Content Warning:

Detailed descriptions of imaginary violence and gore.

OCTOBER 1, 2022

The Tin Lizzy shattered through the concrete fortified barricade. It took Tofflemire a moment to realize what he had just witnessed, as the caterwaul and riff of PANAMA-AH struggled to trail behind it. Tires skidded and roared, and Tofflemire swore they’d pulled an Akira some yards after breaking the barricade, right before re-centering with one of the fastest three-point turns he’d seen in his life and continuing to speed off.

Colonel Tofflemire spoke a verbal code into his earpiece, from the trenches of pine. “This is Colonel Tofflemire of Sigma-10, stationed by the Main Road of Nexus-18. Outer perimeter, stand fast. A vehicle with an unidentified driver has entered the Nexus Terrain. Stations within city limits and especially town roads: clear the area immediately. Do not engage with the vehicle unless ordered. To troops falling in-- follow it!”

Citizens spectating along the sides backed up in the wake of the blast, thankfully none of them injured. Some of them were already on call with other townspeople, somehow. They knew just as much as the rest of Site-87 now.

“I’m okay, Bob.”

Tofflemire swung his head around, not realizing that in the sudden chaos he had instinctively thrown an arm over her direction to keep her from moving forward.

“I feel like the level at which I understand you is constantly fluctuating.”

Tofflemire’s face reddened in anger, as the agents in the surrounding area buckled into vehicles with S&C PLASTICS emblazoned onto them. “That’s an oxymoron.”

Liv wordlessly gestured into one of the S&C Vans, specifically one with three familiar faces attempting to board it.

”C’mon!” West opened the back of the van doors, Hastings hustling in.

“Some people gotta do their jobs.” Ruby's gaze seemed to follow wherever Hastings was inside, responding to something Tofflemire hadn't caught. “I need’ta be able to tell you if anybody’s coming your way. Blake and I work better together, any way.”

”Hold on, then.” Hastings stuck his head back out from the depths of the van, gave her a quick peck on her forehead, and quickly leaned back into the depths.

“Har-har. See ya, soldier boy. Try not to die.” She ran back to her old post.

“Do or do not.” Hastings called back as he sneaked back into the van.

West's eyebrows softened as Tofflemire and Liv approached the van. “Colonel.”

“Your nose is still bleeding.” Tofflemire commented.

“‘Tis but a scratch.” West kept the door open for the pair, smirking at them.

As the pair boarded, West crammed into the front seat, a head unit covered in equipment that one really would not expect to see in a Plastics Factory van, but absolutely expect in a van pretending to be a Plastics Factory van or any other kind of coverup: a GPS, a small vitals panel, a full smorgasbord of a bunch of other buttons, and some occasional sticky notes on the dash in familiar handwriting. A little bobble head Hawaiian girl sat on the dash, likely a gift from the smoothie vendor on the East side of Sloth’s Pit.

“Callahan, the keys.”

“Don’t get us wrecked, pretty please.” Liv tossed him the keys sitting on a hook to the left wall of the van, alongside a small armory, small medical kits, and other devices every Site-87 employee was trained to know the ins and outs of-- even a pocket-sized Narrative Detector was there. The engine roared to life, as some other vans pulled in and chased after the sound of Van Halen.

“‘Betcher ass.” West laughed, gunning the gas pedal. The fact he hadn’t yet wiped the blood away from his nose made him look a little more deranged than what Tofflemire was comfortable with. “You think Ruby was just looking to not experience my wonderful driving skills?”

“Told me she preferred motorcycle races once.” Hastings replied.

“But of course.”

Hot shoe, burning down the avenue...

Mr. Ralph Tofflemire always turned on the TV or radio before he left for work, so his son got an earful of MTV and the proceeding onslaught of Van Halen growing up, even past their argued prime. Colonel Robert Tofflemire had a hunch he was going to hate Panama after this, but he thanked himself that he wasn’t that much of a fan in the first place. It hadn’t even been that long, and to Tofflemire it felt grating.

