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BlackShield
Author of 40 Stories |
In honor of Cyborg fans, my friend’s birthday, and one of the best Wednesdays I have ever experienced, I present to you all a Cyborg fiction one-shot to rival all others (if there even are others).
Dedication: To Talon. You’ve been caring, helpful, tolerant, and so many things to me. Even as I ‘I can’t’ you, please know that I’m listening. You push me to my limits and beyond because you believe I can go farther than I’m at right now, and this is to let you know that I appreciate it. You’ve taught me so much about being a person that I can’t say ‘lol’ at it, because it’s so real. You’re one of the best people I’ve ever known—if not the best—and it’s such a great honor to be acquainted with you, and even be a friend. So, sorry about that incident a few months ago, and you’re so honorable for being so forgiving about the whole mess. I hope you can get that PS2 you’ve been hoping for, and, most of all, happy birthday.
Disclaimer: I own nothing here. Nathan Reuger and Jared are unimportant characters, to me, and barely worth mentioning, but I would appreciate them not being stolen. Other than that, however, the Titans, alas, are not mine, and I can only put words in their mouths and actions in their bones and watch them do the things I know they’ll do because I made them.
Meh.
Without further ado, all, please enjoy.
Metallic Scream
-
‘… Weak.’
‘You could try a little harder.’
‘The effort might be worth it.’
‘Effort is nothing without results, and results come from nothing but effort. You know that—do remember it.’
‘You could try a little harder.’
We might be a little prouder.
The room is small, and white slabs of drywall make the walls; each lined up beside the next, like a line of soldiers with some purpose at hand. At what may have been shoulder-height for a substantially tall person, there is a line of indents; each more or less beside the last, extending until they reaches almost halfway around the room. The room is locked.
But, the room is not always locked.
Cyborg enters the room and quietly shudders, before closing the door behind him. He jams the bold lock tremulously.
He is alone in the room.
He will not be disturbed.
Cyborg’s eye glimmers coldly in the fluorescent light, and Victor’s eye narrows at the half-ring of indents. Each indent has eight concaves; four hollow indents, then four squared imprints near the top. The indents resemble the front edges of fingers and knuckles.
Cyborg’s hands curl into rock-like fists, and his legs propel him at the wall—where the ring has left off. Victor’s arm shoots forward, and it slams Cyborg’s fist into the weak plaster. He pauses and breathes. Looking at the new shape he’s made, he does not see the figure of his fist: Cyborg sees areas where he has applied pressure; Victor sees the tracks of a destructive monster, so hefty and powerful and caustic, that its prints have been left for later centuries to wonder at.
He shudders and sighs. Victor is quietly aware of his caged state; the plastic shell covering him, with only brief glimpses of the skin and muscle and tissue he once worked so hard to keep healthy and strong.
‘You could try a little harder.’
We might be a little prouder.
Victor screams; Victor crashes crazily about his confine, pounding at the walls—but his hands leave no dents, no prints, and do nothing to help him.
Cyborg stares blankly at the ring, and, inwardly, grips Victor’s shoulder. Dispassionately, Cyborg tells Victor that he’s being childish, that he’s being a silly little boy again, and it needs to stop.
Victor obeys-and stops-but he cries. He finds little pride in the fact that it is something Cyborg cannot do.
In a way.
Within himself, Victor agrees—he and Cyborg are one again, and they are each whole with the halves put together.
Whole, he thinks serenely, but hollow.
Cyborg reminds himself what nonsense that is. I am not hollow, he contradicts. I have myself within me.
Victor thinks this is just hot air, but Cyborg convinces him otherwise.
A deep breath and the smile is fixated again, balanced evenly with the fulcrum in the middle; it does not sway or teeter, and is solid. Cyborg is complete, and ready.
Ready for what?
Ready for anything.
