MACHINE POWER - Chapter One - V

V scrolled slowly.

“‘Around a hundred young people across the country that were previously thought missing or dead turned up when this compound was evacuated,’ Detective Rue Callan of the PPB told me on Wednesday when we went to visit the site together, ‘and of course, the leaders of the project are nowhere to be found. And we have certain information about them, like the roles in the project, but not their identities. We’re still looking, but so far, we don’t know what they look like, what their motive was, what caused the evacuation, or where they went after it happened.’ The only information we do have comes from the few reports that an escapee managed to grab on the way out, when they were sent away. What is on the reports is now common knowledge, available for anyone to Google. But not everyone can stomach it.”

The article was about him.

Him, and the others.

“The one thing they all have in common is that they all have the power to control any machinery with a digital or electronic element, via nodes embedded in their skin at the top of their heads. To get this power, though, they had to go through a literal hell. They were treated like prisoners, and tortured physically and psychologically until they’d break down and fall in line. They were even forced, at times, to torture and kill each other. Most of them began trauma bonding with one of the project leaders, and called him ‘Dad,’ and are to this day intensely triggered by any criticism of him, despite his horrifying treatment of all of them.” 

“Some of the young people, referred to by the project’s leaders as ‘Upgrades,’ were chosen for their mental prowess and strength, and so there were a few who were physically disabled or were slightly weak in one limb. Their ‘Dad’ amputated these Upgrades, and gave them advanced, lightweight skeletal enhancements and prosthetics that enabled them to jump as high as the tallest basketball players no matter their own height, as well as fight with a seemingly disproportionate amount of force. All of the Upgrades were kept in cells until they were deemed trustworthy, and then moved to dormitories and given ‘freedoms.’ One of these freedoms was the ability to choose even more body modifications for themselves, for cosmetic purposes. Many of the Upgrades got tattoos, many more dyed their hair, those with prosthetics were able to choose even newer materials, and a few of them had their canines sharpened.”

V reached up with his right hand to touch the skin underneath his right eye, where his small tattoo of a thick black heart was, and smiled, revealing two pointed teeth among the normal ones.

“But only the most trustworthy, most strong, and most obedient were able to maintain their higher status. Even after all the ‘progress’ they had made, if one of them failed, they would be killed in front of the others. Despite how horrifying this must’ve been, all any of them will say about their years in the compound is this one phrase: ‘He did us all 1,000 favors.’”

“He did us all 1,000 favors.” V repeated, still smiling, and then continued reading.

“‘You might think that with their special powers, body modifications, and mental illnesses combined, that these people might be dangerous.’ says therapist Hugh Rose, who was given permission by his client, Vivian Akeldama, to speak to us, ‘and they certainly could be, but they don’t have to be. My client, who goes by V, has been traumatized to the point where he’s actively, consistently trying to detach himself from reality. It’s going to take a long time for him to get grounded again, but he’s not a danger to anyone as long as he’s happy, comfortable, and stimulated. The danger is over, he doesn’t have to hurt others to survive anymore. I don’t think he ever wanted to.”

V clicked out of the article, having skimmed the rest of it. He didn’t need to read all that. He was there for it. And besides, it wasn’t as bad as they said it was. It wasn’t bad at all, not if you liked playing with all the toys they provided for you. And V had liked it. He reminisced for a second on the fun he’d had with those toys.

And then he looked beyond the small screen of his phone.

His old friend Sal had taken to the stage.

The cool night air blew past him, refreshing him, reminding him of his place among the small crowd there in the small outdoor venue.

This is what he’d come to see.

Sal was the guitarist and lead singer for a local indie band.

Sal, with bright emeralds for eyes, with curly hair as dark and warm as a stormy tropical ocean. Which seemed to fit her personality, a core of love and light and righteous anger under a cracked facade of rigid coolness. Sal, Stormy Sal.

“Hey, everyone,” She spoke into the microphone gently but firmly, her voice smooth, and a little rhythmic, like rain, “We are Youthpaste. Welcome to our backyard.”

It’d been two and a half months since V arrived back at home, and two months since that article had been written. This was his first outing. All those weeks before, no one had felt safe with V out of the house.

V still felt that Dad had done him a favor. 

After all, that’s the one thing they all agreed on, no matter how they felt about him. He remembered being huddled with the other Upgrades from the facility in his dorm, having invited them all in for a party, when their Dad came in and began shouting at them. One of the Upgrades, a young one, who’d just graduated to the upper class and given freedoms, suddenly started struggling against the guards that night and tried to leave. They were caught, obviously, but the older Upgrades were supposed to keep an eye on the younger ones, and report strange or suspicious behavior. And tonight, for the past week, really, the older Upgrades had failed. They’d grown too tender-hearted, too used to the young one’s sentimentality and hesitation. They’d have to do better, otherwise they’d grow weak, too. And then suddenly, their Dad left the room. The shouting was over. The young one crawled over to a corner, fresh from having been beaten, and began to cry. But then it was suggested to them that instead of being bitter, or disappointed, they should be grateful. He’d done them all 1,000 favors, after all. The young one lifted up their prosthetic right arm, made a fist with it, thinking of their new ability, and slowly, nodded. And then they all echoed, a chorus of quiet voices sounding off through the room, he’d done them all 1,000 favors.

V, reliving this, shuddered and lifted his own prosthetic left arm, and curled his left hand into a fist. And then the song started. The bass was heavy, and repetitive, and strong. The drum beats were like an army’s. 

V described Sal as an old friend, but was somehow struck by a bolt of lightning when she began to sing.

