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Too late.
M-21 had brought reinforcements, he'd slipped through Marie's clutches, he'd finally reached the lower levels where his friend was holding out. Only to find, not M-24, but the massive pile of plaster and rubble that had buried him.
He was too late.
For his comrades, M-21 had always mustered a brave face, no matter how grim the situation. If not cheer, at least the workings of a plan. If not hope, then at least a cobble of pragmatism, defiance, grit.
They had been taken from him anyway, one by one. Out of the hundred experimental subjects in his cohort, the others had all been destroyed, discarded, erased. He and M-24 had been the last, yet what else could he do, against impossible odds, but continue to scheme, and barter, and grasp at any means, to keep just one other alive? Just one.
And now M-24 was crushed under a mountain of debris, and M-21 had nothing left but despair.
"Big tomb for a big guy," Jake had taunted.
Small comfort, that the bastard was dead too. The Union's top assassin, body augmented beyond recognition, and he'd been taken out in the blink of an eye. His blood, raining down on them, was just slowing to a thin patter, yet the one who had killed him stood unmarked at the center of it all.
The Noblesse.
They had heard the name before, sure, in nebulous, conflicting rumors, but they paled in comparison to the brutal reality of his power. Instinct told M-21 it was an awful idea to turn his back to the monster who had snuffed out Jake's life, that Jake, with a command. But he couldn't bring himself to care about his own safety at this point. Digging hopelessly through the rubble for the body of his last comrade, arms scraping, nails splintering, he heedlessly cast aside chunk after chunk. From a hundred comrades down to two. It was a perpetual, mounting ache, worn into him over many years, but M-21 had thought he could bear to live on, if there was at least one other left, to do so with him.
A flash of skin appeared, mottled and bruised.
"M-24," he choked, and redoubled his efforts, pushing away detritus, clearing great slabs of plaster and concrete from his friend's body with clenched and bloodied fists. A momentary flash of hope lit his chest when he heaved aside a large flat piece: there, half of M-24's torso, moving with the faint, ragged rise and fall of breath. But then more of it broke away to uncover the rest: a gaping wound that split M-24's chest, carved right into his heart.
As Union research subjects, they all knew injuries. What a body could heal from, given the chance. When it was too far gone.
In a sterile lab, surrounded by the forefront of medical technology, such a wound would have already had M-21 gathering the others, mourning their loss.
Lying here in a pile of rust and rubble, crushed and battered, flanked by the most dangerous enemies they'd faced—the situation was more hopeless still.
Unless—
The Noblesse was still behind him, unmoved. Standing with tall, straight shoulders that had never known the need to bow to anyone. Long, dark hair falling around his solemn face, expression impassive and unconcerned as he looked down upon M-21's struggle. He hadn't attacked them yet, though Jake was long disposed of. That meant, perhaps, indecision. That meant there was room to bargain their fate.
"Save him," M-21 entreated simply, sincerely. For good measure, he went to his knees.
The first thing the Noblesse had done on arrival was put Jake in his place. If he was so concerned with people showing deference, physically abasing themselves at his feet, M-21 would do it, he would grovel, whatever it took.
"You can fix him, can't you? M-24, he protected the hostages—the children. He could have stayed out of it, but he put himself between them and Jake, bought them time to get away. So please—"
The blond called Frankenstein appeared over Noblesse's shoulder. How was he here already? Was Marie dead too? Just like that?
"Master," Frankenstein said, without force or urging, any hint he was trying to suggest to his master what to do—only concern. As if he knew the Noblesse were capable of this, but didn't want him to put himself to the trouble, of saving a life.
And why would he? They were enemies. M-21 and M-24 had brought the children to danger in the first place. Frankenstein and his master could leave M-24 to die, maybe end M-21's existence with a careless swat for good measure, and call it deserved, a job well done.
But M-21 had lived his entire life at the mercy of people like these, with the power and inclination to harm him and his comrades, kill them, at the slightest sway of their mood. He had only gotten this far by learning how to offer what they wanted.
He turned his attention to Frankenstein. Shifted, knee by knee, to face him head on.
"You're curious about the Union's research, aren't you?" he said quietly. "Wouldn't you like to get your hands on some of their work and see for yourself?"