Ahead of them, the Tin Lizzy rocked back and forth on the sides of the road, movements far too smooth and reactive to have been caused by a struggle in the front seat. Whoever was at the wheel was having a ball of a time, whether they were oblivious to what they’d gotten themselves into or not.

The roads of Sloth’s Pit were not built for chases whatsoever. The busiest streets had three, maybe four lanes at most, not counting parking, and there were plenty of crosswalks. Yet Tofflemire felt like he was in a racing game suddenly, like the individual atoms of concrete were separating every so slightly to not only make the streets better for sudden turns and drifting.... But... hell, they were in the town limits, and it took under a minute to get there. They were still only entering the city, yet it’d already been well over a minute, and he couldn’t see any of the staple buildings or architecture that helped him navigate where exactly in the town he was.

Had Sloth’s Pit been a normal town, he suspected he’d also have seen blurs of orange, black green and purple decorations as they drove past the outer residential area. But he would’ve never guessed that’d have been the case. The brave few civilians who wanted to see what’d happen by the main road were already few in number, many of the homes laid bare and devoid of any decorations, with many lights turned off, their inhabitants likely trying to sleep the chaos of the early morning away.

Hastings sucked in a breath with his teeth clenched. “That thing, whatever it is--”

“It’s a Tin Lizzy.” Tofflemire blurted.

Hastings swiveled his head around to look at him, his eyes still wide from the adrenaline. “Gesundheit, Rob.”

“No, literally, a Tin Lizzy. It’s a Ford Model T.” Now he was just embarrassed.

“Okay, the Tin Lizzy,” Hastings continued, “it broke through the barricade. We’re so fucking lucky that thing is at least staying on the road. We’re not built for damn vehicle chases--”

“What’d I tell ya,” Tofflemire heard West comment in a snarky tone under his breath.

“--Shut your mouth! Keep on the road! Lord!” Hastings snapped. “Our best chances of stopping that thing are somehow catching up with it, take care of the wheels or the driver inside.”

Sure, Hastings was often ballsy in his moments of paranoia, and he had a musclehead to go home to, but Tofflemire had to give him credit. He was doing the one thing Tofflemire wished he oh so desperately could get back. Be it stupidity or nobility, he couldn’t quite put his finger on it. He simply envied it.

"Wait." Tofflemire blinked some sense into him, registering Hastings' words a second time. "No, no, don't aim for the wheels."

“Can we not shoot the tires?” Liv asked, holding onto one of the van’s locked door handles for balance.

“The model itself is over 100 years old.” Tofflemire pointed out. “Assuming that thing’s authentic, it wouldn’t be easy to replace.”

“Authentic?” West asked. “That's what you're worried about? Does Chris need to remind you that it broke concrete? That thing could just be pretending to be a car, for all we know. It sure as hell has been modified.”

“Shit.” Tofflemire huffed out of embarrassment. Both the question of destroying a potential relic and also attempting to go against such an imposing force brought him to a standstill. He sat his rifle on the armory stand of the van, and dug into his pocket. He found a grip and a trigger fitting into his hand in a space that should’ve been far too physically impossible for it.

A standard issue Sig Sauer, already loaded, was easily locked under his gloved hands, born from nothing in a feat that the entirety of Site-87 was already quite familiar with. “How far ahead are we compared to everybody else?”

Liv looked at the GPS in front of her, a headphone set to the side. “Not too far. Squads on the other side of town seem to be struggling to figure out if they want to form a blockade or not.”

“No, no no...” Hastings grabbed the headphones, punching a couple of buttons on the side. He had none of the elegance of command that anybody on Sigma-10 had. “Do not form a fucking blockade! Do NOT! Do not try to stop it! The damn car may as well be a fucking steamroller!”

Hastings paused, listening to the other wide, and continuing to communicate with the squads on the other side of town.

