Gadget looked into Zoë’s eyes. She had the same idea as he did, apparently: Run for it.

His hand in Zoë’s, he flew down the last flight of stairs — down to the first floor of the hotel — and then a gruff, snarling growl came from behind them. Gadget spun around to see, just as Misto leapt up and onto the two Cybermechazoids chasing them from behind, his razor-like claws outstretched to either side of him as he dove into them, one clawed hand aimed at each of their misshapen heads. One set of claws struck feathers; the other, fur. He tackled them to the ground, his massive weight and his claws digging into their skulls, crushing them. The goat-headed monstrosity’s eyes bugged out and it thrashed, as did the raven-headed creature, both of them baaah-ing and kawww!-ing and screeching as he applied the full pressure of his hulking body to squeeze the life out of them and crack their heads open like eggs with his girth pressing down on them through the muscles in his arms. Finally, their skulls cracked, and they laid still as the grave.

Four more Cybermechazoids were approaching, though, coming down the stairs behind him. They had their Disruptophazers stowed for some reason, though; each of them instead had their two katanas drawn — eight swords in total — and were preparing to attack manually. They’d probably learned from their predecessors’ mistakes. Which meant they were connected somehow. Telepathy? Gadget didn’t bother working it out. He was far too concerned with staying alive. Jesus they were awful looking: One of them had the head of a warthog, its tusks gleaming in the light, its otherwise stupid eyes burning with a thirst for killing; one had the head of a pig, snorting at the air with its snout, sniffing for them, its eyes set on them, oinking excitedly as it came down the stairs; the third had the head of a giant bat, chittering as it stepped from one stair step to the next, walking cat-like from one to the other, its sword upraised in a fighting stance; the fourth had the head of a large dog — maybe a mastiff? — and it slobbered and drooled as it lurched from step to step, its ears twitching. God they were hideous creatures, made even more hideous by their seeming, somewhat-humanity . . . their humanoid hands, their bodies mutilated by cybernetic and mechanical gadgets and implants, wiring, and tubing. They approached down the stairs at a leisurely pace; they didn’t run, or scramble, or hurry. They advanced like soldiers marching, one step at a time.

“Misto!” cried Gadget. “Look out!”

“Shit!” said Zoë. “Where’d these things even come from?”

“The rooftop!” said Gadget. “He must’ve sent them after us after I found him!”

“They probably heard you bitching about Frank Miller!” As Misto stood up and rounded on the approaching Cybermechs, Gadget quickly conjured four more tendrils of telekinetic energy from his head, and willed them toward the approaching cadre of Cybermechs. Two of them found the bat-headed Cybermech, and lifted it into the air. It squealed in protest, and —

Just then, Zoë uttered a small scream as a burst of yellow electrical sparks suddenly popped off the side of the Dr. Manhatten Helmet, and sharp spike of pain went through his head. The tendrils of energy vanished in mid-air. Gadget stumbled to one side, gripping his temples. Jesus, what the hell —

Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

He caught himself on the wall and forced the stairwell landing to stop spinning. Holy shit, what had just happened? The Helm; it had malfunctioned. Fuck. Most likely, it had blown a circuit, and needed repairing. Shit, shit, shit!

“Uh, Zoë?” he said. “I’ve got some bad news . . .”

“Oh holy hell, don’t tell me . . .” She said. “It’s broken, isn’t it.”

“Yup.”

Misto stood his ground at the bottom of the stairs with Zoë and Gadget — standing on top of the bodies of the last two Cybermechazoids he had killed — on the first-floor landing, as the Cybermechazoids closed in on him, their swords now lowered and pointed right at him as they came down the last flight of stairs.

“Time to test these babies out,” said Zoë. She raised her arms, crossed her wrists in front of her in an “X” formation, and then clanged Dizzy’s Repulsivator Vambraces together — hard — at the actuator plates. The wall flew up and hit Gadget in the ass and spine as the titanic blast-wave struck him in the face and he had to shield his eyes. The bright, purple-white blast of gravitic energy rippled out from the Vambraces as though someone had tossed a giant rock into the ocean of the universe right in front of where Zoe stood; it washed out from her — she herself wasn’t affected — and hit the Cybermechazoids head-on, and blew them right off their feet on the stairs, and then up the stairs, up onto the landing above, and drove them into each other and into the wall behind them, crushing the two in the rear with the two in font, and driving the swords of the two in the rear — the warthog one and the pig one — through the two in the front, killing them instantly. The blast also blew Misto up the stairs as well; he tripped on the steps and fell over, and then was thrust up the next few stairs riding on his ass, bumping up one, two, then three steps on it, cursing all the way. Cracks appeared in the concrete all around them, and the whole stairwell shook, rumbled, and groaned, as though an earthquake had just struck the entire hotel. Then, within a few seconds — within the time it took Zoë to lower her arms, a look of shock on her face — it was all over.