Cyborg hears the alarm a few seconds before everyone else—this is because he is remotely connected to the Tower’s alert system, and he hears the sound first. He pays it no mind, and waits until Robin proclaims the presence of trouble before he rushes to the main chamber.
“What’s the trouble?” he asks, though he already knows the answer. There has been a robbery at a scientific laboratory—S.T.A.R.R. Labs.
“A robbery—S.T.A.R. Labs.” Robin answers, pronouncing S.T.A.R. as ‘star’. Cyborg notes this idly, as he was always told to say each letter individually. He nods anyway, understanding Robin’s meaning regardless.
There is a series of collective nods following his own. Robin smiles, already feeling the anticipation-‘the thrill of the fight’-and shouts, “Titans, go!” as though there are Titans on Jupiter that need to hear him.
Cyborg is quickly on the way to his car—he built it himself, and is proud to use it in battle. He hears a soft woosh behind him and knows his friend is coming, too; he smiles to himself. He never really knows why she accompanies him, some of these times, but he can’t deny that he appreciates her amity. She is waiting by the car when he approaches, but he doesn’t hesitate-pulling open the driver’s side door and sliding inside, closing it as she lowers herself in beside him. The door pulls open and they speed off, their leader beside them on his R-Cycle, and their other friends above them, tasting the air.
Sometimes Cyborg wishes he could fly.
Cyborg is angry. Infuriated, really.
They have stolen something close to him.
The JCPD has also arrived on the scene, and they have investigated. The Lab scientists have performed an inventory check, and have decided what is missing. The police told Robin, and now, back at the Tower, he has just concluded his briefing.
“Almost a decade ago, the scientists began a project for the benefit of wounded soldiers who had lost limbs in wars. The project investigated high-tech prosthetics, mostly cybernetic in design. The project was abandoned, but they recently picked it up again.”
“Why was it abandoned?”
“Someone stole the technology for their own uses. Anyway, they got more funding for it and started back where they’d left off. The robbers came and stole what few advances they’ve made—mainly, the new prototypes.”
The new prototypes.
‘You could try a little harder.’
We might be a little prouder.
Cyborg excuses himself, fuming. He goes up to the room. The impenetrable steel door mocks him as he twists the key in the lock, and types in the code. He shoves the handle to the left and pushes himself inside, closing the door behind him.
With an angry groan, Victor sends Cyborg’s fist into the wall. Cyborg protests monotonously, saying it is foolish to waste this energy; that this is the time to think, not to waste and be worthless like he was before.
This only makes Victor angrier, and he plants another fist-print in the drywall.
There is a knock on the door. Cyborg and Victor freeze, their wrestling match postponed. Their voice is one and the same as it implores the intruder to reveal his or her name.
“It’s Beast Boy,” the boyish voice replies. “I was… uhh… wondering if you were busy… if you’re not… if y’ wanted to play GameStation, y’know… I’m all open for another player—”
“No, not now, B.B.,” Cyborg replies sternly, pronouncing the letters as he was taught to. He goes to the door and opens it just enough to look out. “I’m busy, then I need to talk to Rob about the burglary… sorry, man,” he adds at Beast Boy’s disappointed expression.
The green boy nods. “Well, if you want me, y’… y’know where I am.”
Cyborg nods and puts a plastic smile over Victor’s face. “Yeah, I know. Thanks, but no, thanks.”
Beast Boy forces a grin of his own and bobs his head up and down, then turns and walks down the hall.
You’re the one that’s messing me up, you broken tin can. It’s not my fault I’m here to begin with.
I’m not all of you; you contribute your two cents as much as I. Silly boy.
Me? Silly boy? You’re one to talk. Damn machine, you’re worse than I am—
—Mind your tongue—
—At least I have a heart.
You dig deep, for you, boy, have my heart.
You have mine. If it weren’t for me you wouldn’t be you; you’d be pieces on different individual bodies and you wouldn’t even get to think all this crap up.
But I am able to think up this logic.
