Log:Eighth Man Out

2015/01/19 Malcolm Paragon

1

Starguard - Security Area

This security room has walls of a shiny unusual-looking metal -- it almost looks like pure silver, though it has a slight bluish tinge to it that silver would not have. There are five doors in this area, one leading to the main reception area, and four leading to individual holding cells. The door to the main reception area is made of the same bluish-silver metal, while the doors to the holding cells are made of a clear substance that looks like glass, though it feels like metal to the touch. Each holding cell has a bed, chair, commode, and a sink. These holding cells are not meant for detaining aliens long-term but are just meant to keep them in check temporarily until they can be transported elsewhere.

The security hall. An area that Paragon knows well. For better or worse. In the rearmost cell is the latest arrival, with a two-person security team on watch at the end of the hall. Eighth lies upon the bunk within, and more resembles something from a crypt or mortician's table (a very, very clumsy mortician), now that his armor is absent.

Malcolm keeps visiting this cell. He stops by at least twice a day, every day, and he stares at Eighth for five to ten minutes at a go. The tall man arrives, once again, arms folded over his chest as he glares through the cell door's view hole. And, not for the first time, Malcolm waits for something to happen because something always happens with cybernetically augmented, necromantically reanimated metahuman corpses. It's just a matter of time.

It had been a while since Eight's capture, but Paragon had family to take care of. Their safety was her alpha priority. But finally, she's come to see what Starguard has learned from their captive, if anything. She gets buzzed through the security doors and walks to the security desk in the main reception area with heavy, armored footsteps. She stands akimbo and asks in polite tones, "Greetings, Agent of Starguard. I'm here to request a visitation with Unit 8, please."

The guards nod, and one opens the cell while the other remains ready and keeny focused upon the Unit within. The motion causes Eighth to turn his head and susbequently noting Third, he sits up, focus remaining upon her. "System Power: Negligent. Unable to commence recycling. Query: What is your purpose here?"

Paragon remains uneasily outside the cell, nodding once to Malcolm in greeting. "Hello, Malcolm. Has he said anything yet?" She pans her head to Eighth suddenly focuses on her. She doesn't answer his query. Not yet. She's waiting to hear what Malcolm may know first.

"Nothing of value," replies Malcolm. He keeps his arms folded over his chest for a few seconds more before turning one fist toward Paragon. Presumably for salutory daps. Malcolm keeps his eyes on Eighth for the time being, steely gaze trying to bore through the zomborg's melon and into those sweet, delicious, creamy... Wait, where was I?

Paragon stares at Malcolm's fist for a moment before finally comprehending the gesture and raising her hand to perform the expected fistbump. She then turns to look to Eighth. "To find out what Mechaneer wants with me. Are there other units operating in the city?"

"Yes," comes the simple answer, without any pause for consideration. It was a rather simple query, afterall.

It pays to be simple with an enslaved unit, it would seem. "How many?" Paragon queries next.

Daps accomplished, Malcolm refolds his arms across his chest. He continues to stare bore holes into Eighth's face. It helps to fix his attention there, Eighth's face is probably the least disgustingly disfigured part of the zomborg.

Eighth's features were not purposely disfigured. There was simply no effort to avoid scarring. Aesthetics were not part of the design profile. Also, the use of prying and cutting to remove armor that was possibly never intended to be removed did leave a few dozen holes and tears in his flesh.

"Unknown."

Paragon's eyelights narrow down into slits. "I don't believe you. You're still networked."

Malcolm's not a surgeon. Or a cyberneticist. Or, well, anything that would be instructive in how to properly remove cybernetic armor from a zombie without adding more scars to an already hideously scarred, necromancy-fuelled body.

"Strike one," sing-songs Malcolm, wagging one of his index fingers in front of his chest. Malcolm follows this up by disappointedly clucking his tongue at Eighth.

"Communications systems status: Optimal. Status of other units: Unknown." Eighth's head pans to Malcolm and studies him and his finger briefly. Both his attention and eyeline return to Paragon.

