Phase 2:

Silicon Blues

It took Dr. Paul about three weeks of work to complete Mark II. It would have been satisfactory after two, but Dr. Paul wanted to make sure that his new machine was perfect, as new and powerful as it was when it was first made. The arms, lower torso, and legs were obtained easily enough, though he had to wait for limbs of the right size to be specially made. Most mechs, after all, were made to perfectly blend in with their human counterparts, and people who are 7 feet tall aren't exactly inconspicuous. A lot of time was spent on the reconstruction of Mark II's main engine- the damage had been more exstensive than he'd originally thought and, while still far from hopeless, had been a pain in the rear. Dr. Paul, as he worked, puzzled over the damage that it had... almost as if the limbs and waist hadn't been merely sliced off, but burned as well. Very curious, the scientist thought, curious indeed.

He clothed Mark II in blue jeans, large black leather boots that went up to his calves, black leather fingerless gloves, and a long black coat. He left its original blue bandanna. A leather belt was slung around his waist along with a holster containing a basic SD-138 MiniMine pistol, and Dr. Paul had even made it a shoulder strap/holster for its scythe, which he'd polished to shining immaculacy.

When the work was finally done, Dr. Paul surveyed the end result and had to marvel at the wonder in realism before him. Laying on the worktable seemed to be not a machine at all, but nothing more than a very tall and muscular man, a Hyperbiker perhaps, in a deep sleep. Everything seemed to be in perfect order, so Dr. Paul carefully lifted Mark II's head up, opened a small panel hidden in the back of its neck just below the marking bearing its name, and pushed a small button beneath it before closing the panel and setting the mech's head back down. Immediately, the CPU clicked to life and began quickly activating all of Mark II's basic functions. Everything booted up very quickly, and Dr. Paul watched eagerly, rubbing his pudgy hands together.

The eyes, an even more brilliant and luminous deep green now, fluttered open, and with a soft grunt, Mark II sat up and tilted its head curiously at the man who had given it, so to speak, a second lease on life. Then it spoke, in a voice that was lightly gruff and liberally tinged with an accent, an accent that hinted at the southern regions of the United States of America. (Of course, the USA and all the other countries were long-gone. All that remained were the cities, the vast, endless urban jungles and wastelands...)

"Hello. Who are you?"

Dr. Paul smiled widely. "Why, my name is Dr. Paul, and I'm the man who rebuilt you, dear boy. Although it wasn't an easy feat by any matter of means, I managed to do it quite well if I do say so myself... you can move alright, can't you? Get up and walk around a bit, see if everything works okay."

Mark II did, and sure enough, everything did seem to be in fine working order, every single joint and piston creating movement identical to a human's. Dr. Paul gave a pleased nod, and Mark sat back down. He stared thoughtfully into space, a lightly confused expression on his face. After a bit, he spoke again, looking to Dr. Paul with the same bewildered look.

"Re-built? You mean you didn't build me?"

"No, of course I didn't! I found you in a junkyard, Mark. I was just about to ask you how in the world you got there, and how long ago. What happened to you?"

The cyborg sighed, and stared off a bit more.

"I... I have no data, sir, other than basic default world knowledge, that of my name, and that of your name and your role in my being here. A memory scan indicates a few various remaining fragments of old data, however they are encrypted and I have no data on how to decrypt them."

"Hm. That's a pity, quite a pity. A terrible thing, to not know your own past... ah, well, I suppose it's not important now. I rebuilt you, after all, because I have a very important use for you. Namely, I've been having a real problem with... Mark II? What are you doing?"

While Dr. Paul had been speaking, something had caught Mark's eye... a partialy dismantled Hyperbike that lay against the far wall of the dim room, half-covered in a white dropcloth. He felt drawn to it... almost as if it were some sort of odd magnet. So, even though he knew he should be listening to what Dr. Paul was saying, he wandered over to where the mostly-disassembled bike lay. He knelt, reached his hand out slowly, and touched it...

Speed. He is moving very, very fast along a road through the city. The city is a blur, and he is a blur to the city. A young girl, whose arms are clinging tightly to him from behind, laughs and cries for him to go faster, faster...

"Mark II, pay attention to me when I talk to you! This is important!"

Mark blinks rapidly and looks up at the irate scientist, who eyes the cyborg irritably. But... that was a memory... a tiny one, but he's almost sure it was... and it had something to do with this bike...

"I'm sorry, sir. But... may I fix this Hyperbike up and get it to run, and have it to keep? You don't seem to be using it..."

"What, that old thing? I've been using it for parts, mainly... well, yes, I suppose you could... wait, how in blue blazes do you know how to fix a Hyperbike?"

The cyborg shrugged. "I don't know how I know, sir. I just know that I do."

"Hm. Well, anyway, that's irrelevant right now. What I was telling you is that your job around here will be to keep thieves away. They're always crawling about, the little wretches, trying to rob me blind and steal all my wonderful inventions. But with a titan like you guarding things..." Dr. Paul chuckled again. It was a decidedly oily sound, Mark decided. "...they won't so much as breathe on the door. Do this job well, Mark II, and other little chores I have you help with, and you may have that old junk-bike to fix."

Mark nodded. "What do I do?"

"Well, besides the scythe I found with you, I've given you a standard MiniMine pistol, which you'll find in the holster on your belt. It fires a round of pellets, each equipped with an explosive charge that detonates on contact. If you see anyone trying to break in, give them a warning first, and if they still do not disperse, feel free to use your scythe, pistol, or any other means to drive them off. It's only a pity the Laws of Robotics forbid you from killing them... well, if they're human. If they are of mechanical origins, it really doesn't matter... but it's all the same. You will be my personal instrument of terror and destruction, and with you around, no criminals will dare to come near."

Dr. Paul laughed again, and Mark II recoiled slightly. "Sir... I will do so if you wish it, as I really have no other option at this time... but..." He shifted. "...why is it such a grave and terrible thing for me to destroy human life, but if I destroy the life of a fellow machine, it does not matter?"

"Well, that's simple. It's because you machines aren't really alive, as convincing as the illusion may be. You're objects, things. A human life is irreplaceable- another one of you can always be built. Any mech thief slinking around would probably be rouge anyway- that is, they have no owner to speak of, runaways or such- and those are supposed to be destroyed anyway. You do as I say because you're mine. I fixed you, I own you, and no matter how intelligent you are or alive you seem to be, you're still a machine and my property. It isn't a good thing for your kind to ask too many questions. Understand that, Mark II, and you'll get along in this world just fine. Now, enough talk for tonight- I'm going to bed. You keep watch for intruders, just like I told you. Goodnight!"

Mark watched Dr. Paul shuffle off to bed, a strong feeling of distaste zipping through his silicon mind. He truly hoped that Dr. Paul's opinions were his own, and not that of everyone in this world.

Sighing, he yanked the dropcloth completely off the Hyperbike, and quietly began tinkering with it by the hazy light of the moon that drifted through the window. He kept alert, listening for intruders, protecting the property of a man he owed his current existence to but did not like at all.