blasting his entire consciousness with searing agony. A moment later, he fell to the ground in a twitching heap.
“Not a robot,” the gasmask said. “Not a comedian. But that was a cattle prod.”
Behind him, the bear he’d just dropped was unleashing loud, terrified, throat-tearing screams.
Just the way he liked it.
Shutting the door behind him, Gasmask smiled under the formless rubber facemask that covered his head. It hurt, the way his lips stretched and the metallic, hydraulic jaws that were attached to his actual jaws, shifted.
He couldn’t remember when the last time was that he felt air on his face.
Then again, he couldn’t remember if he even had a face.
There was a certain comfort to it, a certain peace that came from knowing he had no part in his own fate.
But, then again, Gasmask always had been the rebel. As two other, identically dressed, figures stalked down the hall of cells, turned on their heels and went back the other way, he wondered if they – the other soldiers – even wondered anything at all.
Two of them marched past again, their suits emitting the static sound to which he’d become accustomed. One of the soldiers pressed a small gasket on the neck of his suit. A hiss escaped. That reminded Gasmask to do the same thing. As soon as he did, the pressure that had built up behind his mask escaped in a long, slow hiss.
“Not a comedian,” he said again, to the unconscious bear in the room in front of him. “And not a robot. But... I don’t remember who I actually am. If I’m anyone at all.”
-13-
“Not a comedian, huh?”
-Rogue
Red rage flowed hot and thick through Rogue’s veins.
With each beat of his heart, with each thump of his pulse, he felt more angry, more unreasonably confused, afraid, and furious than he had before. King was still on the ground, still moaning.
Even that made him angry.
“Let. Me. Out.”
Gasmask was still staring at Rogue, although something in the big bear’s shoulders and in his chest ached. He didn’t know what, but he knew something had happened. One of his eyes twitched every few seconds. The other seemed unable to focus. He managed to push himself to his feet and immediately collapsed backward against the wall, unable to move in any meaningful way.
The air was unnaturally cool and a whirring sound met his ears every few seconds that must have been some kind of circulation system. The smell of the place was musty, like the still air of an old bar. He’d been in plenty of those in his life, but he’d take even the most dingy, most awful, of any of those, over this.
Gasmask just stared.
He’d decided that this one’s name was Gasmask Stump. The gasmask part was for the gasmask he wore. The stump was for the way the man... creature... the whatever’s fingers, were shorter than they should have been.
“Talk to me, Gasmask,” Rogue whispered. His throat had gone raw, but he wasn’t quite sure why. His shoulders both ached, and the muscles running down either side of his torso burned like he’d been screaming for hours. But again, he couldn’t remember anything except standing in the same place, for what seemed like a numbed-out eternity. “You have to be bored by now. I know you’re the same one of you, so don’t act like you’re not the one I’ve been talking to for the last... however long.”
Gasmask cleared his throat. Or at least, that’s what it sorta sounded like. The static in his voice shifted a bit, and he moved his weight from one foot to the other. He was definitely not the same as the others. This one had almost human characteristics. Vaguely, Rogue remembered calling him a robot, but wasn’t sure what had happened after that.
Maybe nothing.
It had been a long time since he ate anything. Rogue’s thoughts weren’t exactly clear. At least, that’s what he assumed it must be. He wasn’t in the habit of blacking out.
“No.” Gasmask’s voice was slightly irritated. None of the others ever got anything other than the same tone in their voice. “Not bored. Just... waiting.”
Rogue squinted, trying to see out of his cell into the hall. The way the lights were kept – bright as all hell in the cells, dark-ish in the hallways, that was impossible. The only thing he could see was the black-clad face in front of him, staring endlessly back.
From down the hall, a scream burst through the silence. It wasn’t just a pained scream, or the cry of someone who was hurt – it was the sort of wretched, terrifying screech that only comes when someone’s soul is being ripped out of their body. It would be the way Rogue imagined he’d scream if anything happened to Jill.
He leaned back against the cold steel wall, and watched King groan. There was nothing he could do. More than anything, Rogue hated this feeling of utter helplessness, complete uselessness. But he could either fight it, and feel worse, or just accept reality. He knew he needed to come up with some way to get away and get back to Jill and whoever that new girl was. He needed to cook up some plan to find the other bears – the two Broken Pines he’d only met a day before... maybe two? Three? He had no idea how long he’d been in this hole. But he needed to find them and get the hell out.
“Come.”
“Huh?” Rogue was jolted out of his daydream. “Me?”
“Your friend is on the floor.” That cold, static, robotic voice said. There was a slight hum whenever Gasmask spoke, like the hum of a speaker when no sound was coming through it, but it was on. The drone irritated Rogue, it made the blood in his temples thump just a little harder.
Something about it reminded him of that strange horn that put all the Lupines into a rage the last time he encountered a GlasCorp stooge. Then again, last time he encountered them, it was on his own terms, in his territory. Now, he was in theirs.
The door slid open, soundlessly, and Gasmask took two heel-clicking steps into the chamber. “Come. Someone wishes to see you.”
