Summary
She studied robotic psychology, learnt the engineering behind the machine, discovered how to create a pattern of humans mental state and install it in a fixed machine... what she wasn't ready for was him.
The splatter on her tiles. The nails that indented the door. The room decaying as he stole the oxygen. The case was solved. But robots don't bleed.
So choose another.
TW: mentions of possible suicide.
katniss
Law One ~ Injury to the master is prohibited and will result in immediate termination of the cycle.
Law two ~ A master's order will be obeyed in any situation unless it collides with the first law.
Law three ~ The robot will protect its master unless this collides with the first or second law. It will save itself until told to surrender and delete its memory system to prepare for manual termination.
This will be the only message.
The words fade away leaving the plaster on the wall as a reminder of my flaky reputation and decaying mindset. His grumbling echo's off of the walls, superseding the distant buzzing from the last intercom message with his relentless murmurs.
The slam of my folder against the mahogany table no longer startles my stoic resolve. I chew my leftovers from last night, allowing the stew to soften the charred rice somewhat from my lack of rudimentary skills in the kitchen, and focus my gaze on his dry hand.
"What the heck you playing at sweetheart?" Haymitch demands. I don't bother to spare a glance towards my mentor in the field.
Since becoming middle aged long before I began to work officially, Haymitch already has bounds more experience than me, despite the withdrawal issues he seems to have with alcohol. Yet, it's not like he needs me in this profession. Though that doesn't matter.
I've always grown to know that caution is favourable over pain and without this job I'd just be another lunatic spouting off phrases and words of insanity in the alleyways of the seam...only no-one would join me once they realise what I'm promoting the destruction of. I'd be left as a solo rebellion with little to battle with but my doubts in what society has constructed. A woman can be born but not made. Doesn't mean she'll be accepted though.
I stab the roast vegtables with the plastic fork as he recites my most recent incidents that have flagged up on the system, the main one being last night. He flips to the page in my folder, to locate the filed report and jabs at the document, felony shot 6.2.
"You chased and attacked robot 427 whilst accusing a custom made bot of theft from the woman who owns him. Do you not see how delusional you are? It's law orientated detective!".
My gaze flickers back to the wall as I continue to eat, "Seems logical to me sir".
The chair jerks forward as he leans his hand on it and whispers in my ear, "Are you trying to get dropped?".
The close proximity doesn't faze me any more then it used to, but his breath does.
"Detective how many robots have ever...ever pulled a woman out of her carriage for the sake of it?".
For once I pause to answer, and it's not out of doubt, but the sight of blood from the needle they injected into me earlier. The one I was sworn off of. I guess it does work after all. So I answer him.
Pretending to contemplate whether what I saw was real or not, I move my head side to side. "Well it was more of dragging-".
"mm-hmm" he says cutting me off. Haymitch clears his throat twice with a hoarse cough and then repeats himself. "How many robots in the world" he says slowly "have ever committed a crime?".
"Well define crime".
The table rocks forcibly as he slams his other hand down on it "Answer the question dammit!" he demands. So I do.
"None" I force out with a sign, par one, I add mentally. "Senator-".
"So you do know. Yet you still act irrationally" he scoffs and I glance up as he runs his hand through his dirty blonde hair.
"Oh sweetheart" he sighs, "Lead by example. What don't you get about it?".
I glance up, locking our gazes together. His grey eyes lack the remorse that used to fester there when he first became aware of my misdemeanours. My lips twitch down.
"Honestly", the pressure on the chair eases as he rests both his hands on the table and hangs his head - though not in defeat, never in defeat against me - his gaze still tracking my movements. I guess that's something so similar about us, the subtle tracking of a potential weakness in any setting. "It's like you're not even trying anymore" he hisses.
"Not for you at least".
With a growl, the fork is snatched from my hand and launched at the wall. I scoff.
Haymitch shoves the back of my chair like a petulant child before grabbing the open manila folder and storming away. I don't bother to watch him but judging by the short silence in the lunch room, his mood isn't as oblivious as one in his position would hope.
