Tick, Tick, Tick

The handcuffs were brittle, flimsy steel links connecting Marcus’ wrists. It would take little effort to just pull them apart and snap the frail metal chain. He didn’t.

White painted cinderblocks surrounded him, aside from the one-way mirror across the room. A steel door was next to it. His anxious hands and cuffed wrists rested on the table in front of Marcus. This too was nothing special; sturdy, clean, and the only interesting aspect were a few scratches indicating the table had seen better days. There was one other chair in addition to the one Marcus was sitting in, facing him from across the table. For the moment, it remained empty.

How much longer until someone does something? Marcus thought, plagued by fears uncounted. I woke up forty-seven minutes ago. What could be taking them so long? He looked down at the handcuffs, considering breaking them just so he could get through the door and find someone. Maybe if he-

The door opened.

Marcus sat up, his full attention on the man who just walked in.

All Marcus could see as the man entered was his back. It seemed that the man had turned to say something to someone standing on the other side of the door. A moment later he faced Marcus, turning around and closing the door. Marcus’ breath would have caught seeing the man’s face, his worries growing.

It was the last face he’d seen before waking up here.

The man had dark brown hair with the beginning of gray streaks emerging at his temples. His beige uniform was a bit run down, and the radio on his shoulder looked similarly scuffed. A pair of aviator style sunglasses were tucked in the pocket of his shirt. The belt of holstered gear had been in action, based on the numerous small dings and scratches Marcus could identify on them. He reminded Marcus of his high school; neat and clean at first glance but with the wear and tear of an underfunded institution where nothing was ever brand new.

The police officer’s movements were cautious and deliberate, reluctant to walk any closer to Marcus. Lines made his face appear older, but Marcus would have bet he was only in his thirties, the stress of the job aging him prematurely. His mustache was more gray than brown, and it drooped ever so slightly at the ends.

“Alright, let’s figure this out,” the man said, his voice gravelly and weary like his appearance, with the slight drawl that marked the voices of any other local in Marcus’s hometown, “Can you understand English? At the scene, you were restrained before we—"

Marcus was already nodding eagerly.

The man sighed and grumbled, still standing by the door. “Why do I always catch the fun cases?”

Marcus allowed himself a nervous fidget in his chair.

“I’m Sergeant Landon from the county sheriff’s office,” the officer continued in a more professional tone. “I’m assuming that you can’t speak, you didn’t before, so I don’t know how we’ll go about interviewing you. Do you know any ASL, sign language?”

Marcus shook his head.

“Can you write?”

Marcus nodded, eager at the prospect. Landon produced a pen and notepad. Marcus stood up, excited, reaching to grab them. The pen and pad hit the floor with a crash and Marcus froze, staring down at the yellow and black taser pointed at him.

“Don’t move, stay where you are, hands where I can see em.”

The world held its breath as time ground to a halt. Marcus remembered the taser well, having already endured one seizure-like shutdown from it, but it was the police officer’s expression that had made every idea of movement flee from his will. Fear was etched in Landon’s face and his stormy gray eyes were wide with a panic restrained only by years of service and experience. Marcus could see his reflection in that storm. How such a stoic man could be so frightened. Frightened of him. Marcus felt his hopes sink in sorrow, unable to blame the man for his reaction. Slowly, he raised his hands in a gesture of peace, showing the officer they were still cuffed together, and with painstaking, almost surreal slowness, Marcus sat back down and waited.

A tense moment passed, then the cop holstered his weapon and bent down to pick up the notepad and pen. Marcus was dying to snatch up this holy grail of communication the second it touched the stainless steel within his reach, but forced himself to wait until the cop had backed up to a distance he seemed comfortable with. The taser was unpleasant but Marcus saw the other things holstered on that belt. He had no interest in discovering if he was bulletproof.

With hesitant hands outstretched, Marcus leaned over the table, waiting to see what the cop would do. When the officer merely tensed and did not attempt to reach for his taser or sidearm, Marcus leaned all the way forward and pulled the notepad towards himself. His hands shook with terrified hope and excitement. A mountain of gold would be worthless next to these priceless tools.

He fumbled with the pen a bit, his hands clumsy. They were well articulated, but very new to him, and it was as though he needed to learn again every motion they could make. The difficulty didn’t bother Marcus; he was more worried he’d crush the fragile cylinder of steel than drop it.

Clicking the button on the top of the cheap ballpoint, Marcus paused.

Where do I even begin?

“I take it that means you’re ready,” the officer said, “and I’m eager to get this over with so first question; what in tarnation are you?”

Good question. Marcus considered for a moment, then scratched something onto the pad and slid it across the table for the cop to read. Still wary, as though Marcus were some wild beast, the cop stepped closer and picked the notepad up.

I do not know. I helped build it, but, I don’t know how I am it, if that makes sense.

The cop sighed and slid it back to Marcus, “It doesn’t; try again. You have to know something about all this. You wrote here that you helped build this… whatever it is. Who did you help and why?”

Marcus nodded, taking the notepad once again and writing something else below the first note. He slid it back and the cop picked it up.

I do not know the name of the old guy, he never told me and I was only his assistant for two weeks. It was supposed to be a temp summer job, and this is how he paid me. MY name is Marcus Fauce.

The officer’s eyebrows dove into an angry ‘V’ and he glared at Marcus.

That’s not good.

“What kind of sick joke is this?” the cop demanded. “Marcus Fauce is dead. My partner recovered his body earlier tonight just after you crashed that truck swerving off the road. Were you fleeing the scene?”

Marcus shook his head, holding his hands up again in pacifistic innocence. He pointed to the notepad then pressed his palms together, pleading for it. The cop scowled and slid the notepad back across the table to him, “Start talking -er, writing. What do you have to do with Marcus?”

