Work Text:
You stand before a door. This specific door is quite unassuming, it is brown and the dark patterns of shaky vertical lines interrupted by little ovals signal that it is made of wood. Which makes it quite unlike most doors you are acquainted with, but it is normal here. The door looks exactly like the doors you’ve seen in picture books. Presumably, to hide anything out of the ordinary, anything horrible, insidious, dangerous, behind an passibly normal exterior. In short, Mr. Brown made it look like all the other doors in this hallway. You like this door.
If all went well Mr. Brown will now be lying dead on the ground behind this door, and the only thing you will have to do is help unit 44 with disposal of the body. It has been a long day and your body feels heavy, there is a strange empty feeling in your stomach. You do not know what you expected of your first mission, but certainly not feeling so… tired. You place your hand on the doorknob. You turn the doorknob. You open the door.
"Oh, thank God!”
Mr. Brown moves toward you more quickly than you were prepared for. He only stops in his tracks when, presumably, the gun that is quite obviously pointed at his head catches his eye again. Mr. Brown is, evidently, not dead. You close your eyes, breathe out. You open your eyes. Unit 44, who you were quite sure should have killed Mr. Brown some five minutes ago according to the mission parameters you memorized over and over and over and over again, moves towards the door. It makes sure its gun never wavers from its target's head and shuts the door behind you. You hear the click of the door being locked.
“Look I don’t care what goddamn government agency thought it worth to send a goddamn fucking regene to assassinate me or whatever but-” Mr. Brown grabs your arm, in his thoughts you find only relief, and pulls you towards him “-surely you’re not programmed to kill innocent civilians.” At this he shakes your arm, which you’ve come to understand is actually quite a rude thing to do.
Unit 44’s face is impassive although the corner of its blue lip might’ve moved upward just a tiny bit. Its gun however has not moved at all. It looks you dead in the eye.
In your ear Mr. Brown whispers “Play along with me and we might both get out of this alive.” He leans even closer and unit 44 does not shoot him in the head. It should. “Trust me on this miss,” still whispering “that thing is not human… blue skin and all that.” Places his hand on your shoulder, his mind churning with possible escape routes, “It’s a fucking ai but it will not kill us if they think it will cause a scandal… I’m sure.” His thoughts imply otherwise. “Just tell it your parents are nearby or something, I mean what are you sixteen.. seventeen? Your parents must be nearby.”
You open your mouth to ask why unit 44 has not followed standard procedure, do missions normally deviate this much from the norm? You’re not sure you like the idea of that. Why is it that it has not shot Mr. Brown already, even though it had ample opportunity. His fingers are digging into your shoulder in a way that is really becoming uncomfortable and the desperation and fear in his mind make it difficult to think. You are tired. You remember that you should report to your handlers in about 10 minutes and how does unit 44 think it will ever complete the mission in time. You already relayed all information you gathered from Mr. Brown’s houseguests during the party to your handlers. You’ve already done your part, why is it refusing to just do its part. Why do you have to be part of this. However unit 44 says, “Close your mouth.” and you obey.
Unit 44 is after all the senior unit out of the two of you, and the most senior unit on a mission is in charge in the unlikely event that your handlers cannot be reached. You paid attention during the briefing. Your handlers cannot be reached because Mr. Brown went to great lengths to design this room. Sound-proof, signal-proof , everything-proof. A perfect room designed for complete privacy, something Mr. Brown is often in great need of. You have recently learned what the concept of ironic means and you think that it applies now. That this room should be his downfall, or at least was supposed to be if all went according to plan. If unit 44 had paid attention. It had not. You had seen its eyes wander.
“Killing an innocent human being is sure to cause a scandal!” Mr. Brown’s voice is pitched a bit higher than before, his fingers beginning to dig in painfully. That is going to leave a mark.
Now you’re sure, unit 44’s lips turn upwards. You do not know what it finds particularly funny, or where it even learned to smile. Smirk? Its gun aimed around two inches to the left of your face. At Mr. Brown’s mouth. Which is still moving.
“I know her,” he lies, “if she disappears” shaking you, again “her parents will be sure to raise hell! They’re important. Influential.” Those last words he emphasizes. You’ve learned that people will do this if they mean more than what they are actually saying. You however do not see the relevance or deeper meaning of your imaginary parents being important. His thoughts suggest that not even Mr. Brown is entirely sure what he means. He just needs to stay alive, from one second to the next. He knows he won’t be able to overpower the regene planted in front of the door, but.. he’s not dead yet. It is a miracle that he is not dead yet. You agree. He is sure that you might be the reason why. He can use that. Talk his way out. He has talked his way out of failure and into success his entire life.
