Pack 2/?
Title: Pack 2/?
Author: miashay
Characters: Ralph, Zero, Fixit, Bullet and Bugler (the kids from 2-2)
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13
Word Count: 1569
Summary: The kids drag a reluctant Bullet to Seattle, he offers to find help.
1
Contact, Part 1
Terminal City was a rat hole, a radioactive cesspool. It was not suitable for human habitation, and Bullet hated it on first sight.
------------------------------------------
The entire trip to Seattle had been an exercise in restraint.
The prospect of joining their fellow transgenics did not appeal to Bullet in the least. In fact, he found the idea pointless and irresponsible, but he had already pled his case and lost. Fixit was the only member of their makeshift family who seemed to agree with him, but one short talk with Zero later, and she was helping to pack and offering to drive the second shift.
Ralph was, of course, overjoyed. Her enthusiasm infected the rest of them, made them reckless and emotional, driven by this unfathomable loyalty to their transgenic brethren, till he was the only one left capable of critical thinking. Bullet bit his tongue, and tried to keep his complaints to a minimum.
He already knew he would never willingly leave them. The past year had bound the group of transgenics together more tightly than Manticore had ever been capable of doing. Of course, the strengthening of those ties merely ramped up his protective instinct, the impulse that urged him to collect his four companions and shield them from the world. Knowingly walking into a hostile situation, for the sake of misplaced kinship and fellow feeling, was almost too much to ask.
Once they reached the city, their excitement reached a fever pitch, and his patience bottomed out. He offered to find a contact to smuggle them into Terminal City, if only to get some time alone to think.
After walking aimlessly for much of the afternoon (as they had driven through the night in well into morning to reach Seattle), he headed towards the one place he was sure to find at least one transgenic sympathizer.
------------------------------------------
Jam Pony was just as dirty and run down in person as it looked on television. Bullet walked inside, working to appear casual, and immediately locked in on the man he was looking for.
Reagan Ronald was an ordinary looking man, carefully sculpted hair tampered down by his headset, eyeglasses sliding down his nose, as he peeked over their dark frames to reprimand a whining employee. Despite his overt loyalty to the transgenic cause, Ronald's business was steady, based on the piles of packages and scads of messengers milling about. He struck Bullet as a no-nonsense, yet sensible authority. If the man's regular exclamations were any indication (something that sounded like "bip bip"), he also appreciated promptness and haste. Bullet liked him immediately.
"Mr. Ronald," he called out, approaching the man, "I was hoping for a minute of your time?"
"No interviews," Ronald replied, without so much as glancing in Bullet's direction, "and no jobs. I already have enough unruly vagrants under my employ to last me to the end of days…Hey, Sector 7, bip bip!"
Bullet stepped closer, and examined the man in front him again. From this proximity, the lines of stress were more visible on Ronald's face, the slight darkening around his eyes and pinched corners of his mouth recognizable. They were the same things Bullet found every time he faced a mirror, signs of worry and anxiety.
"Mr. Ronald," he tried again, "Sir, I'm not a reporter, or looking for a job. I was hoping you could help me? Us?"
The soft inquiry caught the man's attention, and he turned away from his work in time to see Bullet gesture to the nape of his neck. The change in Ronald's behavior was astounding. He glanced over Bullet quickly and thoroughly, as if searching for signs of injury. When he found none, he waved him to the entrance of the cage, and the back office.
"Come on son," he finally replied, "we'll get you worked out."
He barked out a few more "bips", before leading Bullet inside his office, and shutting the door.
"I take it you're one of them, then?" he asked, pointing to Bullet's neck.
"I'm an X6," he answered, and offered his hand, "Steve Parker."
"Reagan Ronald," Ronald took his hand in a steady grip, "Good name, Steve, strong name. Not like most of your kind. Met another X-something of other once, called himself Peanut. Said it was the first thing he ate after Manticore went up, if you can imagine that."
