"Evil Germans? In America?" Remy looked at François like he was telling a terrible joke.
"Yes! Not just the Germans, look at this," François turned his laptop to face Remy as they sat at the table in Remy's room at trump tower, "look, General William Arthur Macmillan, United States Secretary of Defense. Elisio Hector Fernandez, CEO of weapons manufacturer Titan Enterprises. Sarah Hanover, Director of the CIA, and Norihito Kageyama, of Kageyama Medical Manufacturing and Bio-Engineering!"
"So what?"
"What do you mean 'so what'?! These are all the people from my dream!"
"I still don't see your point. You have these dreams of the future all the time, what's so special about this one? It's not like they always come true."
"Idiot! It's a conspiracy! They're probably planning to overthrow the government if they haven't already!"
"But you said the President was there. Benedict Something-or-Other, maybe you just saw a government meeting?"
"No chance! Especially not when there are Nazis on freaky life support systems involved!"
"Just because they're Germans doesn't mean they're Nazis. Plus, you said you couldn't even see them that well because it was dark-"
"I know what I said! Just...just trust me. We have to do something."
"Ok, ok, calm down," Remy rolled his eyes and sighed, "one conspiracy at a time. We have to stop the assassination first before we try anything else." Remy insisted.
"Fine." François sighed. "Is there any news on the video feed?"
"Same as always, his woman goes out for groceries and he makes a bomb."
"You've seen her?"
"No, just heard her on the feed. The camera doesn't get a good shot of the bed or front door, it's mostly just his workbench. I knew I should've bought more. How many days until the assassination?"
"Two. We really need to work on our plan."
"What more of a plan do you need than 'find him before he pulls the gun on the Senator'?" Remy laughed.
"Shouldn't we have a sniper? Or maybe a getaway car?"
"Sure," Remy lit a cigarette "if you're going to pay for all that shit."
They hadn't been to the Mockingbird Inn since they planted the camera a week ago. There was no need now that they had the twenty-four-hour video feed of Daniel's room. So, François had spent his time doing general tourist things, visiting the Statue of Liberty and going to Central Park, among other things. He also frequently visited clubs with Remy, drinking himself stupid while offending women. Remy, however, always seemed to get lucky, which infuriated François to no end.
It's my clothes and my money that attracts them. But they only ever stay with him. Filthy dog...
However, when François came to Remy's door that night in his best silk shirt and designer trousers, Remy was dressed in his regular clothing.
"What's going on? I thought we were going to the club tonight?"
"Change of plans, we got a problem." Remy grabbed François and pulled him into the room.
"Hey, hey, hey! Watch it, putain, this shirt is worth more than your car!"
"Shut up, moron. Look at this." Remy forced François into a chair facing his computer that was showing the video feed from Daniel's room.
"Yeah, it's the assassin, making bombs. What's the problem?"
"Look at the serial number on this piece of pipe. Six-four-eight-eight-five-nine-two-three. Now, look at the serial number in the pipe used in the bomb he made 'yesterday'." Remy pulled up an archived video and François looked at the serial number.
Mon dieu.....
"That's not possible, right? Or maybe the serial number was printed on two sides."
"Maybe. But I went back and checked all the archived videos. Two days after we planted the camera, all the pipes he's been working on have had the same serial number."
François' belly went cold and his heart sank.
"You mean..."
"We've been watching a loop of the same day for at least three days."
François wanted to puke.
He knows. He knows we're watching!
"W-w-w-what do we d-d-d-do?" François couldn't control the stutter in his voice.
"Don't worry, I already called the police and sent them an email with a file of our friend making bombs. They'll take care of him."
"You idiot! The whole reason we came here was so that I could stop him from killing the senator on national TV!"
"Too fucking bad! People's lives are at stake, our lives are at stake. And I don't know about you, but I'm not going to be hunted down and killed in this shit country by a cybernetic psycho!" Remy shouted back.
"You son of a bitch...deal's off! I suppose I'll sell your shithole bar to someone else. Good luck getting your own ticket home." François turned to walk away, but then he felt a hand on his shoulder, spinning him around. "Too late, no—" François began to taunt before a fist collided with his nose and sent him to the ground. He didn't even realize his nose had exploded into a fountain of blood until he put a hand to his face to assuage the pain.
"No. You're not ruining this too. You got me fired from my first dream job, you will secure my second." Remy hissed.
"You bastard! My nose!"
"Fuck your nose, you self-centered prick!" Remy shouted before grabbing François by the collar and forcing him up against the wall.
"Ten years I was on the force, and I was damn good at it. Then, Élizabeth comes and begs me to save your sorry ass because you couldn't stop betting on ponies." Remy cried, eyes alight with evident hate. "I would've let the mobsters kill you, let them do the world a favor, but she was crying and you had a kid. So I thought 'Maybe he'll see the error of his ways if I just help him out, no one will miss this money from the evidence locker'. But no! You were still stupid and went right back to betting. I'd be in jail if the chief hadn't taken pity on me, and you cost your family their house. You're garbage, François. You always have been, you always will be." The big man threw the artist to the ground and walked over to his suitcase.
