"Be strong."
They were the last words the Preacher had said to him. And he had been trying.
It was day two thousand, eight hundred and ninety two of his imprisonment. Sweep Six and three quarters, somewhere in the fifth dim season of the sweep. Of course, dim and dark seasons only applied when he was on Alternia. But he had not been. Not for two thousand, eight hundred and ninety two days.
She had yet to catch on that he was still He and not what she wanted, which was the Crown Jewel of the Empire, The Battleship Condescension. He planned on keeping it that way. He would wait this out. Someone would come to free him. Someone would realize that He was still alive, someone would realize that he was gone. Someone had to be left alive to care for him.
He couldn't bear to think otherwise. The data calculations flowed, the algorithms calculating out his percentage of survival otherwise. Point three percent was not what he was hoping for. As long as he kept himself convinced that the rebellion would start up again, his chance of survival remained firmly lodged at sixty-eight point four. That was a much better percentage.
He had always liked percentages. The idea that there was a chance, of knowing exactly how much that chance was, kept him going. That there was a chance he would survive to help the next Preacher on to victory. He couldn't quite remember who the Preacher was. He was certain there was another name in there somewhere, too. Something lovely, and solid, firm. With a harsh sound and a loving gaze. Something that said, "Be strong."
Those words kept him going, and he muttered them to himself in the deepest recesses of his pan, where she hadn't thought to enslave just yet. A warning beeps in his head. She was coming. She enjoyed his company too much still, fresh from the raw excitement of Winning. He would just have to play her game until she tired of him.
The percentage that she would fully convert him after she tired of him was eighty-two-point-six.
So, of course, this meant he had to make sure she wouldn't tire of him TOO quickly. Not before he had a chance to devise a daring escape, preferably full of explosions and her rueing his name. What was it? ... He doesn't remember that either. Something with I. There was something about an I. A symbol?
The door slides open and she enters. As taught, he greets her. "Hello, Empress. How may I be of service?" She enjoys his voice, he knows. Enjoys knowing there's a troll there under all of that wire, willing to do her every command. Or unwilling, but pretending. But of course, she doesn't know he's pretending. He overwrote her script ages ago.
"Sup sugarbuns." And she stands there, smirking at him. "Let me see, service, huh..." She reaches up and drags a gold-painted fingernail gently down his cheek. He has yet to lose much weight. She still cares about him, and as such, he still has cute chubby little cheeks she can touch and pet.
He has to resist pulling a face at her. He HATES it when she gets all touchy feely. "For starters, how aboat a coordinate update? We've GOTTA be gettin close." She was young, and impatient. Not terribly young, of course, still thousands of sweeps older than he was, but for her? Oh yes, she was definitely young, not even ten thousand.
"Yes, Empress. Destination: EIM-2100. Remaining travel time at Fourteen Hours, Forty Nine Minutes and Twenty Two seconds. 22 seconds. 21 seconds. 20 seconds."
She taps his nose with every second countdown, as if syncing an internal clock. God, he hates it when she taps his nose. Every tap startles him and distracts him from his 'duties'. From pretending.
"Attabouy, honeycake." Ugh, her pet names. He HATES her pet names too. Honeycake, sugarbun, darling dear, sugar. All honey-sweet and absolutely revolting.
Something must show on his face, because her eyes narrow and she tilts her head. "Helmz...?" She says, in that sickly sweet tone. She's planning something. He's instantly wary, especially when that finger on his nose travels under his chin. She's making him look at her. "You LIKE my names, don't you?"
She's wary too, he can see it coming in from the camera feeds, how her gait changes, how she watches him. How that glimmer of malicious cruelty has sparked to life in her cold, fuschia eyes.
"Of course, Empress. Your names are beautiful. They encompass me, all that I am, all that I ever will be. Complete masterpieces that could only have been thought of by a genius of pure talent." When in doubt, stroke her ego.
But this time, it doesn't seem to be... working. Pain sensors go off in his pan, and light, yellowed droplets of moisture fall from his eyes. She is pinching the forefront of the area under his chin between her fingernails, daring him to cry out, to show pain. If he was properly installed, if he had not overridden her programs, he would not be able to.
Be strong. The words of the Preacher echo in his ears.
He doesn't cringe, or wince.
"Hmm..." She soon lets go of him, and he is relieved. She seems satisfied, but he knows he will have to play it safe for a time.
"Recalibrate your word processors. All this 'I' needs to stop. You're not yours, you're mine. Everything you do is for ME, naut you, get it?"
"Yes, Empress. Understood. Recalibration in progress . . . Estimated completion time: Two minutes. Would a reword please her Empress?" He offers gently, hoping to stay that glint in her eyes. Hoping to stave her off for just long enough...
Sixty-eight point four was a hell of a chance to survive this endless torment. He just had to hope someone would come for him.