Bullet silently congratulated himself on having the sagacity to use his assumed name in introductions. Not that Ronald struck him as the sort of man to hold unfortunate nicknames against a person; he had heard the messenger population refer to him as "Normal" more than once in the short time he'd spent observing the man. But he also seemed practical, traditional. Bullet could appreciate that.
"How many are with you?" he asked.
"Five, sir, including myself."
"Five of you traveling together?" Ronald cocked his head, "Why would you come here, to Seattle?"
"Is that unusual sir?"
"I would say so. Most of the transgenics I've seen are traveling alone. You know it's dangerous out there."
"I know, sir. It was not my decision to come, but the group I'm...my fam…" Bullet stuttered to a stop. He realized, for the first time, that he had never put a proper name to his group of companions. They weren't his unit, and 'family' seemed…presumptuous. His lack of a satisfactory response had him momentarily reeling, the feeling hitting him low in the stomach.
"That's all right son," Ronald said, "It's important you ban together, times like these. Can't imagine why your friends would want to throw themselves headfirst into the fire, but if they're determined, there's no shame in standing by them."
"It's Max," Bullet replied, "and Alec. They helped us escape after…they helped us. When we saw what was happening, we had to come."
At the mention of the two transgenics, Ronald's face lit up.
"You know my Golden Boy?" the man exclaimed, "The best bike messenger to ever grace these streets? The pure paradigm of transgenic perfection? Well, you know what they say, any friend of Alec's…"
Ronald reached out to pound on Bullet's back lightly. He took a moment, presumably to bask in his joy at this mention of Alec, before allowing his effervescent smile to slide off his face.
"I suppose you've heard what happened, then?"
Bullet nodded, questioned, "It was White, wasn't it? The 'unnamed government agent' who attacked him?"
"Yeah, yeah. He's gone now, good riddance. But my Golden Boy," Ronald looked around the room aimlessly, in an effort to avoid eye contact, "a few of my miscreants keep me informed about his progress. They don't think...
You know, when the news first started to report about you and your lot, they made you sound indestructible. That hold up we had here a while back, my boy got shot not fifteen feet from where we stand, and you never would have known it. He was so strong and fearless, an icon of beauty and bravery, a beacon of hope in the dark for cold, lost travelers to follow."
The man sighed romantically. Bullet fought to keep his mouth from flapping open. He thought back to his memories of Alec, though a haze of pain tempered them. The transgenic of his memory had tried to warn them. He had helped tend to Bullet's wound and helped to free Max after she was taken, but he was far from the picture of selfless virtue Ronald painted.
"What about Max?" he asked.
Ronald harrumphed in reply, "Missy Miss redefines tardiness, has no respect for authority, no interest in job security. Now she's one of the leaders of a race of genetically engineered assassins. Can't decide if I should be a proud papa, or worried about the fate of the Greater Seattle area."
"Sir? You were going to tell me how to get into Terminal City?"
Ronald nodded absently, and reached for a pen and paper from the desktop. He scribbled a name and number, before handing it to Bullet.
"There you go. Just remember to burn it when you're finished," Ronald said firmly. He waved Bullet in the direction of the door, effectively dismissing him. He didn't even raise his eyes to watch him leave.
It occurred to Bullet that Reagan Ronald was upset. He considered questioning the man, but it was not in his nature to be very curious, and he wasn't about to start now. He was halfway out the door before the answer came to him, unbidden. Ronald was jealous. He wanted to go to Terminal City; to check on his "golden boy", to test Max's leadership skills. He probably even wanted to visit the child the news reports claimed he helped to deliver.
Bullet headed into the open street, shaking his head in befuddlement. He may have come to terms with his own puzzling allegiance to his…group, family, unit, whatever, but that didn't bring him any closer to understanding the dynamics of human relationship. He was beginning to think he never would.
He stopped several feet from the curb, and looked down at the paper Ronald had given him. A name and number stared back at him, completely innocuous scratches of ink. Logan Cale- it read, and Bullet recognized the name. He couldn't move on this alone.
He slid the paper into his back pocket, and headed home.