“Holy fucking shit, Zoë,” he said simply, lowering his arm from his eyes, when it was over. Zoë simply raised the Vambraces and stared at them, wide-eyed. On the stairs, Misto got up and shook his head to clear it, and then —

At the top of the stairs, the other two Cybermechazoids pushed their fallen comrades out of the way — they plopped to the upper landing with dull, wet thuds — and snorted, grunted, and squealed defiantly. Zoë had, apparently, only made them angry. And now, they came rushing down the stairs, their swords drawn. Misto turned around and saw them coming at him. Oh shit. They were going to skewer him!

Gadget quickly grabbed the Pymcelerator from its hook on his belt. Didn’t bother to set any of the dials. Just aimed it, and fired at the warthog-headed Cybermech. A bolt of bright, green-glowing energy shot out of the gun’s barrel and flew at the Cybermech, and hit it head-on. And then, it . . . Shrank, leaving after-image visual ripples in the air as it dwindled in size to the stature of a corgi — sword, Napoleonic outfit, and cybernetic implants and all — and then toppled down the stairs, since they were way to big for its legs now. It cried out — in a teeny-tiny, helium-balloon voice — and then landed on the floor of the bottom stairwell with them and then ran toward Gadget and began attacking his sneakers with its tiny sword, screaming in its tiny voice, hate burning in its miniature eyes. Gadget ignored it.

Meanwhile, Misto took advantage of the pig-headed Cybermechazoid’s distractedness and grabbed it by the throat, the two of them facing each other on the stairs. It dropped its sword and grappled with his muscular arm, with some success . . . It got him to relinquish his hold, twisting his arm at the wrist. He cried out with a grunt, and used his other arm to punch it in the face. It staggered back and down two steps. Misto moved to punch it again and it caught his fist in its mechanical left hand, and delivered a jab to his side. He doubled over, grimacing, showing his wolfen fangs, and wincing. He grabbed it by the collar and went for the maul at its throat with his teeth. But it caught him by the throat, and forced him away. He reared back, and it came at him, punching at him. This time, he caught its fist, and delivered a soaring right hook to its pig-like jowls. It staggered back and fell down the stairs. Misto didn’t hesitate. He leapt down the stairs and pounced upon the creature. But it grappled him, grabbing his jaws by the top and bottom, preventing him from biting it. He managed to break free, and swiped at the creature’s face with his claws, batting its head to the side and opening huge gashes in its flesh, and then going for the maul again. This time he bit into its throat, and the creature squealed a death-squeal as its body shivered and spasmed in its death-throes, as Misto gored its neck.

Misto finally came up for air — his snout was covered in blood and gristle from the pig-headed Cybermechazoid — and stood up. Six dead, definitely-not-human bodies now littered the stairwell. There was no way his “Mind-fuck” wave would cover this, or keep a lid on this for very long. Sooner or later, someone was going to smell this, or walk in here and see it. And then, this place would be crawling with law enforcement.

And that damned shrunken warthog Cybermech was still trying to attack Gadget’s shoes. Gadget frowned and kicked it across the stairwell. It came back and kept trying, hollering chi sounds and ululating helium-balloon battle cries.

“I’m sorry you two had to see this,” said Misto, gesturing to his blood-coated snout. “It isn’t a side of myself I like for . . . For others to ever see. When the wolf in me gets . . . Angry . . . Or when the spirit of the hunt takes me . . .”

“I think I understand,” said Zoë, stroking the fur of his shoulder. “Besides, you saved our lives here multiple times. I think I can deal with whatever dark side of you that represents, Misto.”

Misto sighed. “Thank you, Zoë.”