Logic, you’re calling it, now?
Yes.
You really are imbecilic.
At least you’re picking up my vocabulary, Victor.
Shut up. Damn machine.
“Hey, Rob?”
“Yeah, Cy?”
Robin turns from where he stands in the trophy room; he has been straightening up, dusting some of the glass and cogitating. Cyborg shifts in the doorway, his large shoulders brushing the edges of the door’s frame, and steps inside. He feels awkward and uncomfortable in here; it is dank and a little musty, and he detects an odor that isn’t coming from Robin or himself.
“I was… uhh… thinking. About the thing with S.T.A.R. Labs.”
“Yes? What about it?” Robin is somewhat interested, but his hands distract him, wiping off one of the display cases—one that holds a certain Napoleon-wannabe puppet.
“I need to know if it’s connected to the first one. When the stuff was taken first. Those years ago.”
“Why do you need to know?” Robin asks. He doesn’t remember Cyborg being so interested in such cases—it’s usually Robin who needs to know such things.
“Because I know stuff about the first time,” Cyborg answers, evasively. “I want to know if the two are related to each other. I might have more to offer if they are.”
Robin nods, taking this answer as relevant. “I don’t think they’re really connected,” Robin answered, “and I doubt Slade’s behind it. It doesn’t seem his style to get his materials so obviously. We never get robberies of fake chronotron detonators, after all.”
Cyborg nods. He already knows this.
Robin continues to think aloud: “I’d guess it’s a new kid on the block, yeah,” he says thoughtfully. “I was trying to find more information on it earlier, but didn’t get anywhere. I was hoping I’d get an idea if I looked through our older triumphs.” Robin smiles, reflecting on earlier days.
Cyborg nods again. These things do not help him. “Ah, thanks, man, but… there’s gotta be more than that.”
Robin sighs. “Yeah, you’re right. It’s really weird… I can’t find anything on the first robbery. It’s like the computer can’t find it. Or won’t find it. Or like there was something there and it’s been erased. I don’t understand it. You know computers well—what do you think happened?”
Cyborg wets his lips, which have suddenly dried. “It looks like a hacker, maybe. Came in and blocked out random searches, or somethin’. Couldn’t tell ya for sure.”
Robin nods. “You said you know about the first one—would you mind sharing?”
Cyborg shakes his head. “It’s nothing, man… sorry to bug ya. Good luck with your cleaning.”
Before Robin can respond, Cyborg is gone, the hallway light is gone, and the door is closed.
This computer, like the car, is his. He built it himself, part for part, and it has every top-of-the-line piece he could get his hands on. Though somewhat lacking in desk decorations and fancy bells and whistles, all the software is top-notch. Cyborg’s computer feeds into one of the fastest internet servers known to humankind, has all the resources of the Tower’s main computer, and is just as efficient.
He turns it on. The image of a shield appears in the corner, with the rest of his desktop icons, and Cyborg sighs heavily. It had to be done, he thinks, as one. He clicks on it, knowing what it will say even as it says it.
REQUESTED ACCESS TO BLOCKED RESOURCES HAS OCCURRED:
8 TIMES
Cyborg shakes his head sadly and closes the box. He pulls up the internet and opens a search engine.
The front doors of the Tower slide open with a sishh that is all too familiar to him. The same sishh was there, when the first robbery occurred. The same sishh is there with all the doors he hasn’t liked. He sighs. He is getting ahead of himself.
He doesn’t hear footsteps, but a shadow falls over him. He knows it is one of three people, and his quick mind swiftly narrows it down to one.
Without even looking at her, Victor tosses another stone, and Cyborg says, “Hey, Star.”
The alien lowers herself and quietly joins him. They are at the rocky side of the island; a small cliff, their legs dangling over the side. Starfire crosses hers daintily.
After a pause, she says, “Hello, Cyborg.”
There is another moment during which no words are spoken. Victor tosses another stone into the sea. This one does not skip.