“No, screw the existing barricade. I’m saying don’t risk your lives trying to make it harder to go through-- mother-- Who cares? I saw that damn thing, my fucking echelon should not matter! This is a matter of common fucking sense-- And I’m telling you, it’s gonna kill you and plenty more if you don’t stop that right the hell now!”

Whoever was on the other side, they had a lot of stamina if it meant they were still arguing with Hastings.

"Man, fuck you! If you die, and it's 'cause you were ignoring me, I'm gonna piss on your grave in front of Blake, Postal-style!"

Liv gestured for the headphones. "I don't think he could register what you were saying with all your damn yelling. Let me talk to the Captain."

Tofflemire mentally facepalmed. Of course. The Williamses had a type. The only person strong enough to contest Ruby Williams' grumpy and sleep deprived boyfriend was Blake Williams' very own grumpy and sleep deprived boyfriend.

Liv turned to Tofflemire, interrupting his thoughts. “No way are the windows antique too, right?”

“Shouldn’t be.” He shook his head. “Can’t see anybody inside, those tints have gotta be new.” A lot of Model Ts didn’t have car door windows for a long time-- the car being driven looked like a fusion between the early and later models, so he had no clue if the fact it had car windows in the first place were even one of the later modifications such as the speaker system--

Then again, his mind could just be tricking him. It'd played enough tricks on him lately. Supposedly. According to everyone around him.

“What if it’s nothing?” Liv asked. “What if it’s just a vast mass piloting that car?”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Open the back door, I’m not risking the Doctors getting shot.” Tofflemire lowered the gun appropriately, and poised it as West pressed on the gas some more, becoming at least at pace with the small car.

The windows of the Tin Lizzy were so dark, that the shine of the S&C Van’s headlights practically bounced off the side windows. Tofflemire steadied his aim, aiming onto the left side of the widow so that he’d at most be shooting the glass and dashboard, not the driver inside the Tin Lizzy--

The bullet left a measly dent. It looked more like a sharp rock had hit the window, like it could be easily fixed with a quick filling and some curing in the sun.

"You miss, Rob?" West asked, out of each other's lines of sight.

Tofflemire shot again. And again. His face tightened.

Before Tofflemire could even communicate anything to the others in the van with him, the window of the Tin Lizzy lowered, at a somewhat comical pace. Tofflemire could make out small shadows and reflections-- there was at least a humanoid behind the wheel. They wore something glossy that protected their face, like a visor or a helmet. He supposed it’d make sense if they were a racer of some kind, but who the hell raced so violently with a car that hadn’t been manufactured since the 20s?

He supposed he spent too much time looking at the person inside, as he felt his weight get pulled beneath him, flying back. Tofflemire didn’t even see what hit him, nor did he really feel it. Just like that he’d lost where in the world gravity was, and where his feet were supposed to be.

“Bob!”

“Hang on--” He heard West’s voice, after another violent crunch of steel that sent Tofflemire stumbling.

Hell, he hardly didn’t even realize he wasn't standing anymore. His glasses barely hung onto his ears, his hands flat on the ground to keep him stable. His hands fumbled to adjust his balance, but the more he tried to stabilize himself, the more off-kilter he felt. His eyes struggled for vision, and realized that the van was in the middle of getting grinded to a pulp. Hastings and West were at the front, so their health was no question. But the back end of the van looked like it’d been rear ended by something that didn’t even resemble a car’s imprint, and looked more akin to a wrecking ball or a wild animal's wrath, not to mention the fact that the Tin Lizzy was practically unscratched.

Tofflemire could see the other S&C vans, behind the Tin Lizzy, weaving in and out of the anomalously elongated streets, trying to maneuver out of the way of any debris. He heard Hastings shouting incomprehensibly over West, as the world beneath him refused to let him get back up. He heard Liv struggling to get back up as well. She seemed to be calling his name, but it was hard to beat the bustling wind and the roar of the wheels echoing around the town. He saw sparks fly just out of the corner of his eye with a careening, earsplitting hiss, and another lighter clang from what he assumed to be part of the van that was no longer part of the van.

