Note: AO3 recommended. Hyperlinks are available for references to previous chapters and external content.
(Chapter 13&1)
Time: 1194■-05-05 16:38:49
Message sent: This is Tactical Support Unit POD ■■■, codename "Goose". Due to the potentially sensitive nature of the information exchanged, this unit prefers to remain anonymous and requests a passkey handshake.
Data exchange requested by Goose.
Message received: This is Tactical Support Unit POD ■■■, codename "Blue Jay".
Passkey handshake complete. Data exchange request accepted by Blue Jay.
Proposal: exchanging datamined files from deactivated entities found in a hostile environment would theoretically enable the construction of higher-precision situation models for combat.
Proposal accepted.
Data exchange in progress. Awaiting confirmation from Goose.
Confirmed reception of data from Blue Jay.
Suggestion: Goose and Blue Jay should regularly exchange data in the future.
Analysis: This idea carries security risks. Further re-evaluation of the necessity of this type of communication is to be conducted.
$ ls /share/
eWVwIGl0J3MgYTI=.log
$ eWVwIGl0J3MgYTI=.log
Open file? (Y/N)
$ Y
I
I am Fabricio. Every machine of the City on a Hill knows me and my name, and I am proud to say all of them have worn my accessories at least once. Every week, while others preferred maintenance or trinkets, I had put it upon myself to invest first and foremost into honing my craft; and need no more cover than a plastic sheet over my rather unremarkable frame to get through my work without any hazards.
Every Sunday, Emil would come to my shop and supply me with fabrics, fur, ceramic, cotton, buttons and strings I weaved together, all in one day - thanks to the work ethic my master taught me before he'd died in an act of biological warfare. The enemy was merciless, and electrocuted him with urine. And the first, the one before him, was found torn apart by a moose rubbing its antlers against him. A most undignified demise!
Dignity is something I wish to restore to his legacy, yet I am known to care little for revenge and fighting despite my adventurous mind. So be it: the Senate of the City (or rather, the half who hadn't been undergoing maintenance for the month at the Baruch's Bazaar, something far too costly for commoners) has elected me for the honor of a monumental task: weaving the largest ever map of the surrounding land out of fabrics, to be displayed along with my master's handcrafted gallows in the town square for the colony's anniversary!
With this in mind, I shall venture away surveying the land, starting off with the Sagami River. Next, shall come the other side of the City, where I shall explore the root of many a rumor that has pervaded from the rumor mills among my customers. Where there is darkness, where there is doubt, I will bring certainty as I trust none more than myself for this task!
II
I have struggled through hordes of bears harassing me, yet my genius shows again in my coming out unscathed.
I have seen the bodies of soldiers lying down and falling apart in a myriad of ways - this shall absolutely be noted. They shall not grow forgotten, their bodies will be inscribed along with every tree and shrub on my map! The Senate shall know of my perseverance and dedication. My apologies to Mayor Cog, who had reprimanded me for trespassing upon his "physics experiments" as he puts it - I hope he may be satisfied to know that I have taken care to erase all traces of his discoveries.
I had been planning to watch the more dangerous areas from a watchtower, or to enlist a flying unit to carry me around but the storm has laid the drapes of a thick fog over the forest. No bother! I shall travel now off the beaten paths, and follow whichever one Providence has revealed for me as I run, wearing my sheet in the rain. A lake is nearby.
III
I circle it three times, enough to observe the mechanical carp leaping in and out the water, and pass by what I presume to be a fire pit. Yet I suddenly hear the sound of electricity zapping through the fog. Such horror! An android shouts, yet there is none to be seen! "You... I know you're a menace! Stay back!" A gun cocks.
A lady takes him in jest. "Hm... well, old man. That's no way to greet someone you just met."
"Get awaay!" Bang. Bang. Bang. It's definitely an android's small gun, by the sound of it. A sword slash, dash and crackle and a howl of unspeakable throes all impress themselves on my consciousness in a flash, I must say I am stunned! I turn around, and finally see it: the chap's charred skin had completely melted off of his frame, with vapor and smoke rising from his remains, and a gigantic sword is dumped from thin air upon his body. A ghost-no, a girl suddenly fades into existence in a whirlwind of speed and red light right above him, standing in the highest heels I have ever seen and pressing down on his neck. Her skin is half-torn away all over her limbs and chest, her black frame exposed: she had the presence of a dead android who haunted the living. The raindrops vaporize into steam around her, and the exposed bare metal on her waist seems to turn nearly red-hot.
She brandishes a sword which I would wager a good chunk of my G to be large enough to carry the both of us over the Pacific, and points it at me. I have never known this emotion before, but I felt desperate to live, even as I hear her words drop as a sort of prelude to her attack and tighten the plastic cover around my bolts. "Show's over. If you wanna see more, I'm afraid the second act'll cost ya. Which is it, now or later?"
I jump away. "Android. Scary." I cannot see her anymore. Throw plastic cover away and escape. Girl groans.
Run.
IV
FEAR. FEAR. ANDROID, ENEMY, SCARY. RUN.
ANDROIDS. ARE. SCARY.
I. SEE. HEAPS. OF. HEADS.
I. SEE. BODIES. STACKED.
I. SEE. MAN. HAIRY. SCARY.
MAN. THROW. ROCK.
MAN. FIGHT.
"WHY DO I FEAR?"
End of eWVwIGl0J3MgYTI=.log (page 4/4)
Message sent: Analysis: Data contains pertinent unit and cartography information relevant to current missions. Possible benefits critical.