"Don't forget sweetheart" he calls as the noise rises again, "your always replaceable".
I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and spin away from the table, abandoning the empty container.
My boots slam on the ground as I propel myself forward on the swivel chair to the adjacent office. The wheels scratching the floor as I gracelessly barge through office workers threatening to take out their legs with my momentum.
Gripping the desk, I pull myself closer and tug off my hat. Scowling, I flatten down the strands of hair uplifted by frizz and toss the beanie onto the table.
Learning forward I snatch the letter I opened earlier and my eyes scan the address, reading the words that match my profession.
Central Capitol, mainstream cornucopia.
Detective Everdeen.
Cause for case: Homicide.
Debt for damage caused: Invalid.
Relation to deceased: Goddaughter.
The wind howls as it whips across the window, flicking up specks of grime onto it as the relentless bustle of air hounds against the train doors causing them to clatter.
I jerk forward and slam backward into the thick cushioning of the chair I'm waiting in as the train glides to a stop. Despite the modernity of it, the speed and structure are a delicacy when compared to nature's unrest.
The shadows from the tunnel fade as the light streams in highlighting every corner of the carriage. I stand up and rush out, careful not to trip as I cross onto the platform. I listen as the doors slide shut and the track switches as it prepares for the train to be stored. I glimpse behind me and watch as the wall behind the train slides open and a metal box comes forward, on a separate track, automatically attaching to the front and back of the carriage. Once secure, it slides back into its position with the train and the wall slides shut. The number 241 at the top tells me that each wall is made for a specific carriage, all of which are either used on rotation, or like mine, reserved in advance for personnel.
The station is immaculate and at first glance it appears that every surface is glinting from the light and polished to perfection. However this isn't my first visit here, and with each journey I notice more faults with the system. Like how the floors are not washed daily but rather permanently stained with bleach, or perhaps how the walls, coated in gum and graffiti, are only disguised by a projection of a tiles from a projector hidden on the ceiling by security camera's.
I clutch my empty water bottle and venture on - into the heart of the Capital - until I arrive at mainstream cornucopia. Despite drinking mere hours ago my throat is parched but I don't dare refill my bottle or even try to taste the water left on the brim so that I don't taint it, because all evidence is futile if it doesn't exist.
I glance up at the cornucopia, now surrounded with strips of yellow tape and men in white uniforms scribbling information down onto their clipboard. The giant golden horn-shaped cone - with silver streaks showing where the paint has chipped - with a curved tail has always been rumoured for ending the life of the broken robots. A humans though?
That's a first; and a last it seems, from the lack of coverage. I guess that's something people don't want the public to know. A death - no, 'homicide' - caused by the creator of death.
I mount the steps that have been built in a semicircle surrounding and equidistant to the Cornucopia. The men watch me - one in particular. He lowers his white helmet shielding his face but I catch a glimpse of grey short hair.
"Dammed women can't control themselves. Ought to give them a smack for trespassing" he announced with spite.
I roll my eyes and enter a glass elevator at the entrance before reaching into my pocket and pulling out my ID.
"Don't you ignore me!" he barks and the sound of thumping tells me that he's banging on the glass. I sigh heavily as the doors glide shut.
I press my badge to a scanner beneath the buttons to each floor and watch as the small light verifies who I am, granting me access to the restricted zone, by changing from red to green.
My eyes close and stomach drops as the elevator shoots up. Stops. Drops down, up, stops and the doors glide open. The elevator still shaking slightly despite how new it is.
"Welcome. How are you feeling detective?" a female voice asks. It's robotic monotone echoing in the glass hallway as I walk forward, into the suicide scene.
"Like a milkshake" I say sarcastically.
"Good Luck with your work detective. I hope to see you again soon". It pauses. "We've missed you".
"Thanks Mutt" I force out, smiling stiffly.
I wonder who made that one up. It must be someone down at the office or maybe HQ. Those imbeciles are always up to something and messing with the programming. I guess entertainment has gotten bleak. Perhaps their only source of enjoyment is just sitting around their lavish hotel rooms observing CCTV.