"Your network still works. Also, units. Plural. So there's more than just you and one other operating in Colonial Bay," Paragon prompts the unwitting clue Eighth may have given.

"Hey, Paragon, lemme ask you something," starts Malcolm, still not taking his eyes off of Eighth. He keeps his arms folded over his chest. Malcolm waits patiently for acknowledgement as he watches.

Paragon seems tense and rigid as she questions Eighth. At his question, some of the tension breaks and she glances over to Malcolm attentively. "Certainly, Malcolm. What is it?"

Eighth continues to study Paragon. He makes no response, as there is no query to respond to. His network functionality was already stated.

"You suppose it's possible he can get a signal, but can't transmit queries to the network?"

Malcolm shifts his gaze sideways to regard Paragon for a few seconds. His eyes shade back toward Eighth quickly though, just in case the zomborg tries to make a break for it. Or some sort of horrible new threat emerges from the shadows. You know, the usual sort of thing that makes super-heroes paranoid.

Paragon frowns slightly behind her faceplate, then shakes her head slowly. "He said his network status was optimal. It's working fine. Either he won't transmit queries, they won't respond, or he is lying," she answers mechanically.

"So if someone, say, wired in some comm gear, they could piggyback his signal and try to extract data from the network?" replies Malcolm, tone inquisitive as he stares deep into Eighth's skull.

"Yes, very possible. He is part machine, after all. Even without the armor, there are internal systems. He could be modified. Like I was," Paragon answers. In fact, it was something Allison had been wanting to try. She folds her arms over her chestplate as she awaits Malcolm's next line of questioning.

"There some kind of external interface for that sort of thing? Or would we need a doctor of some kind to be involved?" intones Malcolm. He won't stop staring, even if he sounds like he's starting to get into the technical zone.

Paragon pauses to ponder Malcolm's questioning. "It depends on what external interfaces you have available. If you were trying to access the hardware directly, it would require cutting past the organic tissue." There's another pause before Paragon answers uneasily, "A doctor would be useful in the situation, but not necessarily required. Mechaneer would work on us without any of the usual medical procedures. Being dead, there's no risk of infection issues."

"System interface present," Eighth adds his opinions to the debate. He stands, which draws tense notice from the two guards. Moreso when he extends an arm, palm up. They raise their weapons, though Eighth does not approach. He does, however, turn his head to Malcolm once more. "Accessing datastore... Subject: Gibbs, Malcolm. Starguard Transport Operator Class AAA. Mechanical Rating Class AAA. Electronic Rating Class AA. Aptitude sufficient." A small port opens on Eight's wrist.

Paragon and Malcolm stand in front of a cell with two guards watching the doors. Inside, a de-armored Eighth stands, offering his wrist to Malcolm after rattling off data on Agent Gibbs. Eighth's features were not purposely disfigured. There was simply no effort to avoid scarring. Aesthetics were not part of the design profile. Also, the use of prying and cutting to remove armor that was possibly never intended to be removed did leave a few dozen holes and tears in his flesh.

Malcolm's fists are encased in metal by the time Eighth starts talking about his datastore. The tall man watches, one eyebrow quirking ever upward as Eighth rambles information about his certifications and qualifications. "Oh sure, now you know me," is all of the wry commentary Malcolm can manage.

Paragon's eyes shrink down by half diameter. "I'm...concerned that it has a file on you it its datastore. And about who else he has files on." Her thoughts turn to Porter and Kysmette, and the nightmare she had involving Ninth.

Nicky is returning to her cell in the SG security area when she unexpectedly encounters Paragon and Malcolm. Calling out ahead she announces her presense to the duo, lifting her hands to show Malcolm she is wearing the bright blue medical gloves that cover her hands by agreement with Spirit when she is out of her cell. "Paragon! I didn't know you were here. Did you come to see me? And, hello Agent Malcolm."