"If you're so hot to see the action, we can go watch the arrest. After that, I'm going home." He picked up his black suitcase and walked out the door. "Hurry up and pack your shit, if you're coming."
François had a quandary on his hands, and it wasn't the packing of his tens of outfits from the closet back into his suitcase or the steady waterfall of blood that came from his nose. Rather, it was a moral quandary wherein he could either:
Allow the police to arrest David Robinson, thereby ending his reign of terror and take the moral victory in knowing that he was the reason such an awful man was arrested. Or
Call Robinson's hotel, ask for his room, and tell the deranged terrorist that the police are on their way.
Either way, I'm technically a hero. But only one of these actions will show Françoise and Élizabeth that I was willing to risk my life...
Sitting in their rented car, Remy in the driver seat, François stared at his phone, the number for the Mockingbird Inn dialed into the virtual keypad. All he needed to do now was push the little green circle and Robinson would be gone before the police could apprehend him and he could still stop the assassination, live on television.
"Why are you staring at your phone like that?" Remy asked.
Merde..!
"W-what do you mean?" François stammered out in his voice made numb by his probably broken nose.
"You're looking at it weird, and I think I know why." Remy said.
Oh no, he's going to kill me!!!
"You're thinking about calling Élizabeth."
Oh, thank Christ.
"Don't do it," Remy continued, his voice hinting at an attempt at reconciliation. "She says you call her too much. If you want your plan to work, just wait until the bomber is caught. When we get back to France, I'll show her it was you who caught him."
"How do you know she thinks I call too much?" François asked, lowering his phone.
"What?" Remy made a face as he drove.
"You heard me, it's a small car. You said she said I call too much, how'd you know that?" François' voice rose.
"Eh? Calm down, she told me maybe a month ago at the bar."
"Why was she at your bar?"
"To get a drink! What kind of question is that—"
"Are you fucking my wife?" François interjected.
"Your ex-wife, you mean? No, I'm not. Why does it matter to you what she does?"
"Because I love her. Why do you think we're in America? I'm a knight errant doing good deeds to win the favor of the princess!"
"You're fucking crazy! Élizabeth kicked your ass to the curb because you broke her heart one too many times. You think saving some American is going to change that?"
"Did she tell you that while you were in bed together?" François accused.
"What? No!"
"And if you don't think my plan will work, why are you helping me?"
"Because, I thought maybe, even though she wouldn't take you back, if you did one decent thing in your pathetic life, she'd see you as a human being instead of a piece of shit! Maybe she'd see you as someone who could be in her daughter's life!"
"I am Françoise' father."
"Are you sure about that? Sure as hell doesn't seem like it!"
"What does that mean, asshole?!"
Remy stamped the brakes and François banged his head on the dashboard. Behind them, tires screeched and horns sounded.
"Jesus fucking Christ! Are you that far up your own ass?! Every birthday, swim meet, tennis match, violin recital, all of it! Françoise always cried because you weren't there! And I told her every. single. time: 'Ah, mon petite, Papa was busy working, he's going to be a great artist one day and you'll live in a grand house'. I lied! Every. Damn. Time! I lied to a little girl hoping that you'd make an honest man of me by actually doing something with your pathetic life." Remy screamed.
"But no, every time, you were drunk, or high, or banging some shovel-faced whore. Until you got the cartoon job, and oh la la, how happy I was when that happened. And then you got two comics syndicated in the national papers. We all thought 'Holy shit, this is it! He's going to prove us wrong! He actually is as great an artist as he says!'. Next, you get into that anthology book and you're well on your way to success, and then...you blow it! You quit like you always do!" Remy ranted and raved as the anger of the cars behind them crescendoed.
"Those stupid cartoons were beneath me! They didn't allow me to showcase my—"
"Shut up. Shut the fuck up! Do you hear yourself? Do you hear how pretentious you sound? Go to hell." Remy shook his head, rolled down his window, flipped off the cars behind him, and sped off again.
Who does he think he is? I bring him on the trip of a lifetime and he shouts down at me like that?
The two men steamed in quiet contempt to Robinson's hotel.
"We beat the police. Let's go upstairs." Remy said to no one in particular.
François wanted to protest because of the danger, but that would require him to talk to Remy, which he didn't plan on doing ever again. Without a word, François followed his former friend up the stairs to their room where they had surveilled the most wanted man in America. It was when Remy reached for the handle that François went sideways, overtaken with an insistent whirlpool of vertigo.
"What the...?" And he was on the ground.
"Honey, is this really necessary? Those boys didn't mean any harm. The French are perverts, maybe they just wanted to watch us." She giggled behind him. Her laugh made his heart smile and he wanted to stop his work to turn around and kiss her, but he was nearly done.
"Sorry darling, but I can't leave loose ends lying around, they could interfere with my work." François said in a voice that was not his as he finished fixing the trip wire to the door with cybernetic hands.
