AN: Knight Rider, Knight Rider 2000, Knight Rider (2008 film), and all related characters belong to Glen Larson and Universal. I'm just borrowing them.

AN 2: I know Sarah Graiman was rather surprised by KITT in the 2008 movie, but something about the idea of a young Sarah growing up around the Two Thousand just appeals to me.

Labor Pains

By The Lady Razorsharp

He came online to find himself in a cold, sterile room, defined by four stark white walls.

Voices, talking in low, concerned murmurs, echoed in the cavernous space.

The clinking of instruments, the beep of monitors, and the splash of viscous liquid sounding somewhere in the distance—they were familiar sounds, but somehow, they gave him a distinct feeling of unease.

"KITT? Can you hear me?"

The familiar voice danced across the surface of his awareness like raindrops pattering on his windscreen.

...Bonnie?

No, not Bonnie. It was Sarah.

"KITT?"

But...it couldn't be Sarah--could it? She was just a small child. And Dr. Graiman...

Wait, Mr. Miles…

...Michael...

There was a note of mild surprise in the voice, edged with apology. "Oh, hold on a minute. Here we go..."

Something inside his CPU clicked, as if a missing connection had finally been made. Now everything made sense: Sarah Graiman had been the little girl who had clambered up into his driver's seat, unafraid of the voice that came from everywhere and nowhere. Sarah Graiman was also the young woman standing before him.

Devon Miles was long dead, the victim of an assassin's bullet and a strategically placed air bubble in his IV lines.

…and Michael was gone.

He checked his scan once more. Yes, it was Sarah. How could he have been mistaken?

From the line of concern between her brows, he realized he had been silent for more time than was prudent.

"Good evening, Sarah," KITT replied. "I hear you loud and clear."

For her benefit, he brought his scanner display online. The sweep of the ruby red lights along his hood brought a smile to her face.

"Good." KITT's audial sensors picked up Sarah's barely breathed sigh of relief at the end of the word. "We're about to start." Her pen scratched on her clipboard, and her lab coat brushed against his fender, whispering comfort across the still-glossy surface of his molecular bonded finish. "Can you give me your internal status?"

The question--which was the way one asked an AI, "How do you feel?"--never failed to amuse him. "I am operating within normal parameters. And how are you tonight?"

She was still smiling, but didn't look up from her calculations. "I'm fine, thanks for asking."

While she completed her work, KITT catalogued his sensory input to pass the time. He heard the fibers of the paper crushing under the ball point of her pen; he calculated how much pressure she applied to fill the page with her untidy scrawl. A technician squeezed past him, and KITT read the tech's pulse through the steadying hand that had been briefly laid on his deck lid. He noted the stress levels of the voices that echoed in the bay, measured the probability of anger, happiness or sadness in each according to their voiceprint.

With a wry internal smile, he called up the week-old memory file of beating the spoiler off of one of those buzzy little import cars, how he left them with only a faceful of acrid smoke from his custom radials and a flash of his blue and gold vanity plate to remember him by.

...Although, to be perfectly honest, such stop-sign theatrics were a rare treat; the company that made his tires had long since been bought out by a huge conglomerate, and the supply was limited. His suspension was also more easily misaligned these days, due to the sheer age of his frame, but he could still leave them with their mouths hanging open just as well as he did—what was the phrase?—'back in the day.'

It was a sobering thing, he thought, to measure your abilities by what you could still do.

He wondered if Michael felt the same.

Sarah's voice pulled him from the depths of his musings. "We're almost ready for the final step. I'm sorry we can't turn you off for this part, but I need to note your reactions."

"I understand. I am used to a certain amount of...unpleasantness...during my repair sequences."

Her smile let him know that she had caught his meaning perfectly, but the expression faded just as quickly as it had come. She laid a hand on his hood, lighting the sensory array in his CPU with torrents of data. "I'll be honest, KITT; this might be more than just a little intrusive. This might...hurt."

"I fail to see why," he replied, ever logical. "I have no pain receptors."

"This is a little different," she said, shifting closer. "This is...an extraction, if you will," she elaborated, an undercurrent of worry in her voice.

KITT silently waited for her to continue. He felt her fingers drum against his finish for a moment, and popped his driver's side door. She took the gesture for the invitation it was, and slid into the seat.

It was as if she had completed a circuit; suddenly all the information that formed his sense of her--height, weight, vital signs--was as tangible as his own components. Memories welled up from his databanks; memories of little hands gripping the steering wheel, of pink tennis shoes that didn't reach the floorboard. From the way her central cortex bloomed, he knew she was remembering, too.

Her long, slender fingers traced the Knight Two Thousand badge on his steering wheel. "KITT, you know what we're going to do, right?"

"You propose to remove part of my core processor and create the Knight Industries Three Thousand from it," he said. "I take it you don't approve?"

Her wince told him everything. "I've never wanted to hurt you."

"But Sarah," KITT continued, modulating his voice synthesizer into the gentlest tone he could, "it's always been your aim to create a new model with capabilities far surpassing mine." She didn't answer, and he went on. "When I was created, half the technology that's in that car over there didn't even exist."

He felt her shift slightly, and knew she was glancing out the passenger-side window to the gleaming black Shelby Mustang that sat parked across the bay. Technicians buzzed around the car; three were bent over the hoodless engine compartment, and two were seated in the cabin, furiously entering data.