Author: miashay
Characters: Ralph, Zero, Fixit, Bullet and Bugler (the kids from 2-2)
Ratings/Warnings: PG-13
Word Count: 1569
Summary: The kids drag a reluctant Bullet to Seattle, he offers to find help.
1
Contact, Part 1
Terminal City was a rat hole, a radioactive cesspool. It was not suitable for human habitation, and Bullet hated it on first sight.
------------------------------------------
The entire trip to Seattle had been an exercise in restraint.
The prospect of joining their fellow transgenics did not appeal to Bullet in the least. In fact, he found the idea pointless and irresponsible, but he had already pled his case and lost. Fixit was the only member of their makeshift family who seemed to agree with him, but one short talk with Zero later, and she was helping to pack and offering to drive the second shift.
Ralph was, of course, overjoyed. Her enthusiasm infected the rest of them, made them reckless and emotional, driven by this unfathomable loyalty to their transgenic brethren, till he was the only one left capable of critical thinking. Bullet bit his tongue, and tried to keep his complaints to a minimum.
He already knew he would never willingly leave them. The past year had bound the group of transgenics together more tightly than Manticore had ever been capable of doing. Of course, the strengthening of those ties merely ramped up his protective instinct, the impulse that urged him to collect his four companions and shield them from the world. Knowingly walking into a hostile situation, for the sake of misplaced kinship and fellow feeling, was almost too much to ask.
Once they reached the city, their excitement reached a fever pitch, and his patience bottomed out. He offered to find a contact to smuggle them into Terminal City, if only to get some time alone to think.
After walking aimlessly for much of the afternoon (as they had driven through the night in well into morning to reach Seattle), he headed towards the one place he was sure to find at least one transgenic sympathizer.
------------------------------------------
Jam Pony was just as dirty and run down in person as it looked on television. Bullet walked inside, working to appear casual, and immediately locked in on the man he was looking for.
Reagan Ronald was an ordinary looking man, carefully sculpted hair tampered down by his headset, eyeglasses sliding down his nose, as he peeked over their dark frames to reprimand a whining employee. Despite his overt loyalty to the transgenic cause, Ronald's business was steady, based on the piles of packages and scads of messengers milling about. He struck Bullet as a no-nonsense, yet sensible authority. If the man's regular exclamations were any indication (something that sounded like "bip bip"), he also appreciated promptness and haste. Bullet liked him immediately.
"Mr. Ronald," he called out, approaching the man, "I was hoping for a minute of your time?"
"No interviews," Ronald replied, without so much as glancing in Bullet's direction, "and no jobs. I already have enough unruly vagrants under my employ to last me to the end of days…Hey, Sector 7, bip bip!"
Bullet stepped closer, and examined the man in front him again. From this proximity, the lines of stress were more visible on Ronald's face, the slight darkening around his eyes and pinched corners of his mouth recognizable. They were the same things Bullet found every time he faced a mirror, signs of worry and anxiety.
"Mr. Ronald," he tried again, "Sir, I'm not a reporter, or looking for a job. I was hoping you could help me? Us?"
The soft inquiry caught the man's attention, and he turned away from his work in time to see Bullet gesture to the nape of his neck. The change in Ronald's behavior was astounding. He glanced over Bullet quickly and thoroughly, as if searching for signs of injury. When he found none, he waved him to the entrance of the cage, and the back office.
"Come on son," he finally replied, "we'll get you worked out."
He barked out a few more "bips", before leading Bullet inside his office, and shutting the door.
"I take it you're one of them, then?" he asked, pointing to Bullet's neck.
"I'm an X6," he answered, and offered his hand, "Steve Parker."
"Reagan Ronald," Ronald took his hand in a steady grip, "Good name, Steve, strong name. Not like most of your kind. Met another X-something of other once, called himself Peanut. Said it was the first thing he ate after Manticore went up, if you can imagine that."