François jolted awake and gasped for air like a man resurfacing from the bottom of a pool.
"—up! What the hell are you doing?" Remy whispered.
François shot up and pulled him away from the door.
"You idiot, get your hands-!"
François clasped a hand over his friend's mouth and put a finger to his lips. He motioned to the door and pantomimed opening it, then pantomimed an explosion.
Remy tugged at his hand for a bit and looked confused, then his eyes went wide with realization. François slowly pulled away his hand and kept a finger pressed to his lips. The men retreated to their car downstairs and, once inside with the doors locked and the engine running, François started yelling whilst simultaneously hyperventilating until Remy slapped him.
"You had a vision?" Remy asked, his voice a quiver. François gulped and nodded. "Damn, why can't you dream of me winning the lotto instead of us getting blown up all the time?"
"It...doesn't...work..like that." François gasped between breaths.
"Well, what the hell do you know about it? You said they only happen at night."
"I thought they did, but I guess I was wrong. Excuse me for not knowing the ins and outs of an ability that came out of the blue a little over a month ago with no fucking manual!" François shouted.
"Ok, ok. Cool it, I'll just get us—" Remy reached down to the cubby hole in the driver-side door, and as he did, a bang rang out, and in almost the same instant, glass from the windshield exploded in every direction and Remy's headrest exploded in a shower of foam padding.
"What the fuck?!" François shouted, ducking down in his seat to hide his head underneath the dashboard."
"Sacrebleu...!" François heard Remy gasp in fear before the car lurched and François' ears were filled with the screech of tires and his nose was filled with burnt rubber.
"Pick your head up and see if he's following us!" Remy commanded.
"Hell no!"
"What? Do it!"
"You do it!"
"I'm a bit busy speeding down the fucking street, so no!"
François growled his disapproval before unbuckling his seat belt and turning in his seat to look out the back windshield, knees on the seat of his chair. Peeking around the headrest, he saw nothing but angry pedestrians and cars laying on their horns, drivers expressing their discontent with rude gestures and English that François couldn't understand, but was sure was foul.
"I don't see him! Maybe he's still getting his car or—"The words stuck in François's throat as he saw something unbelievable. It was in the shape of a man running and quickly gaining on the car, but his gait was unnatural as his knees went to his chest and his torso was nearly parallel to the ground. But there was no denying its reality.
Mother of god....
It was David Robinson, pants torn to shred below the upper thigh by the near blur of his cybernetic prosthetics.
"What is it?!" Remy asked.
"...drive faster..." François managed.
"What?!"
"Drive faster, goddamnit!!" And a half second later, François' back was thrown into the dashboard as his head collided with the ceiling. He felt his blood pressed against his skin by the force of the accelerating car. He fought backward and upside down to get back in his seat properly when another shot rang out and blew through the back windshield, in between his upright legs, and out the front windshield. "He's shooting at us!"
"Really? Because I thought it was a bird!" Remy shouted back as he jerked the steering wheel around, making the car swing wide left. François got back into his seat properly and plugged in his seatbelt without hesitation, only to be greeted by the sight of cars driving right towards them on the freeway.
"You're going the wrong way!" François cried.
"That's the idea!" Remy explained as he weaved the car in between the oncoming traffic. The artist looked back again, and to his dismay, saw the terrorist hot on their heels, mere meters away from the car. "He's still there, go faster!"
"I go any faster and we smash into a car!"
Another shot, this one blowing up François' headrest, drawing a scream from him, but luckily his head was down.
"You don't go any faster and he'll catch us!" François countered.
"So what the hell am I supposed to do? Hit him with the car?"
François saw the light blink on in his friend's face, and his stomach dropped. He didn't have any time to protest.
Remy stamped his foot down on the break and François's head collided with the dashboard again. The world went shadowy and François heard metal banging into metal. He looked up and saw the terrorist in mid-air. But he wasn't hurt, rather, he was mid-vault, spinning as gracefully as any gymnast. The cyborg landed on his prosthetic legs, momentum pushing him back, his cybernetic limbs fighting against it and tearing up the tarmac in the process. He skidded to a stop about a hundred meters away.
"It...didn't... work." François pointed out as his head swam. But the car was already moving again as the cyborg began to stand.
This time, there would be no acrobatics. The car slammed into him at the waist, sending him end over end to the road behind the car, François watched as he landed shoulder first and bounced off the ground. The moonlight coming off his silvery limbs did not help François' headache. The artist turned back around and noticed that both airbags had deployed and Remy was nursing his arm. François looked at the crumpled front end of the car and sighed.
"I don't think we're going to get our deposit back..."
And then everything went black.
You can't die yet
Who are you?
You
What do you want? Or, what do I want? I guess?
Live
Will do. But how are you inside my head?
I am you
Oh, right. Am I going to die?
Not yet
Ah, that's good then. I should head to a hospital.
You will
Oh? I hope the doctor is nice.
He's not