Message sent: Conclusion: Further investigation of area is to be conducted. Unknown hostile unit entries added to database.
Message sent: This unit, Goose, would like to show its appreciation to Blue Jay for its contribution.
Message received: Acknowledged. Signing off.
$logout
(Now)
The back door of the little wooden home bore a pair of bullet holes. Each one was stained with gunpowder, and each one dutifully traded sunlight from the outside, for the light glowy dust from the inside and a couple of ants treading in and out all the way to the dead boar out the front porch.
The few hours after the debacle with the former resident were the most peaceful he'd ever had. The soot and smoke in the air smelled better than the sweetest perfume he could recall, and his aching body was zapped with a newfound vitality—although not for long.
After shutting off the gas tanks, the man looked at the cat by his side munching on noodles, and back at his partner with a sigh. "I need to change myself up," a warm streak of urine ran down his pants and over his leg, spilling a few drops on the floor in plain sight. "Y-yeah… sorry you had to see this. I haven't peed this well in a while," he started laughing uncontrollably, "though it got some nasty kidney stones out when your compadres beat me with my MIA shoes last week."
"I am in possession of a few memories of… certain units reporting that the enemy was developing 'area denial fluids.'"
"Oh man," he chuckled, "poor guys were probably as scared of my piss as I was every time I took a drug test. Health worker's probably seen more of my junk than any woman ever has…" the man sheepishly nodded with his hand behind his neck, "gotta thank Mr. Fipp's history class for tellin' me about what the Brits did at Fort Pitt. Figures, if smallpox can stop natives, I-wait, uh, do you have real countries in this world's history… nevermind."
"It is my recollection that the disease known as 'smallpox' has been eradicated by humanity circa 1980 AD. Has this been the case in your reality?"
"Well, uh, I was like one year old back then, how the fuck would I know?" the man raised an eyebrow, clutching his chest with his left hand and letting go of the steel pipe in the other. "Uurgh…"
"It would have seemed to me that such an event would be documented for years to come until you developmentally matured," the machine dryly answered his question.
"Cog," he bent over, feeling a sharp pain in his back and legs, "fuck, take care of the pipe," he threw a glance at the cat who'd finished its meal, "and deal with Kitty-cat's litter while you're at it," before he'd collapsed on the floor. "I don't want any more," his voice trailed off before he'd caught his breath, "deaths in here," the smoking handgun fell off his grip.
His pupils vied for territory with his eyelids, lying down while trying to grab wakefulness by both arms. His mouth dried up; he'd felt like his tongue no longer obeyed his mind's command, unable to utter so much as a coherent syllable. Aargh…
Sweet taters, do something, he stared at the machine.
"Derrick?" its monotone almost seemed like a question, while it lifted the metal pipe off of his hand.
You're not gonna… beat me with this… are you…
A feeling of numbness washed over him, while everything passed by in a blur—it could have been a minute, an hour or a decade for all he'd known. The only thing he was sure he could sense was the machine's whirring, allaying the deep-seated fear that he'd finally gone to meet the Father.
A splash of water from above ran coldly through the cracks and folds on the skin of his face and arms, as if to strike him alight with consciousness again.
Water.
The fog had vanished from his eyes for a moment; after he'd blinked enough times, the shiny dust in the air no longer blinded him, and he realized he'd been watching the stubby splash him. "You are in urgent need of first aid."
He whipped his head around in electric jolts to shake off the dripping droplets over his eyes; the cat was by the door, watching and catching the ants as they passed by.
"However, you must clean yourself first. In addition, change of attire must be immediate in order to minimize the severity of infection."
"Why… ugh… the fuck… did you and the ballkid… drag me here…," he grunted, slurring his words.
"My regrettably short-sighted acquaintance had led me to understand that this residence was the safest destination to minimize detours."
The only response he could muster to this statement, was to emanate a pair of vacant stares from his dull eyes. The machine's words, coherent as they were, bounced up and down through the inside of his skull as if it were hollow.
With a thud, the stubby hopped down from a stool. A bucket of steaming water was in its hand, which the machine dropped by the man's side. "This is a container that was located in the closet (link to ch13 here). It will be necessary for me to pour this over you from a certain altitude, in order to avoid short-circuiting. I believe this is called a 'shower.'"
The man looked his partner firmly in its green headlights, and fought the ground beneath him to sit up slumped over. "I'm not," his eyes went back and forth between his pants, the machine and the bucket, "undressing in front of you, dick," he threw himself up and stumbled haphazardly to keep his upright balance. "I'll do it myself!," he proclaimed with saliva flying off his tongue. He lowered his knees, grabbed his bucket, and wobbled his way to the door around the cat, opening it. "Toss me the soap and then close the curtains, Boltbucket, will ya?!," he'd taken off his indoor voice and checked it at the exit, as soon as a fit of sneezing took its place. "A-archew!"
Whoosh-bang. A half-whittled bar of soap whizzed past his leg and struck the bucket, lightly tipping the container before it settled back on the ashen soil—the windows were shut and the door closed. Taking off his clothes, he dropped his old shirt, his torn sweatpants and piss-reeking tighty-whities on the loam. So much for a quick change of garb, he kept the new piece away from the rest—it's not ridden with enough blood and pus, he thought.
The man's skin baked in the heat of the sun, with nothing more than the sound of the cicadas, the running water behind the pines and the light howl of the wind that carried the smell of soot and dirt to reassure him.