Bullet silently congratulated himself on having the sagacity to use his assumed name in introductions. Not that Ronald struck him as the sort of man to hold unfortunate nicknames against a person; he had heard the messenger population refer to him as "Normal" more than once in the short time he'd spent observing the man. But he also seemed practical, traditional. Bullet could appreciate that.
"How many are with you?" he asked.
"Five, sir, including myself."
"Five of you traveling together?" Ronald cocked his head, "Why would you come here, to Seattle?"
"Is that unusual sir?"
"I would say so. Most of the transgenics I've seen are traveling alone. You know it's dangerous out there."
"I know, sir. It was not my decision to come, but the group I'm...my fam…" Bullet stuttered to a stop. He realized, for the first time, that he had never put a proper name to his group of companions. They weren't his unit, and 'family' seemed…presumptuous. His lack of a satisfactory response had him momentarily reeling, the feeling hitting him low in the stomach.
"That's all right son," Ronald said, "It's important you ban together, times like these. Can't imagine why your friends would want to throw themselves headfirst into the fire, but if they're determined, there's no shame in standing by them."
"It's Max," Bullet replied, "and Alec. They helped us escape after…they helped us. When we saw what was happening, we had to come."
At the mention of the two transgenics, Ronald's face lit up.
"You know my Golden Boy?" the man exclaimed, "The best bike messenger to ever grace these streets? The pure paradigm of transgenic perfection? Well, you know what they say, any friend of Alec's…"
Ronald reached out to pound on Bullet's back lightly. He took a moment, presumably to bask in his joy at this mention of Alec, before allowing his effervescent smile to slide off his face.
"I suppose you've heard what happened, then?"
Bullet nodded, questioned, "It was White, wasn't it? The 'unnamed government agent' who attacked him?"
"Yeah, yeah. He's gone now, good riddance. But my Golden Boy," Ronald looked around the room aimlessly, in an effort to avoid eye contact, "a few of my miscreants keep me informed about his progress. They don't think...
You know, when the news first started to report about you and your lot, they made you sound indestructible. That hold up we had here a while back, my boy got shot not fifteen feet from where we stand, and you never would have known it. He was so strong and fearless, an icon of beauty and bravery, a beacon of hope in the dark for cold, lost travelers to follow."
The man sighed romantically. Bullet fought to keep his mouth from flapping open. He thought back to his memories of Alec, though a haze of pain tempered them. The transgenic of his memory had tried to warn them. He had helped tend to Bullet's wound and helped to free Max after she was taken, but he was far from the picture of selfless virtue Ronald painted.
"What about Max?" he asked.
Ronald harrumphed in reply, "Missy Miss redefines tardiness, has no respect for authority, no interest in job security. Now she's one of the leaders of a race of genetically engineered assassins. Can't decide if I should be a proud papa, or worried about the fate of the Greater Seattle area."
"Sir? You were going to tell me how to get into Terminal City?"
Ronald nodded absently, and reached for a pen and paper from the desktop. He scribbled a name and number, before handing it to Bullet.
"There you go. Just remember to burn it when you're finished," Ronald said firmly. He waved Bullet in the direction of the door, effectively dismissing him. He didn't even raise his eyes to watch him leave.
It occurred to Bullet that Reagan Ronald was upset. He considered questioning the man, but it was not in his nature to be very curious, and he wasn't about to start now. He was halfway out the door before the answer came to him, unbidden. Ronald was jealous. He wanted to go to Terminal City; to check on his "golden boy", to test Max's leadership skills. He probably even wanted to visit the child the news reports claimed he helped to deliver.
Bullet headed into the open street, shaking his head in befuddlement. He may have come to terms with his own puzzling allegiance to his…group, family, unit, whatever, but that didn't bring him any closer to understanding the dynamics of human relationship. He was beginning to think he never would.
He stopped several feet from the curb, and looked down at the paper Ronald had given him. A name and number stared back at him, completely innocuous scratches of ink. Logan Cale- it read, and Bullet recognized the name. He couldn't move on this alone.
He slid the paper into his back pocket, and headed home.