“That sounds vaguely like an invitation,” Rogue hissed, curling his lip in a sneer.
When his shackles were removed, and the plastic cord between his feet released, he waited for a moment.
“Come.”
“What, you’re not going to put anything else on me? Just gonna let me walk through here without any restraints? Is that a smart thing to do? I murdered eight of your buddies, you know.”
“Yes,” Gasmask answered. “Although, not murder. Hard to murder us, really. Impossible, maybe? I’m not sure. No one’s tried.”
Instead of being cold and distant, Gasmask sounded vaguely interested, as though he was at that moment, wondering about it in a scientifically curious sort of way.
“Right,” Rogue said. “I tore their heads off anyway. So, no handcuffs?”
“What for?” Gasmask reached for Rogue’s hand, clasped it, and jerked him forward with surprising strength for such a slight figure. “You aren’t going to do anything except what you’re told.”
Rogue chuffed. “You don’t know me very well.”
“You’re right.”
Gasmask squeezed. Hard.
“Ah! Hey! Let go!”
He twisted Rogue’s hand, squeezing the much bigger man’s fingers together so hard it felt like the bones were grinding against each other. “Jesus! Stop!”
At once, Gasmask released his grip. “See?”
“Fine,” Rogue said, rubbing his aching hand.
Gasmask turned on h
is heel and began walking with such impossible smoothness that it was more of a glide than anything else. Each step, his – her? – heel clicked against the smooth tile laid on the floor, but every other part of the movement from the leg extending to the knee bending to the arms moving from side to side was inhumanly smooth.
“If you’re not a robot,” Rogue said, trying to do anything to break both the monotony of walking through blank hall after blank hall, and also relieve some of his tension, “then what are you?”
“Good question. I’m tired of this.”
The rest of the long, winding walk was spent in silence. The strange part was, although his host was entirely unwilling to say anything at all, Rogue couldn’t help but sort of like the... whatever it was. His absolute flat way of speaking, his Newhart-esque wit.
But before there was much time to ruminate on the finer points of Gasmask’s personality, they stopped in their tracks. Gasmask pushed what must have been a few buttons on a panel, though it was invisible. Still, after a few deft touches in a lengthy pattern, the door slid open.
Sitting there was a small, round man with a bald, egg-shaped head. Sweat beaded on the man’s brow. Something – a scarf, or a shawl – was wrapped around the lower part of his head and his neck. The man’s cold, blue-gray eyes regarded Rogue for a lengthy moment before taking a long, deep breath through his nose. When he exhaled, a slight whistle was audible. He steepled his fingers and leaned forward slightly, until his belly touched the edge of the desk in front of him.
“What is—?”
“Quiet.” Gasmask dug a finger into Rogue’s hand, just above the wrist and squeezed until the bear hissed and shut up.
The man’s voice was barely a whisper. Rogue had to concentrate to make out the garbled, whisper-quiet words. “Bring him,” he pressed a couple of fingers into the cloth around his neck. “Closer.”
There was a smell wafting from the man that singed Rogue’s nostrils. The smell of rubbing alcohol was heavy on him, and something else that reminded the bear of hospital smells, though he’d only been in one of those, and only very briefly. It was the scent of sterility, of surgery. When Gasmask shoved him forward again, Rogue felt himself try to resist, to push back from being driven closer to the strange, round man in front of him. Something about the man was unsettling, even a little nauseating.
What is that, he wondered. What’s he hiding under that scarf? Why does he smell like a goddamn doctor’s office?
“Who are—?”
Gasmask squeezed his wrist again, still pushing him closer to the pale lump behind the desk. “This is the one you wanted,” the not-robot intoned. “The others have been sedated.”
“Hum,” the little man grunted. Air hissed underneath the scarf.
Was there a hole there? Some kind of stoma, or scar? Why does he smell like that?
“Less... impressive... than I had hoped. Hand... me that.”
He stretched his fingers toward a notepad on the desk, which Gasmask collected and handed over a second later. Just like walking, his fingers moved impossibly smooth.
The man with the shaking hands scribbled a note and then put down his pen. A clammy pair of fingers, like short lengths of bologna, reached out and caressed the bear’s sweat-covered forehead. A rasp came from that strange neck, and then an ‘hmm’ from the moistened lips. Normally that wouldn’t have flown as far as Rogue could throw an anvil. But something about the room, the man, and the helplessness of his situation just froze the big bear solid. He couldn’t move, couldn’t think. It was all he could do to keep breath going in and out of his lungs.
When the hand slid down his jaw, leaving a cold trail in its wake, Rogue felt a shiver run through him.
“Have you ever been...” the man took a long, slow breath. When he exhaled, it hissed and his scarf fluttered briefly. “Been... dead?”
The hairs on the back of Rogue’s thick neck stood at attention. A splash of goosebumps ran down the center of his back. He was absolutely dumbfounded at his reaction. The gruff, wild, Fat Tire swilling bear was utterly helpless in front of this desk-bound toad. He reached out again, but this time Rogue jerked back, avoiding the clammy, cold, trembling fingertips. The man poked his tiny, bright red tongue out between his lips and licked them, leaving a sheen behind.