Frankenstein's expression didn't change much, but there was no hiding the sharp interest in his eyes, dark and intent. Doctors all had different exteriors, but every one was like that at the core: hungry to dig in, to cut and pry, to tear science from suffering, knowledge from flesh.
"M-24 and I, we're some of the Union's earliest experiments. You could open us up, take us apart, see how we're built—any experiment you can think of. You'll find all you want to know, if only he lives through this. With two test subjects—"
He shouldn't have turned his attention from the greater threat. His jaw snapped shut at the flash of dangling earring, suddenly up close, glinting against dark hair, casting a cross-shaped shadow on pale cheek. Somehow the Noblesse had moved unnoticed until he was leaning in right over M-21, and yet his motions were so slow and unhurried that M-21 had a chance to school himself not to resist, when he was grasped by the wrist.
What did he want? Would he help? M-24 was running out of time—
The Noblesse laid his narrow fingers across the back of M-21's hand. Hard to imagine such slender digits had borne the power to stop Jake's strike. He'd done it effortlessly, like Jake's mutated form, the culmination of all the Union's research and efforts, had delivered a blow no more powerful than a feather. Those fingers touched the bloody scrapes on M-21's knuckles and broken nailbeds, from his desperate scramble to uncover M-24's body. And up to his wrists and forearms, where the criss-crossing welts from Frankenstein's attack, days ago, still had never healed: the Noblesse traced these too, picking up blood on his fingertips like paint on a brush, or a bright stain of berry red on a summer's day.
When he brought his fingers back to his lips, for a wild moment M-21 thought he would lick them clean.
But the Noblesse touched them to a corner of his mouth instead, some ancient, unknown ritual, and instant power burst from his form, a tangible force that rippled out from him like a great wave.
Blood engulfed them—M-21, M-24, and the Noblesse—a shifting, roaring torrent that spun around them, walling them off from the outside world.
Jake had vanished into a scarlet cyclone just like this, vanquished by his own blood turned against him. There was no need to use such a grand method on M-21, who was only a failed experiment, and couldn't have fought off either of them if he'd put his all into it. But if that was how they chose to end him, he could at least go to his death continuing to plead for his comrade's life.
"Save him," he said again, reaching out toward M-24. "Do what you want to me, just please—"
His hand landed on M-24's chest, wet and tacky with blood.
And instantly, M-24's eyes snapped open, filled with a dazzling light. His body lifted from the ground, shedding the last of the debris, limbs fanned out, chest arching, wound gaping wide. All at once, blood began to flow towards him in streams, slamming into his chest one after the next, connecting him to the walls of the cyclone like spokes of a wheel.
M-21 tried to leap to his feet, but only staggered, abruptly light-headed and dizzy.
With great effort, he forced his head back up. He had to keep looking.
If nothing else, he couldn't let M-24 die alone.
All his vision shone wetly with red, and he could no longer tell if he was still within the cyclone, or if the blood was just covering him, his eyes, his everything. It was all connected: his minor cuts, M-24's fatal wounds, the Noblesse standing aside, eyes glinting most bright and crimson of all. It all pounded with a great, steady pulse, the heartbeat of something massive and timeless, directing an eternal flow—
And then it was over.
M-24 descended, to gently sprawl back out across the floor. His shirt was still torn, but underneath was skin whole and unbroken.
Weakly, M-21 fell over his comrade's body, holding back any sound—because he knew if he let it, it would tear out of him in sobs.
Because he'd known it was hopeless. Even if the Noblesse could repair a killing blow like that, he had no reason to, not for the likes of them.
Even as he'd begged, he'd known it was over, M-24 was gone, and he was utterly, unalterably alone.
But whatever the reason, the Noblesse had intervened. M-21 had his comrade back. They were both alive, for the time being.
And he couldn't think of a single thing that mattered beyond that.
***
They emerged into an incongruously calm and quiet night.
The children were dropped off at the hospital, memories wiped—another chillingly casual display of power. From there, they headed out over the skyline of the glittering city, crossing the rooftops with nimble leaps, so that their silhouettes almost touched the low and gravid moon.
Frankenstein carried M-24 slung over his shoulders, though the bulky form was twice his size, and should have bowled him over. A hostage, for M-21's docile cooperation.
