Inconsistencies Continued, Part 2

The lab the Five (and they were neither Inferior nor Frenetic) called home was in the bottom of an old speakeasy. There were two ways in, a secret underground driveway the Driver loved to drive too fast through, and a secret door in the ruined husk of a building that the place was built beneath. The walls were thick stone built by master masons and lined with layers of lead to dull sound and prevent the lawmen from getting lucky with a knock against a wall and finding the place.

It was deep in the ruins of Chicago and even through all the lead and stone used to hide the place back during Prohibition it was still mildly irradiated, but they didn’t care. The Gangster was destined to die young, the Robot didn’t have any DNA for the rads to ruin, the Driver was destined to die in the burning wreck of his ride, and the Doctor was already more irradiated than the interior of the Robot.

The lab was part mechanic’s garage and part clean room, and part alcohol still as well. It was a big place, and there was plenty of room for the Doctor’s gadgetry, the Driver’s ride and tools, and the Gangster’s armory. It was an odd place to say the least and the Vampire in the fish tank wasn’t the weirdest thing down there, but it was the most visible.

The tank was a glass tube covered in wires, pumps, and hoses, and it was a little taller than the Robot. It was filled with rushing water and the Vampire, as heavily sedated as possible without killing the mad thing. They only let the beast out when the shit really hit the fan and that suited it and them just fine. Its black eyes were wide open and tracked them as they moved around the room near it; the Doctor said that was a throwback to the way its ancestors were when they were sleeping underwater. He also said that they should hit the big red button if it ever got pissed off and tried bust out of the glass, the button was a kill switch on the front of the tank that shut off the water. The Doctor had made a device that let the Vampire breathe out of water, but they only gave it to him if he agreed to play nice. That only happened rarely though, thus the sedation and kill switch. The cylinder was built to be tight around the Vampire, so even if he thrashed like mad he wouldn’t be able to get water moving over his gills enough if the current shut off and he’d drown in the still water. The Doctor was a bit mad, but he still knew his shit.

The Gangster rapped his knuckles against the glass before the Vampire’s face and sat down in a chair near it and began smoking and methodically cleaning and oiling his Tommy gun. The Driver was taking a sledgehammer to the interior of a door that had been crushed when the Chevy had flipped and was hammering the dents out of it. The Robot was lifting nuclear warheads out of the Chevy’s trunk one by one with his humanoid arm. The warheads were small, but they were enough. The Doctor was digging around in the backseat of the Chevy doing Dog knows what.

The Robot’s voice was static laden and clearly came from a substandard speaker somewhere in his head or throat, “Perhaps a portion of these warheads should be shipped to the Louisiana bayous to grant the…blacks there the same opportunities we have for personal defense.”

The pause in his speech was his programming trying to make him say mongrels or niggers. He’d come a long way in the time since he’d fled the Krauts.

The Driver ignored him and the Doctor was too immersed in sparking wires and the flare of an acetylene torch to care. The Gangster finished with his gun and slammed a new drum into place before jumping to his feet and walking towards the Robot. The Vampire’s mouth parted slightly, and exposed row after endless row of triangular teeth, its eyes fastened on the Robot and stared unblinking at it.

The Gangster tipped his fedora back a bit and looked up into the flat, featureless plane of metal that was the Robot’s face. Out of politeness, it lowered its head so that the red light bulbs set into the metal met the Gangster’s stare.

“That’s a damn stupid thing to say Tin Man.”

“They should be granted the same chance we have. These warheads could give them the same opportunities they have granted us, and they would be more beneficial if given to those in the bayous, they do not have the assets we do.”

The Tommy gun clinked loudly as its barrel scuffed the dull metal of the Robot’s face.

“The bayous are bayous, mud and dirty water. What the Hell kind of fortified position you think they got down there? There ain’t no friggin missile silos in the swamps.”

“Perhaps we could acquire the materials for silos and construct them so the southern states could utilize them. There is ample scrap in the ruins above us and construction of a missile silo is easily within the capabilities of the Doctor and I.”

The Gangster spat out the stub of the cigarette he’d been smoking, neither the Robot nor the Gangster noticed the Doctor scowling at the fallen bit of Tobacco and rolling paper.

“Perhaps I oughta put a slug or two into your face Tin Man, so you that you can have the same opportunity as the rest of us to feel your insides slippin outta your head.”

Things whirred and ticked in the Robot before he said, “My biometric scans indicate that you are not entirely sincere in your statement. Nonetheless, my exterior is composed of interlocking layers of tungsten, titanium, and steel to provide a maximum flexibility to durability ratio. Also, since my escape from Germany my processors and sensors are held in a cushion of ballistics gel in the rear of my groin region. Even if circumstances were ideal and one of the rounds fired from your Thompson machine gun could pierce my exterior, you would only damage semi-redundant circuitry and memory.”

The Driver smirked but didn’t turn away from the dents he was fixing, the Doctor smiled as well but he too kept at the task at hand, which mostly involved repairing the interior armor of the Chevy. The Vampire blinked, long and slowly, and the Gangster suppressed a laugh. The Robot’s sensors detected all of this and servos in his neck whirred as his head rotated and fastened on each of his compatriots.

“The three of you are having a similar biochemical reaction that I recognize as amusement at, or enjoyment of, a situation, but I cannot pinpoint the source. Is this humor?”

The Robot’s confusion tipped the scales and the Gangster’s Tommy gun clinked against the floor as he doubled over and gave a great gut busting laugh.

“I repeat my query and ask for clarification.”

“You got your head stuck up your ass, Tin Man. You got your head literally stuck up your ass.”