The one thing that eclipsed all other sensation and sound, though, was the impending roar of the Tin Lizzy’s engine, and the sound of David Lee Roth’s spoken interlude.

Oh, what the fuck.

The Tin Lizzy’s sheer noise factor managed to overpower his instincts and let his impulsivity fly high. His right hand found grip on the Sig Sauer again, still some bullets inside-- yet he tossed it out in front of him, to the whims of the street and tires surrounding them, like it no longer served any purpose. His other hand he attempted to steady on the split metal beneath him that still had the strength to stay together.

“Bob.” Liv probably knew what he was trying to do based on his posture. “Bob. Bob!”

I reach down between my legs and

Ease the seat back

Tofflemire didn’t even acknowledge her. He propelled himself forwards, his slam onto the Tin Lizzy’s small hood forcing it to yield. Now that he was up close, he could see the car didn’t even have windshield wipers as an additional defense. Odd.

She’s blinding,

He could barely hear Liv yelling in an angry and terrified tone. God, he thought the Tin Lizzy was loud just from being in a close proximity to it. If whatever he was looking at wasn’t actually a car, it was doing a damn good job of imitating it. The wheels were constantly rattling, the hood wasn’t deformed or made of any odd textures, and the hypnotic yet chaotic rumble of diesel somewhere beneath made him feel like he'd just tried to tackle a sports car. He could practically hear himself developing tinnitus.

I’m flying,

Right behind in the rearview mirror now,

Tofflemire debated how awful it would feel to fall off the car and be met with hard asphalt, but in the blur and warp of everything surrounding them, he legitimately could not tell how much of the town they’d traversed to save his life, so he was counting on hanging onto the car, even if he wasn't planning on sticking around.

He wasn’t really sure what he was expecting to get out of punching the glass, a much more difficult feat than piercing it with metal. Really, he supposed he just wanted to take the Tin Lizzy down with him, no matter if whoever was inside was looking at him or not. He hung onto the hood still, straddling himself closer to the doors of the car, his right foot directly below the front door, balanced on the chassis.

Got the fearing,

Like an idiot, Tofflemire knocked on the side mirror. And like great minds think alike, the window rolled down again.

They jutted their chin out at him, like a challenge.

Power steering,

He got a slightly better look at the driver now, at least from the neck up. They wore a massive racing helmet that looked better fit for a grand prix or a motorcycle race rather than a car chase. Their helmet was black with white trim... and... shockingly enough, what looked like brand logos. It wasn’t like they were stickers or anything, they’d been printed along their helmet, like a legitimate, paid-for promotion. Some brands looked like they were in alphabets he could recognize, like Latin, Cyrillic, Hangul, and Arabic-- others he swore he’d seen in grimoire printings that had been checked for memetic hazards at least three dozen times over, or straight up looked like conlangs and hieroglyphics.

Tofflemire wondered, for a split second, why the Tin Lizzy had no branding whatsoever by comparison.

But there were a couple of exceptions to the unspoken sticker rule though, one Tofflemire clearly recognized-- a sticker with a flared ‘VH’ icon, the kind teenage boys totally would’ve doodled in their class notebooks in the years leading up to Tofflemire’s birth.

Pistons popping,

The other split of that second, he furrowed his eyebrows, leaned backwards and gripped onto the car with his left hand enough to balance himself, pulled nothing out from behind him with his right arm, and looked dead into the ominous glint of the sponsored helmet, the sensation of a trigger way too unbalanced and large for him to hold connected to none other than a goddamn M18 Recoilless?

Ain’t no stopping noooooow!--

Tofflemire was certain he was never going to be able to hear Panama without the massive thunder of anything using gunpowder ever again. His developing tinnitus was no longer restricted to his ears, somehow. It crashed through his entire body weightlessly, burning him like a meteor in the atmosphere. He supposed that way of envisioning it wasn't too off from what seemed to be occurring in this very moment. He was no longer in the car. But he wasn’t touching the ground either. He tried to open his eyes, but they appeared to be clenched shut. Not that he really wanted to know where in the world he was. His fingers singed in the wind, the cold stagnant air somehow stabbing him from the inside out, sautéed in a familiar iron flavor.

