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The Wounded
The years bled out, but optimism was Al’s tourniquet, the best had yet to come after all. The new prosthetics he had installed were more than sufficient; he’d be working on more than enough upgrades to keep his heart content. Bed sheets don’t feel as soft when touched? He had a hardware upgrade just in mind, it was only an upgrade that he had given to countless Robots before. Give them the old, “so this is what it feels like to an organic lifeform,” routine. He would do it for himself and it would be better than the original! No more pain, no more concern about exercising, (at least that particular limb) no worry about aging and degradation; the limb would last longer than his corporal body would.
“And that’s not even touching the eye! Holographic interface, HUD that constantly transmits info directly to my occipital lobe, infrared sensors, X-ray vision! Oh! The possibilities are endless!”
But then the years continued to bleed. Optimism is not like wine. Optimism is sweet like sugar; it becomes a cesspit of molding growth. The problem with optimism is that it never stops being optimistic even when life becomes irreparably changed.
The bed sheets never felt the same again. The sensations just felt off. He knew what it should feel like, he still had his other biological hand, he still had his memories of softer times, but the mechanical one just couldn’t do it. “I’ll have to look into more upgrades then!”
The mechanical arm would chaff him and cause rashes. “Perfectly correctable! I’ll just need to pick up more of that cream. It’s like lubricating the joints of a T-21 walker tank! You’re about the same weight as the tank anyway Al! Haha!”
His arm would hurt at night, during thunderstorms, watching TV, playing games, staring off into space, and doing nothing. His arm was gone. The pain would never leave. He knew what phantom pain syndrome was, he just didn’t think it would hurt as much as it did. “No pain, no gain Al! Maybe you could look into creating a new piece of hardware to address this issue overlooked by the medical community?”
He kept dropping things. His dexterity wasn’t as good as it once was. “I mean, I was never the most coordinated but come on. Machines are supposed to be better.”
The eye was a cheap imitation of the real thing. The images always held a blue haze, and the other visions weren’t particularly useful during the day to day activities. “Even Helga doesn’t look as radiant as she once did.”
Again with the eye, transmitting data directly into the brain? Bad idea. His head never stopped throbbing in pain. “I just want it to stop.”
Looking into the mirror now, blue light reflecting off the glass, he found he couldn’t recognize the crippled thing staring back. This wasn’t him, this wasn’t the man that read Qwark vid-comics, it wasn’t the maverick of his profession that could only be challenged by his brother, this wasn’t the fun, down to earth, nerd that he’d like to think he was, this was a cheap imitation.
A metal arm gripped the sink too tightly causing more indentions. No matter how much he tried to say otherwise, he was missing part of himself literally and figuratively, but he was understanding more and more just how much the literal made up the figurative.
“This is life now Al. This is … how you live.”
Optimism was a drug he should never have taken.
Rivet medicated herself on optimism. Optimism kept her afloat, kept her functioning, but adrenaline was her main high. The absolute terror of near death mixed with the most basic survival instincts was an under-appreciated cocktail in most parties, but for a rebel like her, it was freaking necessary for any event. Her struggle was the quiet day. It was easy to keep her spirits up when she was busy. “Yeah, Mort! I’ll get you the parts you need, first I just need to do an op with Phantom, and then I need to make a quick stop by Silox. Something about a haunted city? Anyway, catch you on the flip side!”
Then night came, sleep didn’t follow. She had staring contests with the ceiling. Her right arm would hurt. She could never sleep comfortably with a hunk of metal hanging on her side. She used to sleep in her birthday suit whenever she was holed up in her hideout on Sargasso, “Keeps it cool. I live in a swamp, you know?”
Her fur would get caught up on her arm’s elbow and finger joints. She woke up with sudden yelps of pain and clumps of fur stuck in the various crevices that her prosthetic provided. She had built her arm with power in mind but not so much comfort. She could trade one for the other but she couldn’t have it both ways. She could remove the arm when she slept, it was true, “But then what if you get attacked in your sleep again and you only have one arm? Guess you’re stuck with PJs girl. Maybe after the war you can look at getting a new prosthetic to wear around the house.”