Mr. Brown talks and talks and there are still nine minutes remaining. His grip turning painful, and you just wish your pain gate would activate for more mundane matters than life threatening injuries. You need to finish this. Quickly.
You look at unit 44. Its lean body clad in a skin-tight suit and armour, its stance almost relaxed. Not quite, but almost. The heaviest armour is centered around its chest area, all its appendages left unobstructed. Under the armour the skinsuit peeks out, the black fabric making for a nice contrast against the blue skin of its neck. There continuing from the neck and covering its entire face are those patterns you are so familiar with, this time in a lighter blue instead of orange. All traces of what might’ve been a smile gone from its lips. Its eyes are still looking at you, expression once again completely neutral. It nods and lowers its gun just a bit.
“Restrain him,” it orders “on the floor, preferably.”
You do not stop to question why unit 44 wants Mr. Brown restrained and not dead. Why it won’t just finish this job. Neatly. According to mission protocol. With a bullet, preferably. You do not question it because some irrational part of you is glad that it has lowered the gun. It might have decided to shift it about two inches to the right. Unit 44, you have suspected for some time, is unpredictable. At least the smile has not returned, that you can admit unnerved you.
Most of all you do not question it because you are glad to move. To take that hand from your shoulder and in one swift movement twist it around his back, kick his legs, push him into the ground, put your knee on his back, the other next to his hip, your free hand on his neck holding him down. This is a move you have practiced a hundred times. It is even easier than expected, normally your partners put up much more of a fight.
Mr. Brown lets out a yelp of surprise and pain. His mind is a potent mix of confusion, betrayal and fear. Mostly fear, there is something very wrong with the picture being painted. He has misinterpreted the situation, badly. But… since when did they put regenes in charge of people.
He makes an attempt at opening his mouth to ask, but you press his face into the ground and that gets the message through. He closes his mouth. On his neck your fingertips press down and the skin turns red. Your own shoulder aches and you squeeze, just a bit.
Unit 44 has moved next to you. Its eyes finally leave you and shift a bit to the right, so that it’s not looking down at you but Mr. Brown instead. Gun pointed to the side. It looks like it's contemplating something but its mental defenses are better than Mr. Brown’s and you are still so tired. Then in a move that should not surprise you as much as it does, it kneels next to you. Nothing should surprise you when it comes to unit 44. Still you cannot help the question forming on your lips when it replaces your hand on Mr. Brown’s neck and hands you the gun. “Well,” it says, and nobody should have taught it to smile. It’s misusing the ability entirely, nothing about this situation is funny. “time is running out. Shoot him.”
You feel your shoulders tense and your right shoulder ache. The gun feels slippery in your hands. The temperature in the room has not risen even a degree since you’ve entered it and yet your hands are sweating. An uncomfortable heat spreading through your body as you look at unit 44, that stupid smile still on its face. Its expression still so calm. Your jaw aches with the effort it takes you to not open your mouth and say something. Anything. Scream. You don’t know.
Eight minutes remaining, and approximately a second has passed since unit 44 gave you the order. Mr. Brown’s thoughts are quickly turning from incomprehension to panic. He struggles under your knee and unit 44’s strong hands. Hurting himself. His panic full blown now, and maybe his thoughts are the reason you can’t seem to think straight on this matter. The fact that your hand is trembling without your input. Mr. Brown should have been dead for ten minutes already. His breathing ragged, and he might be crying. “Goddammit you’re human you don’t have to listen to it!” he screams. You shoot.
There is something unpleasant about the way blood drops roll down your face. You’ve experienced many new situations and sensations today. You don’t want to experience anything else ever again. You want to go home. You never want to leave this room.
For the last minute or so unit 44 has been opening different cabinets and drawers in search of something, you don’t particularly care what for. You have been sitting next to a corpse. His eyes still open, staring at you. You stare back, and in the corner of your eyes you see unit 44 approaching. It hands you a packet of wet wipes and makes a gesture at your face. You obediently wipe your face, your makeup coming off. The lipstick has mixed with blood and turned a bright red, it was supposed to be a neutral colour. Presentable, but not attracting attention. While the other units were putting on armour they had dressed you in a nice off colour white dress, now ruined. They had shaved your face and applied all sorts of cosmetics. You don’t know exactly what. They had made what, you gathered from the laughter, were supposed to be jokes. Something about if only they had prettier models and the money they could make. They had sent you off to a party, and you had completed your task. As unit 44 should have completed its.