“There somethin’ you need, Star?” he asks, neutrally.
Starfire shifts, feeling uncomfortable under the heavy apathy he emits. “I was merely… I wished to check upon you, as you seemed… displeased. Is there anything you—”
“—I’m fine, Star,” Cyborg replies. His flat tone unnerves the Tamaranian farther, and she again repositions herself on the edge.
“You are sure, Cyborg?” she persists, quietly.
Cyborg nods. He is not, but lying comes easily now. “I’m sure, Star,” he answers, grumbling in his deep voice.
She nods, but does not move to leave. She picks up a stone and turns it over in her fingers. “Friend Cyborg,” she ventures.
“What?” he asks, gruffly. He feels irritable.
“How is it you make the stones dance on the water?” she asks. Cyborg pauses, then turns to face her. He is surprised; he hadn’t guessed that she would care.
“Well… first, you need the right kinda rock,” he begins, picking up a stone that fits his needs. “See? It’s gotta be pretty flat, and at least a little round.” Cyborg shows her the piece he has selected. “Then you just toss it, like a Frisbee, kinda.” He demonstrates; it skips four times before submerging.
Starfire nods, absorbing the information. She sets down the stone she had and selects a new one, to Cyborg’s given specifications. “Like this one?” she asks. When he nods in approval, she turns and throws it out over the bay water. It skips once before being swallowed beneath the waves.
Cyborg forces a smile. “Don’t sweat it,” he reassures her, “it takes practice, too.” She smiles halfheartedly, and picks up another rock. She tosses it, but doesn’t get a skip at all. Cyborg pats her shoulder and hauls himself to his feet. “Just keep at it,” he says. “You’ll get better as ya go.”
With that hanging in the air behind him, Cyborg turns and reenters the Tower.
Starfire blinks after him, then turns to the bay and skips another stone.
We might be a little prouder.
Cyborg wants to smash a hole in the wall as he walks down the corridor, but he restrains himself. If he gets thrown off the team, there will truly be no place for him.
You mean for you, Victor thinks. Cyborg frowns.
For us, Cyborg corrects firmly. Victor’s eye rolls, but Cyborg’s squints angrily. Us, he insists.
Whatever.
His hand twitches at his side.
Cyborg wants to smash a hole in the wall.
He nearly does.
He is growling at himself as he turns a corner, ready to tear a light fixture off the hall ceiling and throw it at the wall he won’t let himself smash, and he freezes in his infuriated pace as the anger seeps away from him; a green face is blinking at him, almost frightened.
Victor feels ashamed, and his face softens. Cyborg complies.
They are one.
“Man… sorry, B.B.,” he apologizes guiltily. Beast Boy creates a faulty smile and hangs it across his countenance, but Cyborg knows this is false. Beast Boy is afraid of him, and it hurts.
“Uh, it’s okay, dude… just… take it easy. What’s wrong?” His voice is jumping high and low, and Cyborg can identify his feeling: Beast Boy is concerned for his friend, yes, but he is still afraid. Afraid the rage will return.
“…Nothing.”
Another lie. Cyborg has lied a lot today, and it bothers him.
Beast Boy doesn’t believe him. “C’mon, dude, you can tell me,” he presses, almost whining.
Cyborg sighs. “I know who committed the first robbery,” he admits, restlessly. Beast Boy watches him imploringly, with his head tilted slightly to the side. He is intent. Cyborg shifts in his place and continues, “I was… involved.”
Beast Boy nods solemnly, and Cyborg is glad for his kind silence.
“See… there was an accident—that was where my mom died,” he explained. Beast Boy retains his respective silence, and Cyborg feels encouraged. “I was also… hurt. Damaged. My dad—him and my mom, they worked at S.T.A.R. Labs. My dad lived—he wanted me to live, but I wouldn’t if he just handed me over to a hospital… so he turned to his own science.”