My gaze flicks towards the ceiling for the curved dome or small red light of a recorder. An uneasiness settles in my stomach. I tug my jacket's collar up higher.
The number 13 is imprinted onto the ceiling but due to the glass; every direction, room and hallway has a faint reflection of the number. Leaving it to taunt anyone who enters. I'm not surprised though. Inconspicuous hints are not even considered this far away from the public's eye. That's why it's a coincidence I guess, the fact that the floor Dr Aurelius 'fell' from was deemed as haunted even before anything happened.
I stop once I reach the balcony. He waits there, indifferent to the ongoing investigation occuring around his dead body.
I clear my throat and shove my free hand inside my pocket so I'm not tempted to play with the bottle's label. Or worse, try to touch him.
"Detective, it's good to see you again", his voice repeats, like a robots, void of any emotion.
"Hello doctor" I reply, "Finally found time to take that nap, huh?".
"Everything that follows Kat is a result of what you see here". My lips twitch up at the sound of my nickname coming from him - or a version of him at least.
"Alright then" I mumble when his response evades my question. "Is there something you want to tell me?".
"I'm sorry child, my responses are limited. You must ask the right questions".
"Okay then, why did you call me?". The fact that I have an idea of what occurred here eliminates my need to pause and contemplate. He's not here. It's not real.
"I consider you my child, my Godchild".
"And that means?".
"I trust your judgement".
"You'd be the first. Usually I'm the fool in these situations". I bite my lip, delaying the inevitable, though it's futile. "Normally these... circumstances, wouldn't require a homicide detective".
"Then your work wouldn't be entirely normal wouldn't you agree? Someone has got to keep you searching".
"Got that right" I mummer uncomfortable with the morbid direction this conversation has taken, but it's not like I have a choice. This profession forces you to grow immune to it.
"Is there something you want to say to me...?".
The hologram shifts as the connection begins to cut off. The image thinning out.
"Doctor, why would you kill yourself?".
"That detective, is the right question" my forehead creases at the hint "programme terminated". The hologram switches off, and Doctor Aurelius' image disappears allowing me to look beyond, at the man next to a giant statue of a robot. The world's pride.
His body lays lifeless on the ground, glass scattered around it and puncturing the skin left uncovered by his white coat. His right leg lays twisted and broken. Blood drips from his mouth and his eyes remain open. Unblinking and unseeing.
"Bye old man" I mummer. Both voices as empty as the other and as lifeless as the bodies they came from.
I begin to move away from the balcony, done with my investigating today, when I notice red flecks peppered over the surface of the railings. I squint and remove my hand from my pocket to touch the liquid, remnants of blood perhaps?
Pressing it between my thumb and forefinger, I inhale sharply.
I'd got the results a month ago before the case was officially published. They seemed to lack a purpose at the time, but now...it leaves me with one more question and this one I doubt anyone but the doctor could have told me.
Because, if this was a homicide, then why was my blood mingled with his?
Authors note ~ Helllooooo everybody. So this is a new Everlark fanfic. I know. Another. *sighs* I'm trying, I am but I have so many to write and barely any time. Its loosely based off of 'I robot' but I've altered dialogue and the setting etc to make room for everlark. Anywho, hope you enjoyed or were interested or you know, read this.* I do not own anything to do with the hunger games unlike Suzanne Collins. *Thanks, please read and review or feel free to just say hi. I love hearing from you all!I'm kdlovehgk on ao3 (though I'm having issues accessing it), kdlovehg on wattpad and the same for tumblr. :)
Oh, and happy late Easter/next holiday break thing thg fandom! If you want to see a photo of my cat celebrating Easter or a cake for the Everlark fandom that I made for this holiday it's on my tumblr! I've also posted a drawing if you want to see it, it represents Everlark and thg as a whole. Sorry this is all late but I have so much to write and 1-2 weeks off so whoop. And if you don't celebrate, well hope you had a good week/weekend. :D