Cyborg 009 Fan Fiction ❯ A Good Deed ❯ Chapter 1

(Author's note: Just a few notes about this story before we get into it.

1) Thanks go to ReasonsWhy77 for betaing and giving the story a good look over (of course, I've changed a bunch of things since the last time she's seen it . . . I tend to do that to all of my betas - the mind never stops picking at things!).

2) This story was inspired by Tears of Steel and so has a slight spoiler for the beginning of that episode.

3) The characters of Malcom and Ian are mine.

4) Everything that happens in this story is unsubstantiated by canon.

I have some additional notes at the bottom which you can read after the story if you are interested.

That being said, onto the disclaimer and the story!)

DISCLAIMER: Cyborg 009 is the property of avex mode and the creation of Shotaro Ishinomori. No money is made from this production.

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By the time Malcom and Ian had arrived at the scene, they were almost too late. Smoke, fire, people scrambling around and, in the middle of it all, two people (a golden haired woman and a silver haired man) entwined together on the ground near the remains of a totaled truck. Even before Malcom could get close enough to check for a pulse, it was obvious that the woman was dead. He'd seen death often enough to know what it looked like.

However, the man, despite his obvious and serious wounds wasn't and he was what Ian and Malcom were interested in. They'd just about given up hope of snatching someone in this city when they'd heard the gun fire and the explosion. They figured that, in all the confusion, they could take someone without anyone being the wiser, even with a struggle, and that the person wouldn't be missed until later. If they were missed at all.

This man would be perfect. Malcom was no doctor but it was clear that this man's injuries were so extensive that only Black Ghost technology would be able to save him. Maybe he'd even be grateful for the assistance which would be a welcome change of pace after dealing with 002 who kept trying to escape. Not that Malcom blamed 002 for being upset - he would be less than happy to be snatched and altered himself - but that boy had to learn when to stop fighting and just move on with his life. Just accept and get over it.

But, back to the present, first, they had to get the man out of this place before the police arrived or he finally succumbed to his wounds. Unfortunately, the man wasn't very interested in being cooperative. He kept saying “Hilda” and pleading to them in German.

“What's he saying?” Malcom asked Ian.

Ian looked both amused and disgusted. “The sap's begging us to leave him here with his wife -“ Then his expression became even more disgusted as he returned his attention to the man on the ground. “Just let go of the damn stiff, would you!”

Even if the man understood English, Malcom doubted that this tactic would make him any more ready to let go. It was rather sad, really. Had they shown up just a few minutes earlier, they might have been able to stabilize the woman long enough to save her. As it was, if they didn't get out of here soon, they wouldn't even be able to save the man!

Since Ian was the only one who knew how to speak German and since it didn't seem as though he was willing to be the least bit compassionate, it was left to Malcom to handle this problem.

With a sigh, he took out his revolver and, with the ease born of having done this many times before, he slammed the butt against the back of the man's head. Luckily, only one hit was needed and the man slumped, unconscious. Luckily because they didn't need him bleeding from his head too. He was bleeding from enough places.

Ian was staring at Malcom in shock. “What the hell did you do that for!” The shock was somewhat amusing but mostly annoying. Just because he didn't giggle in glee whenever he had to brain someone didn't mean he wasn't capable of it. Of course, Ian was one of the gigglers; maybe he was just mad that he hadn't thought of it first.

Malcom causally put his revolver away. “Well, your way certainly wasn't working, was it? Now,” he ordered imperiously, “get him to the car.”

“By myself?” Ian exclaimed with annoyance.

Honestly, if Ian wasn't a `friend” . . . “Get the goons to help,” Malcom said patiently.

As Ian left to do so, grumbling under his breath, Malcom looked down at the man for several moments before sighing again. For a glorified thug in a heartless organization, he was a softy sometimes. Quickly, before Ian could return, he grabbed the dead woman's still warm hand and slipped off the golden band.

It had been damaged in what ever craziness that had gone down here but it would be better than nothing. It wasn't as though someone was going to stop by the man's place and pick up a few mementoes for him. While he didn't even know the man's name, Malcom could tell just by how hard he'd fought to stay with her body that he cared deeply for his wife. He would probably appreciate having this small token of their time together.

