[WIP], Pt. 3
"This is the address we have, Sir. This is where we were told you drop you off," the driver says, putting the car in park. Tucker looks at the gate in front of him blankly. He sees the cameras, an entrypad, and, in the stonework around the ramparts, a small screen.
"It's not mine," Tucker shakes his head and scoots down further in the seat. He pulls his cap down over over his eyes and tries to disappear. "What kind of car is this?"
"It's a Bentley. Sir." He's over it. It's a long drive from HQ to where this Wells retard lives and the guy didn't make sense the entire time. He kept asking questions that didn't pertain to the situation. Like when he asked if he could keep the clothes he was wearing. Or if the driver knew the name of the Sunnydale mayor. Forty miles into the drive, Wells said he had to take a piss and insisted that the driver turn off the car and give Tucker the keys while he went into a thicket of aspens at the roadside. This is the kind of bullshit that career drivers do not like. "Can you open the gate so I can take you to your residence now?"
Tucker's not sure. Can he open the gate? "I'll just get out, then," he says, gathering his things. He doesn't have a lot of things. A phone, a small bag of rocks that may or may not be a former part of him, a folio filled with paperwork, and an apple. Suvarta sent the apple, at least Tucker thinks that Suvarta sent the apple, which meant that it was a message, or a threat, not something to eat.
"Suit yourself, Sir. I'll be on my way. Enjoy your R&R."
At that, Tucker flinches. R&R means something new and horrible to him now. Something sinister and exhausting. It's a deliberate double entendre on the driver's part, but Tucker doesn't get the joke. He considers leaving the apple in the front console, but at the last second, he takes it, stuffs it in his coat pocket and exits the car. The door to the Bentley isn't even completely latched shut before the driver floors it and leaves Tucker outside a large, modern, unmarked gate. It looks completely unfamiliar.
Some sort of scanning system must be set up, because the gate slides smoothly on an invisible track, permitting Tucker's passage through it. Sounds like Warren's work. It's a long walk down an overgrown road to the only building he can see, but Tucker doesn't mind. His eyes are open wide, on account of there being creatures in them there thickets. A couple of times he catches a glimpse of what's following: something mysterious with red eyes and sharp teeth, something that Tucker's pretty sure he knows the species and genus of. It ignores Tucker, thankfully, just like the screen at the gate ignored Tucker, once the camera trained on him. Tucker imagines that Warren is in a control room somewhere, watching his every move. Even the beast.
Tucker can't wait to ask him why his voicemail isn't working and why he never picks up his phone. Or checks his email. Or didn't come to pick him up. But, the door is locked and Tucker has no key, so his plans are thwarted. He sits on the porch of the cabin and waits for something to make sense. The place looks vaguely familiar, he thinks. He must live here. There are no cars in the driveway, so Tucker imagines that Warren's out somewhere. Or maybe he moved away as soon as he heard the news.
He's still thinking on nothing in particular when the sun goes down. Sitting with his back against the front door of the cabin, he gets sleepy and dozes off intermittently. It doesn't look like the place in Maine, but it's nice enough. He remembers, foggily, leaving here to go on a hunt for that gorgon bitch that killed him. The gorgon part is clear, but the morning he left for the train station in Warren's ride isn't.
"It's a ...it's grey," Tucker says aloud, pretty fucking proud of himself for remembering a detail. "Grey truck."
Three minutes later, Warren opens the door and welcomes Tucker home with no smile, no hug and no mention of an exaggerated report of a death. He pretty much just asks where he's been and if he wanted to watch MythBusters.
Thirty minutes later, Tucker realizes that this is the WarrenBot. He tests his theory by saying "Connery is Bond" and the robot shuts down, just like he's supposed to, just like he did back in the day.
And three hours later, Tucker is sitting on the couch with some ramen, across from the dormant bot, wondering why it had been activated again, or was even with them again. At all. Shouldn't it be in Boston? Tucker remembers with growing clarity that Warren wasn't messing with robot production as much, since they transferred to this dimension, he'd been working on some AI stuff, but not for the bots. They'd started collaborating on something that was a little tech, a little magic, a little summoning here and there...
Must have been the ramen. Tucker's head is much clearer, now. He realizes this at the same moment that he remembers that Warren is probably in his workshop, just up the hill from the cabin. Flashlight in hand, he makes his way up there and finds the real deal. The real deal hasn't showered or slept in several days, it appears. The real deal looks at him, both of them on either side of the doorway, and says, "It's not you."