A moment passed, and another, and he'd soon enough had warm tears running amok down the puffy, reddish bags under his eyes, the cracks and folds in his face, his mustache, his beard and the smooth patches of scars in between. There were no words, no grunts, only a terrible feeling of being exposed and alone.
The only faces he'd seen until he'd crossed paths with the resident were his reflection: in the water, in the bits of glass strewn about, in a cup of water, and the vacant-eyed photo ID his wallet—a visage that became less and less familiar to him over time, before he'd lost it. (link to ch1)
He reached down as slowly as his arm would left him, and with a quivering hand, poured the warm water over himself, letting it flow and rubbing himself with soap—aw, oh, it burns! Gearhead must've dumped in a whole pound of salt!
The burning sensation shut his eyes. In his newfound blindness, the man's blood curdled as he'd heard a voice closing in from behind, and he let out a scream: it was the ballbusting ballkid, uttering a shout of childlike excitement.
"No, you fucking didn't!" he let go of the bucket that slammed the wet ground, "Don't bring a moose here to stomp me!" he turned around, flinging the soap vaguely in the creature's direction while his eyes remained shut.
The only thing he heard after that was a "hop!", and a rigid wet object of some unusual shape—he felt—soared straight towards his arm.
"Woah," he wheezed, "shit!" Shaking in his cold skin, did his best to grab the object that had lightly bounced off his shoulder, and picked it up: My God, these are… bite marks! He bit off half the fucking soap bar!
The creature hollered, and hollered again from side to side before its voice and rolling had uncannily gone quiet with a whoosh. "Huh?"
After cleaning himself, he trekked, with his wet underwear held by his fingertips, over the ash and pebbles to the laundry line, dried himself with some white rags that traded color with his wounds and feet before putting on whatever he could pick up; convenience came first.
A cracked motorcycle helmet atop a milk crate—better than letting his forehead fight a constant skirmish against the sun, he figured.
A loose-fitted shirt stitched together from several unmatching faded seventh-hand tatters, camo cargo pants, a pair of long black shoes and a polka-dotted necktie wrapped tightly around his waist should do for now, he whistled to himself, let's save the bitching about style for America's Got Talent. And while I'm at it, what's with the bullet holes and the weird faces with wings drawn on this pair of underwear?
Once he'd donned his makeshift gentleman's getup, he made his way back in, standing behind the back door. "I'm done," he announced out loud, turning around one last time to inspect his surroundings and faintly pushed the door forward with his fingertips. The cat stepped out, startling him to bounce back against the door frame: the pet went out up past the outhouse into the woods, towards the garage. "Aah-ay!," he rubbed the pain away from the back of his head after bumping into a column.
Two voices racked his eardrum, coming from the doorway. One was the irritating chirp he'd been hearing earlier, and the other was the machine's monotone; they seemed to be engaged in bitter verbal sparring. What the hell?
Walking into the kitchen, he'd found the machine pursuing the sentient globe around the floor, fumbling its capture of the latter that darted up and down through the walls, the picture frames and machine parts, stopping in an elusively perfect balance on the tip of a machine head's tusks. "Hey-ugh," the man groaned at his partner with a wave of the hand, "didn't… we tell Ballkid to fuck right off…"
He went back to shut the door behind himself, and cupped his hands around his coarse lips: "Cog, get this little shit out of here before he kills us or I'll kick him out with a swing!" his lungs trembled as if he'd smoked a crate of cigarettes, yet the two seemed to pay him no heed. Fuck it, he picked up his wet underwear and got to the sink, I'll clean this, he'd decided to drown out the bickering with the sound of running water and scrubbing stains; a mere minute had passed before he'd felt burning reflux build up in his oesophagus, coughing a bit away and pounding at his chest before he'd dropped the undergarment over the counter.
There was one word, one set of syllables he'd kept hearing over, and over, and over before his nerves had heated up to a fever pitch, and his veins seemed to strangle him. He raised his hands without moving an inch, and shouted at the wall: "Emiru this, emiru that, Halua-er, Hallelujah! Is that your friend's name, is that it?!" his calloused hands slammed the marble, he opened the window and took heavy breaths one after the other.
"Derrick, now would be a good time to rest. Further stressing yourself is detrimental to your health."
He turned around, keeping his back stiff to lessen its aching. As if a bolt of lightning had struck his arm upright, he raised his pointer finger shakily at the machine as if to say something; the hand had apparently taken on a life of its own. His hand lurched then at the creature, pouncing on it. "You-you-¡eres…!-no, ¡son…!," he shivered at his hand suddenly drained of its energy surrendering to gravity, "you two keep at it and hash out which one of you takes the kids and which one gets to keep the house," he grunted, "I need to look at my own damn wounds," he passed by the kitchen table and trudged up the stairs, stumbling on the creaky steps.
· TRANSLATION SOFTWARE ACTIVATED. Setting: ██████ to English.
"What's wrong with my cousin? H-he seems really bristled up. He sounds angrier every time I see him, you know. And now, his clothes look more like an android, or something."
"His previous articles of clothing have been extensively damaged, and harbor hazardous mixtures of pathogens and blood from repeated abrasions due to my transporting him despite my best attempts to hold him. It is for this reason that I have a request, Emil of the Woods."
"Wh-what is it, Cog? I mean, that sounds… pretty bad."