“Yeah,” said Gadget. “It’s okay. You’re . . . Well, you’re a werewolf. We’d kinda expect you to go for the throat. I mean, yeah, don’t get me wrong. It’s disturbing as fuck. But . . . At the same time . . . It’s . . . Kinda cool.”

“Cool?” said Misto, snorting at him. “You think I think it’s cool, being compelled to do that to another living creature?” He growled under his breath. “Remind me to give you a lecture sometime on the value of life, dear boy. On its preciousness. And upon the precariousness.”

“The precariousness of what?”

“Our humanity,” said Misto. “Though I sense you’ve had a taste of that already tonight. Haven’t you. When you faced that girl’s tormentors upstairs. Go on. Admit it.”

Gadget’s face grew hot and he felt himself flush. He suddenly felt very small. “Uh. Yeah. Yeah I admit it.”

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

“Then you’ve had a glimpse. But only a glimpse at what I face when I . . . Shift. When I change. When I do . . .” He gestured to the remains of the Cybermechazoid. Suddenly, Gadget couldn’t look at the bloody mess Misto had left behind, the thing’s torn-out throat, the mass of entrails and gooey bits of its blood-soaked Napoleonic outfit; the unmoving cybernetic parts. “When I do this.”

“Uh, yeah,” he said. He stared at his shoes. The warthog Cybermechazoid had tired of attacking his left shoe; it moved on to his right shoe. He nudged it away. It renewed its efforts, swinging its tiny sword at his foot, its high-pitched snorts and growls filled with redoubled ferocity. It was going to poke through to his foot in a minute. At the moment, though, he had deeper thoughts to think.

“It’s okay,” said Zoë, stroking the fur of Misto’s arm.

“No, it isn’t,” said Misto, putting his hand over hers. “But thank you anyway.” He looked up and appeared to think of something suddenly. “But something worries me now. Why haven’t I changed back by this point?”

“Dunno,” she shrugged. “But I am a biotech major. Maybe I could take a look at that serum you were injected with, all those years ago?”

“Impossible, unfortunately,” he said. “Walter destroyed the last of the few remaining samples at Mechanology years ago. The only surviving samples . . .”

“Lemme guess,” said Zoë. “They’re with Ravenkroft.”

“Right, exactly,” he said. “Or at least, he still has his and Anastasia’s version of the formula. But no matter; that’s beside the point. I should have changed back by now. I usually change back after several hours in wolf-form. It’s as Dizzy and I feared. We always worried that one day, the change would become permanent. That one day, I’d change, and wouldn’t change back.”

“Well right now,” said Gadget, “I’m worried too. My Helm — ” He reached up and jiggled the large ribbon cable on the side of it. Another small burst of sparks flew off of it with a “popping” noise, and suddenly, the tiny warthog Cybermech at his feet squealed and snorted as it rose into the air, levitating. They all three watched it rise, and then settle back down. The thing itself looked terrified. Once it was back on solid ground, it didn’t attack his shoes again. It simply stood there, gazing up at him. Gadget looked at Zoë, and at Misto. “My Helm is malfunctioning. I need to repair it.”

“No time!” said Misto. “We’ll just have to make due with it working sub-optimally. We have my strength — ”

“And my firepower and the Vambraces,” said Zoë, holding up her arms. “Speaking of which, holy hell — !”

“Yeah, holy hell is right,” said Gadget. “You almost brought the stairwell down on top of us.”

“Hey!” she said. “How the hell was I suppose to know they would do that!”

“Well, duh,” he said. “Gravity waves. They don’t say that gravity warps space and time for the fun of it.”

“Oh whatever,” she said. “I saved our butts. Besides. We’ve also got the shrink ray.” She bent down and picked up the warthog-headed Cybermechazoid in her hands. It reacted violently, trying to slice at the metal Vambraces on her wrists with its sword. It was an ugly little creature. No more than eight inches high, and dressed in one of those ridiculous Napoleonic military uniforms, it had a cybernetic arm for its left appendage, and a fleshy, muscular arm on the right. It had its miniature Disruptophazer stowed in a holster on its right hip, and in its right hand it held its tiny — though still sharp, as Gadget’s wrecked sneakers could now attest — katana. It wore combat boots on its itty-bitty feet. It kicked and squealed, grunted and growled as Zoë held it in her hands. “The question is,” she said, a grimace of disgust on her face, “what the hell do we do with this little guy?”