It is fiddling with the closure of your dress. At your questioning look it shows you some kind of gel. “For your shoulder,” it clarifies. It has gotten the button open and pulls the zipper down. There in contrast to the bruised skin on your shoulder the orange tattoos appear completely unblemished. Nothing ever damages that familiar pattern. You quickly reach out and close Mr. Brown’s eyes. Unit 44 looks at you for a moment, and you feel your face heat up. It has no right to judge you, but it merely smiles. Blue patterns moving.
It puts some of that translucent gel on your shoulder and, far more gently than you think is medically necessary, begins spreading it out. Looking back you should’ve known something like this would happen. You should’ve known because unit 44 had not been paying attention to the briefing. Because it had looked distracted when putting on armour. Because two days before the mission it had not been as efficient as it could’ve been at training. It had hesitated and you had not let it out of your sight since. You should have known because small disobediences lead to bigger disobediences later on. You lean back, just a bit, into her cool fingers. Its cool fingers. Its blue fingers. The same colour your bruise is beginning to take on, and that was not your thought. You feel sick to the stomach, and you are so tired and you never wanted to have anything to do with this in the first place. You did your job, and so you stand up.
You begin trying to zip up your dress, and you must look like an idiot when you can’t reach the zipper. You take Mr. Brown’s jacket from the desk chair and put that over your shoulders instead. A small burst of panic shoots through you. There are only two minutes remaining.
Your first mission is a complete failure, two minutes isn’t enough time. The blood pools beneath Mr. Brown’s head seeping into the wooden flooring. It is splattered on the walls, and on your dress. On your hands. You do not have enough time to clean it all.
Unit 44 makes no attempt to move from where it’s still seated on the floor. It looks relaxed in the way it’s leaning back on its hands looking at you, observing you. It looks resigned, like it does not care about any of this. Does not care about the consequences of not following mission protocols. Does not care about Mr. Brown lying dead on the floor eleven minutes too late. Does not care about you. You suppose its actions have proven that it doesn’t.
Under your gaze unit 44 finally stands up.
“We have one minute,” it states. “Now tell me exactly, what did it feel like?”
For the first time in quite a while you open your mouth and speak.
It is only in Dr. Morgan’s office in preparation for your second mission that you dare to subtly ask about unit 44. Of course she knows many unit 44’s, 44 being only the last two numbers of a longer serial number, but she seems to understand which one you’re talking about.
“Hmmm, I get why you would be anxious about working with that particular unit again. After that disaster of a mission last time.” You had known it was a disaster, you had not known everybody else thought so too. “That it would wait to kill that Brown figure for so long, and then to do it so messily too.” It had taken the fall, you had suspected as much. “I had already said to Marcus there is something wrong with that unit. He even acknowledged it in that irritating way he always does, but actually listen? No. Never.”
She is not truly talking to you, merely monologuing to herself and you are an unfortunate victim. This is why you asked her. She likes hearing herself talk, and her colleagues do not like listening.
“He was all like let’s see where this goes. It would be a shame to have to start over again, blah blah blah. I said the nice thing about regenes is that we get to start over again. Its body is young and we can simply reuse it. Let’s just get it over with, but no. One more mission.” You wonder how many units had heard her complain about this in the days preceding the mission. Whether unit 44 might’ve. “So one disaster of a mission later and now it’s been decommissioned all the same. Marcus still won’t admit I was right though. Asshole.”
Unit 44 is dead. She walks over to you and injects something in your upper right arm. The bruise on your shoulder has healed faster than a normal human bruise would. You’re beginning to miss it.
“Well anyway its chip has been taken apart, and you won’t have to worry about ever working with it again. Sounds good?”
There is something ugly and sour rising in your throat. You force your face in approximation of a gentle smile and nod.
Later when you’re in the dorms lying on your stomach on your bed, you wait and listen. It is deep in the night and you’ve waited very patiently until you’re sure that most of the others are asleep. Or at least that the ones still awake are not paying any attention to you. You’re pretty sure you look convincingly asleep, you have not moved an inch in two hours. Your telepathy is not as strong as others, so you play defense instead.
In your mind you open the door. Step into the room. Lock the door behind you (unit 44 is not there to pick up the slack anymore). Check the room for anything unusual (ignore the body). Feel your own body on the mattress, muscles relaxing. Keep at it for another two hours. Convince yourself you have obtained some fraction of privacy. Some fraction of Mr. Brown’s room, his dead eyes never having left you. Only then, when you’re balancing on the edge of consciousness just about to fall asleep, do you allow yourself to imagine; her blue fingers spread out against your shoulder.