Interlude 16

Armsmaster woke with a start, his heart pounding in his chest. Pain lingered across his body and the world around him was a blur of lights. He could hear voices talking in the distance, but they were muffled and indistinct. The last thing he remembered was a flash of light from the sky.

Reaching out, he tried to steady himself as the ground lurched and a pair of large metal hands reached for him.

"Easy there," a deep voice rumbled, and he was gently, but firmly, guided back onto a seat. "You've had quite a day. Give yourself a moment."

Taking a deep breath, Armsmaster tried to focus. He'd been on his bike, there was a fight… the images slipped from his grasp like mist and the world came into focus.

He was sitting on a large stool in what could only be described as a bar. Around him were tables and chairs, the walls were lined with booths.

Music was playing from somewhere, but it was mostly drowned out by the chatter of the patrons. The walls were metal and painted in black and a rusty orange, with large mounted screens dotted around. Currently, they were showing some kind of sports event, the rules of which seemed completely alien to Armsmaster.

It all seemed so normal, so human, that it took him a long time to realise that almost everything, including the people, were made of metal. .

"Where-" His voice rasped, his throat felt like he'd swallowed glass, and he choked on air for a moment. "Where am I?"

"You're here," the voice said cheerfully, and Armsmaster turned his head to glare at the mech.

He was large, almost spherical, with thick limbs, and glass on his chest. His glowing eyes were hidden by goggle-like lenses, but his expression was friendly.

"Sorry." The mech laughed and placed a large glass filled with a glowing liquid on the counter. "I couldn't resist. I'm Maccadam and this is my Oil House.."

Armsmaster stared at the drink, poking the glass with his finger. He'd seen that particular shade of electric blue before in Dragon's base. Matrix had called it Energon and he was certain it wasn't safe to drink.

"How did I get here?"

Maccadam shrugged. "Well, I figured if the others were going to interfere, I might as well help out. Go ahead, it's safe."

Armsmaster looked at him sideways, then back at the glass. He was sitting in an unknown bar, in an unknown location, in full armour. Nothing about this situation made sense.

Tapping his armour, he was surprised when all systems came online, including the built in spectrometer. It wasn't fool-proof — imperfections in the lenses and dust in the air reduced its effectiveness — but when he scanned the drink, nothing toxic was found.

Though he was sure he'd never programmed the system to describe a material as 'wholesome and hearty, with a floral bouquet'.

With a shrug, he picked up the glass and took a sip. It was like drinking lightning, and he could feel his beard standing on end. Beyond that was a smokey taste that almost put him in mind of a good whiskey from his collection.

"What do you think?" Maccadam said, handing a similar glass to a small green and white mech with what looked like a metal beard.

The mech, noticing Armsmaster's gaze, raised his glass in salute, and Armsmaster was hit with the strangest sense of camaraderie. He nodded to the mech politely, turning back to Maccadam as the mech returned to his friends.

"It's… pleasant," he admitted to the barman.

"It should be," Maccadam said with a laugh, "it took me 1985.5 tries to make."

Armsmaster quirked an eyebrow. "Point five?

"Yes," Maccadam said with a frown, "not sure what happened there. I'm sure you know what it's like — you mix this with that, look away for a moment only to look back and find your room has an extra dimension."

Chuckling, Armsmaster took another sip. "It's been known to happen, yes."

That had been one of his more interesting failures and he'd never been able to replicate it. Relaxing slightly and looking to distract himself from the dull pain in his chest, Armsmaster turned slightly to take in the room.

Most of the patrons were blurry, indistinct, but one or two stand out, like the small green and white bot with the metal beard from before and the young couple sitting in the booth by the door.

Armsmaster almost choked on his drink at the sight of them. Unlike the others, they were human. The two women were sitting there, laughing over their drinks. They looked to be in their twenties, or there about. One of them was tall, with dark, curly, hair. The other was smaller, with short frizzy hair.

Without thinking, Armsmaster stood up, only for a hand to land on his shoulder.

"Best not," Maccadam said quietly, a hint of steel in his voice. "Those two have earned a rest, don't you think?"

"But…" Frowning, he let himself be pushed back to his stall, the question dying on his lips.

"Ah, time here is a bit… loose. Let me tell you, it's amazing how much work you can get done when your office has its own time-zone."