Beast Boy nods. Science is no stranger to him; likewise, parents intrigued by its offer of knowledge.
Cyborg continues. “He had clearance to the original prosthetic project, and he used those parts to rebuild the bodily pieces I’d lost.” Cyborg shudders passionately. “I wish he’d let me die,” he confides. “Instead of making me a tech thief. And a monster.”
Beast Boy frowns. “You’re not a monster,” he contradicts. “You’re my best friend. Maybe I’m crazy and we’re both monsters, but even then… can’t we at least be monsters together?” the green boy suggests hopefully.
Cyborg smiles weakly. Victor’s eyes are broken, but twinkling, and inside he hopes against hope that his youthful friend is right; that maybe all those marks in his locked room represent his strength as a man, rather than his weakness as a bizarre freak of nature and machine.
‘Thanks, B.B.,” he murmurs, and means it. “We’ll see.”
“Cyborg.”
He starts, and swivels. “Oh. Raven. You surprised me…”“I can see that,” Raven confirms, blankly. She lets the silence linger, then breaks it: “There’s something wrong,” she observes. She blinks, and a feeling flickers beneath her eyelids—but it is gone before he can uncover its identity. “Why won’t you tell me what?’
Cyborg directs his eyes downward and mumbles his answer incoherently. She waits for him to clarify, and, guiltily, he does.
“Because I don’t know what’s wrong, myself,” he answers, unintentionally cryptic. She is about to reply when the alarm shrieks, obnoxiously.
She curses under her breath and sinks into a sudden shadow on the floor; Cyborg mutters various obscenities and clambers down the hallway, towards the same destination as she.
She blinks, quizzically, and replies, “Two. Including myself, which would be preferable. Being that that’s the only way it works properly.”
Robin nods. “Okay… Raven, teleport to the site with B.B. and Star. Cy and I can take the T-Car.” He turns to Cyborg. “You ever get around to installing that turbo-boost thing?”
Cyborg nods. “Yeah, but I haven’t tested it out yet,” he answers.
Robin sighs. “Guess it’ll have to do,” he concedes. “Lead the way.”
Cyborg nods and trots towards the garage. Behind him, he hears Raven’s monotonous chant, and he knows he and Robin are alone.
“C’mon, man, let’s not let ’em get too far ahead,” he calls over his shoulder, and feels eased by the sound of kindred metal shoes upon the floor.
“Yeah, I know—can you start it up by remote?” Robin asks, shouting so Cyborg will hear him. He doesn’t need to, as Cyborg hears everything if it’s within 2,000 yards, but Cyborg doesn’t care. He feels he needs it louder, anyway, even though he doesn’t; it makes his esteem more content, because it makes him feel human.
“Already workin’ on it, Rob,” he answers. His voice seems hollow to him; it echoes in his metal-flesh throat, and resounds in the concaves of his titanium-enforced skull. He shakes his head to clear the cobwebs, and they reach the garage.
Robin eyes his comrades, assessing possibilities. “Ah, Raven, do you think you can go inside and unlock this door for us? Say no if it’ll use too much energy, I can’t afford to keep you out of the fight we’re walking into, but—”
BHAM.
Robin’s head whips around and his masked eyes find Cyborg’s hunched back. Cyborg is not breathing heavily; nor is he shaking. The knuckles of his right hand are not scratched; they are plated. The door and its hinges lay at his feet, crumpled mercilessly. Cyborg breathes.
“… Or, you could just do that.”
Cyborg says nothing and advances, carefully. His right arm detracts and rearranges to create his sonic cannon, and he holds it up; gathering energy. The four other Titans exchange glances before following him; now is not the time for questions.
They walk past varying pieces of scientific equipment, each part different from the next and last, all in varying sizes, shapes, and designs. They go through many rooms, and down many hallways. Cyborg leads them through the corridors, turning at each junction and typing in some mysterious cryptogram with such unconcerned practice that his friends don’t bother to ask if he knows where he’s heading; he knows these pathways, they can feel it, and they don’t dare question him now.
