AUTHOR: TwinkleTreb
RATING: PG-13
DISCLAIMER: Original movie character property of Dreamworks
WARNINGS: None
NOTES: Monica makes a deal with the Devil ;-)

__________________

Cal licked her lips, approving. "Now, that is good...well, we were headed t'Rouge, back to the office...'course, then I had t'drive into a bloody ditch."

"Rouge," Monica nodded, wanting to keep the talk going. "I have never been there."

Cal took a seat on the counter. "It's OK, but ya wouldn't want t'live there. Nicky were born there, poor sod... must ruin your childhood perspective, it's bad enough for adults."

Monica had never been there, but knew it well from television and other media sources. It could not be all that bad. Despite the flashy lights and the common lover bots hitting up tourists and Rouge regulars for a deed or two, it didn’t seem all that evil.

"I tend to think that there is always plenty of good somewhere,” Monica poured some of the steaming water from her kettle into her mug, “no matter what the outward look may be."

Cal thought it over a while, silent. "I dunno...I've lived in some shite,” She said at last, “ain’t any of it been like Rouge It kills ya, it really does, if you let it."

Monica raised an eyebrow at her, "What do you do, your occupation that is?"

Cal looked at her steadily for a moment before answering. "I'm a bounty hunter."

Monica face had to force a brief smile. Bounty hunters, she knew Mecha bounty hunters. They gathered stray bots for Flesh Fair amusement, to tear up in front of cheering crowds. It was disgusting and immoral in her eyes. A long awkward pause settled between them. "Oh" She said simply, not wanting to show any emotion.

“It's an okay gig," Cal continued. "I got my own hours, and the pay's all right. Just netted 25 thou for one job." There was a hint of pride in her voice.

I had to ask, Monica thought, stupid stupid me. “Oh , my…” She caught herself. She didn’t want to say anything she regretted. She reached for a box of tea on the counter and tossed a lone bag into her cup of hot water.

Cal smiled a little. "I know... rather good job, that." She paused. "Y'don't like what I do, d'ya?"

”My son David is... was Mecha." She said it quietly, starting to dip her teabag into the water, avoiding any eye contact, embarrassed.

Cal said nothing, neither surprised nor horrified, "That's all right by me."

It was a relief to hear someone say that. But she ached on the inside.

"Can I ask you something?' Monica looked up Cal.

Cal shrugged, "Go ahead."

She dipped her pinkie into the scalding liquid, letting it burn. She bit her lip but somehow found the sensation soothing as she spoke. "I had to abandon David, like your Nicky was I suppose. Would I be just as bad of a parent his were? I want him back though... more than anything." Monica stared at her action, wondering what made her do such a thing. She removed her pinkie, now a bright flesh pink, from the cup and she took a sip.

Considering the question for a moment, Cal finally said: "No... no, y'couldn't be. I don't think anybody could be."

Monica questioned this. "Why so?"

Her gruff voice became hard-edged. "His Mam's boyfriend would rub 'is cigars out on the kid. He got that scar on his forehead from when the bastard broke a chair on 'im. Did you do that, Ma'am?"

Monica was horrified at what she heard, such child abuse was criminal and was punishable to the full extent of law. No wonder why Nicky was so discomfited, anyone would be, especially a child.

“That is sick,” she said, “disturbing.”

"I don't think they gave a shite whether he lived or died... truth is, I'm the first person who's ever given a flying fuck about 'im. Were y'better than that?"

Monica shook her head uneasily, she let out a long held in breath, "I took love away from a needy child... isn't that harsh enough?” she asked, letting out what she’d been holding in. "I pushed him to the ground and left there when he tried to hug me!" She stalled to recollect her thoughts then pressed on. "Aren't I ugly for that?” She groaned lightly and lowered her head, ”But want to take it all back... all of it, just reverse everything."

Cal shook her head. "Ma'am, you're a fuck up. We all are. But the fact that you feel makes you a slightly higher class of fuck-up than most of us."

Well, don’t hold back now… but what did Cal mean by this? “Slightly high class?" Monica asked.

"Right, a greater class of fuck-up,” Cal explained harshly, “What d'ya want me t'say? That you're redeemed for what y'feel? Cos you ain't, and I'm never gonna tell ya that y'are."

