It wasn't that Michael wanted to distrust KITT. Quite the opposite really.
But having everyone he thought was working with him suddenly turn on him, kill his partner, and then leave him for dead out in the desert didn't do him any favors. They'd put so much time and effort into that case; even now, Michael kept telling himself that he should have seen it coming – should have seen something to let him know it was all going awry sooner than he did.
Michael was dead now. Or well, Michael Long was dead. He stared at his new face, still trying to get used to it. It wasn't a bad face by any means, pretty enough that he'd be able to charm his way through almost anything. Michael's body was still his though. It still had all his old scars: the burn on the top of his forearm near his wrist where he burnt it on the oven helping his mom bake cookies when he was 10, the scars on his leg from eating shit on his bike while out with friends when he was 16. All the old scars that told all Michael Long's old stories.
Michael Knight wondered if he'd ever be able to tell those stories again. Would he have to make up new stories just to keep people from getting suspicious? That was a depressing thought. He shook himself physically to get rid of it. Right now, he had more pressing issues.
Like the talking car parked outside the diner that had had the gall to repark itself away from a broken sprinkler head. Michael had watched over the rim of his mug as KITT flicked that funky little light under its hood in what looked undeniably like annoyance, blacked out the windows – something that would have only been noticed had anyone been staring, started the engine, and moved itself into the shade cast by the bank next to the diner. The fucking nerve, Michael thought.
Yeah, yeah. Michael knew he should be grateful to Wilton, Devon, and the whole lot of them over at the Foundation, but holy hell this was weird. This was the first time since Tonya's death that Michael had really had any time to himself. He'd walked out on Devon and taken KITT for a drive, intending to familiarize himself with the car and the AI within. It had gone okay enough at first, although he'd ended up bickering with KITT over what constituted frivolous use of the car's functionality.
KITT was of the opinion that things like turbo boost were only for emergencies and not for fun. It argued that the landings weren't too kind on its systems, often jolting loose circuits and weakening connections. Michael shot back that maybe they, that vague and nebulous 'they' that seemed to be in charge of everything, should have done a better job of putting KITT together. To Michael's surprise, KITT agreed with that and said it would get with Bonnie on strengthening those connections.
KITT had no issue driving the car. It was programmed to do that, and the car was essentially its body. Michael didn't like KITT driving the car. He refused to let anyone have that much control, still reeling from the ordeal, as he came to refer to it. Again, KITT was sympathetic, and Michael wanted to get mad at it for that. Who the hell did the AI think it was? His friend? He scoffed at that.
But KITT was steadfast.
Reliable.
Predictable.
Things Michael needed a partner to be, even if he'd never admit it. With the exception of KITT's sometimes brutal curiosity and its attitude, very little about it surprised Michael. If he told KITT to wait somewhere, he'd find it waiting there. If he told it to shut up, it (usually) shut up.
It never fucked off when he told it to, though. It just followed at his heels like a kicked dog seeking forgiveness for something it didn't do. And Michael had tried to find some way to really get under KITT's skin. KITT just took it all in stride as far as Michael could tell. Michael swore that KITT would quote psychology textbooks at him sometimes.
KITT learned how to navigate Michael's mood swings as he tried to heal. There wasn't really much time to make sense of things, but he'd never had the patience for that either. He'd seen what happened to some of the guys he'd served with in Vietnam when they came back to the quiet and stillness of civilian life. They'd lost their shit. So Michael kept himself busy. He processed things as he moved, even if he wasn't thinking about them.
Except this wasn't going away. It wasn't some event he could work into the patchwork of his life story and leave it there in the past. It stared at him with brilliant blue eyes and a stranger's smiling face. It greeted him with surprising warmth for a synthesized voice and gave him shit for his taste in music. And he gave as good as he got; KITT's taste in music sucked too. And now it sat outside the diner in a parking spot it chose for itself because the other one was too wet and too sunny, watching him even as he watched it. He'd have to deal with it. Somehow.
He finished his coffee and caught the waitress's eye. She came over with a smile. They'd been flirting a bit since business was slow, and she didn't seem to mind him that much. If only he was in a better place, he sighed to himself. So instead, he asked for the check and left a large tip for her. He left the cash on the table and left the air-conditioned bliss of the diner for the brutal heat of the southern California summer.