M-21, for his part, had managed to fight off the lingering faintness, and follow on his own strength. He tried to tell himself it was no different now, that giving themselves to these two monsters could be no worse than being owned by the Union, but he knew it wasn't true.
At the Union, they might have been trash, reject test materials from a failed experiment, but there was a certain latitude that came with it. As leftovers no one particularly cared about, they could get lost in the vast size of the organization, and steal for themselves a degree of freedom as long as they kept under the radar, stayed beneath notice.
Besides, the Union scientists couldn't overpower them, nor the staff, nor even some of the ordinary human soldiers and guards. If things got desperate, there was a chance they could fight back, however briefly, before stronger forces were called in to subdue them.
These two monsters had taken out Jake and Marie without ruffling the immaculate lines of their suits. Frankenstein alone could end M-21 and M-24's lives as easily as swat a buzzing insect. And if they were his only test subjects, they would be under his constant, personal attention. Not since the early days of their active experiment had they known such brutal testing. And he'd just signed them up for more.
But there had been no other choice. This had been the only path that ended with M-24 alive, even for a moment longer, and that meant it was the right one, no matter what else.
They arrived at the lab more quickly than expected. A residential neighborhood, not far from where they'd captured the children. Frankenstein shifted his grip on M-24 and unlocked the front door, to reveal a suspiciously homey interior: a spacious living room, furnished with leather couches, and a modern kitchen visible behind a dividing counter.
There were slippers in the front hall, and Frankenstein offered him some as the Noblesse disappeared elsewhere into the residence. M-21 wasn't foolish enough to test what happened if he disobeyed an order from a scientist, not when the scientist still held M-24, literally, in his hands. The slippers were pink and fuzzy, but he thought he might still be able to run in them, or at least kick them off in a pinch.
He didn't receive a tour, but as Frankenstein took them to their cell, all the glimpses he managed were of an innocent, domestic living space, if unnaturally clean and orderly. Of course. No one would really live here. It was a front, and the real laboratory levels would be hidden deep below ground, locked behind some access he wouldn't be given. The better to keep him down there, no way to escape, screams unheard beneath a residential facade—
"This is the guest room." Frankenstein heaved a put-upon sigh, as he led the way into a dark room, and finally deposited M-24 into a bunk. Then he straightened and turned on the light.
The room looked just as disarmingly homey as the rest of the place. Two beds, set against adjacent walls, a dark window between them. Frankenstein quickly went to lower the shades, but not before M-21 could see there were no bars on them. He was nearly certain he could break the glass and escape—
No, surely not. There would be alarms, and if they were caught—
"Are you cold?" Frankenstein said suddenly. Taunting him. He must have seen M-21 shudder.
"No, Doctor," said M-21, coming to attention. Had his posture been too lax? If Frankenstein cared about formalities as much as his master, that wouldn't do. M-21 straightened his spine, clasped his hands behind his back. "Are we to stay in this room?"
"If it meets your standards," said Frankenstein, from the closet. Even his bone-dry tone couldn't cut when he turned holding a plush stack of comforters that came up to his chin. "Get some rest, and we'll discuss what to do in the morning."
"As you wish, Doctor," said M-21 stiffly, and then had to give up on standing at attention when the bedding was thrust into his chest.
He was left clutching the bundle of soft covers, standing in fuzzy slippers, as Frankenstein departed, shutting the door behind him.
No matter how he strained his enhanced hearing, M-21 couldn't hear the click of a lock.
***
M-21 was used to getting by on little sleep.
The bed was objectively comfortable, but it was impossible to rest, both knowing and not knowing what was to come next.
In the middle of the night, he woke from a fitful doze to low groans of pain. M-24 was shivering and thrashing so hard he'd dropped his covers to the floor, body next to follow. M-21 was familiar enough with withdrawal to recognize it immediately, but it still put him into a panic.
He found the medicine in M-24's coat pocket, and measured out his usual dosage of pills, sitting his comrade's larger form up so he could help him swallow them dry. Thankfully, M-24 managed it, even unconscious, and the shakes subsided while M-21 grimly counted out the rest of the supply.
These were the last leash that had tied them to the Union, when they were inconsequential enough they might otherwise have escaped. M-21 had somehow grown out of his need for them, and they had hoped M-24 might too. The day that happened, they would have melted away into the night, without a single look back.
