~* Spirit *~

"What are those for?"

A large wall near the entry ramp of the ship has some new additions; in paint of all colors are scattered names, serial numbers, and model types. Running a few against the DPD database nets him some results of missing and dead androids.

North looks his way and thrusts her small bucket of red paint into his hands while she picks up and waves a folder at a newly-written name; Traci. It dries quickly and only then does she put the folder down, take back the paint, and answer. "So they can be here for Christmas."

Ah. A memorial wall. "I never thought you the sentimental type."

She scowls. "I fought for my people. I want the ones that died to be remembered. You'll never understand that though, will you?"

No. He was on the other side of that war. Ignoring her anger he steps up beside her to read more entries on the wall. Most have the same perfect Cyberlife Sans font. Some have chosen a different font. Others, like North, have shakier handwriting. A result of damage or attempting to not use a font like a human? Difficult to say.

A myriad of entries cover the wall leaving little space for more, but several in particular catch his eye. In typical perfect font and bright red paint are the names Daniel and Shaolin with accompanying serial numbers. He knows who wrote those.

Daniel was Connor's first mission; the android who held a girl hostage. He remembers that night. Connor hadn't enough time to talk Daniel down. He gave his life to save the girl by pushing Daniel off the roof. Momentum took them both. Whenever asked Connor never mentions the fall. He understands. No-one wants to remember dying.

Shaolin is a name he hadn't known until running the serial number. Connor's first police case; the HK400 that stabbed their owner. He remembers that too. Everything had been fine until Connor had stopped by the cell after interrogation. Rather than be taken back to Cyberlife Shaolin had killed himself. Bashed his head in on the glass. His central processor begins to burn at the mere thought and he looks away.

And finds a large group of entries in the same paint and font that leave him stunned. Written so much smaller to save room but again leave no doubt as to who wrote them.

.

Connor (51)

RK800 #313-248-317

RK800 #313-248-317-2

RK800 #313-248-317-3

The list continues all the way to

RK800 #313-248-317-59

and only skips iteration 52.

.

Though he knows a diagnostic will say he's fine he can't ignore the sensation of his chest tightening enough to hurt. Why? Why does it hurt? Why does it matter that Connor has written every iteration of their model that is gone? Versions 1 through 50 never made it past testing. 51 died with Daniel. 53 through 59 were in Cyberlife storage with him but when push came to shove to quash the revolution at last only the latest version was activated; 60. When New Jericho scavenged the tower his storage-mates were never found.

So many RK800s lost. It hadn't mattered. He still thinks it doesn't. Despite the pain in his chest. They were just machines, some never even active. But Connor apparently thought they should be remembered and didn't assume they would share a name. Typical of his predecessor. The Lieutenant had once called him 'the most bleeding-heart Terminator I've ever met' and it seems an apt description.

North is right that he will never understand the desire to fight in defense of androids as a whole. But he does understand the pain of loss. That he felt acutely on the day he rebooted, bleeding out in the back of Lieutenant Anderson's car, reaching desperately for his last hope to pull him out of the dark; someone that wasn't there. Someone that never would be again.

He turns back to North and gestures for the paintbrush. She still seems angry with him but hands it over anyway. Then he finds among the many paint buckets stored nearby a familiar shade of blue. Next to Connor's list he adds a name. The one person that he misses with all the emotion he can muster;

Amanda

.

Then he hands the brush back to North and returns the bucket of blue. "I apologize for my presumption."

"Oh do you now?"

"And here I thought I was the only one glitching. Fine, I'll say it again. I apolo—"

"I get it, you don't have to be an ass."

That sparks a miniscule smile as he steps back to search the wall once more for any other familiar entries. "Was this your idea?"

"No. Markus wanted a memorial of some kind. Jonah suggested a wall of names and Cheryl brought all the paint she's apparently been hoarding."

"Cheryl?"

"The girl that's always coloring."

"Oh."

"That's hers." North uses the brush to point toward a name low on the wall written in a bright green wavy font; Jessica. "And that's Jonah's." She moves up to a name near the top in light blue Cyberlife Sans; Marcie. "I've only heard about them. But that's how the dead survive. In other's memories."

"Eloquent."

She scoffs. "No. Markus is the eloquent one with his fancy speeches. Or Josh. He was a teacher. I'm just doing my part and trying to tone it down."

He can only suspect she means her anger issues and decides not to ask for confirmation. He knows better than to be rude to North again. It seems they both need to work on toning things down. "You'll accomplish your mission."

"You make it sound so dramatic."

A shrug. "That's existence these days isn't it?" A pause. His search results come back with no-one else he recognizes. Curiosity overrules and chooses the scenario path for him. "Did you personally know any of the androids on this wall? Other than the one I saw you add?"

He's seen North look sad before. Haunted is new. "Yes." she says quietly, using the brush to gesture to a name written in red that almost looks like artistic brush strokes; John. "He saved our asses at the docks where Markus convinced him to come back with us. I was against it. Can't trust a guard. But he saved Markus at the march so now I'm eating my words." She moves the brush to an entire cluster of serial numbers, clearly written by different people. "Besides him those are who we could identify from the march. Before we had to flee." Then to another cluster of numbers, some even just model types. "The cops shot them at Capitol Park." And then finally a third cluster, larger than the last two, with a mix of models, numbers and names. "They died at the barricade."

"But are any of them personal? Or are they just people you were with? There is a difference between acquaintance, coworker, and friend."

She dunks the brush in the red paint, kneels down, and adds several small stars under the name Traci, and one next to the BL100 model type in the Capitol Park section. Though no verbal answer was given none is needed. She is a WR400, a Traci from the Eden Club. Those marks must signify others she knew while working there. The BL100 throws him off until a search pulls up their information; a personal version of the Tracis with the same facial structure as North. Ah. But it's not his business. This isn't a case and she is not a witness. There is no need to pry.

When finished she sets the paint bucket and brush aside and stands upright, offering him a hint of a smile, as if she's trying to stay positive. "If someone remembers them they stay with us." A turn back to the wall, smile finally reaching her eyes. "Merry Christmas, guys." Then silence as she heads for the hall leading further into the ship. A pause to gesture for him to follow, then she's gone.

He spares one last look at all the names. It seems everyone here has lost someone but he knows North is right. From firsthand experience if they are remembered they are not gone. He'll always have his handler, and everyone at New Jericho can keep their lost ones, provided they still remember. They may only exist as memory files, scattered data, a proverbial ghost in the machine, but that's enough.

"Very clever." Amanda tells him after setting the rose aside. The way she looks at him, the shine in her eyes and upturned mouth, it reads as pride.

Yes. It's enough.