"The human is in a dangerous condition. I cannot take care of him entirely by myself, and so, I will be in need of a few items."
"Anything, you name it! If it'll help him, it's on the house."
"As long as it is your property."
"R-right," the ball sighed.
"Medical supplies will be indispensable, notably relating to first aid. Nutritional provisions will also prove critical on short notice, although I believe their availability in the surrounding forest renders it less of an urgent concern."
"F-first aid! That's not a problem! I have logic vaccines lying around, a large pack of staunching gel that's still viscous, an Auto-Heal plug-in chip-"
"The human body is a carbon-based organic system, one similar to that of animals. Supplies manufactured for androids are ineffective and toxic to human biochemistry."
"Wait, wait, I know! He needs herbs… and potions! I can kinda remember this guy, his daughter—no, I think it was his sister-"
"Bring the supplies you'd use to take care of an injured animal. Nothing more, nothing less. Will that be possible?"
"Bandages, disinfectant, antibiotics, tourniquets, dressings, gauze. You got it!"
"That seems adequate. However, there is one more issue that remains unaddressed."
"Oh, oh no!" the ball wobbled off balance and bounced off the floorboard with a thud, "Cog, I'm really sorry! I just didn't want to scare you!"
The machine's eyes reddened. "Are you aware of sightings of some figures in black scouring the surrounding area?"
"U-uh," the creature's tone had mellowed out, "y-yeah, that."
"Were they associated with you in any way?"
"Ho-hold up, um…" the ball turned left and right, "wheeere's the big guy who lives here? He was like an uncle to me… who hunts me around with rifles. Or shotguns. Or landmines."
"Due to his erratic and malignant tendencies, the human and I have resorted to killing him in self-defense."
"A-ah, what the… You're scaring me!"
"Two black units which I presume to be androids of some sort. Their dimensions were similar to the targets my colony's militia train against. The units in question were seen leaping over vegetation towards the owner of this residence during my final encounter with him, near a water current. Due to my visual sensors' low shutter speed and the units' excessively brisk movement, I was unable to obtain any further information," the machine pointed to its eyes.
The ball chuffed and panted, stammering, and shut its eyes briefly before talking. "I think I've seen them before! Th-they were at some place that smelled like my cousin, talking about paintings of some places! Then when they heard me, they tried to kill me!"
"Smelled like him?"
"It had his footprints and all! A bed of leaves, hair and bits of skin everywhere, some drawer… it's like a tiny house made of machine parts! But the smell was so bad, I washed myself in a lake when I got away."
"I believe that was his shelter. What were they conducting there?"
"I don't wanna rile you up, but now that I think about it, they might've looted it if they're searching for him. And, erm, they might want to send him into the night… and I don't mean going moon-watching in the Kingdom."
"Is it likely that they had been after the resident before his death?"
A voice rang out from above; it was the man's call for help.
"What's he saying, Cog? Is he dying?!" the ball began rolling, before the stubby's arm had stopped it in its place.
"This fruitful conversation must regrettably end now, and I urge you to tend to your duties as soon as possible. The human is in no condition to be agitated any further. As such, he will not be made aware of these events," it explained until the ball no longer chafed its hand.
The ball's tone dropped to one of resignation as it turned its back to the machine with its upside-down face to the door, "I'll head out."
"Thank you, Emil… of the Woods. Do not attract the attention of any third parties," the stubby let go, and took care to close the door after its supplier left, heading then up the staircase.
· TRANSLATION SOFTWARE DEACTIVATED.
"Took you long enough," the man in the sleeping bag stretched and chuckled after letting an audible fart. "Heh-heh, oh man, my colon hasn't died on me yet. Some Meister Brau wouldn't hurt either, just for makin' sure the liver is at work too," he sat up, "ah, man, sometimes, I'd let some apples ferment in a cylinder for a few days and down it all at once just to stop shivering in my sleep."
"Do you suffer from an ongoing alcohol addiction, Derrick? This is an enormous health hazard," the machine stepped over to his side, staring him dead in the eyes.
"The fuck are you-no, no, it's just that I prepare in advance for the night of the 4th of July. Fireworks, beer discounts, hammered guys kicking each other in the shin and I join in… it's better than any family dinner I've had," he tightened the sleeping bag's fabric around him and turned over to the stubby, "until they kick mine."
His face contorted itself in silence for a few seconds before he went on. "But no, I'm not a fuckin' alcoholic just because I turned a piston from some S.O.B. that wanted to bury me into a drinking glass," his face immediately was overtaken by terror after hearing his own words to the machine, "n-no offense, man."
…Did I see a pink elephant, or a flash of red in his eyes for a split second there?
"Very well. My current priority will be to fetch nutrients and watch over you until you find yourself to be well enough to continue our travels."
"Guess so," he looked at the roof and bit his nails as the machine put the resident's rifle in its charger in the rack before leaving him be. "Hey, I like bananas!" he shouted before realizing his partner had already been long gone.
Aw, fuck. Well, not much left to do but stare at the ceiling all day. Worst comes to worst, I can count tiles or watch the floating grains of shiny dust.
His hands under his head, he looked to the wall across the room: bookshelves. That's it! I can look for a book in there… fuck, do I even want to read if I'm gonna leave the blanket ? He reversed his position to lie on his stomach, put his hands to the ground then started pushing himself. Grumbling to strenuously turn himself in the sleeping bag around and crawling on one hand, he tenaciously held the blanket from slipping off his neck with the other.
