The Road To Hell Is Paved With Good Intent

building the suit

Running down the street, blueprints in hand, Rick has nowhere to go. All he has is a dream and a plan. He has to make it work, he has to make everything work. He has to show the world, show Jackson and every naysayer, and show everyone what some intuition and elbow grease can accomplish.

* * *

Jackson looks at the table where Rick was sitting and notices something, there's another copy of the blueprints. Maybe it's time he thinks about himself for a change.

* * *

First things first, Rick says to himself, source the materials. He contemplates which device will be the easiest to start with. He settles on the hand grapplers. Razor blades and brass are easy to come by.

He goes to the scrap yard and starts to rummage. Finding pieces of this and that, morphing them into an amalgam of parts. Hobbled together to form the prototype of the hand. When he's done working he leaves it near the gate, hidden from sight, and says 'good day' to the owner as he leaves, empty-handed.

That night, under cover of dark, Rick returns. He examines the gate and sees a simple lock. Being a mechanical engineer has given him a good understanding of pins and ratchet systems. So it's not a huge leap for him to be able to pick the lock and ease into the yard.

Once in he goes slow, listening for guards or dogs. He doesn't hear anything and the mechanical hand is right where he left it. Placing it on his hand he feels powerful, somehow more complete. And knows with this device it will be easier to source the pieces for the next part, the spring-powered legs.

* * *

Jackson is working doubles as often as he can. Doing sixteen-hour shifts six days a week and any side work he can get on Sunday. There's a fire in his belly, for the first time in his life he's working purely for himself.

The realization has freed him. Typically where he would have gotten bogged down by the idea of monotonous labor, day in and day out, now he looks forward to it. Every dollar earned is one more dollar towards his suit. And once it's built he'll be able to start getting some work done. Once he has a functioning prototype he'll sell the designs to the highest bidder and be on easy street. But first things first, make some cash.

* * *

Rick has found some springs, they have to be sourced from a machine shop. The security is probably more intense than in the scrap yard. He can't just go in and look around.

So he will prowl. He waits for the sun to set. And creeps down the street. A fog is coming off the bay and the constables are in the process of lighting the gas lamps on every street corner.

He's quiet, he's always been good at being quiet. He has no home, has no possessions except the clothes on his back and the instrument of power on his hand. It's been weeks since he has had a proper clean, but in the industrial playground he's grown up in that isn't so strange.

So he wanders the streets bidding his time. Slowly making his way to the shop. Not going directly so any police who happen to see him won't connect him to the sourcing of materials.

He comes to the fence surrounding the facilities, he picks the lock, it's easier now he has a handmade tool. Listening, no sounds are made, no one is inside, maybe it's unguarded. He enters.

Walking around he cases the building before entering. The door is locked but Rick is getting pretty fast at picking the locks. Now he's inside, trying to make no noise. He doesn't want some passing stranger to hear him. It occurs to him that he never closed the gate. That could be suspicious, he'd better hurry.

Running around an unfamiliar warehouse Rick is cautious. Every sound is an interloper, every shadow a fiend. When a cat leapt up, causing some tools to topple, Rick jumped. When the wind blew the door shut he got startled.

Making his way around he finally comes to the fabrication center and finds the springs. Gathering as many as he can carry he keeps panning the area with short motions, looking up and around. There's nothing. He hears something and looks, it's nothing. Then he hears breathing.

At first, he thinks it's the wind or just in his mind but it's persistent. Holding on to his prize springs he tiptoes toward the sound, step by step it grows in volume, and the breathing is constant, consistent, coming closer. Rick hears no footsteps so he believes he's sneaking up on the guard.

His nerves are a jumble, his pulse quickens and his breath becomes jagged.

Cautiously he peaks around a corner and sees a guard passed out with an empty bottle in his hand.

Relieved and turning away, a curious cop bumps into him.
"Excuse me," the cop says, "I saw the fence was open and came to..." At this point, he notices the springs in the assailant's hands and the guard on the ground. The officer reaches for his billy club and shouts, "on the ground now."

Panicked Rick holds up his hand in a submissive gesture, the cop sees the blades on his device and assumes the movements are violent. Trying to defend himself the cop swings his club at Rick. Scared, Rick tries to fend off the attack and slips, the blades cut deep. Two men scream an inventor vomits, a drunk guard is startled awake and a cop dies.

Blood on his hand Rick runs, and an urban legend begins.