Seeing Ian returning with the two goons, Malcom hurriedly hid the ring in his pocket. There were enough people in the organization who thought that he wasn't cut out for this work as it was - he didn't need to add Ian to the list. Then again, if he could convince Ian that he was merely grave robbing . . . Well, Ian wasn't in the habit of searching Malcom's pockets so there was no need to even worry about it.

“Carefully now!” Ian was directing the goons. “If he dies, before we get him back to the base, you won't have to worry about collecting your pensions!”

It was an empty threat since Ian wasn't high enough in the ranks to kill subordinates but the goons took heed and handled the man with more care as they loaded him into the car.

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Again, they were almost too late. The man's tortured body had shut down just as they'd arrived at the base - Black Ghost's first aid was impressive but it couldn't work miracles. However, the doctors there could and the man had been revived. For that, Malcom was grateful and not only because it meant that he and Ian were off the hook and didn't need to collect any more specimens.

While it was clear to anyone with eyes that the Black Ghost organization was black as pitch at its core, it was an interesting irony to have them do good and save a life for a change.

Of course, Malcom didn't usually concern himself with questions of `good' and `evil' - both were artificial constructs, things created by society to keep people in line. That was what the world had shown him in his thirty years of life and he believed it whole heartedly. When he was first starting in the business here, he'd made the mistake of telling some of his coworkers his beliefs. He could still remember their laughter. `Whatever it takes for you to sleep at night!'

But they had it wrong. He wasn't, as they so clearly thought, plagued by guilt. And just because he occasionally had a soft spot for people didn't make him any less of a cold blooded killer. After all, even the infamous Nazi doctors could spend their days doing terrible experiments on Jewish children and then go home and hug their own.

However, unlike those doctors, Malcom was neither a sadist nor did he think that he was bettering the world. No, he was honest enough to admit that he was a selfish, self-centered person and that his main concern about his job here was that the money kept rolling in. Sure, Black Ghost assignments were drudgery and, if you screwed up and couldn't foist the blame onto someone else, there was a good chance of being killed but his time away was always well spent - in more ways than one!

He smiled at the thought. Yessir, that was the ticket: the nicest girl money could buy and good food that really clogged the arteries. And maybe, for bringing back a good specimen (and so quickly), he might even be given a bonus this month and have two of the nicest girls money could buy -

Malcom was shaken out of this pleasant daydream by Ian who, judging by the growing look of annoyance on his face, had just asked him something.

“What?”

Ian shook his head. “I just wanted to know if you want to go to the bar and celebrate.”

Malcom grinned at the emphasis on the last word. He liked the way this man thought! “Where did you have in mind?”

As Ian outlined some plans, Malcom's thoughts returned fleetingly to the ring in his pocket before he decided that there wasn't anything he could do about it now. The man wasn't even conscious and, with all the injuries he had, it would be a while before the man was interested in anything. No. The ring could wait until a better time.

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A better time was long in coming.

It seemed as though the universe was plotting against him. Shortly before the man's completion, Malcom had been transferred to another base. By the time he'd been transferred back, the Cyborg project had been put on hold indefinitely due to some design glitches. To his dismay, he'd learned that the cyborgs themselves had been put on ice - literally.

Giving the man (Malcom had never had the opportunity to ask the man's name but did know that his designation in the Cyborg project was 004) back his ring would have been a nice gesture but it was clear that, if Malcom still wanted to, he was going to have to wait. Possibly for decades. He wasn't much for waiting but he couldn't quite bring himself to throw the trinket away. For some reason, despite his selfish, hedonistic heart, he wanted to do this thing. And he wasn't much for `right' and `wrong' - more artificial concepts - but he couldn't deny a deep desire to set this right.

The days passed, months passed, years passed and decades passed. Malcom grew older and eventually retired. The Black Ghost pension was very good if you lived long enough to collect it and Malcom had. The secret was not to be too ambitious and to try and stay under people's radar which Malcom had been able to do with aplomb. With that money, he'd been able to snag himself an attractive wife and start an attractive family.

Through it all, he kept the ring. He'd put it on a chain and kept it in a small box that he hid in his safe as he waited for the day he could finally give it back to its owner. He'd just about given up hope that he'd live long enough to do it when his son came to visit and gave him the news he'd spent the last sixty years waiting for.