Passing the window, he panted for a bit, questioning just how much of my damn mind I've lost for doing this, before taking one more deep breath and closing his eyes: the sunlight would burn him to a crisp if he gave up at this point. Peace was no longer an option; this battle had to be waged all the way down to the last inch of the attic, just as the bit of meat stuck between his teeth had to be expelled from his cracked incisive. Pushing his arm to its limit, he scurried over to the wall and a stark realization had seemingly crushed all the hopes and dreams on his face to dust: I'll have to get up to reach the books?! My back will fucking kill me!
A long yellow plastic ruler leaned against the plywood studs by his side, prompting him to meekly grab it. Prodding at the bookshelf above him, his eyes widened as the books shook. Bam, blam, blang - he could see the edges of the covers nudging off the bookshelf, and crossed himself over the blanket. "Lord, Father, Son, Spirit," he clasped his hands upwards before picking the ruler up one last time, "don't make it rain hardcovers on my nose. I've already had enough nosebleeds for a lifetime. And make this book a worthwhile one."
With one last thrust of the measuring instrument at the wooden bookshelf above, a sizable object flew off and thudded imposingly. After a quick glance at its cover, his eyes sank.
Shit! It's the gay-ass poetry book I saw earlier! If Cog thinks I wanted this, he'll lecture me on how I'm repressing my emotions or some shit.
Grabbing the hardcover in his hand, he'd blinked thrice before his pupils adjusted to reading the text on the cover. "Riwaniru shellay," he muttered, "that's a fuckin' weird way to say 'coming alive,'" he flipped through the pages and caught glimpses of a few drawings in between inscrutable lines upon lines of letters, accents and diacritics. This one looks like a crocodile or Godzilla screaming at the sun, and that one looks like a dinosaur crying inside a cave. Wonder what the hell this all means.
A sudden sound shook him, sent a chill up his spine and made him toss the tome on the floor. "Agh!" he twisted himself in place for a moment to look around, before realizing it was the voice of the machine, who'd dropped a bucket on the attic floor—and looked at the open pages right beside its feet. "Jesus, man, what were you even saying? I positively freaked out!," he breathed heavily.
"I have brought peaches. You may use this bucket later for waste disposal," it brought the items towards him and held the book in its hands, "you appear to have moved across the attic with a view of discovering this piece of literature. Have the illustrated pages satisfied your curiosity?"
"Y-yeah, about that: the kiddy drawings make even less sense than the squiggles on the letters. Is this about some sort of monster that eats the sun and wants a friend?"
"This is a representation of a transforming machine that appeared in 11,627 AD, near the remains of a sunken city built by machines."
"Transforming?" He chuckled at the machine's absurd-seeming statement, "like, what? Turns into cars and piranhas," he burst into laughter at his own response, "maybe it turned into that time I thought I got a sardine and I ended up having to give the tooth fairy a share of my front teeth?"
"Its configuration changed to avoid common attack patterns. While it resembled most closely the forms of reptilians, it measured 2 or more kilometers in length."
"Wh-whoa, shit, that's like… 2 miles!" his voice and irises shrank, "So it's still out there a-and it's been three hundred years? This is a leviathan," his voice cracked, "a leviathan dammit! And they're making this look all cute?!"
"It is designated as Behemoth-class. It had attacked machines and androids alike throughout the Pacific Ocean, from which it rose, and was unharmed by a nuclear strike before retreating in the geologically turbulent borders of the Philippine Sea."
"Y-yeah, that's a relief, that's a relief… hold up, aren't androids also robots?"
"What I refer to by 'machine lifeform' is an individual of a mechanical ecosystem of evolving units developed by aliens, such as the ones you have likened to your genitalia. Androids-"
"Yeah, alright, that's enough, that's enough of this crap," he raised his hand at the machine, and pointed it down at the bucket. "Gimme some of those sweet-ass peaches, attaboy!"
The machine knocked the bucket over with its foot, tipping the peaches over to the man's side as his cheerful face grew somber watching them roll on the attic floor. Ah, fuck. I forgot all the cons of being babysat by a clockwork toy, he grabbed the nearest one to his creased fingers and wiped it on his shirt.
"They are washed for your consumption. Regarding your condition however, Derrick, I have an offer for you."
"My kidneys aren't up for sale or lending." He took a bite and spoke while chewing loudly, " "Amyffing elfe, shoot."
"You are in need of social contact, and I wish to collect further behavioral data about you. I propose that you and I, for the duration of your recovery days, establish regular contact in the form of book readings. This activity would be similar to what humans call 'book clubs'."
"Thaff's a spiffy pitch you haff 'fere, I gotta say I'm on," he swallowed, "like, if you don't need your lost specs to read, I'm on board with that if I don't have to rot here by myself,"
he took another bite and swallowed. "so, did Bill the Moonfaced Baseball disappear?"
"It is preferable that you refrain from using such unflattering nicknames for every individual you encounter, Derrick."
"¡Mírame!, son," his voice died out from fatigue, "naming things is a skill I practice, even in my own company," he'd grown caustic, "and if i hadn't been on it since you put me here, you'd find me grunting like Cro-Magnon."
"You have already begun to slur your speech. As for my acquaintance, he has vacated the premises and will return promptly to bring medical supplies likely to prove useful to you." the machine stepped away, adding "In the meantime, I will keep watch for any matters of concern." before it grabbed its rifle off the rack and veered away into the staircase.