Michael would have to ask what that light tracking under the hood did. There was still an awful lot about KITT that he didn't know. There was a lot he didn't care to know either, like how the AI worked or the programming jargon that worked like a powerful sedative on him. Maintaining the Trans-Am was easy. He'd kept his own in good condition and did his own work on all his cars when he could. He knew that light had something to do with how KITT watched him. That light and the commlink, which Michael wasn't sure he liked. He'd always worn a watch on his left wrist, so it wasn't an unfamiliar or even unwelcome weight.
The windows cleared as Michael approached, and he wondered what KITT did in its spare time. There were no bad guys, no literal minefields to navigate; no conversations to record or locks to pick. Michael was pretty sure he could manage eating without getting himself into trouble.
KITT let Michael open his own door. He'd snapped at KITT about that on a particularly bad morning, and KITT had only done it when necessary since then, like when Michael's hands were full or he was running from someone with a gun. He felt bad about taking his anger out on KITT like that. The AI had no idea what it did wrong. It had no idea that it hadn't actually done anything wrong at all. It had been in the wrong place at the wrong time, and the friendly gesture had scraped against Michael's nightmare-frayed nerves.
"You… you can open the door if you want," he said awkwardly as he settled behind the wheel. "I …" This was not going well. He figured he might as well just lay the majority of his cards on the table now. If they were to work together, he'd just have to get over himself and accept that KITT was part of his reality. "It wasn't right of me to take my anger out on you like that. You didn't do anything wrong. Not that you could have known that. Or why I snapped at you."
"On the contrary, Michael," KITT pointed out. "I knew you hardly slept the night before and figured your reaction was a direct result of that."
"Then why'd you take it so hard?"
"You'd rather be in control."
Michael's blood ran cold and he froze, breathing controlled and shallow like he'd nearly been caught sneaking around where he shouldn't be. He stared at the greyed-out square that flickered in time with KITT's voice.
He didn't know why that scared him so badly.
"—thing, Michael!" KITT was saying urgently when the ringing in his ears subsided. "You're safe here."
Michael sat rigidly in the driver seat, fingertips digging painfully into his thighs. He felt lightheaded and shut his eyes tightly against the vertigo. It didn't help, and when he opened his eyes he realized that KITT had darkened the windows again at some point.
"When'd you –?" he choked off, throat too tight and voice cracking. "KITT what happened?" he asked in a ragged whisper.
"I believe you had what is referred to as a panic attack in psychiatric circles," KITT said.
Michael blinked and stared hard at the dash. They'd just been sitting there, talking about Michael not actually minding that KITT opened the door for him and then
then
then what?
Nothing had happened. No sudden noises or flashes of light or blondes with guns getting too close to him.
"What the hell?" he asked. He was familiar with panic attacks, of course. He'd seen all sorts of shit like that in Vietnam and with the police, both from colleagues and victims. But they'd all had obvious reasons to be panicking. "Why?"
"The third edition of the Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders defines a panic attack as "the sudden onset of intense apprehension, fear, or terror, often associated with feelings of impending doom". You experienced dyspnea, heart palpitations, vertigo, and you're still shaking. While you met other diagnostic criteria listed in the DSM, those are the four you experienced most strongly" (American Psychiatric Association, 1980, p.230).
"Dipsd… Spid… What was that first thing?"
"Dyspnea: difficult or labored breathing; shortness of breath. Colloquially, dyspnea has been defined as 'air hunger'."
"Why not just say I couldn't breathe?" Michael moved for the first time since he came back to himself, carefully opening and closing his fists to stretch his stiff fingers.
"The DSM lists the symptom as dyspnea," KITT said.
"Are you teasing me?" Michael asked, eyeing the dash with some suspicion.
"Really, Michael," KITT chided gently. "Do you think I would be so callous?"
"I don't know you as well as I'd like," Michael admitted, giving KITT's admonishment some thought. Then: "You're quoting psychology textbooks at me."
"Not just any psychology textbook, Michael. The DSM is what allows psychologists and psychiatrists to diagnose mental illnesses and work toward treating them. This is the third edition."
"You're teasing me," Michael said. "You are!" He cracked a crooked, tired grin and slung an arm over the steering column. "Asshole," he mumbled into the center of the steering wheel, exhausted.
"You respond well to it," KITT said plainly. So it really was paying that much attention to him. "Shall I drive?"
What Michael meant to say was, "She's all yours." Fortunately for him, KITT understood his sleep-slurred mumbling and made its way to the highway, having decided to drive for as long as Michael would sleep.
a/n: source
American Psychiatric Association. (1980). Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders (3rd ed.)