He stops before a heavy metal door; they wonder why. “… Cy?” the leader ventures.
Cyborg takes a shaky breath and extends his hand to the passcode panel, as he has many times today. Before he types in a code he knows without reasons revealed to his teammates, he says, quietly, “This is the center of the place. They’ll be here. I know it.”
They do not doubt him. His voice nearly does not permit it.
He types in the code, and the door opens.
“I’m working, s-sir,” the man stutters. Nathan Reuger sweats. He knows this man wasn’t looking for trouble, knows he is breaking at least two laws, and he knows that this is wrong. So wrong. But, he has to do it, Nathan Reuger reminds himself. For Jared.
He nods at the edgy genius and fingers the trigger. His stomach does gymnastics in his abdomen. Nathan Reuger wants to throw up.
“Jus’ keep workin’,” he instructs. He turns and is about to find a trash can and relieve his bowels’ needs when he hears the sishh of the opening door. His eyes are wide as he swivels and aims his .44 in the general direction of the doorway. His forehead perspires, and the salty liquid dips into his eyes and stings, blurring the image of a robotic man in the room’s entrance.
Panicked, Nathan’s hand muscles convulse, and the gun goes off.
It’s on. Cyborg doesn’t look at the wall where the bullet has made a dent; instead, he emits a rough war-cry and charges forward. Victor’s vision is distorted by pain and by emotion, but Cyborg’s gaze is clear, and he gently guides the strong, dark man towards his target. Cyborg knows Victor will not need his powerful machine-weapon, and he retracts it into a hand. Angrily, and with a passion incomprehensible to Cyborg’s listless countenance, Victor catches the perpetrator at the belly with a sideways slam; he swings his left forearm like a baseball bat or mallet, and it connects with the man’s squishy flesh.
The offender’s flight is cut short by the far wall, and he groans and is silent. Cyborg guesses that the cause is a concussion; Victor doesn’t care, but rushes to the scientist. Robin and the team, though somewhat put off by the display, follow him and gather loosely around the chair.
The scientist backs up, smiling and twittering gratefully, and Cyborg’s view of the chair’s occupant is unhindered.
And, plain as day, in the chair sits a teenager, unconscious, without legs, and with two blue-white, cybernetic arms.
“Yes… well, kid, that’s not gonna get you out of assault with a deadly weapon and robbery, among other things,” the lieutenant replies. His tone is dry; he sounds tired—albeit rightfully, having had a long day, little coffee, and a ridiculously late emergency call.
“’M sorry.” Reuger’s voice is soft and quiet. It sounds like he doesn’t have any idea what he’s done. Maybe he doesn’t. Cyborg doesn’t know.
He leans against the wall of the little room, his friends alongside him—all except Robin, who is standing by the officer. He feels distracted; the conversation is of little interest to him.
He steps forward and waits for the lieutenant to glance his way. When he does, he speaks: “Lieutenant? What’s gonna happen to the other kid? The one who’s wounded.”
The old officer sighs and runs a hand through his thinning hair. “I dunno, Mister Cyborg. I guess he’ll end up in some hospital or another. Not much to be done for him now, anyway.” He pauses, then turns to Nathan again. “What did’ja say happened, kid?”
Nathan Reuger swallows, and answers timidly, “I, ah, we were attacked… by a dog. Big dog, must’ve been some kinda foreign breed or somethin’.” He feels awkward under all these eyes; they are hard and merciless, and unfeeling. He sighs to himself; They don’t understand. “Came outta nowhere, ‘e did,” Nathan continues, motioning with his hands because he has nothing better to do with them. “Bit right inta my leg—see?” he bent and pulled up his ripped pant leg, revealing a sizeable ring of tooth-marks on the back of his right calf. “Jared, he started yellin’ an’ smackin’ the thing—stupid mutt turned right around and sank his teeth inta Jared, then,” he explains.