“Nobody likes me,” She crooned, “nobody cares, and so I wander off feeling, the heat of their stares.”

Nobody likes my bunny rabbit, the little plush on my chain, chained to my belt,

Nobody likes my bunny rabbit, but it promises to protect me, from the heat that’d melt

If I unchained it, it’d come for my neck, but I’ve got under lock and key an inch from my strong arm

Oh, to replace human affection, with a fluffy little harbinger, but that’d do me no harm

But it’s got rules, you know,

It’s got my taste, you know,

I have to let it bleed me sometime or it’ll show

The world that I have nobody

Nobody, nobody, nobody

Nobody like me

Nobody likes me...

V knew he was powerful. V knew he owed this power, and the way he saw people, to his Dad. The truth was, V still saw most human people as toys, and wasn’t ashamed of it, but maybe, just maybe, he wanted to start playing a different game. He’d invited Sal over out of desperation, after having one nightmare too many about the time before his own graduation. His subconscious was putting him through the wringer. His subconscious gave him his memories and feelings back, for a short time, and each time, he woke up in darkness with his heart pounding. During the day, he could think of all the people he’d injured and murdered, and he’d smile, wanly. But at night, in his dreams, just the face of one person as it was dying was enough for him to wake up, shaking and screaming. Sometimes it was his own face he was seeing, not quite dying, but contorted, in agony, and when he looked down at himself, he saw different hands, that were never his.

His memories and feelings weren’t all there, all the time, they were scattered, across the space and time in his brain. That’s what his therapist had agreed with him on, when he’d tried to articulate it; that different parts of him might ground themselves before other parts.

So, all in all, V didn’t know how to feel. 

About his powers, about not being able to use them now that he wasn’t being treated as a weapon, which he never minded, and sometimes even missed, about the Facility, about his Dad. 

V didn’t know how to feel, but although the two may often correlate, feelings are different than the actions one takes, and V knew exactly what actions to take. Simply put, he knew what he had to do, even though he didn’t know how he felt about it.

And V could tell, when he looked at Sal, that unlike most other people, Sal wasn’t a toy. Sal was another player. For his plan to work, he needed her. He needed her, her support, her intelligence, her talent. 

Her other talent. 

Sal was gifted at two things, and the second thing was shooting.

So, once the last song was over, and some of the crowd had cleared away to let the band members down from the stage, V strolled over to Sal, took her arm, and led her over to a corner of the yard no one was near.

Sal normally just nodded and thanked them, almost passively, when people told her what a good job she did.

But now, when V spoke, her eyebrows lifted, and then furrowed, and she was listening with rapt attention.

“Sal. It’s been so long since I’ve seen you. But I can say this with total confidence, that when I’m with you, it’s the only time that I feel close to whole. Your voice...was amazing, that was amazing. And, and, I need your help.”

“With what?”

“The man who was in charge of my kidnapping, the man who took away every part of me and replaced them with new, arguably better parts, he’s still around. He’s still alive. His name is Dr. Walter Hendrickson. He’s who we called Dad. The compound we lived in was evacuated because of an accidental explosion that released a toxic gas. He had us leave, and he had the compound destroyed to hide most of the evidence, for our immediate safety, but he told us he was just playing cat and mouse, a long game. He told us that we could have a taste of our old lives back, if we cared to, but that once he found a proper home for us, he would come collect us again. Don’t tell anyone else, and don’t look him up, he’ll find you sooner than you’ll find him. I don’t know where the new base is going to be, but once he has us together again, he won’t let us leave, not for anything. This year was supposed to be the year we were shown off to the military as weapons, and our abilities officially tested. He’s going to collect us all soon, me, and all the others from the first go-round. But the thing is, my pal Cannonball, who would make a great military weapon, texted me recently, and told me he just got reunited with his mother, and helped her escape from his abusive father. The young but fierce prodigy we all wanted to protect, Runt, moved back to his parents’ farm, and has settled for using target practice with a bow and arrow as an outlet for his more violent tendencies. And I came back to you. I don’t want to be alone again. None of us want to be collected again. And if he sees we won’t cooperate, he’ll have us all disposed of, sooner or later. But there is a way to catch him off guard, and that is to join forces against him, and end his reign, end his life, before he restarts his collection. I don’t know that I hate him, I don’t know how I feel about him, personally, but I don’t want to be collected again, or disposed of, either. And I’m done fighting for other people. I only want to fight for myself, and the people that let me feel close to whole. So he needs to be stopped. I need to get to the others and recruit them before he does. Will you help me?”

V was not expecting to hear a “Yes” so immediately.

But Sal wasn’t shocked, or even surprised.

Sal was enraged, on his behalf, in a quiet way. She held V’s face in her hand, and nodded, determinedly.

“I will help you. Of course I will. I will help you end that man’s life, because he ended your life. You’re only now just getting it back. I’m surprised you even came to the show. And I won’t leave you. You won’t ever be alone. Ever. We’ll keep each other safe, no matter what. Don’t worry.”

“I never said I was worried.”

“Oh, you idiot. Sorry, I didn’t mean that. You’re not an idiot. You’re definitely not an idiot. But I’m not sentimental or even emotional very often. Can’t you tell this means I like you?”

And then Sal, her quiet rage replaced by concern and then determination and finally resigned amusement, leaned forward and kissed V on the nose.

V had a girlfriend, now, he guessed.

V didn’t know how to feel about this, either. 

But he felt even closer to whole.

And not only did he have a girlfriend, he supposed, he had his first ally.

He might very well have a chance.

. . .

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