Frowning at the comment, Armsmaster turned his back to the couple and focused on his drink as Maccadam refilled the glass.

"I must say," the mech said, giving him a searching look, "you've had quite the day yourself. Why don't you tell me about it?"

"I'm not sure what you mean…"

"It started with your name and face being plastered everywhere, right?"

##

Stifling a groan, Colin rubbed his forehead in an effort to push back the headache.

"What a mess," he muttered to himself, almost wishing he could just dump it all on someone else and let them handle it.

He couldn't, of course. He was the team leader after all and what happened to the people under his command was his responsibility.

Finishing the form, he saved the file, opened a blank template and started again.

While unconventional, the PRT and Protectorate were still, basically, a police force, and like all law enforcement, they generated paperwork by the mile. The only saving grace was that the shift towards digital meant they no longer had to do everything in triplicate.

But still, the forms were endless. Forms for arrests, forms for fights, forms for being unmasked in a fight; at home, in public. There was even a form for being 'unmasked while on the toilet'.

On a nearby screen, there was a news report from outside Parian's shop. Someone, likely the Empire, had set it on fire when they had been unable to find the cape herself.

His terminal beeped with a connection request from Dragon and he didn't hesitate to hit the accept button.

"Colin, how are you holding up?" A small window appeared on the screen and the digitally generated image of Tess looked at him, concern clear on her face.

"Did you know there wasn't a form for 'my entire team was just unmasked by a PRT supervisor who was acting under the influence of a master effect?" he grumbled.

"Yes there is." She leaned closer to the camera and smiled. "You just have to fill out a dozen other forms to get it."

His lips twitched, but before he could smile, the news report showed a body bag being carried out of a building. The reporter identified the body as Dustup, an indie hero who went quiet some time ago.

"I'm sorry, Colin. Did you know her?"

"No, we never met. I think Hannah tried to recruit her as they had similar backgrounds, but she went into hiding…"

"With good reason it seems. Colin, I think you should know, there's a lot of complaints online. Rogues and independents are worried that the PRT has been spying on them, trying to unmask them regardless of the 'rules'."

"Of course we have," Colin snorted, "the rules have always been a polite fiction at best and you know it. You helped design a lot of the systems used to unmask them."

"Yes," Tess said, a slight edge to her voice. "But not by choice, and I argued against their use most of the time. Unmasking villains is one thing, but other heroes?"

"It's not like we could count on them staying heroes. Too many of them had friends and family that could be used against them."

While the smaller groups would act like they were playing a high stakes game of cops and robbers, the larger organisations understood that they were at war.

Most of them would never publicly attempt to unmask a hero or make any threats that could be tracked back to them. But in private, they wouldn't think twice about tracking down another capes identity if the opportunity presented itself. It had happened in the past; it was why so many independent heroes suddenly vanished or switched sides, so the PRT had to be ready to respond when it happened.

Sitting back in his chair, Colin picked up a discarded prototype and turned it over in his hands, small panels sliding under his fingers, and he toyed with it.

"They knew the risks," he muttered, mostly to himself. Maybe if he said it enough, he'd believe it. Realistically, he knew, this was just one more thing that would haunt him, just one more thing to add to his lists of failures, to spend his time thinking about what he could have done differently.

It was a small mercy that no one under his command had gotten hurt. He'd been able to get the Wards off the streets before the fighting started, while most of the Protectorate had already been on base.

"Not everyone can join the Protectorate, Colin." Dragon's voice was hard and her digital image was glaring at him. "It was certainly never an option for me."

Blinking, Colin looked up from the device. "Wait-

"Look, it's time for my meeting, I'll see you later."

Her image vanished and Colin swore, mentally going over everything he'd said that might have upset her.

##

"… I fucked that up, didn't I?" Armsmaster muttered

"Ah well, I'm sure once things have a chance to calm down, you can apologise," Maccadam said, sending a glass sliding along the bar to another customer. "Not all of us can be good with people. Goodness knows I've stepped in it more than once."

Looking at the large, affable mech, Armsmaster doubted that. He'd only known Maccadam a short time and it was nearly impossible to picture him accidentally insulting his friends. Sighing, he stared into his drink.