“Hmm? Such strength... look at you,” he was beginning to sweat profusely, like the effort of speaking was almost exhausting. “Have you been dead?”
Rogue shook his head, not quite understanding the question. “How could I be dead? I’m right here.”
“Hmm.” The little man let out a laugh that turned into a cackle that turned into a syrupy, raspy cough. As he shook with each cough, the scarf on his neck rattled and blew outward. “Strong, but such a limited mind. So... predictable.” The last part of the man’s speaking trailed off into another cough. It wasn’t for a few seconds that Rogue realized his lips were sealed as he rattled with a coughing fit. “Have you felt... death?”
Suddenly, it all made sense. Rogue nodded. “My clan,” he said. “Taken by you. You took them from me, you ripped the heart out of my chest.”
The man’s soft face relaxed into a Vaseline-smeared smirk. Everything about him was fuzzy, slightly out of focus, from the watery eyes to the shimmer of saliva-slick on his lips.
“That’s as close to death as I’ve come,” Rogue said. There was only a tiny shake in his voice that he managed to hide well enough with a forceful swallow. “You?”
That greasy smile broadened. “I’ve seen... enough. Take a sample when he’s back in the,” he paused for another round of closed-mouth coughing. “Back in the cell.”
Gasmask grasped the bear’s shoulder, squeezing hard and turning him.
“Oh, Eighty-Three?”
Gasmask froze and turned. “Sir?”
“When you’re finished, send Ninety-Four up here. My cover is beginning to stick to my neck.”
The not-robot offered a curt nod, and then turned again, shoving Rogue through the door, which slammed shut behind him. Rogue turned to Gasmask. “Eighty-Three? You’re a number?”
“It’s always bothered me a little. Doesn’t seem to bother the others.”
“That doesn’t really answer anything,” Rogue said, feeling suddenly heavy and fatigued. “What are you? Who was he?”
“I told you once,” Gasmask said, with a strange amount of joviality, considering. He was more verbose than he had been. Perhaps he was starting to relax? If he was, Rogue thought, that’d be at least one thing he had going for him. “It’s a good question.”
“What is?”
“What I am. What we are.”
Rogue sensed a shrug, though it was too smooth to be sure. “How can you not know what you are? Don’t you have a memory? Parents?”
“He is the parent. Was? Time’s strange when you can’t die.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The soulless, black, goggle-clad face turned toward Rogue. “We’ve arrived. Talking with prisoners is forbidden. Or at least, I think it is. None of the others have much of an interest in talking with anyone about anything, so I’m not entirely sure a rule was ever established.”
They had somehow already arrived back at the holding cell where Rogue was supposed to be “sampled” whatever that meant. King had sat up, but had apparently either gone to sleep or passed out again. Down the way was another scream.
“What’s all that screaming?” Rogue asked, stepping back into place to be shackled again. Eighty-Three didn’t bother with the restraints.
“Those other two you were with. They’ve been drugged to keep them from breaking things. They were a great deal more angry than were you two.”
That time, the passivity in Gasmask’s voice was almost comical, even though the answer made Rogue’s blood boil.
A flash of insight struck the big bear. Maybe he could activate this thing’s emotion sensors or whatever it had. “You know what they’re doing to them, right? They’re experimenting on them
. They’re experimenting on us. That blood sample you’re about to—OW!”
That clicking noise, the one Rogue thought might be laughter, came again. “Sorry,” Eighty-three said. “Very busy.”
“Are you an ant?”
Gasmask tilted his head to the side. “Explain?”
“An ant. You know, little creature, builds a nest in the dirt? One leader, a bunch of drones that wander around in some kind of hive-mind thing?” His thoughts turned back to one of his many Star Trek binges. It struck him that he might have wandered into a Borg ship, if he didn’t know any better.
“Hum. Similar, I think. Eckert needs the sample. Stay quiet and I won’t have to have you tranquilized like the others.”
And with that, he was gone.
Eckert, Rogue thought, clenching his jaws and his fists at the same time. I thought he was dead.
Suddenly, the scarf, the whistling, the weird questions about death, they all made a little more sense.
-14-
“Panic never, ever does any good. But for some reason, I keep doing it.”
-Claire
They touched down at half past three, which was about an hour after the mystery wound appeared in Jacques’s shoulder. Dawn was nothing more than an imaginary gray streak on the horizon as the helicopter settled with a heavy groan of metal. Until the second they landed, Claire could not in any way understand how she kept her shit together.
All the blood, the panic, the terror, and embarrassingly, worst of all, the horrible sinking feeling that leaving her bears behind inflicted, haunted her. But, she managed to choke it back, to keep the bile in her throat instead of her mouth.
But once they wheeled the Cajun off and took him off to do something or other, it all caught up at once. She started shaking, her eyes went hazy, and the entire inside of her mouth turned to cotton.
“You have to calm the hell down,” Jill hissed, pulling Claire aside and into the vending machine room on floor six. “I know you’re scared, I understand it. I’ve been in a pretty similar place. But if you keep acting like this, you’re going to kill yourself with a heart attack.”
