Prologue
It's the walls that really get to him. Four plain steel walls, reinforced with thin strips of titanium on the inside, a camera in each corner to capture him at all angles. They really ought to make it thicker, but there's no worry of him getting out—even if he could get his arms out of the restrictive casings that keep them pinned behind his back, even if he could free himself from the shackles keeping him locked to the chair, he could only guess at how many guards were between him and freedom, how thicker that titanium got the closer he was to freedom.
They weren't worried about him getting out. They were worried about what could get in.
The walls don't get to him because they were impenetrable. They got to him because they were boring. Soundproof and solid, not a scratch on them, nothing to focus on besides the cameras, and he doesn't like looking at those. He isn't near enough to any of the walls to catch his own reflection, but he knows what he would see. No armor. They disabled that, dressed him in gray khaki, pants and a shirt. Left him with nothing to cover his eyes but his hair, not as wild as his brother's, but still unruly enough to keep his eyes covered if he kept his head down.
They left him with nothing to cover his neck. There's nothing he can do about that, but it bugs him nearly as much as the walls did. He feels vulnerable and exposed, and as irrational as is, cold. He catches himself shivering sometimes, though there's nothing to cause it, no sudden drop in temperature or system error. Just those four walls, and his own thoughts.
Maybe he's malfunctioning. Maybe he always was malfunctioning, damaged goods from the start, never meant to be activated. The fault of his failed guidance system, those ethical programs that never kicked in. He knows that's what they think, the human guards in the halls, the general public braying for blood (not that he had any). His siblings, the doctors, all of them.
They're all right. He should have been junked long before any of this could happen. He should be junked now.
He wasn't conscious when they brought him here. He doesn't know who washed off the blood or took away everything that was his. They didn't even leave him powered on at first, waking him only to ask questions he wouldn't answer, shutting him off when they were done like one would a car. He doesn't know who put a stop to that, though he suspects it was Dr. Light, thinking it would help.
It doesn't help. He cycles through hours of awareness with nothing but those damn walls and watching cameras. He sleeps. Sometimes he dreams. He doesn't like dreaming. Who did that, anyway, made a robot who could dream? What purpose did that serve, other than to give him glimpses of what he couldn't have, what he threw away?
Dr. Light again, probably. He never had anything against the old man before, but there were days when he woke with a sob, ripped from a fake reality where everything was still okay—days he wished it had been Light's blood, Light's lifeless body, still smoking from his blue lightning blast—
No. This isn't Dr. Light's fault. He shouldn't follow those thoughts too far. They won't drive him insane, not like Wily. His programming is complex, but not complex enough to snap in those odd little human ways. He wouldn't start cackling to himself or find some invisible elves to talk to. Robots don't break like people did.
Or maybe they do. If they leave him here long enough, maybe he would find out.
The cops come for their weekly interview, as they always do. He never answers their questions. He doesn't know why they bother. It's the newer set, an older white man with gray streaks in his hair and a permanent scowl, and a young East Asian woman with dyed red hair and a friendly face.
Grumpy and Pepper. He forgot their real names. No, that isn't true. That's another thing robots don't do, forget something as simple as a name. He refuses to acknowledge they had names. He never speaks to them, never reacts to their questions, never even lifts his head. At least their predecessors had the decency to know they were wasting their time. They knew the game, same as he did. Get in, read off the script, get out before they made the mistake of thinking the thing in front of them that looked like a teenage boy wasn't anything other than a ruthless machine.
But these two, they irritate. Don't give up, no matter how repetitive the questions get. Have reputations to make, maybe, or a hefty amount of money from the dirtiest rag out there for all the juicy details. It isn't like there was going to be a trial.
An execution, maybe. Not a trial.
They bring in their equipment—table, chairs, coffee—and settle in their positions. Grumpy Gus shuffles his papers loudly, creased and coffee stained, and clears his throat. Pepper Cop looks a little less upbeat today, no smile, her eyes on her partner more than usual. Good, maybe they would finally burn out and leave him the hell alone.
Sure. And maybe Wily would be declared sane and handed an official pardon from the president.
"No point in preamble," Grumpy says, slapping the papers down. "You know why we're here."
No answer.
"You're running out of time to explain yourself," Pepper says, knitting her hands together. "You realize that, right? This is your last chance to tell us what happened."
Nothing.
Grumpy pulls out a—a tape recorder? Who the hell still has a tape recorder? That thing should be in a museum. It's almost enough to get him to lift his head for a closer look, but he doesn't. A stupid prop, nothing more. All of this is some stupid stage show, put on for whoever watches those cameras.
None of it matters. None of it will undo what he did.
Grumpy sets it on the table and turns it on with a click. He can hear the ancient machine whirl to life, tape slowly spinning. Shit, maybe Grumpy was the one who belongs in a museum. He sure dresses like he ought to be in another century, suspenders and all.
"Agents Gilbert Stern and Roslyn Krantz, recording the seventeenth attempt at this interview," he says. Damn. Now it would take more effort to forget their names.
"Interview subject, the advanced humanoid robot designated as Proto Man and last under the control of Dr. Albert Wily, has so far been uncooperative with all previous attempts to obtain answers for his actions two months ago that result in extensive damage to multiple robot police units, mass property destruction, and—" He shuffles the papers as if he doesn't already know, as if they haven't been through this over and over. "A single fatality."
Asshole.
Agent Krantz—Pepper Cop—whoever the hell she is—clears her throat and tries to meet his eyes through his bangs. "Let's start at the beginning," she says.
As if there was anywhere else to start. As if either of them knew when the beginning was. It wasn't that cold December night, the one that ended it blood. It wasn't even months earlier, when he was stupid enough to think that maybe, just maybe, things could be different. That maybe he could have a future.
"Proto Man," Krantz says again, searching for his eyes and somehow, despite his best efforts, meeting them. "We just need to know the truth. Everything will be better if you just tell us the truth."
He jerks his eyes away. Tries not to flinch. The question is coming, as it always does, and it still hurts more than a blaster shot to the chest. It hurts more than anything.
Why can't they just stop? Why can't they just leave him alone, leave him to rot? Why can't they just scrap him and get it over with?
He squeezes his eyes shut, as if that would cut off his auditory sensors. The question comes anyway.
"Why did you kill Kalinka Cossack?"
Author's Note: I was SUPPOSED to be editing something else, but you know what, sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. Ruby Spears-verse, with some liberties taken. Thanks to ChronicDelusionist for both the title and feedback!