Nathan shudders.
“I tried ta stop the thing,” he says, more quietly, “but Jared was hollerin’ an’ it musta not heard me… I just about died when Jared fell, an’ it jus’ tore ‘is leg off—just like that!” he gestures wildly with his hands, holding them together then yanking them apart violently. The lieutenant winces, along with Robin, whose face scrunches up uncomfortably. Cyborg is indifferent, though Victor twists his expression into one of light concern.
Nathan exhales and waits a moment, letting it sink in. Then he finishes, somewhat lamely, “An’ it just went on like that.”
Robin crosses to him and pats his shoulder, awkwardly, but not unsympathetically. Cyborg turns to the officer: “Can I go take a look at the stolen parts, and the Jared kid?”
The official nods absently, and though Cyborg doubts he listened, he goes anyway. It won’t really matter in the end.
‘You could have tried a little harder.’
We might be a little prouder.
“Hey, little man,” Cyborg says. The boy can’t hear him in his state, but that is of little consequence to Victor, and Cyborg is following the man’s lead right now.
“I’m told your name’s Jared. That’s a good name. Solid. I’ll bet you can live up to it, can’t ‘cha?” he asks, then chuckles. His tone is melancholy and softly supportive. “I know you can pull through. You lost a lotta blood—Nathan says it was a dog, man, but I dunno.” He sighs and glances around the predominantly bare room. Its only furnishings are the cot on which Jared lays, and a table in the corner, upon which two cybernetic shins lay. Cyborg’s gaze lingers there; the style is so familiar, and he knows if he would just look down he would remember why.
He doesn’t look.
With an expressive inhale, he redirects his attention again to the boy. “There’s no one here but us, man,” he says. “I could fix ya up. It’d be so easy, kid. You’re just a kid. You don’t deserve to go into the rest of life like this. You can’t deserve it, man. You can’t’ve done anythin’ that bad.” Cyborg shakes his head.
“I think the worst part is that I know I could do it, kid. I know I could fix ya up, make ya able to walk around with your kids, able to have a lap to bounce your grandkids on.” Cyborg sighs. “I could do all that for ya. I know it’d be worth it—I know you’re a good kid, I know it. You don’t deserve to live life like this, man. You don’t.” He fights with himself. His words bounce off the walls, and die. “You might get teased some, but you could wear sweatpants—you could use peach spray paint, it’d be better’n nothin’. It would.” Cyborg wonders who Victor is trying to convince. Victor’s eye is moist, and Cyborg vaguely wonders why that is. He breathes deeply. He lets his dead words linger in the air; It would.
He parts dry lips that suddenly feel chapped. Breath whistles between them, then he speaks:
“I’ll do it.”
He crosses jerkily to the corner, picking up the parts and the tools the scientist was using. Thought patterns wild, Cyborg puts the pieces down again and simply wheels the cheap, steel table over to the makeshift bed. He picks up the instruments, and Victor’s world spins; he sets them down again and turns away, pacing and holding his cranium.
“I’ll do it, I have to do it, the kid’ll make it, he’s strong enough, I want to help him.… I want to help him….”
Cyborg shakes his head at Victor inwardly, and his metal lips say tsk in time with his wagging finger. Victor wishes he would shrivel up, rust, and die.
Victor blinks, and realizes why he can’t do it, even if he wants to.
Softly, he whispers, “But I don’t want to make him a monster.”
A voice from what must be millenniums ago echoes in Cyborg’s metallic head cavity:
“You’re not a monster,” the green boy says, and means it. “You’re my best friend.”
Two eyes open: one is Victor’s, one is Cyborg’s. But, they think as one, They are both mine.
Composed and feeling comfortably whole, the victor turns to Jared and picks up his tools.
“I’ll make you better, little man,” the strong man says. “I promise you’ll be better.”
