May 20, 2001
8:37 A.m.
Daines motors, Columbia, South Carolina
“Abercrombie. Line 8. Spring Blossom.”
“The underwear model does it again… can every man in your line of work identify perfumes by smell alone, or just you?”
“Just me.”
The manager to the biggest mechanical workshop in the college town was resting on stool, his foot and metal prosthetic copy crossed and resting on a toolbox as he read from a newspaper with one hand. Flipping the page, Jack just caught the briefest of glances at his outfit; virtually the same as the night prior, save that his Beret was now a dark red with the letters DM stitched in with yellow.
The perfect boss; while Jack may have owned the place, all the other workers answered to the intimidating wounded warrior. In fact, many of the other mechanics just thought that Jack was a common employee and nothing more; good friends with the boss, but no one important.
Good enough for him. He preferred to be incognito. Dropping off a slice of pumpkin bread on the tool box, the bored manager threw his paper away as he starred at the food, raising an eyebrow from his aviator glasses he wore even in the bright white garage as he asked “Breakfast? Someone’s in a good mood.”
“Padma said it’s a good day… have any news that might improve it?”
“I do.” The man answered, grabbing the slice of bread just before Max was able to steal it and nibbling on it as he followed Jack to the damaged interceptor. As it turned out, their precious Ford car was dented more than they thought it was; one bullet came so close to the fuel tank that it was a miracle they hadn’t blown up with the car. While Jack was an employed mechanic, he spent most of the time working on his own cars; now that the times were growing more violent, he rarely had the opportunity to work on something that didn’t belong to him.
Well, no use dallying. Taking a patch of sheet metal, he prepared to cut it as he listened to the blond haired cripple talk, watching crumbs escape with every word.
“Took a chance to talk to Fred’s son Constantine this morning. Let him know about our little run in with the Robber Barons last night.”
“And?”
“Just a change in management, that’s all. The borders used to be a function of the Illuminati, an agreement between them and Cerberus. Now that they’re gone, it’s the Barons who dictates who enters and leaves the country.
“Border security is going to get even tighter now. More walls, more guardsman. Depending on how they can spin the election and the media, you’ll start to hear talks to maybe even mine the borders. The Barons are locking themselves in; they’ve worked so hard to make it to the top they’re scared that anything will knock them to the bottom.”
“Well, the prideful always do become paranoid before they lose it all… remember Saul? Pharaoh?”
“How about me? Don’t have to mention pride and humility to the man who can’t even walk straight without remembering that lesson, Jack.” The once handsome man replied, his tarnished skin hidden by the heavy layers of clothing and protection.
“True… anyway, how about that vehicle? What was that?”
“A modified M2A3, like I said.” Trevor began, finishing his bread just as quick as he had begun to nibble. Wiping his mouth with his coat sleeve, the mutt licking up whatever he dropped, the blond continued “Newest edition in the M2 Bradley series. Better armor, improved electronics, internal fire suppression systems… we’re lucky it got stuck in that DMV. Beast could have come after us if it hadn’t.”
“Hm… and its speed? It was going sixty, seventy miles per hour.” Jack commented, cut off as metal began to fall to the floor. The work was going well. “That isn’t normal, is it?”
“Of course not. The M2 Tanks are built as anti-infantry vehicles; they exist to get somewhere and lock it down, not to speed along and cover an entire area. That it could go as fast as a car is Robber Baron technology; you won’t see that in the general armed forces anytime soon.”
“Including the centurion suit. Seeing more and more of those lately… do you think you’ll see general deployment of external power armor soon?”
“Not for another fifteen to twenty years.” Trevor snorted, scratching at the scruff of his usually clean shaven face. Something to do once they were done talking. “I even asked John about it. There still aren’t that many world governments that know about those suits or FTMs. Russians and Chinese know how to keep their mouths shut, so we and the Brits will as well. You won’t have to worry about cops in Centurion suits anytime soon.”
“Good. That would certainly make my job… difficult.” Jack replied, setting his saw down as he blew the remaining shards off his plate of metal. “The border seems off limits. No more raids for us?”
“I support los mexicanos as much as you do, but if they’re sending tanks after us it may be better until John Moore takes care of the whole Baron situation.” The man in a beret and trench coat replied, the tactician of the group. “You know you can’t save the whole world, even being who you are. Let the cartels deal with it; the Barons will be forced to strip their own security over risking rumors about the kind of firepower they have. It’ll be better if you step down.”
“Then I will.”
“Just like that?”
“I do what’s best for man… nothing more.”
Good enough for Trevor. Following alongside his boss, he carefully kept back far enough as the man knelt by his Ford Falcon as Jack reached for his welder, intending to join the plate over the bullet hole in the door as he threw a mask on for the task.
How Jack could even hear him over the noise was amazing; that Trevor didn’t have to raise his voice made it clear that the one eyed soldier was no ordinary human. “That wasn’t the only person I talked to this morning. Major Sylvester Jayden called.”
“Sylvester… what did she need?”
“Looking for a lead. She’s worse than you; at least you have a girlfriend that makes you take vacations. Sylvester hasn’t taken a day off since that case with AV5 in the nineties.”
“Driven… and a cyborg. What do you expect?”
“Robots dream of electric sheep, as do Dancers. Everything with a soul needs a break; even you.” Trevor responded, blinking as he noticed Jack was already done. One bullet hole fixed; now he simply had to do the same thing about three more times besides the coat of paint to hide the identity of their sports car.
“What color should we go with?”
“Flashy or subtle?”
“Haven’t done flashy in a while.” The mechanic mused.
“Turquois. We haven’t used Turquois since 1999.”
An odd choice, but Jack didn’t argue. Letting the already standing man walk over, he watched as the blond picked the shade and retrieve the spray bottle with his one good hand, a test for their interceptor as they continued the conversation.
“So what’s the plan? Going to take a break?”
“You want me to?”
“You need it, Jack. We’ve been working nightly for nearly four months in a row with a break on Sunday only. Don’t over exert it; you’ll come a day where you need your strength.
“Besides, you got a girl now. Don’t you think it’s time to pop the question?”
Jack laughed, taking the spray can and shaking it hard. “Can’t do that without telling her the truth first.”
“Well, then take a few days to figure out how to tell her.” Trevor commented, his attention diverted suddenly as he heard a tire pop. Two mechanics in the corner of the room, a couple of newly hired boys straight out of high school, were at each other’s throats, yelling about who hit the nail and just ruined the Volvo they had taken in.
As far as Trevor was concerned, they both had. Curling his hand into a fist, he snidely opened his mouth with a hiss as he meowed “The more things change…”
“The more they stay the same… have at it.”
Trevor did, shouting be
fore he could even take a step towards the idiots who managed to irritate the man who knew exactly what it meant to have the wrath of god.