Paragon turns her head to smile at Nicky, but her faceplate conceals it. "Hello, Nicky. I was hoping to visit you once I finished some official business. I'm sorry I haven't been around as much as I would like. There have been...many developments to catch you up on. But I would rather not discuss them with this unit able to listen," she jerks a thumb towards Ninth's cell. "It would be dangerous information to reveal around an enemy," she explains, then adds warmly, "I hope you have been well, my friend."

"Yes" is Eight's succinct response. He continues to wait, arm extended and port open, otherwise remaining motionless. "Standing by."

Malcolm's eyes narrow as he tries to bore through Eighth's body with his eyes. He almost doesn't respond to Nicky, only cocking his head to one side as he calls, "Afternoon, Miss Winters."

Turning his head back toward Eighth, Malcolm considers things carefully. Could this opportunity be too good to be true? Is it a trap? Can you violate a mind enslaved cyborg zombie's rights?

"Jensen, can you call in a request for some tools and a couple of commlinks?"

Nicky sees Paragon and Malcolm are busy. Slipping past, moving on the other side of the hallway to avoid distracting them, she tells Paragon, "I fully understand. If you have time later it would be good to chat and catch up but business comes first. I'll be back in my cell." Suiting action to words Nicky goes to her cell and enters, sitting at the desk and browsing the TV guide on the terminal she's been allowed.

The facility possess it's own, rather well-equipped, communications and equipment lab. Tools and commlinks are easy to come by. All that is required is a the passage of a few minutes. Throughout which Eighth remains still as a statue. A rather unattractive statue.

Paragon nods to Nicky. "I will definitely chat with you after we're done here." She looks back to Eighth, studying him suspiciously with her arms still crossed over her chestplate. She, too, becomes as still as a statue. And since her faceplate is featureless beyond the eyeslots with glowing orbs recessed within, it's rather hard to tell that she's being suspicious.

Only once Malcolm has the proper set of electronics tools and several commlinks available to him does the tall man venture into the cell. He flatly states, "You try anything, Eighth, and it'll be /YOUR/ face Paragon's fist is caving in. And that'll be the bright side to your day, you understand?"

Malcolm may be wagging a screwdriver threateningly at Eighth to emphasize his point. Electronics screwdrivers are really not very threatening, so this may be rather less poignant than Malcolm pictures it in his head.

"Understood. Prepared for transfer." Eighth responds, only his mouth in motion. "Processing... Query: Preference for alternate interface arrangement?" In pre-emptive offering, or perhaps for clarity, Eighth's wrist slowly rolls over to palm down. His hand closes into a fist, though it is not drawn back for striking. A port now opens between the first and second knuckle.

Paragon glances between Eighth and Malcolm, standing guard and uncertain whether this is the safest ideas. But she nods along with Malcolm's threat, thankful her helm hides the look of guilt on her face.

There is a long, long pause from Malcolm as he observes Eighth's change in arm and port position. "That's fine," he comments blandly, taking a moment to inspect the fist port. Malcolm straightens up a moment or two later, fishing through his supplies before he begins the delicate process of SCIENCE!

WAH HA HA.

MWAHA HA HA! BOOOWWWWWAAAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

Ahem. Sorry you had to see that.

Agent Gibbs is an interesting one, though not truly for his technical aptitude. It is much more the scintilations of energy about him, as well as the metallic secretions. He must also be quite adept, as only a second passes before Eighth announces, "Transfer initiated."

After remaining so still, some might forget that Eighth can move. With all the focus on one fist, some might not expect the other hand to move. But it does, and quickly, snapping up to grasp Malcolm's wrist. Rivulets of viscous bio-metallic gel begin to be siphoned from from Malcolm's hands to Eighth's. When the exposed material is exhausted? Well, more will be forcible drawn from his pores. While the steps forward did not take Eighth into the cell doorway, it placed him roughly arm's reach from it. Which puts Malcolm there as a convenient piece of cover.

Paragon is not yet aware that something has gone awry, due to Malcolm's body blocking her view. Eighth manages to conceal the movement of his other hand from her.