"I guess… I guess I never really learned… people."

"No family?" Maccadam asked quietly.

"No, not really. My dad worked two jobs, my mother traveled and I barely saw either of them." Even when they divorced, nothing really changed. He wasn't sure if he resented them or not. They had looked after him, but they were so focused on their own dreams that there had never really been room for him.

"It can be harsh for a child," Maccadam said softly, an undercurrent of understanding without pity in his voice. "Growing up alone."

"I did alright…" The words sounded hollow, even to him. "I didn't need much in the way of attention or friends. I was free to travel and move around whenever I felt like it."

Even before he'd triggered, his life had been fairly spartan. He'd been proud of it. He could just pack up and go whenever the mood took him, no ties, no roots. It had been an asset when he joined the Protectorate; he'd had no trouble relocating as needed, never had to worry about friends or family being threatened or put in harm's way.

"Except," Maccadam prompted.

"Except… maybe I missed out on something. Maybe if I'd tried harder, I'd know how to deal with people better…"

"You're too hard on yourself. I'd say you did alright in the end."

"Oh really?" Armsmaster snapped, his grip tightening on the handle of his glass as he glared at the mech. "Fifteen years of hard work, and what did it get me? No close friends, no family, not even respect."

"They came, didn't they?"

##

"What do you mean, 'Stand down?!'" It took all of his self control not to shout, yet Pelkins still flinched, his eyes fixed to the floor.

"The last orders we received from head office were to withdraw and wait for orders!" Pelkins whined, wringing his hands. "Until that changes, the Protectorate is to remain on lockdown..."

"Does HQ even know what's going on here?" Armsmaster waved at the window, where smoke could be seen in the distance. The Autobot distress call was repeating constantly on every channel it could.

"Of course they do!" Pelkins cringed. "I spoke to them as soon as the fighting started. I told them that the gangs were fighting one of the city's independent groups!"

Armsmaster stared, open mouthed at the man. "That's it?! That's all you told them?" It was true, but it was like saying the ocean is a bit wet — a massive understatement.

"This isn't some streetside brawl," Armsmaster ground out. "It's a warzone out there! You need to give the order to move in while there is still a city to save!"

"No! Until we hear from the head office, you are all to remain here!" Pelkins tried to glare at him, "For all we know this is a distraction so they can attack this building!"

Breathing deep, Armsmaster wanted to strangle the irritating little bureaucrat. Instead, he pushed the impulse down and straightened up. Spinning on his heel, he marched out of the room and into the elevator.

He wanted to hate Pelkins — god knows the man made it easy — but that was as pointless as hating the rain.

Pelkins wasn't a leader, just a high ranking clerk that was in over his head. He didn't know how to do anything but follow orders.

The PRT had been hemorrhaging people ever since Leviathan. People were transferring out, trying to find positions in cities that weren't half flooded or destroyed by monsters. Those who couldn't transfer were outright quitting.

Then the leak had happened and nearly half the buildings staff had refused to come in. They didn't feel safe, they didn't trust the Protectorate or the PRT anymore.

So now, until a new director could be appointed and new staff brought in, Pelkins had been assigned to deal with the day to day running of the PRT and, in turn, the Protectorate.

As the elevator doors closed, Armsmaster glanced at his HUD. He still couldn't get a connection to Dragon. Whatever she was dealing with, it had her full attention.

If he couldn't reach Dragon, then maybe he could go around Pelkin and contact head office himself.

But even if he did that, they wouldn't react immediately. Head office would have to investigate, see how bad the situation was, then come to a decision and then relay those orders back to him through proper channels.

News stations were likely already scrambling to get footage, but it would take minutes for that to reach a national level, plus a few more for orders to get relayed…

'It will be too late by then.'

Tapping his radio, Armsmaster pinged his team.

*What's the word boss?* Assault was the first to reply, all humour gone from his voice. *We're moving in?*

"Official orders are to 'await further orders'."

*You're kidding!*

"I wish… tell everyone to gear up and be ready for deployment. For now, we're on standby…"

As he cut the line, the Autobot distress signal repeated again.

"... fuck it." Without looking, he slammed his fist into the button for the underground parking lot.

He was surprised, when the doors opened, to find his team waiting for him.