Now they had betrayed the Union, so there would be no more, after this half-empty bottle was done. And who knew what chains Frankenstein would fashion for them, to doubly ensure they'd never get away.
To go from a world where freedom was a tangible goal, however distant, to being owned by monsters whose power they couldn't even fathom—well, it was a bitter pill to swallow, wasn't it?
"But we're alive," M-21 whispered, ever pragmatic in front of his comrade, whether or not he could hear him. He tucked half the remaining pills into a napkin, and hid them in an inner pocket of his trench coat. Then he poured the rest back into the bottle, and returned them to M-24. "That's all that matters."
When Frankenstein came for them in the morning, he was ready. He'd made his bed, and M-24's over his still unconscious form. When the door swung open, M-21 stood at careful attention beside his bed, expression blank, posture neutral.
"Good morning, Doctor," he said crisply. Too bad Frankenstein didn't know what a little shit M-21 had been for his handlers at the Union, to appreciate how much he was conceding to give this show of manners. But he wasn't taking any chances, not while M-24 was still helpless and unaware.
Frankenstein stopped short, and gave M-21 a puzzled look. That wasn't good—puzzlement meant M-21 wasn't behaving according to expectation, which meant correction.
Better to get what he had to say out there first. He had rehearsed it many times while he waited for the sunrise, smoothed out the corners and edges to ensure it had the lowest possible chance of giving offense. "I would never presume to tell you your business, Doctor. But might I humbly request that you start your experiments with me? I believe that M-24's injured state may pollute any data collected, while I am operating at baseline levels."
Frankenstein's puzzled look deepened to perplexed. His perfect blond eyebrows looked close to lifting off his forehead. "That's not how you usually talk," he pointed out. "What on earth— Oh, never mind. It's time for breakfast. Leave him; if he doesn't wake soon, we'll see about an IV."
Leaving M-24 safe in the room was about as good an outcome as M-21 had dared hope, so he didn't argue, and took the liberty of closing the door behind them, in case it helped M-24 stay out of sight, out of mind.
The Noblesse was already sitting at the table when Frankenstein and M-21 arrived. At two place settings, there was a serving each of rice and soup, and the center of the table was arrayed with banchan in various small and intricate dishes. In front of the Noblesse, there was a single bowl of ramyeon, which he was regarding intently.
To be eating with the Noblesse and Frankenstein—M-21 didn't like what that meant. He had held some small hope that he'd been mistaken about the size of this operation, but if it really was only the four of them in this house, it would be very tricky for M-21 and M-24 to escape.
As the Noblesse dug into his ramyeon, Frankenstein observed for a long moment. Then, satisfied with his master's obvious pleasure, he began to eat his own meal, and M-21 followed suit.
None of them spoke for most of the meal, and M-21 almost half let down his guard.
Until Frankenstein remarked casually, "I think the first thing we should do is take stock of your physical state," and M-21 nearly lost the spoonful of soup he'd been lifting to his mouth. Hastily, he sipped it before he could make a mess, only to choke when Frankenstein continued, "you and your companion's both, I mean."
Distantly, he had to wonder if Frankenstein's timing was intentional, especially when he looked up through teary eyes and saw the Noblesse giving Frankenstein what was almost a reproving look. But he was more consumed with the instant terror the idea conjured up—palpable sense memory of being strapped to a cold table under a glaring light, being poked and shocked and dissected. Still, he had known this was what he had signed up for—had begged for, even. It was that or death, and he wasn't even that sure death was off the table.
"Yes, Doctor," he managed, once he'd cleared his airways of soup. "As I suggested earlier, M-24's current state—"
"I won't be running any wild experiments," said Frankenstein quickly, either annoyed to be repeatedly nagged, or abashed by what could only have been described as a mild glance from his master. "But we should take his vitals, and provide any other stabilizing treatment he needs. He's gone through significant injury, and still hasn't woken, so his status should be closely monitored. And as for you—"
M-21 set down his spoon, and swallowed heavily. "Ask anything you like," he said quickly. "About the Union, their experiments, my enhancements. Anything." He still knew next to nothing about this mysterious pair, but he was in no position to question the imbalanced exchange of information. "I won't hold anything back."
"How are your arms doing?"