"I know," she said, bringing her attention back to the LEDs and indicators on the console before her. "This is what my father wants." She smiled. "I know this is what Mr. Miles and Wilton Knight would have wanted."

"Is it what you want?"

Sarah was silent a moment. "Yes," she said finally. "I do. We could never replace you, KITT--but we still need you." She sighed. "I hate to say it, but—"

"Say it, Sarah. I'm old."

She laughed. "'Classic' is the word I was going to use—but yes, you're right," she said, her smile fading. "Your components are aging. We're able to maintain your systems and upgrade as necessary, but conditions out in the field can be brutal. We just can't risk subjecting you to that kind of punishment anymore."

He called up a sound file. "We can rebuild him. We have the technology. We can make him better than he was. Better...stronger...faster."She grinned. "Nice to know you've still got your sense of humor."

"If I ever lose it, turn me off and don't turn me back on."

"Well, we can't have that," said Sarah, climbing out of the driver's seat. "We've got too much work to do, you and I."

"Professor Graiman?" One of the techs stepped up, his fellows grouped solemnly behind him. "We're ready."

"Okay, KITT, your CPU is hooked up to a battery--it'll keep you up and running while we complete the split." Sarah typed commands into a console that was wired directly into his mainframe. "I need you to give me updates every twenty seconds. Report on your sensory capability, your ability to access your database, your cognitive function. Okay?"

"Of course."

"Good," she answered, her eyes on the readout. "Just stay with me."

One of the techs called from across the room. "Data transfer beginning...now."

Suddenly, there was something tugging at KITT, something not unlike a curious, childish hand, begging for attention. "Scanners functioning normally," he informed Sarah, as the tugging became a strong pull. "Database access available to January 1, 1982."

"Increasing transfer speed," came the call. "Beginning split."

"I--" For the first time in his existence, KITT felt his harmonizer fail, ending his sentence in an awkward squawk.

Sarah's hands flew across the keyboard, rat-a-tat-a-tat. "KITT? What's going on? Talk to me."

"Something's invaded my core processor," said KITT, a distinct note of panic in his tone as a presence, hungry and demanding, crowded out every other sensation. "An outside source, trying to get in--Sarah, it's trying to steal my data!"

"No, it's okay," she soothed. "It's just the Three Thousand. When we're done, it'll know what you know."

Information was slipping away like sand through a sieve, and to KITT's dismay, none of his defenses could stop the flow. Memories, faces, places, names and dates--it was all being rerouted and funneled into the awareness that pressed hot and close against his own. His whole existence was being pulled from him in reverse order, a high-speed rewind of every mission he and Michael had ever been on, every conversation they'd had, every time they'd whiled away the hours with a game of chess or Pole Position.

Finally, the first moments of his life flashed before him: Mr. Miles hitting his hood with a sledgehammer, only to leave the molecular bonded shell unscathed; a tall young man with barely-healed plastic surgery scars standing before him, the lights of the scanner inches from jean-clad knees; the settling into a form that was sleek, powerful, and felt like home.

Bonnie's first query flashed bright white against the empty blackness of his processor: YOU ARE THE KNIGHT INDUSTRIES TWO THOUSAND. WHO ARE YOU?

Then even that first shard of light was taken from him, and he was left in utter darkness.

A voice scratched against the raw ends of his sensory nodes. "Split complete. Disengaging feed."

The other that was him and was not him began to pull away, leaving him bereft and injured. The tether that bound them stretched to breaking--and then broke. Two entities now existed where there had only been one.

KITT screamed.

--beginning startup—

"...KITT?"

--running K.I.T.T. sequence 0100
BarstowB 82.1.1

...Sarah...

"KITT, say something."

He wanted to respond, but there was an odd sluggishness in his systems. He felt worn, ill-used. The darkness beckoned.

Something nudged him toward the light. No. Stay. Need you.

"Come on, KITT, please! Tell me you're there."

An echo of a memory slid against his CPU: A man in his driver's seat, broken and bleeding, his life ebbing away. I must protect him, chimed the thought, brightest day against blackest night.

A tendril of uncertainty curled around him. Stay?

The tentative query gave him a surge of fierce protection and loyalty—the same as it had so long ago.

Yes. I will stay.

He finally found his voice. "I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand," he intoned. "KITT, if you prefer."

The added weight on his tires informed him that Sarah had sagged against his frame. "Thank God. I thought we'd lost you."

"I'm here," he reassured her. "How is the Three Thousand?"

"It's fine." She patted his finish. "You did a great job. You want to shut down for a while?"

He considered this for a moment. "Negative. I'll be here in case you need me."

She smiled. "Okay."

Sarah stepped away toward the Shelby, letting her hand linger a moment on the Trans Am's hood as she went. KITT scanned the Mustang; everything was in order. The AI didn't have a voice yet, so he sent a message through the link that was growing stronger between them by the nanosecond.

I am the Knight Industries Two Thousand. And you are?

I am the Knight Industries Three Thousand. My primary directive is to save human life.

Sounds like you're a regular chip off the old block.

Identification: English idiom. Failure to see how idiom is relevant to current situation.

The elder KITT sent an electronic version of an exasperated sigh. "Boy, have you got a lot to learn."

--END--