“Yeah, Nate, I’m feeling great,” he answers. He rests his arms on his knees and hunches, catching his breath. His arms and shins look peculiar near his sweaty face, a slightly different shade, but neither Jared nor Nathan care.
They are still limbs.
Nathan claps Jared on the back and holds a timer where the boy can see it. “You’re gettin’ better,” he says. “Gettin’ better every day. How’s it goin’, thinkin’-wise?” he asks, curious.
Jared shrugs dispassionately as he breathes in and out in quick succession. “It’s okay, I guess,” he says between breaths. Nathan gives him a water bottle, which he takes gratefully and drinks from. “I feel good about getting back in shape.”
Nathan smiles and nods. “’M glad y’re better… I was real worried, that one night… had me real scared, Jare.” Nathan swallows.
Jared nods, discomforted but sympathetic. “Me too, Nate… me, too.”
Gently, he closes the door behind him with his heel. He sets the cardboard crate on the ground and sighs, wiping human perspiration off the flesh side of his head.
“Phew. Glad I finally made it up here,” he says to stale air. The fist-prints stare vacantly at him. Undeterred by the stony silence, Cyborg bends and retrieves a paint can and brush from the box. Popping the lid off nonchalantly, he strolls to where the fist-prints begin and dips his brush into the paint. The paint is not labeled, and he does not know its hue; but, regardless, he puts the brush bristles to the wall and makes a swipe across four indents.
He smiles. This can is brown.
He then dips the brush into the bucket again, and places it as high as he can reach; where the drywall meets the ceiling. He then paints a long stroke all the way to the floor, where he reapplies paint over the area once more before moving to the space directly next to it. Cyborg paints in thick coats, and continues in this way until the can is empty. A small area of brown paint extends past the block area of colored wall, but Cyborg doesn’t care. He sets the can aside and picks up a new one, then begins to paint in the same manner; one swift stroke, then many until the panel is covered.
This can is blue.
In succession, he continues all around the room, painting in the same swipe-coat manner even where the wall is unmarred by his angered fists. By the time he comes around to the other side of the door, Cyborg has painted his locked room all the paint colors he could find, from browns and blues to reds and yellows to peaches and purples to greens and pinks and teals. He sets the last can beside the rest, and stands in the center, smiling; his room is beautiful.
Then from the crate, which is now nearly empty, he retrieves a small foldable table and sets it up. He sets it in the corner of his room—to the left of the door, where fist imprints already form a wallpaper border. Upon this, he sets four framed pictures, the last items in his box:
The first of a tall, black man, with a trim, graying beard, a stern expression, and a sanitary lab-coat.
The second of a woman: beautiful in a gentler, kinder way known only to older generations, her face has only laugh-lines to tarnish its loving splendor. She, too, wears a white lab-coat.
The third is of a well-built young teen; he, too, is dark in skin tone, but he has all the kindness in his face that the woman has, and all the firm stance of the man. He is smiling but slightly, and wears work-out getup.
The fourth is old, and it is ripped near one corner, but Cyborg cherishes this most of all, if in a bittersweet fashion. It has all three of the people in the other pictures, but the boy is younger; here he is truly smiling, a toothy grin mirrored in his mother’s eyes, and, albeit more dimly, in his father’s. The woman’s arm is on the child’s shoulder, though the man stands a bit aside, touching neither of them.
Cyborg sighs as he sets this fourth on the table, but he is smiling.
He packs the emptied paint cans into the cardboard box and hefts it, then balances it precariously with one arm. He turns and rewards the pictures with one lasting smile before opening the door and entering the hallway. He turns and gently closes it, turning the handle so even Cyborg’s ears can barely hear the click of the latch.
He turns and repositions the crate between both his hands. He smiles and walks down the corridor with an easy, steady gait.
Behind him, the hummed notes of Red River Valley live, sing, and die on the air.
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