Startled, M-21's eyes darted from Frankenstein, looking at him with bright, familiar interest, to his Master, who was more concerned with creating the perfect spoonful of noodle, broth, and kimchi. Shakily, M-21 stood, and removed his coat. His hands were already healed, his nails regrown and unblemished. But the wounds from Frankenstein still snaked up the length of his arms, covering them both from wrist to shoulder like interleaving tattoos. He still remembered foolishly attempting to fight these two, the shocking, instantaneous pain that Frankenstein had carved into his flesh. They were nearly as stark and vivid now as the moment he'd gotten them, stubbornly resisting his enhanced healing factor: a lingering reminder of the frightening power he'd put himself and his comrade under.
Frankenstein hummed and reached out to touch his own handiwork, and M-21 flinched back, bristling, before realizing it would do him no good. Thankfully, Frankenstein didn't seem inclined to reopen the injuries, at least not over breakfast.
"Yes," he said after a brief examination, "we can do something about this."
Which was ominous, but, as M-21 reminded himself, he'd asked for this.
He was no longer hungry, but the meal was done anyway. Frankenstein had gotten to his feet, and there was that eager gleam of scientific curiosity in his eyes. Union or not, no doctor could resist the temptation of a fascinating research subject.
Ask M-21 how he knew.
***
Despite having thought of the room as some fragile haven in this precarious place, M-21 was quickly confronted with how easily their haven could be breached. Nowhere was safe.
Still lying helpless in bed, M-24 was stripped down to his undershirt, and shortly outfitted with a number of electrodes and sensors, an IV bag hooked to his vein, a clear breathing mask fitted over his face.
M-21 had even helped set it up himself, wheeling in a number of racks and machines under Frankenstein's direction, holding M-24's arm steady for the needle, complicit in his treatment.
He tried to tell himself that these were lifesaving measures for now; that Frankenstein would be trying to prolong the durability of the new research materials he'd just acquired. But they'd always been disposable to the Union, far more replaceable than the lab equipment used to run experiments on them. The instant they outlived their usefulness here, or became remotely inconvenient, they'd be killed.
On top of all that, it was a trivial detail, but he especially hated that Frankenstein had shown up in a white lab coat, smiling broadly. The very picture of a scientist, he was now examining a monitor, muttering something about cardiac activity and oxygen saturation, lost in the same world of data and science that had motivated some of the most horrific of the experiments that had taken the lives of M-21's comrades.
"I'm happy to report that he is in stable condition," said the doctor eventually, peeling the oxygen mask from M-24's face and beginning to disconnect it from the machinery. "We'll leave the saline drip in him for hydration, but I haven't seen anything concerning in the tests I've run. Is there anything else in his medical history I should be aware of? Any health concerns or conditions that might impact his recovery?"
M-21 knew he couldn't hesitate; a visible pause would give away that there was something to tell. To buy himself half a second to make the decision, he straightened out M-24's jacket where it was hanging from the foot of his bed, an anxious twitch of his arm. And then, steeling himself, he reached into the jacket's pocket for the medicine.
"What's this?" Frankenstein caught the bottle as it was tossed to him.
"All the experiments of the Union are reliant on these," M-21 said, silently begging his comrade to forgive him, if this went horribly. "It's how they keep us under control. M-24 only has about a week left in this bottle. After that, we'll need to get more, or he'll die."
Frankenstein dumped some of the pills out into his palm, and even went so far as to sniff them. "And you?"
Don't hesitate. Lie or tell the truth, but decide without an incriminating pause. "I don't need them anymore," M-21 admitted, shoulders going tense. "I did at first, but I haven't taken them in months. The Union doesn't know. But M-24—"
"I see." Frankenstein pocketed the pills, and M-21 choked back a cry of protest. He had known this would be a possibility when he'd revealed their existence. He only had to hope he'd be able to earn back enough to keep his comrade alive, especially once his hidden reserve ran out.
"I'm going to run some tests on them." Frankenstein's tone had gone weirdly gentle. As if he knew M-21 was holding himself back with frayed will, from fighting for the pills, tearing them out of the pocket of Frankenstein's lab coat, the precious medicine keeping his precious friend alive. "If I can't figure anything out, which would be unlikely, I'll return them in the afternoon."
"Understood," said M-21, voice coming out rough and resigned.