“He’s kinda . . . Cute? In his own way? observed Gadget. Well, that was a lie. The creature was not in fact cute — in any way — but really, what the hell else did you say in this situation? And what were they going to do with it? Because the fact was, though he was seriously thinking about it, Gadget couldn’t bring himself to ask her to kill it. Nope. Just couldn’t do it. It was so small, and it reminded him of Pumbaa, from The Lion King. And besides, it was pretty much harmless, right? Well, not to footwear or your ankles, no, but really . . . It wasn’t going to seriously hurt anybody, was it? Yeah, it was still fairly deadly, armed with that Disruptophazer — which probably still worked, even in its miniaturized condition — and that sword was sharp as fuck, but . . . Wait. He had an idea.

“Hold on,” he said. He reached up and pushed the SYSTEM RESET button on the side of the Dr. Manhatten Helmet. Held it in for ten seconds. Then released it. He heard the vacuum tubes whine and then felt the tingle in his scalp again. “If I can just get this thing to work right . . .”

The rising tide of whispers in his head began to burble and babble once again. The tide crested in a wave of voices, and he closed his eyes and let it crash over him, and then subside as he forced the voices back, and back, and back behind the Wall in his mind, reaching through the storm and the wind for that single thread of his own consciousness. He grabbed onto it and held on, like always. He opened his eyes, and focused on the little warthog-headed Cybermechazoid in Zoë’s arms.

“Astrid,” he said, “Activate Augmented Reality Mode.” Then, to Zoë and Misto, he said, “Gimme a minute. Just keep the thing still, Zoë.”

“I’ll try,” she said. It was still fighting to get out of her hands.

“Hey!” she said to the warthog-headed Cybermech, shaking it. “Stop it!”

“Want fries with that?” came her disembodied voice. But there seemed to be some static in the reception, as though he were placing a cell-phone call in an area without much network coverage.

The world dissolved into the NeuroScape-modulated version of itself, as did he into his Avatar, Gadgorak Prime. The Ray Gun appeared on his hip. He drew it, and dialed it to Transilience Beam. He set the switch to the symbol with two little bidirectional arrows, meaning “2-way Transference.” Then he closed his eyes and concentrated. What did he want here, exactly? Hmm. The best description he could come up with was a “pet.” A creature that was bonded to him, that had to obey him . . . But, wait, no, that wasn’t it, exactly. Hmm. A creature that wanted to obey him, but not out of any directive or induction of will . . . But out of love. Yeah, that was it. But — wait — no. He didn’t want to “force” the thing to love him; that would be cruel. Something Ravenkroft would do. Hmm. What to do. Wait — oh, God. Of course. That was it. Love. This creature . . . This poor, misbegotten, misshapen, mutant thing . . . Had never known love. Had never known what it was to actually be cared for, to be wanted, to feel . . . Any sort of affection from an actual, caring, loving human being. All it had ever been was a killing machine for Ravenkroft. The poor thing. The poor, damned soul. This pitiful, wretched creature.

Gadget sucked in a breath, and focused all his will on that feeling of sadness for it, that feeling of pity; that feeling of his heart going out to the poor creature, that feeling of sudden kinship — the feeling of outcastness — and of his new intention — the intention to love this creature, no matter how ugly or demented-looking, or violent it was. Yes. His intention to love it, and care for it, and to want it around. He focused on that, and on the question: Will you follow me? Please? I will care for you; I promise . . . summed up not in words, but in feelings, the good and positive feeling of love, of warmth, feelings that overflowed and felt good no matter what species you were, and that this poor, malformed beast had never known in its entire existence.

Just like with you and women, right? whispered the Beast.

And then he fired the Ray Gun at it, and right at that moment, the Helm malfunctioned again. Sparks flew from it, causing Gadget to have muscle spasms in his arm and neck . . . but the glowing-white beam closed the distance just as it did, and smacked into Pumbaa. It squealed . . . But not a pained squeal; a squeal of sudden delight and ecstasy, and happiness. It ceased fighting to be free in Zoë’s hands, and its eyes flicked sideways, glancing toward Gadget. It reached toward him with its stubby — and one mechanical — arms, grunting and squealing and kicking its legs in the air, wishing for a change of ownership. Zoë’s look went from disgust to incredulous surprise.