Upstairs, the bathroom door opened quietly, then closed quietly seconds later. Monica glanced up at the ceiling, wondering just what was going on up there. She decided to ignore it -- her current conversation, though challenging to face, was bringing a little light to her emotions.

"How far is Rouge from Manhattan?" She inquired, not having told Cal her thoughts of going there herself.

"Maybe 80 miles or so, give or take a few... why?"

"Joe wrote that was where he saw David," Monica informed her, speaking of the “conversation” she’d had with the lover-robot in the boy’s bedroom.

Jeering at the outrageousness of it, Cal replied, "That's mad. It's been underwater for years... where would he have gone?"

Monica was clueless, but she wasn’t gonna show this woman that she was a fool to give up in looking just because she didn’t know a certain area. She could learn, she was a quick learner.

"Don't know,” she admitted honestly but firmly, “But I'll look myself."

There was a silence as the redhead shot her a dubious glance before bursting into a mad fit of wheezing laughter.

Monica dropped her chin, aghast, “What?!” She was being as valiant as she could about finding her son, and all Cal could do was laugh.

"Just-- just the way you said that!”she hooted between chuckles. “I'll look myself... like you're Dr. Livingston or summat. And just how the Hell d'ya plan on looking? It's ocean, for fuck's sake... there ain't nothing THERE."

What else could she say? She didn’t want stand by and have a fool be made of her by a woman whom she’d barely known for two hours.

She pressed on, determined to get her point across, although clearly failing. “I don’t know, I’ll hire help -- ask around. Someone is bound to help me.”

Cal coughed harshly, her laughter effectively knocking the wind out of her, but she was still in chuckles. “Right, Ma'am. Someone's gonna babysit ya while y'look for your Mecha... some deal."

Monica didn’t know what else to say. "I just need to know more about what happened, that's it. Even if I don't find him, at least I'll know what had happened to him."

Feeling defeated and imprudent, Monica sat back into her chair, clutching her mug in her hand. At last cal had stopped laughing and then she sat looking at Monica quietly.

"Real life ain't as rosy as they make it in movies,” she finally said, unblinking. “D'ya have any idea what it's like out there?"

Monica shrugged, “I did study, college that is, in another part of New York, not very close to Manhattan though.”

“And where was that?”

"Far from the main city,” she explained, “the Juilliard School, rebuilt on the water. Nice place, after the old went down...."

Cal looked at her intently. "I know what Julliard is, Ma'am. I ain't a complete idiot."

”That was New York to me. They warned us from actually going to Manhattan, not a student place."

Leaning back on her elbows against the dark marble of the counter, Cal started to lecture her. “Right. Sittin' in an acoustically secure room, practicin' cello or whatever with the New York Philhar-fuckin'-monic were a great way t'teach y'about the world. Ma'am, with all due respect, y'ain't gonna last four minutes."

What was so bad about that part of New York anyway? Monica knew that many of the bigger Mecha companies had headquarters based there, including Cybertronics, which Dr. Hobby practiced his core business from. If Hobby was there, then he’d do something for her.

"Then Cybertronics will help me, " she insisted. "Henry is employed by them."

”Cybertronics... they made this kid? David?"

"Yes, they did. They gave him to Henry to take home to me."

"Then what the fuck makes y'think they'll help ya? Y'said y'ditched him, so the project failed. They ain't gonna be too keen on dredging that fact up."

Of course they had to help her, she was thinking: she’d helped them by being the test Mother for David. Fair is fair, right? She even talked to Hobby herself after she abandoned him, an action in which her thinking was unstable. Cal had to be told this.

“I never meant to!” she cried, her words getting in the way of what she wanted to say, ”I... they can... they will - I'll speak with Allan Hobby myself in person if I must!”

Cal leaned closer to her, looking her in the eyes, "Y'want my advice, Ma'am?"

Monica shrugged; a little more scalding info wouldn’t kill her, “Why not?”

"Cybertronics is a company, and like any dumb animal, it's gonna look after it's own arse and not give a damn about you or how shitty you feel. If you want t'go that route, be my guest. But you ain't never gonna see David again, cos they are gonna stop you at every bloody turn."

The heat in Monica’s body rose, the grip around her mug grew tighter and she steeled her mental strain against Cal’s words, “"Why would they stop me?” she said, her voice slowly rising. “There is no reason for them to. They gave him to me and I sure as hell can demand him back. He was a project..."