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Malcom shuffled slowly down the corridor, his son (following in Dad's footsteps) by his side, looking ill at ease. The old man couldn't blame him: the boy was taking quite the risk to make his father's foolish dream come true. `I bet he's sorry he ever mentioned cyborgs,' he thought with a mental grin.

At length, they stopped at a plain white door that looked identical to all the other plain white doors they had passed. His son punched in a rapid series of numbers into the control pad by the door and stepped back as it slid open. “He's in there,” he said quietly, almost whispering. “Please don't take too long.”

“I won't,” Malcom assured him. Then, taking a steadying breath, he walked inside. He was vaguely aware of the doors sliding shut behind him but the fullness of his attention was focused on the only other occupant of the room. There, looking out a small window, was 004. While the cyborg's back was to him, Malcom knew that this was the man he wanted to see: he would recognize the silver hair anywhere.

It must have been 004's downtime because he was wearing civilian clothes - a simple white shirt and black pants. His posture was stiff and he was motionless - not exactly welcoming but there was nothing he could do about that. It wasn't as though he could come back later.

Well, might as well get on with it. Time was wasting and he wasn't getting any younger. “004?”

The man stiffened then turned, a frown forming on his face. “Yes.”

“Ah, good. You know English now.” That would make things easier! At 004's deepening frown, he shook his head. “Never mind, that's not important.”

“Who are you? Another doctor?” Judging by the way he'd asked this last question, a doctor was the last thing he wanted to see.

Malcom laughed and coughed. “No, I'm not a doctor. I don't even work here anymore.” Deciding they were getting off topic, he put his hand in his pocket, his fingers closing around the small box there. “I have something for you.” He pulled the box out and looked down at it for a long moment before holding it out to the cyborg. “I've been saving this for a long time.”

004 ignored the box and looked at Malcom in confusion and suspicion. “Do I know you?”

“We met briefly,” Malcom admitted, “although, I doubt if you would remember me - it was a fairly traumatic time for you and,” he chuckled and coughed again, “I looked a lot younger then.” Then he waited and wondered how the man would react. He doubted that he'd take it well.

Malcom had spent many years thinking about Black Ghost and the Cyborg project and had come to realize that it had been foolish to expect any of those people to be grateful for their enhancements.

Even this man, who had been saved by that technology, probably wasn't grateful for the care he'd received. Knowing this, it was a bit unwise to be so truthful but Malcom figured that he'd lived a long life. At his age, there was very little left to lose if the man in front of him decided to become violent.

And, for a moment, it looked as though the cyborg might do just that. “You were there?” His fists clenched and he stepped towards Malcom. “You were the one who kidnapped me!” Anger was all too prevalent on 004's face and Malcom prepared himself for the inevitable. If these cyborgs were as strong as Malcom had heard, it probably wouldn't take more than one well placed punch to end it all.

But the inevitable never came. The younger man shook his head, fury fading into simple weariness. “What are you doing here?”

Malcom smiled gently at 004, pleased that the cyborg hadn't given in to his rage after all - and not only because it meant that he could go on living. While good and evil were still artificial in his mind, it was a bit more rewarding to perform this service for someone who was at least `good' enough not to strike an old man.

“I told you,” he waved the box he was still holding out to the cyborg, “I have something for you.” A warm, lifeless ring taken from a warm, lifeless hand. “Something that used to belong to you.”

Hesitantly, making no effort to hide his distrust, 004 took the box from him. He looked at it for a long while before shrugging to himself and flipping it open. A startled gasp, a beat, a name. “Hilda.” Seeing how quickly the man had recognized his wife's wedding ring told Malcom that he'd been right all those years ago and made him glad that he'd done what he'd done.

004 lifted the ring and chain out of the box with a shaking hand. He looked at it, something indescribable on his face as he watched it reflect the sun from the window as it twisted on its chain. Finally, he turned his attention back to Malcom, his strange, liquid silver eyes wide. “Why?”

So many questions in one little word! There wasn't time to answer them all - he'd been here too long already - and he didn't think he could if he tried. Still, he figured that he owed the young man something. The man deserved the truth and, even if he didn't, Malcom was uncomfortable with the growing gratefulness in his eyes.