⠀

⠀

Suddenly, he felt the taste of water hit his lips.

Tofflemire wheezed, as his lungs suddenly came to life, trying to cough out the liquid that so desperately seemed to want to choke him where he lay. Or stood-- he supposed someone was holding him upright, because he didn’t think he had that much energy inside of him. His eyes squinted through the shimmer of an overhead cylindrical light that looked like it was trying its best to look modern. Eclipsed by it, though, was the outline of a person he didn’t quite recognize.

“Oh, crap.” A man, likely around his own age. “You’re not allergic, or anything?”

“What?” Tofflemire coughed.

“To water?”

Tofflemire’s current theory was that he had died on impact and was now in hell. “Why the fuck would I be allergic to water?”

“You’re in Sloth’s Pit, I don’t know.”

Tofflemire sighed as his theory was debunked so instantaneously. “I have lots of questions.”

“I do too.” The man’s voice was lathered in the kind of curiosity that got people killed. It was familiar. “How did you do that, with the bazooka?”

Robert’s eyes adjusted, slowly. It didn’t help that the lights were behind him as opposed to illuminating him, but surely enough, he realized he’d been in this building before, plenty of times, and he’d seen this man time and time again. His eyes widened in recognition, without his eyes even darting to his name tag. “Cecil.”

Cecil was a loyal server and barista who’d been working at The Black Garden for years. Cecil smiled back at him, dry of any trace of plastic friendliness. “I’d say your credit card information in return, Mr. Tofflemire, but I think you’re technically at work.”

The Black Garden was one of, if not the nicest restaurant in Sloth’s Pit. He didn’t know Cecil personally or anything, but he was nice and friendly enough that Tofflemire didn’t want to get angry at him. It was kind of hard to tell where he came from-- he didn’t seem to have family in Sloth’s Pit, he’d stated before offhandedly he wasn’t a native, and it was hard to find anybody with the surname ‘Mercy’, period. He still had on his orange polo and white tie from work, his square glasses resting on his nose, and his black apron with the restaurant's cornucopia logo embroidered on it. His face was somewhat thin, his skin was a slightly muted light brown, and his umber hair pushed back as opposed to slicked back.

Tofflemire’s chest hurt to chuckle. “I appreciate it. How long have I been here?”

“Like, five minutes. Really, though.” Cecil repeated his question as a non-question, in a fascinated tone. “The bazooka.”

“It’s a whole thing.” Tofflemire wasn’t sure how much he was cleared to tell him, and he didn’t have enough strength in his chest to conjure a story up through rambling alone. “October 2018. I almost died. Then I didn’t. I woke up. Boom. Things come to me. Often small things. Sometimes big things. Jazz hands. They help me when I need them.”

Cecil blinked. “Pre-existing? Like, do you get them from other places, or are they copies?”

Tofflemire blinked. “I don’t actually know.” He’d have complimented him much more properly had he not been able to sit upright.

“Huh.” Cecil tried to keep a neutral face, but his excited light brown eyes betrayed him. “That’s cool.”

“Yeah.” Tofflemire blinked. “Where am I bleeding, Cecil?”

Cecil looked at him up and down, still supporting his back, a nervous and considerate tone bubbling in his throat. “Mouth, hands. A bit of your leg, I think. I think you’re okay. You’re still talking, that’s good, right? Yeah? Do you need more help?”

“No, it’s okay, thank you.” Tofflemire exhaled, trying to not move himself any more than he’d already been. “Where’s...?”

As if on cue, he heard footsteps run up to him, calling for entry. Cecil looked up and backed out of the way. It was an onslaught of people in familiar uniforms. His people.

Tofflemire felt himself lose the last of his consciousness as the Site-87 staff swarmed him.

⠀

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