ROBERT
"Everything is already written." The fear is warm.
Robert's own head reported the facts to him. He could feel the cold attacking the soles of his feet, the weight of the blanket around his shoulders along with the moisture falling at his feet, stained black from the oil under his skin. He flexed his metal fingers and heard them click and echo in the hallway.
07734. It still worked. Some memories weren't mixed around.
So much of it was, still. One report said that he was to kill SWATbots on sight, another said that he wouldn't be bothered this time, and he wouldn't have to worry.
But he did worry. The compulsions concerned him. He moved along, completing tasks without knowing why they had to be completed. This was another one.
Return to the cells. Clear them out.
Level one, quick cursory check; four Roboticized bodies in A1, seven bodies in A3, cells A2, A4, and A5 empty. Level two, quick cursory check; one body in B2, four bodies in B3, cells B1, B4, and B5 empty. Level three, quick cursory check; cells C1 through C5 empty. Level four, quick cursory check; one body in D1, one body in D2 and D3, eight Roboticized bodies in D3 and D4, one flesh, cell D5 empty. Level five, quick cursory check; one body in E1, nothing at all in cells E3 and E4, two bodies in E5.
Nothing to salvage or save.
Threat imminent.
List secondary objectives. Choose one. Choose one. Choose one. This re-visitation jostled something loose. Or the byproduct did. It, the bullet in the brain inched further and further inside, transmitting thoughts. It had to be the bullet, or it had damaged main drives of memory and it all switch to the subconscious chips, secondaries that the gun put in there for kicks, for the experiment, or for protection.
There was no way of knowing anything. There was no way of learning anything. Being followed.
His luck had held out this long, and the experiment had been working in his favor, well, his favor being that his existence could continue. That was in there too, the urge to stay alive. He had defied it once, attempted to throw it all away and end the shit as soon as possible. He could feel it coming back. There were ways. There were always ways.
He had to nurture it before he could set it free, or else he would chicken out.
Just clear out the cells. Go through the motions.
Dead bodies were stuffed into the bathrooms on the bottom floor. Many others were Roboticized, but just stood there and watched him. His hand tightened around the gun.
IT WON'T BE YOU.
The further he traveled upwards, the more the anxiety increased. On the top floor, he wiped a line of soot and black powder of off what had been the E3 and E4 cells. His own red eyes stared back at him. How this had happened…?
"Breezy," was caught on a loop, and he couldn't stop saying it. The toxide grenades were pressing into his back through the duffle bag. Error. Error.
Execution of previous orders. Threat imminent.
Clear cells of all living specimens. Careful examination- abort, abort.
Olfactory senses functional. Sound production, ten full seconds. Five seconds of silence. Move down a floor. Threat imminent. Move down a floor. Five, four, three, two, one… Cease. CEASE forward motion, increase auditory levels, translating… vocal projection. Sec- error- ondary orders. Commence rescue operation procedures. Threat imminent.
Descending the floors by way of the stairs felt very much like falling in slow motion. Cold air blew in from the windows and kept him airborne. He wafted down, the red cape around him blowing in the wind, the gun whispering orders to the bullet to be relayed to him, although the distance didn't make much sense to him. Why couldn't he communicate directly?
Perhaps he was operating on 88 MHz and couldn't reach him. The bullet, therefore, had to be operating on mediumwave, around 300 kHz, and could talk to both, exchange pertinent information. This meant that Robert had to also be operating on very high frequency, at or above 88, and that was why he couldn't hear the orders directly. Secondly, here finally was proof that he really had no knowledge who the gun was or what the purpose of the entire operation was. Walls weren't coming down, questions weren't being answered. Thirdly, and here was what set "Breezy" on an unstoppable loop, was that the bullet was holding all of the keys, owning every eye trained on the open window. The bullet sees the signals, the bullet reports what he sees fit to report. No rule says it's verbatim.
The bullet could be lying.
He wasn't taking destiny into account.
Predetermination.
Lines of code.
Every conversation that he and NICOLE had could have merely been dialogue, like every one of his missions. Set perfectly in place and all he had to do was carry it out, unaware that he wasn't making any choices whatsoever.
If that were the case… why the love?
She wouldn't let him in. She didn't let the gun in, either. The gun couldn't get in, so he made it that the brain was unrelentingly trusting, since both of their missions were the same. Free the prisoners. But she couldn't know that. He had to earn her trust, since he both truly wanted to impress her and to get everyone out alive. All he needed was time, to get in and get them out.
"I failed."