There came a quiet murmur from the bed, just as Frankenstein finished packing away the rest of his things. "I'll leave you to some privacy," he said, rolling out one of his machines with him as he left.
Uncomprehending, M-21 turned slowly to the bed.
M-24 was lying there with his eyes half open, looking toward him with sleepy confusion. Besides the disorientation, he looked well: no signs of pain, no stress, even the faint beginnings of a trusting smile as he registered M-21's presence.
The smile turned into a surprised grunt as M-21 launched himself at M-24, grabbing onto him like he might float away without a firm tether. Even the wires and tubes didn't impede him as he touched M-24's face, arms, chest through the torn hole of his shirt—physically anchoring himself on how present, aware, alive his friend was.
"What's going on?" croaked M-24. "What happened? Where are we?"
Right. M-21 got a hold of his emotions, and settled for sitting at the edge of the bed, arm still clasped with M-24's. "You're fine. We're fine. We're with those two guys, they—they defeated Jake and Marie."
"What do you mean defeated?" M-24's forehead crinkled in puzzlement, trying to make sense of an impossibility. "How did we get away?"
"I mean they won. Jake and Marie are dead. I didn't see what happened to Marie, but I was there when the Noblesse killed Jake. It took him, I don't know, a minute or two. He didn't get a scratch on him." M-21 could hardly believe it himself, and he'd watched it happen. He paused to let the words sink in, but that made it harder to say the next part. "We're… staying with them now."
He knew M-24 would understand the implications, without having to spell them out. Sure enough, M-24 went solemn, and took a fresh look around, lines of confusion deepening on his face—their surroundings couldn't have been what he expected, after that terrifying news. Then he took in the IV tube on his arm, the wires still hooked up to his chest and scalp, and gave a slow, resigned nod.
"M-21?"
"Yes?" M-21 steeled himself for the new wave of questions. What was being done to him, what experiments had already been run while he was unaware. How M-21 could have put them in such a dire situation, into the jaws of monsters like these.
Instead, M-24 said, "Thank you."
"For what?" M-21 sputtered, jerking back in shock.
M-24's hand closed on his, holding him there before he could fly off. "For saving my life. I know you made a deal with them. You've always been the one to watch out for us. Thinking of all the angles. Finding the single chance at survival when none of us could see it. And now I've left you to take care of it all on your own."
"Left me?" M-21 was caught between incredulous laughter and a screaming fit. "You didn't leave me, M-24, you were dead. I thought I'd lost you. I thought I was the only one left."
"Come here." M-24 pulled him in, until he went sprawling against his comrade's chest, warm and steady and whole. M-24's strong arms closed over him, and he froze there, unable to accept it, unable to push away. When eventually he put his face down, he realized his cheeks were wet.
"You don't have to deal with it on your own anymore." M-24's broad hands stroked his back, too hard to be called gentle, utterly comforting. "You never should have had to, but you don't anymore. We'll handle this together."
Crumpling into the embrace, M-21 finally released the sobs he'd been holding back. There was no such thing as safety, not for them. But for now M-24 was there to hold him, shield him, while he let it all out. And that was miracle enough.
***
By the time Frankenstein returned, M-21 had cleaned himself up. If he was standing as far from M-24 as he could manage—out of pure, excruciating embarrassment—he'd first helped M-24 into a sitting position, figuring that if he was upright, he might look more like a person, less like an inert body to toy with.
"Doctor," greeted M-21 formally, and M-24 glanced toward him before echoing, "Doctor."
Frankenstein, who had come in humming, paused to give them a wry smile, like they were dogs that had done a funny, unexpected trick, but he was going to ignore it for now. "I ran all the tests I could think of, on the medicine and on the samples I took, but it was a simple matter in the end."
He brandished a syringe as he approached the bedside, and M-21 felt his stomach sink.
If the replacement medicine was a liquid, it would be less portable. Unlike pills, where they could carry a month's supply with them, the injection would be designed such that they had to receive each individual dose from the doctor, perhaps personally. If they stepped out of line, if they refused an experiment, Frankenstein only had to withhold the medication for a single day, and watch their bodies fall apart.
It was hard to stand aside while the doctor cheerily injected the dose into the waiting IV tube. Harder knowing he'd helped set it up: the bag steadily dripping into his comrade's veins, allowing the doctor free access to insert anything into him at will.