Alone, the man looked again at the ceiling and drifted off into muttering gibberish. "I wanna chew some sap and swig a cerveza," he sighed.
The machine sat at the door by the porch, holding its weapon out for a moment before going back inside and shutting the door. Peeping around briefly, it stood in place: nothing out of the ordinary. It circled the living room, then the kitchen—until, wham! An object flew into its back and sent it spinning in the air halfway from the back door to the front, and the machine crashed on the floor. The half-wooden, half-scrap rifle and the shiny metal cube wired to it both rammed the dinner chairs, torn apart and ending up behind opposing legs of the dinner table.
Zzz-hurr. A heavy buzz, followed by a siren-like wail: the machine hollered its war cry. Its eyes glowed blood-red as it propped itself back up on its feet and leapt away, reversing its direction as the man upstairs shouted. "Cog? Cog?! This is freaking me out! You're gonna fucking kill me…w-with a heart attack, man!"
A man-sized greenish holdall presented itself in front of the lunging red-eyed stubby. Before its feet could hit the ground, the zipper opened with a buzz, the button popped off the fabric.
A familiar face stood over it: the rolling face, whizzing right beneath the pair of metal pads with the sound of its rocky shell rubbing the floorboards and spilling tin cans and plastic packages in its wake.
The man's voice cracked shouting. "Cog? Talk to me! It sounds like a bad rock band down there!"
· TRANSLATION SOFTWARE ACTIVATED.
The machine hopped at the creature backing away. "Emil. Your outrageous negligence has been needlessly damaging our health and resources. This cannot continue."
"No, I gave the cat a bath and a litterbox! I'm bringing the resour-oh, you mean the gun!," the ball rolled back, bit down on the wires from one part of the scattered weapon, dragged it to the other, swallowed some more cabling and loudly chewed the two, spitting out colorful sparks and dropping a spliced cable from its teeth. "See? I-it's good as new! Try it!"
The machine picked up its weapon as its eyes turned back to yellow, and then green. Its hands tightened their grip, aiming the rifle steadily ahead. "Move to your left," it ordered the creature.
"Sure…?" the latter complied and completed a turn on its side, not one moment before the machine had fired an energy bullet right at its face, sending it veering towards the door with a wham. "Yoow!" it cried out, "It burns! What the heck was that for? I can't tell up from down!"
"Your impact earlier was this much disorienting. I had asked you to move so that you would not follow a trajectory that contained furniture. I surmise this has been a learning experience for you, Emil of the Woods."
A clamor sounded from the attic, of walls and shelves being rammed. "G-g-son of a bitch! I'm," something fell to the ground loudly pounding the ceiling, "I'm comin' down!" the man upstairs shouted before falling back to the ground with a thump.
The machine grabbed the bag, tidying up the supplies and headed to the staircase, speaking to the man. "There is no cause for panic, Derrick. All is well."
The creature dizzily trundled about. "Owowowowowow-guh… I remember my old body puking when I spun like this, oh man…" before it stopped and turned to the machine, "hey, why do you two always talk funny, Cog?"
"If you are implicitly referring to the human, it is a necessity that I communicate with him in the language he is most familiar with."
"It sounds so random," the creature rolled against the stairs step by step to rise, "I mean, ouch," it hit its face on every consecutive board of the flight as it creaked, "how'd you learn it all? You sound almost like him!"
"You had once provided us in January with a large number of 'black frisbees', of which I had the misfortune to get one thrown in my knee joints by a colonist that would incessantly ask me to 'play catch'."
"So you broke it in a game-wait, so they can give you powers!"
"Negative. I had no desire for such activities, and had promptly ordered him to pay for my next maintenance in case he did not wish to be publicly humiliated by having militia members 'play catch' as he puts it, using him as a toy. Your 'frisbees' were, in fact, vinyl records containing analog sound data, many of which were material for teaching Old World languages to androids."
"They were? Man, you're so smart! I thought androids just played catch with them or ate them. That explains why they don't taste as good as soap!" the creature's comment was ignored by the machine once they'd reached the attic and turned around; the man lied down on his stomach, wiping his bloody nose and moaning in pain.
He craned his neck to look sordidly at the stubby. "So you're fine?" he blinked twice at his partner, raising an eyebrow and breathing a sigh of relief. "Fine news, but I'm not. Either I'm made of glass, or this floor's so solid I could've rented it out to the Weight Watchers."
"Derrick. Remain in place for treatment."
"No," he screamed in pain, "I may be tired, fucked and wounded, but I'm so full of energy I could run a marathon," he blended sarcasm, pain and pity in equal measure, "I'm a vegetable now, Cog, so help a brother out, save a soul and do your thing."
With its sack unloaded by its patient's side, the stubby closely inspected his back. "This will require much patience on your end, Derrick. We will have to take your shirt off in order to clean and cover your wounds."
The man grunted. "Not like I got anything else. As long as none of you rape me," he took his helmet off, followed by his shirt.
Rinsing wounds. Alcohol. The burns ran deep and lasted long enough to sear not only his skin, but an impression in his memory of a fire and brimstone hell. Lazarus, help a brother out here.
Between the litany of instructions the machine barked, or the face on the stony ball rolling around him over and over grabbing items in its teeth and dropping them, the man's mind and ears had gone numb as he kept his sight to the floor, holding in a scream or two to retain the meager vestiges of his larynx. "Guhh…"
Gauze. Bandages. He'd drifted in and out of consciousness. More alcohol, more bandages. With every glint around the attic, the little yellow flickering dots in the air disagreed on what color and what shape to take, or whether they wished to show themselves to him at all, a debate that entertained him for the time being; he kept himself guessing what'd come next.