Somewhere was the screw-up. It had been working; she was beginning to trust him, she was giving him access to her bases, but he wasn't working on the prisoners. He was working on something else… something big in Knothole.
She must have noticed. He couldn't fault her for acting accordingly. He could never fault her.
"…"
There had to be someone else.
"… Robert?"
Another number that he had missed.
"Robert?" Threat imminent.
His finger tightened around the trigger, too hard, and a gunshot burned into the floor at ground level, close to his foot. Great. How many is that? Seventy-seven?
Tristan. Tristan had called out his name.
Robert leaned into the A3 cell again and saw that there was, in fact, a survivor left. Strange.
Very odd. For about 692, this didn't fit at all, and time passed during which lines of code reoriented around the obstacle and finally made it work, like it always did.
Robert stood there, watching Tristan's eyes move down to the smoking gun at his side.
There were problems. The loop had ended when the code shifted to compensate for this expected unexpected development. Suddenly, it was apparent which drives were damaged by the bullet. The main one, the big mission, the overlying purpose of it all. He couldn't remember it because it had been deleted by the most effective delete key on the planet. There was enough in him to finish it, but not enough to know what it was.
Yeah.
That had to be it.
These MHz were killers. They sped up time, slowed the responses and the reflexes. Now, the moment that never ended, was clear. Universal time, what it was for everyone. At least they had that in common.
Tristan was on his feet and slamming his fists hard into Robert, trying to damage him. Robert couldn't fight back if he wanted to, if he were allowed to.
It didn't hurt.
Tristan was only doing a good job in damaging himself. He had the practice. It was incomprehensible what was coming out of his mouth; something to the effect of, "Too late, too late!" The step-by-step process had left him weak. He bled easily. He would run out of energy soon, but he wouldn't have enough to-
Luckily, Tristan collapsed to the floor just as the Roboticized Mobians in the nearby cell began to move.
Too… late.
Threat extremely fucking imminent.
Take immediate evasive action.
"Breezy" had stopped. Of course, another loop had replaced it.
Robert grabbed Tristan's arm, pulled him to his feet, and led him quickly outside as it began. "We all serve a purpose. It isn't important that I understand mine but you must understand yours. The lives of all those you have fought for, all of your comrades, depend on it. What you thought was the test was only the preamble. The test begins now. Think of it; all the data that has been gathered from the experiment, all the time that has been spent figuring out what exactly keeps you running."
He assumed Tristan was listening. The growling of their running pursuers as well as the increasing volume of the alarms made him nervous. Robert just kept pulling his arm and together, they ran, plunging deeper into the heart of the enemy.
South. They were running south.
The rain was long gone. They were being followed.
And then, they made it.
HERE OH NO RIGHT HERE. Pause. Loop on hold.
There were no more Roboticized Mobians building it, so it must have finally been finished. The black building towered over them, the summit almost invisible if not for the reflection of HoverUnit searchlights swinging out behind them in the sky.
Robert kept running and searched for the open door, finding it as the building suddenly lit up as all searchlights pointed directly at them.
He pulled Tristan's arm harder and pushed him into the darkness. Robert stopped running, turned, and brought his gun up. He aimed at the lights of the HoverUnits. A lot of them, an entire squadron. If they landed, they would drop troops off to get him from every angle.
Don't think about it. Pull the trigger.
He heard an internal click and the barrel of the gun glowed bright orange and spread out in tiny balls of light. He watched the projectile travel to his target… and miss.
Bad news. It was getting worse. He gripped the gun tighter, with both hands.
"Sick."
The casing around the handle cracked down the middle. He held the trigger back against the guard-
"Sick-"
They returned fire. More lights and colors confused his vision, but he held on, kept firing even through he could feel the blasts singing through his body, that feeling of warm water holding its shape in a straight line, getting hotter and hotter. Systems were going critical, bells and whistles sounding in his ears. The lights grew bigger, brighter, closer. His teeth gnashed together. Spit was forming in his mouth. He was losing sensation in his lower extremities. At all costs, he kept the trigger moving back and forth, the recoil telling him that at the very least, he was fighting back. That was what was important.
More gunfire tore him apart. He moved a foot back and struggled to stay on his feet, narrowed his shoulders and hid his head behind the gun and his mismatched hands. He saw some search lights go out and spiral down to the ground behind the abandoned houses.
He turned to take care of the others, the ones making all the noise because they were right on top of him. He fired at one with a SWAtbot hanging out of its open door and clipped its engine. It careened into the side of the black building and exploded in a blinding orange fireball. Debris made it rain again.