So on sleepless nights, she would work, plan, and make war. Her best work came with insomnia. Maps, holographic images, intelligence dossiers, schematics, weapon parts, the more she worked, the greater her excitement would grow. Her enemy was cunning and she had to be twice as cunning. “Hehehe this is going to be sweet! Vox will drop off the Landstalker here, the weapon’s factory is lightly defended on the west side, and the Stalker should be able to jump the canyon. Alright Nefarious, let’s give this warbot factory that new makeover you wanted!”
That battle didn’t go well. Vox never showed and Rivet never heard from her again. The Lombax still wrecked the factory, but it was operational within a week. The battle gave the usual near death rushes but it was during the quiet moments that she truly reflected her losses. “Glenda didn’t deserve that … it’s all going to mean something someday. You’re going to win. You’re going to beat Nefarious!”
She couldn’t keep thinking about it though. She couldn’t let herself get buried by her mistakes. The galaxy wasn’t free yet! The war wasn’t over yet! She had to keep fighting! “For Glenda Vox, for Clatchkey, for Moydoy, for everyone lost in this war!”
Then the war was over. They won. The emperor was defeated, his autocratic government was overthrown and the galaxy began to piece itself back together! Optimism won! The good guys won! Drink in hand, she took a moment to behold the photos of missing friends, “We won guys! I know you’re watching somewhere, cheering with us! Well, this next one is to you!”
Then it was quiet. The galaxy didn’t need a resistance fighter. There was no war. Only the quiet. “What now?”
Her arm bothered her more without the constant stream of distractions. Her mind kept flashing with the faces of friends no longer living. So many habits and lifestyle choices were just ridiculous now. “You don’t need a robot disguise when you go out. You don’t need to put all your money in weapons, ammunition, and parts. You don’t need to hide a knife in your boot. You don’t need an overpowered robot arm that can punch through a solid raritanium plate.”
She couldn’t give up the arm though. She couldn’t stop hiding a weapon in her boot. She still kept placing her wealth in weapons and parts. The war was over, she knew that, but she couldn’t change her ways. She was too used to the blood rushing, the excitement, the utter insanity of near death, without that, all she had was her losses. Yet, she kept taking her daily dose of optimism. “Just wait Rivet, things will get crazy again and they’ll need you to pull things back together! Just look at Ratchet’s galaxy!”
Then she felt the guilt. She felt guilty for hoping everything would fall apart again, she felt guilty for not saving her friends, she felt guilty for surviving. She noticed her reflection in the picture frame glass of lost friends. There was no wistful smile, no determined look of resistance, just pain. She shifted her gaze at a new photo, Ratchet, the bots, her, and Mort, having a picnic.
More guilt. “Moydoy loved the Mort’s lemonade.”
She shook her head free from those thoughts. “Just focus on what’s in front of you Rivet … you can’t change anything that’s happened. Just call Ratchet and see if he’s up to anything tonight! Maybe he needs help saving his dimension?”
Adrenaline withdrawal was a pain.
Qwark was fine and life was good. Why would he need optimism or adrenaline when Qwark had humility? No seriously, it was great. Sure he had made mistakes, who hasn’t? Was he outlawed from the Bogan galaxy for a few of those mistakes? Yes, but that wasn’t the whole picture! “You’re not looking at the full context! My muscles alone cover up most of the context! You’re going to have to look deeper! Past the godlike chiseled pectorals and at the bleeding heart of a changed man! No! A redeemed man!”
He meant it too, as much as Qwark can mean anything. After he had recovered his mental state and defeated Nefarious, he truly intended to give up all selfish intentions and devote himself to heroism. However, the mind is the soul’s worst enemy and Qwark’s mind is a one-in-a-million type of genius. He wasn’t technically savvy, one shouldn’t expect expert pieces of machinery or gadgetry, but he had a mind that had been whittled down to know how to sell anything . Captain Copernicus L. Qwark was the greatest salesman the galaxy had ever seen! “After tunneling out of jail, I managed to set up shop under an assumed alias and successfully cornered the hygiene market by selling defective products with an aggressive advertising campaign, all the while evading the attention of law enforcement and the Revenue Agency! What’s that? You want to hear other stories of my heroics?! Alright, strap in cadets as I regale you with the tale of how I won the Polaris galaxy presidential election! It beg- what? Elections are heroic! You want to know how much money I spent on the advertising alone!? Fine. I suppose I can tell you about how I beat Dr. Nefarious. Not once! Not twice! Nay! Not even thrice! But … whatever comes after thrice!”