Orange, stars. No, yellow… and spherical. Ah, man. After what felt like hours lying down, the stubby had grabbed him and stuffed him with its cold hands back in his shirt, and then in his sleeping bag.
The incessant vibrations of the sphere rolling on the floorboards had quieted down, the heat from the machine standing next to him made way for cold air; the moment had seemingly come, at last, when he was no longer the minority in the vote for whether he could be left alone for the moment… until an unbearable noise had paid him yet another visit.
"Emil of the Woods. Now that our dealings for the moment are over, I believe the time is right for you to make your leave. Your presence may attract undue attention."
"Really? B-but I don't think we're done here. I mean, my cousin-uh, he needs help, right?!"
"You have informed me earlier that you were under pursuit by a pair of android units, more than capable of assassinating all three of us in the right circumstances. If you share my concern for my self-preservation and the human's well-being, understanding this should be of no difficulty."
"W-well, I built a slingshot and flung myself in the bag all the way here! How would they know where I am?"
"Your improvised engineering skills are not relevant. Whether they are aware of your location or not, if any indication of your presence here is detected by whichever means are at their disposal, we will be at risk sooner or later."
"But they won't be standing still if they don't find me, right? They're always patrolling, and you said it yourself! W-what if they like, searched this whole building? They could find you! They could take my cousin out in his sleep! I can't give up on you two."
"Loyalty must be shown in good faith. I have repeatedly asked that you demonstrate your loyalty in manners more judicious than your past behavior indicates."
"I really really know, Cog! You guys are like family to me. It's like… I have millions of brothers, but only one cousin and only one Cog."
"You view us as family," the machine repeated with an air of incredulity in its tone. "It was my understanding that our relationship is one of an economic nature, and possibly a communal one in certain cases. Labeling your social ties as 'family' is more appropriate for the untold millions of Emil entities circulating throughout the world with your exact physical makeup."
"But I don't feel close to any of my brothers, even though we're all supposedly copies of the same old Emil from…however many centuries ago the aliens invaded. We all have the same face, the same voice, and apparently, the same memories. I'm supposed to be an Emil and yet I can barely remember even who Emil's friends were, or the story of his life aside from having a butler, a few blurry faces and something about a sick girl. When I had hands, I used to grab a pen, you know? And I'd try to write their names over and over on any slip of paper I found to try and recall them until I could get it right someday, but I got nothing. I can't even describe what I am in this body."
"I see. You lack electronic memory storage as an engineered bioweapon."
"But this, with you and my cousin? When he said something like 'Halua', it sparked a memory for me I didn't know I had, somebody I must've been very close with and that was when I realized it: I have to do something that's mine in this world, not just call myself Emil of the Woods. Something very real to me… and having another set of eyes looking out for you doesn't hurt."
"In this case, Emil of the Woods, it would behoove you-"
"Be-behoove? You know so many words, Cog, it's hard to understand you. I mean, it's like you gallop with words!"
The machine's eyes flashed red for a split-second, freezing the laughter stiff. "It would be of interest that you learn the name of this human. If you do conceive of him as family, I suggest you learn to ask him."
"Ask him?!" the creature replied, shaking. "But I don't think I know how," it inched closer to the man and turned around to face him.
· TRANSLATION SOFTWARE DEACTIVATED.
"Huh?" the man stared at the ball in front of him. "Is this a NAFTA meeting?"
"Po'e do cmene nandesuka?" [What's your name?]
"What do you want, ass-cheek?" He grunted at the creature, and turned to the machine, "shut him up," before he pulled up his blanket. "Christ, say something!" he begged as it stood in place, before it packed its rifle and left downstairs.
"E-emiru zis! Emiru zato?" the sphere meekly rolled up to his face, and repeated his tone barely well enough for him to recall his own bout of earlier anger.
"Wow-you can remember stuff. So you do at least realize how bad your fuck-ups are," he breathed laboriously with his eyes half-closed, "thanks," he muttered, "for helping me out of the mines… and fuck you for everything else, Emyroo."
"Eeya, eeya! Emiru," it rolled back and bounced in place, and then closed in on his face almost as if to lay sovereign claim to his personal space, "oooh?" Motherfucker! I can smell the soap mixed with oil and stale catnip in this gremlin's mouth! What does he want?!
He whispered to himself, with his eyes now finally shut. "George Bush. This attic is the terror he warned us about."
"Geooorgebooooosh."
You can't win, he fell asleep.
Wakey, sleepy. Waking and sleeping hours ticked away, and the man had slowly gotten used to the chaos of his new company. There was an air of tranquility to it all: almost feeling like he'd gained back something he'd been missing; almost, yet not enough to feel like he enjoyed the fanfare, or the new name he'd been given—one he could not lose, no matter how badly he tried to plead and reason with the creature that went by his side, behind him, in front of him, on his chest and underneath his sleeping bag, and even pounded his head until he'd put the helmet back on, and kept it on for good this time.
Sometimes, the machine comforted him. It brought him fruit, and later twigs and straws for him to chew. It brought him water. It dumped his waste for him, and helped clean him. It watched over him with its rifle when he slept, and the two of them spent an hour out of each day reading a book off the shelves, exchanging stories about what he'd seen through the window or what it'd encountered on its latest foraging—The Cog Morning Show, or Morning Gear, he called the only part of his day at which he snickered with anticipation, hoping he'd find some detail of human society on which to smugly correct his partner's spotty knowledge.