If it was still daytime, he couldn't tell.
Three spotlights convened close together in the sky. Robert recognized the formation. He tossed the gun upwards, spun around and swung his backpack to his front. Both hands plunged inside, ripping it open. He palmed two toxide grenades and hurled one after the other at the lights. This time, he connected.
Flames projected through the acidic mist and bathed the area in a greenish glow. The sky was empty by the time the gun returned into Robert's open palm.
It was darker.
Quieter.
Fire burned soundlessly at the building's summit. The emergency siren was still going off, but it was far away.
It was no longer warm.
"Threat imminent."
Robert retreated into the darkness before more of them came.
Only inside did he notice how much damage he had sustained. He legs suddenly stopped working, clicking and groaned into each other like a pair of broken support beams, forcing him violently to the floor. There was a gaping hole in his stomach and he was fountaining hydraulic fluid. His synthetic fur and skin were coming apart. His eyes wouldn't synchronize or focus. Structural integrity was a joke.
He could sense Tristan nearby.
Resume loop.
"WWWWWWWWe know you, we know what you're good for, and we knew you'd survive. Your purpose is to lead the survivors to Knothole. You are to escort them off-planet and activate the auto-pilot. Where you go from there is up to you."
… Yes?
Robert heard strange noises coming from Tristan. Choked off words again, condensation impacting the floor, dry heaving, but it so hard to see in there. The only source of light was coming from deeper inside the structure, and there was no way, no way at all…
Something was horribly wrong. This wasn't going as planned.
A response was called for. Some kind of confirmation.
Loop. Retain all vocal inflections and pauses. "We all serve a purpose. It isn't important that I understand mine but you must understand yours. The lives of all those you have fought for, all of your friends, depend on it. What you thought was the test was only the preamble. The test begins now. Cannot stop the cascade. Think of it; all the data that has been gathered from the experiment, all the time that has been spent figuring out what exactly keeps you running. But we'll cross that bridge after we burn it. We know you, we know what you're good for, and we knew you'd survive. Your purpose is to lead the survivors to Knothole. You are to escort them off-planet and activate the auto-pilot. Retroviruses aren't typically airborne." Danger. Danger. The injuries. Cover in extreme fucking jeopardy. Do you think he suspects? Do you think he knows?
Wait a minute. Waaiiiit a minute.
Vocals damaged. Baritone.
"NIC-"
No, no, no. Not this. Not now. Not ever.
This is another mission.
"NICOL-"
My mind is my enemy.
"NICOLE."
I need out.
THREAT IMMINENT.
Still!
GET HIM TO MOVE. NOW. OR IT'S ALL OVER.
YOU'RE BEING FOLLOWED
"Stop this shit, it's making me sick to my stomach."
Where is this coming from?
"You creatures would do anything to throw yourselves away, wouldn't you?"
Where is this coming from!
"You fight those who do the same, but then you go home and you try not to feel anything."
Nicole, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry…
"Why can't you use your lives for something worthwhile?"
I don't want to hurt you… I never wanted to hurt any of you…
"I'm doing you ungrateful rodents a favor. I'm demonstrating that your pettiness is nothing compared to your anger. You have all forgotten how to use it. You have all become weak."
Please…
"Even if it takes me years, even if it results in an endless massacre, you will remember it. This fight will not end. Losing the war is not in the equation."
It wasn't Robert's voice that was speaking, but from what was indicated by Tristan's rapid breathing, he sure as hell recognized it.
THEY SPEND THEIR LIVES BUILDING WALLS AROUND THEMSELVES, BUT AS SOON AS YOU SURROUND THEM WITH ACTUAL WALLS THEY GET ANGRY. THEY GET PISSED. They break.
It had to look like a choice. Living had to look like it was their idea. Or else they curl up and they die.
THREAT IN CLOSE PROXIMITY.
Enough.
I had it backwards. The orders were subconscious. "See? I'm all right now. I'll make it work eventually. I promise. It always works eventually." Robert managed to climb to his feet and keep his balance. Sensors indicated more bodies entering the building, clanking metal boots against the floor, echoing in infinity like the fear and the cold. Shadows warped over Robert's damaged vision. Now this, this felt right. Here was how it was supposed to go.
"Don't let yourself die here in this horrible place, Tristan. Not like the others. Kill them."
He finally managed to spot him, a twisted figure curled around himself, cowering in the shadows of the hungry Roboticized Mobians, the four from the bottom cells. Robert pulled Tristan to his feet.