As the dark fluid seeped into the clear tube, M-24 looked away, helpless.
It would make him feel better to have back some measure of control. Taking a deep breath, M-21 cleared his throat for the doctor's attention.
"Is it okay if we hold on to the remaining pills? In case of an emergency. If you send us out on a mission, M-24 could still take them if we can't get back in time for the injection."
Frankenstein gave him that deeply puzzled look again, but he refused to shrink back. The doctor would give the pills back or deny them even a few days' freedom; he'd never know until he asked. And if it was seen as a sign of disloyalty, if he was punished for even asking to hold the keys to their own continued survival, it wouldn't be the last time. Better him than M-24, in his current condition.
"If you want them back, why not?" Frankenstein fished around in his pocket until he found the bottle, and tossed it over with a casual flick of the wrist. "I don't have any use for them. But neither do you, I'd think."
Relieved, it took M-21 a moment for the doctor's words to catch up with him. They wouldn't have any use for the pills? So they would be kept under lock and key here after all. At least at the Union, they'd been able to get away for the occasional mission, carve out a bit of breathing room. But if Frankenstein intended to use them constantly as test subjects, of course he'd have no reason to let them out beyond needle range again.
"From your expression, I take it you don't follow." Frankenstein detached the empty syringe with quick, professional motions, and then carelessly dropped it in his pocket. "Your companion shouldn't need any more pills, no more than you do. Within a few hours, my injection will have repaired the incomplete mutations leading to his condition. Keep the bottle if it makes you feel better, but you can consider him cured."
Of course. So the pills were useless now. He was almost afraid to find out, but he asked anyway, "And how often will he need your injection?"
"How often—? What part of 'cured' didn't you understand? No more pills, no more injection. He'll never need either one again."
M-21 knew he had to be on his highest guard around the doctor. Maintain perfect control of his reactions. Do nothing, say nothing, to invite retaliation. Everything depended on it. But in a moment of pure shock, he could only blurt out, "Why?"
Frankenstein had no reason to cure M-24, to remove the leash that held him, and thus M-21, tied. If he could create a cure in the span of a morning, he could easily have duplicated the pills, kept them dependent on his dispensing, unable to run or rebel.
Why make it easier for them to escape? Was he that confident he'd catch them? Was he relishing the opportunity to punish them for trying? It made no sense. Why?
Frankenstein was in the process of detaching the IV needle from M-24's arm, and paused to apply a sticky bandage before answering.
"I do as my master orders. Besides, I can't resist an interesting puzzle," he added, and gave a noble shrug, golden hair cascading over his shoulders.
Then he broke character when he couldn't help but amend, "Though it wasn't all that interesting, really, once I took a closer look. Honestly, if your Union couldn't fix the problem, it was either because they didn't care to try, or they're just incompetent."
He gestured wildly with the needle, spraying a few drops of saline as he rolled up the tubing.
"I don't know how your so-called scientists can live with themselves, letting an experiment walk around so obviously incomplete. It's like hanging a painting askew, or leaving crumbs on the couch. Careless. Rather give me nails on chalkboard any day."
M-21 reminded himself not to make a mess in Frankenstein's house. Quietly, he slipped over to M-24's side and twined their hands together, inspecting him closely while the doctor continued to rant and clean. M-24 didn't show any ill effects from the injection, and even began to chuckle under the deeply serious scrutiny. He had always been the optimist out of the two of them.
Abruptly, M-24's gaze slid over his shoulder, and he realized that Frankenstein had finished ranting, and was waiting in silence by the door. Had he missed a question or an order?
"Sorry?" said M-21 quickly, squeezing the hand in his. So far, the day had gone far too well. It would be just like him to make a stupid mistake like this and mess things up.
"I said, lunch is in an hour. Same place. Bring your companion if he's feeling up to it." Frankenstein began to exit, arms loaded with equipment, and then paused to look over his shoulder. "You'll be there?"
As usual, M-21 turned the words over in his mind, trying to find the trap within, disarm it before it could blow up on him or those he cared about. But maybe he was losing his edge, or maybe M-24 was having an effect on him, because no matter how he tried, he couldn't find the hidden agenda, the cruel intent.
Finally, when he felt he was running out of time to respond, he gave a careful nod. "An hour. We'll be there."