Malcom had helped kidnap him and, judging by the way he'd reacted before, this man was not happy about being experimented on. Why should he be grateful that Malcom had given him something that was his in the first place? “I want you to understand something,” he said sharply, ignoring the surprise on the other man's face. “Bringing you to Black Ghost to be experimented on is the least I've done.” He shook his head in slight amusement. “At the time I would have said that that had been mercy on my part and not a crime at all.”

004 made no comment, his expression unreadable.

“I've killed many times and I've never felt any remorse. I've helped steal the materials needed to construct weapons responsible for the murder of thousands, hundreds of thousands. And I didn't care because all I cared about was the money.”

Still nothing from 004.

Frustrated, Malcom growled in his throat. “Don't you understand? The reason I saved that stupid ring wasn't because I'm a good person.” He threw up his hands, wondering why the cyborg wasn't saying anything. “It was a whim! A silly, sentimental whim.”

Finally, 004 spoke. “I understand that,” he said quietly, “but that doesn't change the fact that you saved this for me or the fact that I'm glad to have it.” He slipped the chain over his head before speaking again. “Sometimes, motives don't matter. Even if the only reason you wanted to give this to me was to make me suffer or watch me grieve, I'd still be grateful.”

Malcom could only stare, not knowing what to say or if he'd be able to speak if he did.

“I can't forgive you for bringing me to Black Ghost,” 004 said as he held the empty ring box out to Malcom, “I'd rather be with Hilda than here as I am but I am grateful for what you've done even if it was a whim.”

Taking the box back, Malcom found his voice at last. “I . . . I think I understand.” And he almost thought he did. He put the box back into his pocket and grinned. “I know it doesn't make a difference to you, but I'm glad that I gave into that whim.”

A slight but genuine smile crossed 004's face. “Thank you.”

Malcom nodded, feeling something tightening in his chest. “You're welcome, ah -“ he broke off. “You know, I never did learn your name.”

A long pause. “Does it matter anymore?”

004 sounded so sad and tired that Malcom almost relented. Almost because he really wanted to know who he'd held on to the ring so long for. “Please.”

A longer pause. “Albert,” 004 said at last. “Albert Heinrich.”

Malcom smiled, feeling as though his old husk of a heart might burst. “Then you're welcome, Albert Heinrich.” Without another word, he turned back to the sliding doors and knocked. They slide open and he stepped outside, feeling, possibly for the first time, at peace with the world and at his place in it.

“Are you done?” the boy questioned anxiously, no doubt still afraid of being caught where he wasn't supposed to be with someone who wasn't supposed to be here at all.

Nodding, Malcom cleared his throat. “Yes, I think I'm ready to go home.”

If his son noticed the tears running down his face as they made their way out of the compound, he was kind enough not to mention them.

THE END

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(End Notes: I know that the ending is somewhat abrupt but I didn't want to go into that ol' "After doing this one good deed, the old man died in his sleep. A smile etched onto his cold, pale face."

I got the idea for this fic while rewatching Tears of Steel. I got to wondering, how 004 had managed to keep that wedding ring. I mean, if I'd just lost my significant other, the last thing I'd be thinking of would be prying the ring off his hand. Considering how much 004 loved his wife, I would hope that it would be the last thing he'd be thinking of too.

Of course, the easiest explanation would be that the ring he uses in that episode isn't Hilda's but his own. However, remembering his occupation, I doubt he'd even be wearing a wedding ring. Let me explain: Some married blue collar people I know don't wear their wedding rings due to the fact that it's easy to loose a finger if you've got that sucker on and it gets caught on something. Also, some married men just don't like wearing them - not because they want to cheat on their wives but because they aren't used to wearing any kind of ring.

But, even if he was wearing his wedding ring . . . According to wikipedia, in Germany, the wedding ring is put on the right hand. Well, seeing as 004's right hand is completely mechanical (as far as I can see), it probably would have been simply lopped off, ring and all.

So, I asked myself: How come he has it?

Thus this story was born.

Since I don't want the explanation to be longer than the story, I'll leave it at that. As always, any questions, criticisms or how dos are welcome.)