Marcus flipped the notepad to the next page. He wrote for several minutes, flipping through another four pages. He had to explain. He had to prove he was himself. They had to believe him.

Scratch, scratch, scribble. Tick, tick, tick.

Looking over the story one last time, Marcus set the pen down and flipped back to the second page where the story started. He had written out everything, only leaving out details he didn’t understand. There were too many of those. Marcus slid the notepad across the table where it came to rest in front of the cop. He had been standing there, unmoving in his vigilance since returning the notepad. Now he picked it up, reading what Marcus wrote in response. Then re-reading it.

Tick, tick, tick.

The silence was oppressive. Marcus waited, fidgeting with the handcuffs he still wore. The chain twisted and wove through his hands as he wrung it trying to stay calm. It helped a little. He always liked working with his hands and, for times he couldn’t tinker, he had always carried something to fidget with until now.

Twist and bend and pull and- Snap!

The cop was half out of his chair, hand on his taser.

“What was that?”

Marcus cringed internally and held up his now broken handcuffs. They still were on his wrists like strange bracelets, but the chain was in pieces.

“You could’ve broken them this whole time?”

Marcus glanced up, caught off guard by the bewildered tone. No anger?

“Why didn’t you do it before?” the cop continued.

Without Marcus needing to ask, Officer Landon slid the notepad back over to him, sitting down again. Marcus flipped to the first clean page and wrote his answer, holding it up this time instead of returning the notepad.

I thought it would make you feel better. You can cuff me again if you want, I did not mean to break them. I am sorry.

Landon frowned, but it lacked the anger and hostility Marcus expected.

“Thank you for offering,” Landon said, “but I think we can both see that cuffing you again is pretty pointless. With that kind of strength, you could have left the moment you came to. Why stay?”

I do not want people to be afraid of me, and I dunno what else to do.

Marcus hesitated, then continued to write before sliding the notepad back to Landon.

I just want my life back, and to see my mom. I figured maybe you cops would know what to do, and I was here anyway, so I stayed.

Marcus watched Landon look at his note for nearly as long as he had the description of events Marcus had transcribed earlier. He could read nothing on the officer’s face, and he wondered if the police officer was even sure of how he felt. Looking down at his hands, Marcus related to that uncertainty. His hands weren’t his. He wasn’t him. How was he supposed to feel? Trying to untangle the wiry mess of emotions in him, Marcus messed with the metal cuffs still clamped on his wrists, trying his best to not break them too.

“Let me get those for you.”

Marcus’s head snapped up. Landon was half out of his chair, leaning across the table. The officer’s expression was guarded but his eyes were a comforting spring rain.

“I can’t reach them if you don’t help me out here,” Landon held up a strange-looking pin, and Marcus recognized it from cop shows.

Is he allowed to do this? Marcus wondered as he slowly extended his arms so Landon could unlock the cuffs clamped to them. First one, then the other dropped to the table. Clank, clunk.

Confused, Marcus slowly reached past the cop and grabbed the notepad. He wrote one word and held it up.

Why?

Landon put the handcuff key away and sat back down.

“Because,” Landon said, “first, they don’t work anyway. But, more importantly, even though I’m still on the fence about whether you are Marcus Fauce or somethin’ other, you deserve to be treated as decently as a human being. You’ve been considerate and have gone out of your way to cooperate and make us feel comfortable when, if what you say is true, we should’ve been the ones doing that for you. If nothing else, you’re sentient and haven’t tried to harm me. I’ll even see what I can do about bringing Mrs. Fauce here and finding that old man. If you’re writing the truth, then he’s gonna be in a lot hotter water than you when we find ‘im.”

Thanks, but I still do not get why you would do that for me. I do not know if I am even human anymore, even if you believe I am innocent. I have my memories, my thoughts, my feelings, but I tick, tick, tick inside. What human ticks?

Landon tapped his fingers on the table, thinking for a moment before responding, “I can’t promise you that you aren’t under investigation still. Honestly, I guarantee that you are. It looks suspicious with you driving a dead kid’s truck and crashing it in front of two cops. I think you can understand why my captain won’t allow you to leave, and I’m sorry ‘bout that. It’s a situation no one at the station’s ever seen before, and so dealing with it isn’t gonna be smooth or pretty.”

Hope dimmed within Marcus and he slouched a little, coming to terms with the letdown.

“But,” Landon said, and Marcus sat up a bit and looked at the cop, “I do want to help you. I owe it to you since I tased you crawling out of that wreck. Sorry 'bout that by the way but you didn’t give me much choice, misunderstanding or no. I know sign language, and perhaps I could make it up to you by giving you a few lessons, so you won’t need that there pen to communicate. I’ll leave it up to you. As for your humanity, don’t count yourself out. I’ve put away guys who have killed their girlfriends, shot up banks, and other unspeakable things. They’re the ones that ain’t human.”

Okay, but.... Marcus wrote his next response and held it up.

Why do you believe me? I can barely believe myself about all this.

Landon nodded. “Well, I wasn’t expectin’ anything like this to ever happen in my career, but in a way that makes it easier. The world isn’t makin’ sense, so, gotta keep an open mind. I believe you, mostly anyway, because I’m pretty sure if you were tryin’ to do me harm, you’d have done it by now. I’m a cop, it’s my job to know who is lying and who is sincere. Call it a gut feeling, but you don’t strike me as a liar, whatever you appear to be. When a bronze and brass automaton is kinder than most the folks I’ve had to bring in, they’ve got to have a good heart, regardless of whether their heart beats or ticks.”