"You should see your face," Battery said with a laugh, the lights of her costume glowing as she built up a charge.

"You never were subtle." Miss Militia sighed, but he could tell she was smiling.

"What are you doing here?" Discreetly, he shifted his weight, ready to fight his way out if necessary.

Assault leaned against his wife. "The same as you, Hal-beard — our job. Now are we going or not?"

Despite himself, Armsmaster smiled. "Yes, we are."

A block later, the world vanished in a blast of light.

##

"Sounds like friendship to me," Maccadam said with a nod. "And they respected you enough to follow you to the end."

"Some end," Armsmaster snorted. "I doubt any of us will have a job after that… assuming we're all still alive?

Maccadam shook his head with a wry smile. "Nice try, but I'm afraid my view of your world is limited. I couldn't tell you what happened even if I wanted to. Now finish your drink, it's almost time to go."

'Hmm'ing to himself, Armsmaster looked past Maccadam, his eyes falling on the large golden warhammer that was mounted on the wall behind the bar as the world around him faded away.

"Oh, one last thing," Maccadam called. "Try to be more honest with yourself and don't forget to say 'sorry'!"

##

Dragon's voice was the first thing he heard when he awoke. Almost every part of him ached, but the pain was dull, far away and half imagined. When he opened his eyes, his vision was a blur of colours that slowly resolved themself into Dragon.

Her real body was sitting next to his bed, her wings tucked tightly against her back, though she still towered over him.

"Welcome back." She leaned forward as she spoke, her voice gentle. This close, he could see fresh, unpainted welds across her face and body.

"You're—" He coughed, the pain in his throat making him choke on air.

"Careful!" Reaching past him, Dragon snatched up a glass that looked tiny in her hands and held it towards him, angling the straw so he could reach it without tipping the glass. "Take small sips."

The cool water soothed his throat enough that he was able to croak out the words. "You're hurt?"

"It's not as bad as it looks. I'm better than you, anyway. Your heart stopped four times on the operating table. The rest of your team were injured, but the armoured transport took the worst of the blast."

"Lucky me," he groaned. He turned his head and saw a small bedside table sat next to his bed, practically overflowing with 'get well' cards.

"From the Wards, Autobots... everyone really."

There was even a large bottle of whiskey. That had to be from Hannah; she was the only one who knew he enjoyed it from time to time.

"How long was I out?"

"Nearly a week. Colin." She put a hand on his chest to stop him sitting up, but the movement shifted the blanked enough that he could see what appeared to be white plastic. "You were badly hurt and Panacea couldn't get to you in time, we had-"

He was barely listening to her as he brought an arm up. It was heavy, the movement slow and clumsy, but it was enough for him to see the dull white material that made up his arm. He stared at it in fascination, even as ideas for improvements filled his mind.

"What happened?"

"You were taken back to the PRT building, I told the onsite doctors what to do to keep you alive while using a 3D printer to make most of the parts. The parts won't last. All of this is prototype stuff. Some of it was already outdated but it was the best I could do with the onsite printer."

Without even thinking about it, Colin brought his 'hand' down on hers and gave it a squeeze.

"It's okay," he said, realising that in that moment, he meant it.

"They're temporary, but once you were stable, it was decided that we would need to wait for you to wake up and make a decision. We can make better prosthetics if you want? Or Panacea said she'd be willing to help heal you. Otherwise, I'm afraid you're going to need to go under the knife a few times."

"I don't know." He blinked, trying to get some of the blurriness out of his vision. "I think I can make the cyborg look work, don't you?"

"You probably could, but take some time to think about it. Either way, it will take sometime to get everything ready."

"I suppose you're right." Sighing, he sunk into his pillow. He was just starting to relax when a thought came to him. "What happened to my armour?"

"Ruined, I'm afraid."

"Fuck." He ignored her laugh. "It's going to take months to rebuild it."

She leaned forward, clearly amused as a hologram appeared in the palm of her hand and he stared at it in fascination. It was a large suit of armour that connected to a smaller inner suit.

"I think we can go one better. Taylor designed this a while ago as an upgrade to her armour, but shelved the design after Leviathan. I think we could make it work for you. She called it the "Magnus Armour'."

Colin couldn't help but smile. "Does it come in blue?"

AN: chapter written under commission

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