This type of mind was antithetical to redemption because despite his intention to change, the ability to sell anything was still there: redemption doesn’t sell, redemption gives. So, the temptation to sell anything would always undercut his hope to change. Because his ability to sell a product to anyone was a double edged sword, the masses could believe his sales pitch because he himself believed it, he had already sold himself on the idea. Which is how Qwark began to work with Drek in the first place. He rationalized the idea rather than coming to any idea rationally.
This leads to his true dilemma.
The problem Qwark had was simple. He had peaked and aged out pretty quickly, so he began to advertise and attach his name to corporate branding. The years marched by, his business acumen grew, his combat skills diminished. Now, he had no idea how to be selfless. “How can one sacrifice when he has nothing to sacrifice, he only has products to sell?”
Sure, Qwark had won and lost a dozen fortunes that had collectively been worth a dozen planets' GDPs, several of those fortunes had been lost due to government seizure, several were lost due to bad business decisions, but several he had given away. It didn’t matter though. He’d make another fortune soon, and even if he gave that away it wouldn’t matter, that awful twisting feeling in his gut would still remain. Redemption couldn’t be bought. He had bought the people’s silence on his past misdeeds, but deep down, he knew that’s all he had bought. He had hurt so many people, and despite his most fervent efforts, the retired hero was still alone, alone with the knowledge of what he’d done.
He wasn’t young anymore. He couldn’t trample around the universe fighting evil like he once did. “What? A meeting of heroes!? A-are we fighting Nefarious this time!? Worried!? Me!? No! No! I-I’m just double checking because … my stretchy hero suit is at the laundry! That’s it! How can I traverse the many obstacles and fight innumerous foes if my hero suit is at the laundry!? Hanging out? Uh, I mean yeah, sure. I’ve got nothing planned … I mean, besides the legions that throw themselves into my arms, begging for my masculine embrace, besides those countless hoards I always have time for my old sidekick!”
The location set, the call ended as abruptly as it began, leaving Qwark reeling as the sudden shock of aloneness settled in. He looked around his full yet barren room. It was filled with expensive art pieces that he couldn’t name, a bed that was made up by his robot maid everyday, but only ever had one occupant, a closet full of clothes but no worthwhile events to wear them, pictures of himself posing next to some other famous persons whose names escaped the aging hero.
Qwark never had humility, he was never an adrenaline junky, and optimism was neither a side effect nor a symptom, it was absent. Hearing his knees pop as he stood, and feeling a weariness in his soul, Qwark would’ve given every single one of his fortunes to have an ounce of optimism.
Optimism, humility, and adrenaline were staples of Ratchet’s diet. He had chewed his fair share of defeats and victories, death defying madness and mind numbing banality, joys and sorrows, life and death. He wouldn’t ever claim to have gotten used to it though. Each adventure had its own unique set of challenges and rewards, and it didn’t feel right to say that he had grown into a battle hardened hero. When the dust settled, he usually tried to get his life back in order, he tried his hand at living a normal life, acting career notwithstanding. He could puff his chest and boast with the best of them but at the end of the day he wasn’t Qwark and he certainly wasn’t Starshield. “I mean, look at what happens to professional heroes! They either become Qwark, Starshield, or … Hardlight.”
Dead, retired, and wholly evil, these former heroes always lived rent free in Ratchet’s head. Constant reminders of what he could become if he wasn’t diligent or if he allowed himself to grow too comfortable with that lifestyle. Time and time again, he would perform heroic acts for the sake of his friends and the universes, time and time again he would try to go back to living a normal life. He couldn’t give the hero business up, he didn’t want to give it up, it was fun, and he was good at it. Sure, he liked the praise and the attention that came with it, but he knew better than anyone just how dangerous it was to become addicted to it. “I’d like to thank you all for inviting me to speak at the Captain Starshield memorial event. I know he would’ve appreciated seeing you all here today. Even though I never met Starshield, I know he gave his life to help stop evil. He was a true hero and I’m never going to forget him!”
He couldn’t forget him. He was at his prime, he was one of the universe’s greatest heroes, savior of three galaxies! He was good. He was humble. He had died.