"Oh, it's going to be like that, is it?" intones Malcolm as Eighth's hand snaps up to wrap around Malcolm's metal-clad wrist. The tall man seems shockingly stoic about this until he feels the real effects of Eighth's grip on his wrist. Malcolm lets out a long suffering groan of pain, eyes widening as he writhes in the slow boiling pain of whatever mechanism Eighth is using to rip the biometal from his body.

"Son," rasps Malcolm, "I'mma 'mancipate your teeth."

Malcolm rears back before lurching his entire upper body forward in a bid to ram his forehead into Eighth's face. Hard.

The newly-hijacked semi-inorganic solution that now coats Eight has not yet had time to reach his head, much less be fully integrated. The headbutt was not anticipated, either, and sends him back a step. This releases Malcolm from his grasp, though a fair amount of Malcolm did go with him. The metallic membrane, that is. "Charging. System efficiency: Twenty-six percent. Transmat beacon locked."

Paragon's eyes blink off and on as she realizes something's amiss. She unfolds her arms from her chest and starts to move forward. "No! Call security! He's trying to teleport out of here!" she warns the guards. Not again. He can't escape again to threaten her new family. Malcolm gave Eighth fair warning about what Paragon would do to his face if he tried anything. And she aims to deliver. Her arm cocks back. Her eyes narrow. And then her fist drives forward with a merciless degree of force.

Telepathic message from Paragon to Porter: << Sweetie, are you getting this? That unit that hurt you is trying to escape again! >>

Eighth is very familiar with Paragon. He did witness her fatal hugging of Fourth, afterall. He does not intend to follow a similar course and darts aside. Between Paragon pushing the guards and Eighth sidestepping, they can now open fire on it.

Unfortunately, the multiple energy pulses react oddly with the bio-metallic material... or Eighth, himself. It hastens the solidification, and the ooze quickly darkens and hardens into a very passable facsimile of his prior armor. Of course, some sections brighten into the distinctive crimson. "System Efficiency: Seventy-three percent. Initiating transmat recall. 3... 2...1.."

And then, he vanishes in a red flash.

While the cells are shielded against such things, the door was open. The holding area has a similarly shielded entryway, but just at that moment, in runs an intern. "Agent Gibbs! I found that report you requested!" About a week ago.

Malcolm is shoved aside, shoulders hunched forward as one hand clutches the moldering burn on his wrist whilst his chest heaves up and down. His eyes widen as his stolen membrane is turned into something else. Something dark. Something... Dangerous.

The tall man wheels around and rams his fist, void of metal, into the wall beside the intern's head. Malcolm looks furious. Positively, absolutely, irreconcileably furious. He narrows his eyes slowly and growls, "Run along. Put them on my desk. Get yourself a fresh pair of pants."

Paragon lets out a frustrated growl as Eighth vanishes after his little thieving deception. He was too fast for her, and he hurt a good friend. "Malcolm," she starts with her back to him, then turns her body ninety degrees in his direction. Her head moves the rest of the way to pan to him. "Are you badly injured?" her voice rings with concern.

"Only my pride," replies Malcolm. His wrist has a distinct, hand-shaped burn mark wrapped around it and there are several bloody splotches running up his forearm where, presumably, metal was wrested from his very pores. Malcolm heaves a final deep breath and straightens up slowly, looking over at Paragon. "I'm sorry, P. I let you down."

Paragon puts a hand on Malcolm's shoulder. On the uninjured side. "You did not, Malcolm. That unit is very tricky. It has escaped before. We'll capture it again," she tries to stay optimistic. There is no harsh judgement in her voice, but there's some degree of worry. "I will have to keep a watchful eye on Porter and Kysmette. In the past, that particular unit knew to use Porter as a hostage against me. I don't want to give it that chance again."

"I played right into its escape plan," growls Malcolm, apparently ignorant of the comforting hand on his shoulder, "/AND/ it jacked my steel. It's out there, now, running around with my steel. Did you know it could do that? I sure as hell didn't know he could do that."