Cal shook her head. “They gave him t'ya as a test. The test failed. If that gets out, stock, interest, funding's gonna vanish. Nobody's gonna be interested in a robot that y'can't connect to, when that's it's whole purpose."

Monica did her best to make her understand. "He was a project, yes, as much as I hate to admit it, but he was. Some kind of company, they are to give up on a project like that?" She bit her lip and went on, “And what do you mean not connect? I did connect with him!"

Cal scratched at a tattoo on her forearm and shrugged. "Yeah, but not enough t'stop yourself from ditching 'im."

Monica leaned closer in to her, her expression dead and solemn. "But enough drive that I will do all I can to get him back."

Cal stared back at her seriously, "What wouldja do, Ma'am? I mean, how important is it t'ya?"

"I'll know when to stop,” Monica said, her voice firm and persistant. “I'll know when to accept defeat, but I have not even started."

"Are y'willin' t'break the law?"

What exactly did Cal have in mind? Monica raised her brows. "Have you?"

A new grin spread slowly across Cal’s face. "Do I really need t'answer that question?"

"Been caught?"

Cal shrugged. "A fair amounta times, but I were young and stupid, and that were back home so it don't count now."

Monica’s brain started racing, computing everything she had learned over the past half hour she’d spent with this woman. Even though Cal might have the street smarts that Monica herself lacked, maybe she could be convinced that Monica was determined and dead set on finding David, no matter what the cost. It disturbed her to think that she could even think in such a way -- but she loved her missing son passionately and nothing would get in the way of that.

"Can you help me?" Monica asked.

Straightening herself out, Cal leaned back against the counter again. "Depends."

Monica was ready to deal with the devil. "Ever thought about ditching that flesh fair job?"

Cal laughed. "And just what are y'offerin' me?"

”I have a bank account.“ Monica was willing to go all out for this. "I won't say how much, but I assure you that things just may be taken care of."

A tattooed hand flashed up, stopping her words. "Money, we'll talk later. I need t'know that y'ain't gonna be an albatross around me neck for this job. Are y'willin' t'fight t'get your little boy back?"

Fight? No one had said anything about being violent or throwing left-hooks at anyone. She wasn’t even sure she could even do such a thing.

She swallowed, hesitantly. "Who would I need to fight?"

"A company that would rather have ya kill yourself out of depression than own up to the fact they fucked up."

A rush of relief passed though Monica, and she mentally kicked herself for what she had been thinking. If Cal meant what she said, then most certainly she could fight. Monica had been though enough hell that one woman can go though. Her heart has been played with and torn up enough and she was still standing. If that hadn’t killed her, what would?

She held up her head. "They haven't done that yet.”

Cal stared at her, steely, almost as if to see her on the same level. "Here's the deal. I'll help ya find your kid, no questions asked. In exchange, you stay out from under me, you do what I say, you don't complain. If I say 'jump', you touch the sky. You get me?"

Amazingly, Monica started to smile shrewdly at those words, “That seems easy enough... I know distance.”

"Money will be settled when the job's done,” Cal continued. “I ain't makin' ya no promises this'll work, but I'll do me best." She paused. "Can y'do it? Can y'give up all this, risk everything, just for one robot?"

Monica was set; she was no longer going to let anyone step all over feelings for David anymore. He was her child and she was most certainly his mother. A mother would do anything, and she was going to make it so.

"Things can't get worse," she insisted to Cal, her voice even and stern.

Cal grinned widely and hopped off the counter, holding out her hand. "Well, then, Ma'am, we have got ourselves a deal."

Monica rose, handing over her own, nodding, dead silent.

The two shook.

As their fingers touched, one phrase screamed though Monica’s usually mild mannered mind… What the fuck did I just get myself into?

Upstairs, separate from the selling of a soul in the kitchen below, a peace had been kept.

The bathroom door was firmly closed. On Monica's bed sat a neatly folded pile of damaged clothing, and a simple note…


"She walks in beauty, like the night
Of cloudless climes and starry skies,
And all that's best of dark and bright
Meets in her aspect and her eyes,
Thus mellow’d to their tender light
Which heaven to gaudy Day denies..."

Dearest Monica:

These clothes, alas, are quite ruined --
is there any possibility of finding more?

Yours,
Joe