The price of this lifestyle was getting killed for others’ amusement. He was killed by one Captain Hardlight. A monster. Ratchet didn’t know if Hardlight had lost his way, or had always been corrupt from the start, but the fact remains that he had been a celebrated hero before selling his soul for fame and riches. He had killed so many others because of that, he had wounded Al, he had killed Starshield, he had tried to kill Ratchet.
The Lombax still remembered the thrill of it, the arena, the battle, he remembered how easy it was to become hypnotized by the bloodlust. It disturbed him every time he thought about it. “Captain Hardlight disgraced all heroes everywhere. He disgraced their sacrifice, he disgraced their morals, and he disgraced the ones he swore to protect. He not only acted in his own self-interest but he actively harmed the innocent and defenseless for personal gain. If Starshield is what a hero is supposed to be then Hardlight is everything a hero shouldn’t be!”
Yet, the multi-dimensional hero had walked the same path as Hardlight. He had been tempted by the same fruits, and even though he had risen above temptation, he had never forgotten the taste of it. That knowledge haunted him just as much as Starshield’s death haunted him. One dead, and one corrupted. All that was left was Qwark who had been all over the place, but at present he seemed semi-retired. That didn’t exactly erase all the times the green clad hero had tried to kill him, but likewise it didn’t discount all the times he had helped the Lombax either. No, when Ratchet looked at Qwark, he rarely remembered the times they had battled, instead he saw an aging has-been, desperately grasping onto relevance but now lacking the skills that had made him famous. “Hey pal, remind me to thank Qwark for the speech. Oh, and thank you for editing out all of his self promotions. One hundred and fifty-six times huh? Well, that’s better than he normally is. Come on! We’ll miss the buffet!”
Ratchet would mingle with attendees for a bit but he would ultimately eat alone. He would leave as soon as Clank gave him the go ahead. He would walk out the door, back to his ship, then fly right back to his shop. When asked, he would say, “Yeah, it was fun, Rivet. A bit boring, but the food was nice. How are things with you?”
He wasn’t lying either. It was fun and that absolutely terrified him. He couldn’t allow that attention to go to his head, he couldn’t allow himself to like it, he couldn’t allow himself to be another Hardlight or Qwark. However, regardless of how hard he tried, he could always become another Starshield. Ratchet was pleased to know that he hadn’t lost any of his skills or training, but he would never forget that Starshield was at his peak. He had been successful in the past but that didn’t mean the future was certain. “Training? I mean, sure, if you want? How about you come over, we’ll train for a bit and then I’ll introduce you to a friend of mine? He can help you out with that arm. Alright, training takes priority! Just don’t break my arm this time. I had a cast on it for two weeks!”
Ratchet had found the balance needed to live a life of heroism. It required constant diligence and moderation to keep himself mentally fit for the job, but that had come at a cost, peace of mind. Even when he wasn’t battling evil, he was battling memories. He knew how to win. Start a new project, try and land a decent movie role, start blasting stuff at the range, make future plans. “Optimism and adrenaline!” He declared after ending the call with Rivet, “Just what the doctor ordered!” He gunned the throttle, breaking every speed limit and safety regulation in the book.
Any law enforcement that caught him on their sensors would read his transponder tag, Ratchet, dude that saved the galaxy. Every single one of them would switch off their scanner and let him go. Occasionally, a few would escort him, lights and sirens blaring, but most of the time they just let him go; fully aware that there’s no emergency, legally within their right to pull him over, but too indebted to the hero to think about it.
Moments like that would encourage a cocky grin from the Lombax, Oh, I never get tired of this. So he blitzed away, taking full advantage of the many fringe benefits that come with being a multiverse wide hero. Right before he entered warp, Starshield’s widow, Sheila, came to mind. If the audience had cheered at his speech then she didn’t seem prompted to join in. Her mouth was a stiff line, her eyes had an ember dullness to them, her posture rigid, but her hug was full of agony as she whispered in his ear. “Retire while you can Ratchet. He died for nothing. It’s never worth it.” She gave him a dazzling but dead smile then left.
Headlines might say something like, Hero ‘comforts’ Starshield’s widow! Or some other trash of that sort. Years ago he would’ve gotten angry, embarrassed, both, but he honestly doesn’t care anymore. Years ago, he would’ve cared only about what the media said, now the only thing he heard was Sheila’s warning.
