Chapter Text
Two weeks into a mystery and the answer was so close, he could hear it in the wind.
Or maybe that was the helicopter touching down from Central Command, with an
actual answer
for once.
His higher-ups had told him that they were rush-adding a new soldier to the company. They were real hush-hush about it, refusing to even share information with a general of the United States armed forces. Hubert C. Galeforce was ridiculously high up on the chain of command, so if his superiors weren’t telling him anything, it had to be real goddamn secret.
He didn’t want to admit it, but Galeforce was both anticipating and dreading the reveal of this new grunt. Was it someone he had to toss to the sergeants so they’d get whipped into shape? Were they going to be fit for duty at all, or was this another one of those shot-in-the-dark ‘miracle bullet’ strategies that had clearly almost not worked out for Galeforce himself in the past?
(To this day he didn’t understand why Henry had chosen to cooperate instead of just betraying the man responsible for kidnapping him in the dead of night before forcing him into an ultimatum that boiled down to ‘bust this organized crime group or never be free’. It was fucked up, but it worked out in the end, at least?)
Hubert had no damn clue that what he had done would turn to bite him in the ass.
His radio frequency squawks about the helicopter touching the landing pad, but he knows better than to get up from his chair. When the arriving soldiers need him, they’ll come to him - something he’s learned after years on years of working in the army. For now, he’ll just keep pretending to write out a report while he waits.
His pen has tapped against the desk a good hundred times when there’s finally a knock at the door. The office chair squeaks as Hubert stands (and immediately grimaces, as pain shoots down his lower back), straightens up, and marches to the doorway.
Sunlight spills into the room, just as harsh as an interrogation lamp. The general squints until his eyes adjust enough to see a familiar uniform – and an unfamiliar face.
“General Hubert Galeforce,” says the captain, coming to attention and saluting. The young lady only relaxes when he nods to her. “Central sent the new soldier today," she continues. "At this moment he’s in the hangar, being looked over for any last-minute issues.”
Issues?
He quirks an eyebrow, and she must’ve noticed. “You’ll see for yourself when you meet him, sir. If you would please follow me.”
“What do you mean, ‘see for myself’? The issue is visible?”
“Please, sir, just follow me.” The captain’s voice is. . . mildly pained. Hubert only has a minute or so to ponder the meaning behind her words, her tone, until he’s at the helicopter hangar.
There’s a crowd around one of the figures, a murmur in the air, until the general clears his throat. Immediately the soldiers surrounding the newcomer all step back and–
Hubert’s blood turns to ice in his veins, a sudden lump in his throat making it difficult to breathe as his eyes go wide, and he’s forced to take several deep breaths to push past this abrupt pang of. . . it wasn't fear, so maybe it was shock?
He’d seen this face before, when he handed the poor bastard over to Cent Comm after Henry had taken him down a couple weeks prior. This face had been on classified papers, in news reports, and now it was. . .
“Look!” Rupert Price’s voice cuts through the tension. He’d always been just a little too vocal about his hatred of criminals. “We got onna those bastards on our side now!”
“
Affirmative
.” The answering voice has a mechanical reverb to it. The voice is attached to a man who was more
machine
than man, at this point. The man, who had once worn his top hat proudly, had once stood next to the leader of one of the most vicious organized crime groups in the world, had vowed to fight law enforcement to the bitter end--
was now standing placidly in the middle of a circle of soldiers.
The Right Hand Man had been put in uniform. Operational camo, both jacket sleeves rolled up to show off the mismatch between his original and prosthetic arms. His pant legs were also rolled up, though RHM’s own prosthetic legs had been painted tan - probably to hide them better in combat, the general realizes to his dismay.
But the worst part of these sudden changes had to be the eerie, nuclear-green glow that had replaced the cyborg’s burning red optic.
“This is. . .” Hubert manages to swallow the acid threatening to crawl up from his gut. “He’s the new soldier?” His voice sounds curiously weak and he tries to hide it with a few coughs. Can’t let the gathered souls realize just how badly this had rattled him. He’d have to push aside his shock, pack it up and store it away for later.
“ Yes , sir.” The captain is doing a far better job of hiding her disdain, but her superior can still hear the note of disgust in her voice. But was she angry at Command for this, or revolted at the idea of ‘having to work with an ex-Toppat’? Hubert can already hear the gathered soldiers debating over whether they’d be assed to work with this unfortunate ‘new meat’ or if they would rather accept punishment instead.
“I see. And. . . it’s my understanding that I will be responsible for placing him in a proper–”
The captain just hands him a bloated manilla folder, sealed with black tape. “All of the instructions are in here. The higher-ups want you to personally oversee his integration into the battalion here, sir.”
Hubert can only stare at the hefty folder now resting in his arms. When did his hands begin to shake? His heart is punching against his ribcage, beating audibly in his ears as he takes a deep breath.
This is wrong. This is so, so very wrong.
“You. . . you are excused, captain,” he finally manages. “The rest of you soldiers, you are dismissed.”
A mixed din of discontent and relief ripples through the gathered crowd as it disperses. But as RHM attempts to follow the group, Hubert reaches out and (gently) grips his shoulder. “Stay here, Right Hand Man.”
“Yes, sir.” God, the lack of inflection in his voice. The man didn’t even sound human anymore, and it prickles at the general’s spine.
“You. . . aren’t faking this, are you.”
“No, sir. I am programmed to show absolute loyalty to the United States army.”
Programmed.
Jesus fucking Christ.
“What about the Toppats,” Hubert asks, almost
pleading
for some sort of 'normal' response.
“They are the enemy, sir.”
Fuck.
That didn’t get the reply he found himself hoping for.
“And. . . Reginald? Reginald Copperbottom, what about him.”
There’s an incredibly brief pause. About a second of silence between them before RHM speaks again. “He is incarcerated at this time. He is no threat to us.”
Us. Cent Comm really did get into his head.
Hubert feels something in him start to splinter. He reaches out, rests a hand on the former Toppat’s shoulder again and squeezes gently.
“I’m so sorry.”
“Why are you apologizing?”
“I am so. So sorry.”