“Jesus!” she exclaimed. “What the hell did you do to this thing?” Pumbaa kept wriggling in her grasp, desperate to get to Gadget, reaching out its arms toward him and grinning madly.

Gadget meanwhile winced in pain and staggered. God, that had hurt! What had happened? He blinked to clear away the stars and scars of color across the world he had briefly seen, and when the world came back into focus, Augmented Reality Mode had been switched off, for now. The world appeared again as it normally did — its regular, non-pixelated self. The sudden onslaught of the voices in his head almost overwhelmed him, but he managed to fight them off and push them back, with a lot of effort. He reached up and switched off the Helm just before the tidal wave of emotions, sounds, images, and words became too much to bear.

“Ow,” he said simply, grasping at his temples.

See? roared the Beast in his head. See? You couldn't invent your way out of a paper bag. You’re a failure. You’re going to let everyone down, as usual. You can’t save your friend. If she even is your friend. And even if she is, and even if you can save her — which you most likely can’t — you’ll never be more than friends with her. Just like all the others. You’ll never make it past that with anyone, because you’re weak, and insufficient as a man. Always will be. And you’re no hero. So just give this up. Give it up. Right now. Call it quits. Before you get yourself — or anyone else — hurt.

“Are you alright?” said Misto, putting a blur-furred hand on his shoulder.

“Yeah, yeah I think so,” said Gadget, trying to ignore the Beast. “Gotta watch that.” He looked over at Zoë and the struggling Pumbaa. “Here, give me Pumbaa.” He reached over and gingerly plucked the squirming little beast from Zoë’s hands. It immediately quieted once he had hold of it, the grin on its tusked maw spreading as he took it and held it. It settled into his arms like a baby about to go to sleep, and snuggled close to him and emitted a contented series of grunts and snorts. “Huh. Well,” he said. “Whadda ya know. It worked.”

“You made that thing like you?” said Zoë. “Why?”

“No,” said Gadget. “I just convinced it that it was loved.” He grinned at the creature and said, in a baby-talk voice, “Yes. Dat’s right. Aren’t you. Aren’t you loved, little guy?”

“Ugh. I think I’m gonna be sick,” said Zoë.;

“Oh so gored biomechanoids don’t bother you,” said Misto, with some degree of frustration in his voice, “but baby talk to one does? You’re a mystery, my dear girl.” A pause. Then, to Gadget: “I guess you’re bringing that thing with us, aren’t you.”

“What, Pumbaa here?” asked Gadget. “Of course. He might be helpful.” He sat Pumbaa down on the floor, on his own two legs. Pumbaa looked up at him and snapped a salute grunted, and stood at attention. Apparently awaiting orders. Gadget looked down at him. “Can you . . . Understand me, Pumbaa?”

Pumbaa nodded, and saluted again, signaling a willingness to obey. Huh. How odd. It could understand language, but it couldn’t speak. God, Ravenkroft was such a bastard.

“Okay,” said Gadget, addressing Pumbaa. “Follow us, okay? Just stick close to us, and you’ll be fine. I’ll look out for you. Will you fight for us, if we have to fight?”

The Cybermechazoid nodded furiously. It stowed its katana, took out its Disruptophazer, and pantomimed firing it in all directions; then it stowed that, took out its katana again, and sliced it through the air in a demonstration of its fencing skills. Then it put the sword away, and saluted again, and snapped to attention with a proud grunt.

“Good,” said Gadget, and he nodded, satisfied. Well, this was interesting. He turned to Misto. “Well, it looks like the stairwells aren’t going to work out, dude. I vote for the elevators.”

Misto sighed. “Perhaps you’re right.”

“Okay, the elevators it is, then, dangerous or not,” said Gadget. “You agree, Zoë?”

“Sure,” she said with a shrug. “There’ll be less opportunities for me to bring the whole building down on top of us that way.” She offered him a slight smile. She must’ve seen the weary, worried look on his face. She took hold of his hand. “Hey. We’re gonna get her back. Even if your Helm is malfunctioning. That’s not all there is to you, y’know. The real source of your power isn’t on your head. It’s in here.” She reached up and touched his chest.

“Is it?” he asked, his doubts suddenly seeming a lot bigger than he had thought they were.

“Come on,” she said, still smiling at him. “Let’s get going.”