Malcolm's hands ball into fists and he throws another punch at the wall. It lands with a solid, decidedly not human *WHUD*. Human punches don't typically hit things like reinforced cell walls hard enough for that level of volume without a bone-shattering *CRACK*. Apparently Malcolm's fists do.

"And now you, Porter, and your kid are all at risk. I blew it big time, P, but I /WILL/ make it up to you. We will get that... Vampire back into custody and we will take down Mechaneer."

With a shake of her head, Paragon sighs. "I was completely unaware it had that capability. If I did, I assure you I would have warned you, or refused to let you put yourself at risk like that. It's a much different model from myself," she explains solemnly.

Her eyes dim and shrink down as she winces from the punch, expecting there to be broken bone. There is some relief as there's no crunch or snapping sounds. Her eyes return to normal. She pats Malcolm's shoulder encouragingly, then returns her hand to her side.

"We were still at risk, anyway. There's at least one other unit out there somewhere that has fought me in the past. And we did get a clue at least. Eighth said units. So there's more than just the other model I know of." Of course, having freed another unit makes at least three out there now instead of the minimum possibility of two. "And now we know one of their tricks." Paragon manages to still see some positive, despite being actually scared, herself. But never once does she blame Malcolm. "I am just glad to have your assistance to take that unit and Mechaneer down. But first, perhaps we should get you medical assistance? How much of your steel did it take?"

It takes Malcolm a few moments to "pry" his fist free of the wall. He's not quite strong enough, without his Colossus' Flesh in place, to actually put a dent in the wall, but Malcolm may or may not be imagining it having been thoroughly embedded. Malcolm lets out a long sigh and shakes his head.

"No, you're right. We've got more information now. More we can use to try to get out ahead of them."

Malcolm cycles a few cleansing breaths as his temper comes back under control. He flexes both hands a few times, faintly wincing at the feel of his burned skin where Eighth held his wrist.

"I'll be fine. It'll grow back, it always does. It's just... Infuriating. Next time we run into him, he'll be using my own Colossus' Flesh against us."

"I'm relieved you'll be fine. I'd feel terrible if you were badly injured or if there were lasting effects," Paragon says softly.

After a moment's consideration, she speaks again. "It will be your steel he's using. Twisted to his purposes. I suppose I can understand the frustration. I don't think I'd be very agreeable if he had torn my armor from me and used it to protect himself," Paragon reasons Malcolm's sentimental frustration. "Is there any properties to your Colossus Flesh that we could use against him?"

"I don't know. It's... Complicated," replies Malcolm. Rubbing the back of his head, Malcolm frowns slightly as he considers something or another. Super powers are so very complicated when they're like this, aren't they?

That phrase is something Paragon is all too familiar with. "It was just a thought. Well, perhaps no special properties were conveyed beyond its durability. Which is quite formidable. Hrm." Paragon makes an unhappy sound to go with the frown behind her faceplate. She folds her arms over her chestplate and taps her fingers along her left bicep as she dwells on something.

Finally, a sigh. "I don't know if there's any chance to find where he went after his escape. I'm afraid I will have to postpone my visit with Ms. Winters. I should probably check in on Porter and Kysmette, and patrol the city."

"No, I understand. I just... My powers aren't quite what they appear to be, so it's... Hard to explain."

Malcolm looks increasingly sheepish. He lets out a little sigh and a nod, smiling a bit. "I'll let Miss Winters know. Give Portman my apologies, okay?"

Paragon tilts her head slightly. "I think I understand. I'm sure if anything comes to mind, you'll let me know," she says amiably, her head straightening out. "Thank you for passing my message along to Ms. Winters. I'll let Porter know you said hi," she grins slightly. "Since there's nothing to apologize for," she adds for clarity. She fires off a cub scouts salute to Malcolm. "Be sure to have yourself checked out by a physician, Malcolm. Take care. We'll find him again. And next time I'll be more cautious with my swings," she adds a little wryly at the end. Some of Porter's wryness and snark seems to have rubbed off on her. She does an about face and swiftly leaves the security area.