"It has to look like a choice! Let's see!" He sill had the gun in his hand, and so, pressed the barrel to his temple, forcing it into the wound. "Let's see how far I can push it in." There was a loud bang, a metallic clink, and Tristan's cry of anguish. He tried to pull away but Robert pulled him even closer, his metal hand squeezing his neck. "That didn't do it at all. Let's try again." He squeezed the trigger. The impact of the third bullet kicked his head down, snapping already broken steel bones. Tristan struggled violently out of his grasp, falling to the floor and backpedaling. Robert wobbled and struggled to find him, his screaming echoing into the dark and mixing with the gunshot. "Kill them before they kill you! Come on! Do it! Do it now! HURRY!"
… there
He had done it. After all this time, he had finally done it. He had overstimulated and exhausted every other nerve in Tristan's body and he had tapped into the nerve that housed the reflex actions, the nerve that allowed him to act without thinking. Even in the state he was in, he could feel it happening, in the five feet of space between them. Within the line of code, all was right with the world.
it was happening it was really happening
"You fit. It fits you. It's perfect."
… THREAT IMMINENT.
I am to blame for this. Don't blame the gun or the bullet. Or the…
PROXIMITY ALERT.
.. other number.
TARGET ACQUIRED.
Generator picking up speed. Seems like I can never retreat far enough.
Robert pulled the gun out of his head and pointed it away from him. He pulled the trigger one last time.
He didn't hear a thing.
Tristan had stopped moving when he felt something. The bag. Something inviting the way it felt, it reminded him of home, not of his old clothes or the covers on his bed, but the way his old gear felt against his fingers, on the missions. No matter how bad it got, there would always be something inside of these things, either simple or complicated, something that would save his life. At least end the pain.
Tristan's hand tightened around one of the grenades. It all came back.
He looked to the Robians, ten feet away.
His arm arced in one smooth path, tossing the grenade low, rolling it towards them. His weak and starving heart jumped into his throat, already suffering under the regret for doing it. They didn't deserve this…
A gunshot rang out, bursting apart the grenade at the Robians' feet, the green cloud melting them from the waist down into a mess of oil and blood. Their screams loud and garbled and twisted and they didn't stop echoing.
Tristan flinched away from the grisly sight. They slowly lost their volume, processors dying out and betraying the evidence of their own remains.
"I think…the gun is empty."
They didn't deserve this.
Robert, however…
He did. He did.
"You in there?" Standing to his feet, furiously energized, Tristan grabbed Robert by a piece of broken metal sticking out of his neck. He steadied the head, kept it locked, eye to eye. "Are you in there?" he asked again, angrier.
Absolutely. "DDDoesn't matter." A metallic voice strained out, growing faint. "Work is done. Let go."
Robert's rolling eyes suddenly stopped moving, stricken by received information. Tristan heard it too… a scraping noise… low growling. More of them!
Tristan took a step back, turned to the door, and gasped deeply when he saw a pair of red eyes glowing from the entranceway.
"YOU'LL BURN FOR THIS, ROBERT."
He's still alive.
"SUpER SORRy foR the LYIng. SHE didn'T WAnT to Say anYTHing."
Look at him… the state he's in…
"SHE thought we wERe working togeTHEr. She thought we were both TRAITORs by the end of it."
A sudden heave tore from Tristan's throat. He coughed and choked on nothing but air, all the while praying that at least this, this, was a dream.
"I CAN KILL YOU WITH ONE WORD."
Sonic crawled further towards them on his belly, dragging his metal legs behind him, trying to escape them, a murderous look in his eyes.
One of them. "I'm LIKe yoU."
The world was dipping and rolling, a ship adrift at sea in the middle of a quiet storm. Pressure was increasing in his skull. In danger of falling and blacking out forever, Tristan didn't hear Robert come next him, didn't feel the metal fingers grasp the last grenade out of his hand.
"If it's tHE only tHINg I CAn do anyMORE, I'LL DO IT."
Robert stumbled towards Sonic, attempting to say one more thing, before-
"… Set Us FREEEEEEE-"
His head tipped back, far back, and caught in his eyes was a look of submission, of wide-eyed pleasure. "Destiny." Robert's teeth closed around the toxide grenade, and he bit into it like an apple.
BOOM.
Tristan shielded his eyes from the explosion of red and green gas. Robert and Sonic disappeared together in the vapor, and all that was left was a smoking indentation in the floor. Their grave.
And then, he was all alone.
With nothing else to do, nothing else to say, to feel or to fear, Tristan walked further into the building, heading towards the light.