He shook his head and threw the ship into warp.
“Are you alright, Ratchet?” Clank asked with the telltale tone of a worried cadence. Ratchet glanced over to his best friend, the Lombax’s soft smile already alleviating the worry from Clank’s worried expression.
“Yeah bud, just pumping myself up for the beating I’m going to get from Rivet.”
Optimism, adrenaline and maybe some humility painted as humiliation, the diet of a hero.
“Alright Rivet, this is Al! Al, this is Rivet! She’s a hero like us!”
Said hero elbowed the other Lombax out of the way. “Nice to meet you Al, but what Ratchet means to say is that he’s my boyfriend.”
“Rivet! We talked about this!”
“What? He’s going to find out in a second anyway!”
“Ha ha! No worries guys. Ratchet’s obviously trying to spare my feelings after my de- Helga left me. But I don’t need to have my feelings spared! I’m fine!”
A silence had captured the trio. Each had returned to their own thoughts. Al reflected on his lost self, She didn’t leave you Al, you’re not you anymore. She’s still in love with the old you, what you can never be again.
Rivet was overwhelmed by guilt, That’s more pain that you caused.
Ratchet looked at the pair and wondered how best to change the subject.
“Greetings! Ratchet! Rivet! Clank! Al! … uuummm–”
“Kit.”
“Kit! Right! So, it looks like we have a meeting of a new Q-Force!”
The gang smiled despite themselves, Qwark’s missteps having blasted the awkwardness out of the room by the megaton force of his ego.
“Hey Qwark, Rivet and Al were just talking Robotics, Clank wanted to–”
“I wanted your opinion on trans-dimensional licensing rights for my films.”
“Uh, what now?”
“Rivet and Kit’s dimension is in dire need of non-propaganda based entertainment and I thought that introducing my films might aid in healing the divide between organic and robotic organisms.”
“Wait, wait, wait! Are you saying that there’s an untapped film market!?”
“Well, that is not precisely what I said, but I believe your observations are well founded.”
Ratchet quietly floated away from the conversation, already more than familiar with the gleam in Qwark’s manic eyes. Kit’s shocked expression as Qwark proposed the funding of a sequel film introducing Kit as the new co-star was the last thing Ratchet saw before he turned back to Al and Rivet.
“Unfortunately, power-to-weight ratios are negatively correlated with comfortability. To be precise, the more powerful, the less comfortable. Have you ever considered reducing the power of that arm?”
“Not a good idea in my line of work, Al. You never know when a baddie needs a good punch in the face.”
Ratchet looked between the pair, “Hey, either of you want a drink?”
“There’s sodas in the fridge, Ratchet. I’m afraid I don’t have anything else, but if you could please grab me one.”
“I’ll take one too.” Rivet added.
“Chateau Fastoon thirty-three twenty-seven please!” Qwark stacked on.
“Oh, Kit, Clank! There’s some oils at the workstation behind you. I’m afraid it’s nothing deluxe, but please, make yourself at home!” Al finished his offer with a friendly smile before turning back to Rivet, intent on troubleshooting the problem.
Looking back at his friends from the fridge, Ratchet was struck by just how normal all this was. Qwark, Kit, and Clank were legitimately talking through the details of a several hundred million bolt deal, Rivet and Al were discussing the many issues that only amputees know, but it felt so natural. No adrenaline to cover up the loneliness of the present, no sickly optimism for a better future, no humility to sober meager successes, just wounded people living in the moment.
He took a swig of the carbonated beverage as he approached Al and Rivet, just as Al presented Rivet a knitted arm sock.
“Wow! You made this?” Rivet questioned with pure amazement in her eyes.
“Yep, knitting has become somewhat of a hobby of mine. Helps train dexterity! And the arm coverings are really worth my weight in gold bolts, haha!”
Sharing Al’s laugh with one of her own, Rivet didn’t bother with the drink Ratchet offered but instead took his already open can. Al popped open his own with a practiced jab from his robotic index finger. Qwark had somehow teleported over to them and was now discussing how to trademark ‘Al’s knitted socks.’ Clank was speaking quietly to Kit, pointing and nodding towards everyone as Clank translated the social dynamics to computer code.
Ratchet just stood there with a smile, basking in the healing.