"It's not mine," Tucker shakes his head and scoots down further in the seat. He pulls his cap down over over his eyes and tries to disappear. "What kind of car is this?"
"It's a Bentley. Sir." He's over it. It's a long drive from HQ to where this Wells retard lives and the guy didn't make sense the entire time. He kept asking questions that didn't pertain to the situation. Like when he asked if he could keep the clothes he was wearing. Or if the driver knew the name of the Sunnydale mayor. Forty miles into the drive, Wells said he had to take a piss and insisted that the driver turn off the car and give Tucker the keys while he went into a thicket of aspens at the roadside. This is the kind of bullshit that career drivers do not like. "Can you open the gate so I can take you to your residence now?"
Tucker's not sure. Can he open the gate? "I'll just get out, then," he says, gathering his things. He doesn't have a lot of things. A phone, a small bag of rocks that may or may not be a former part of him, a folio filled with paperwork, and an apple. Suvarta sent the apple, at least Tucker thinks that Suvarta sent the apple, which meant that it was a message, or a threat, not something to eat.
"Suit yourself, Sir. I'll be on my way. Enjoy your R&R."
At that, Tucker flinches. R&R means something new and horrible to him now. Something sinister and exhausting. It's a deliberate double entendre on the driver's part, but Tucker doesn't get the joke. He considers leaving the apple in the front console, but at the last second, he takes it, stuffs it in his coat pocket and exits the car. The door to the Bentley isn't even completely latched shut before the driver floors it and leaves Tucker outside a large, modern, unmarked gate. It looks completely unfamiliar.
Some sort of scanning system must be set up, because the gate slides smoothly on an invisible track, permitting Tucker's passage through it. Sounds like Warren's work. It's a long walk down an overgrown road to the only building he can see, but Tucker doesn't mind. His eyes are open wide, on account of there being creatures in them there thickets. A couple of times he catches a glimpse of what's following: something mysterious with red eyes and sharp teeth, something that Tucker's pretty sure he knows the species and genus of. It ignores Tucker, thankfully, just like the screen at the gate ignored Tucker, once the camera trained on him. Tucker imagines that Warren is in a control room somewhere, watching his every move. Even the beast.
Tucker can't wait to ask him why his voicemail isn't working and why he never picks up his phone. Or checks his email. Or didn't come to pick him up. But, the door is locked and Tucker has no key, so his plans are thwarted. He sits on the porch of the cabin and waits for something to make sense. The place looks vaguely familiar, he thinks. He must live here. There are no cars in the driveway, so Tucker imagines that Warren's out somewhere. Or maybe he moved away as soon as he heard the news.
He's still thinking on nothing in particular when the sun goes down. Sitting with his back against the front door of the cabin, he gets sleepy and dozes off intermittently. It doesn't look like the place in Maine, but it's nice enough. He remembers, foggily, leaving here to go on a hunt for that gorgon bitch that killed him. The gorgon part is clear, but the morning he left for the train station in Warren's ride isn't.
"It's a ...it's grey," Tucker says aloud, pretty fucking proud of himself for remembering a detail. "Grey truck."
Three minutes later, Warren opens the door and welcomes Tucker home with no smile, no hug and no mention of an exaggerated report of a death. He pretty much just asks where he's been and if he wanted to watch MythBusters.
Thirty minutes later, Tucker realizes that this is the WarrenBot. He tests his theory by saying "Connery is Bond" and the robot shuts down, just like he's supposed to, just like he did back in the day.
And three hours later, Tucker is sitting on the couch with some ramen, across from the dormant bot, wondering why it had been activated again, or was even with them again. At all. Shouldn't it be in Boston? Tucker remembers with growing clarity that Warren wasn't messing with robot production as much, since they transferred to this dimension, he'd been working on some AI stuff, but not for the bots. They'd started collaborating on something that was a little tech, a little magic, a little summoning here and there...
Must have been the ramen. Tucker's head is much clearer, now. He realizes this at the same moment that he remembers that Warren is probably in his workshop, just up the hill from the cabin. Flashlight in hand, he makes his way up there and finds the real deal. The real deal hasn't showered or slept in several days, it appears. The real deal looks at him, both of them on either side of the doorway, and says, "It's not you."