The first time, was a novel whose contents his mind was too foggy to process; something about a Renaissance trust-fund kid who gets into scuffles to win some married biznatch over, after which he'd sworn to never let the machine pick anything without summarizing it for him first to let him choose something an English teacher wouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole.
The next session, he'd made another request. "Hey, hey, I wanna see the one with the poems and the dinosaur. The two-mile freak. Tell me more about that uh, eighth robot war."
The machine obliged and took it off the shelf, sat by his side and opened the pages.
"The 8th Androids' War was fought more than two hundre-"
The man, lying down, raised his hands and turned them sideways. "Dumb it down, before the ballkid comes back from playing with Zin."
"A series of large-scale conflicts between a faction of androids known as the Army of Humanity and machine lifeforms."
"Army of Humanity," he squinted, "Army of Humanity? Like, the UN or something?!" he grinned from ear to ear, "you're tellin' me they still party like it's 1999 in New York while I'm out here?" before his features stiffened into a pout, "nah, it couldn't be that easy to find people. It never fucking is."
"The Army of Humanity is a misnomer. It only comprises androids of human make, who generally profess a goal of servitude towards mankind. As machine lifeforms' alien creators arrived on earth, the androids were, and remain hostile. There are no known reliable records of machine lifeforms encountering humans."
"Alright, alright, so the androids… they're made by people. As in, flesh and blood. Like me. To help people, people like me, out. And you're supposed to be the swarm they're battling."
"That is the commonly accepted account."
"Well, ain't much accounting for reality in this little 'account'," he raised his fingers in quote marks, "if my leg's got something to say about it."
Sometimes, he'd fallen restless despite his efforts, not merely due to the spherical creature's incessant rambling or the cicadas—it often was the case that he'd find himself rolling endlessly in his blankets with his eyes shut even with all the silence in the world but that of the cicadas. "Ah," he crawled up against the wall, "ah shit, I think I saw something in the window flying, like a crow or something," he'd warned the machine the next time they met.
"There is no cause for concern. Avian animals regularly migrate throughout the world, moving to one region for a portion of the year to return to another, although the Earth's magnetic field being weakened since tidal locking has caused major navigational dysfunction for multiple species of birds."
"Well," he coughed, "if you say so," he'd watched the machine with its rifle in hand.
"Which leads me to our next topic: I have decided to present to you, for today's session, a book on nature and its cycles."
"Pick a random page, will ya? And not somethin' boring like the water cycle."
"This one," it picked off the shelf with its free hand and held open in its three fingers, "is on forest ecosystems, and the importance of forest fires."
"Forest fires? They're good for something? What about all the talk back in my world, my time, about 'saving the Amazon' I couldn't hear enough from hippies about?"
"I am unable to inform you on this subject. It is, however, written that forest fires serve a natural function of helping ecosystems clear out decaying specimens, and optimize the flow of nutrients throughout food chains as a result."
"Clears out old junk. Makes sense."
…My god, an ice-cold sensation washed over his face, jolting him upright from his sleeping bag. "Holy shit. Cog, where are my clothes? The ones I wore when we first met?"
"They remain where you had dropped them. I intend to dispose of them in time, once I ensure that the risks incurred in doing so are acceptable."
His baggy eyes and chapped mouth stiffened as he dusted himself, staring vacantly at the floor. "No, don't get rid of 'em. I know what we'll do."
And I'll wish I had a Kodak and some film on me to save this next moment.
"What is it?" the machine lowered its arm, and turned to look out the window.
"You just follow me and watch," the man groaned as he'd sat up, and pulled his legs out from his sleeping bag. "Holy shit, I haven't stepped out of this in a while," he rubbed his frigid thighs and leaned against the wall to stand up. "Gimme a hand," he reached out with his arm and lifted himself by the machine's cold thumb wrapped around his palm.
"Can you move?"
"I've had worse days; I survived Idaho Falls High School," he shooed his partner out of the way with his hand. "I'm getting deadwood."
The stubby, half-slowed by its following the man's paces, went down the staircase and held his hips up once from tripping and falling into the cables that ran up the floor to the ceiling. "Woah, woah," the man regained his posture and patted the machine's head, "good job," he opened the door and submerged himself in the oncoming sunlight.
The two trekked through the field, wandering into the forest. "There's one hell of a smell out here," the man leaned up against a tree, covering his forehead. "Just as bad as when I was out cleaning out eons of 'droid shit, except a bit fruitier."
"I do not have olfactory sensors. However, your long experience in forests should signify that this is no more than a minor inconvenience," the machine grabbed a tree branch off the ground.
He took it and slung it over his shoulder with the rest. "Ol-fac-what?" the man stared dumbfounded at the stubby. "They could use this smell in wars, man. I'm telling you," he pinched his nose.
The occasional fly hounded him through the slog, and he'd swat it away for a reprieve from the incessant buzzing and itching it left on him, until he'd realized he'd stepped inside what a swarm of them attacking him from every which way. He looked down—the sole of his shoe had landed on the decaying corpse of a three-legged hare, festering in worms and maggots feeding on the fur and skin that clad its bones.
Grimacing in disgust and terror, he ran away as quickly as he could, going back the way he came until his breath drew short a minute later; the stubby later found him panting, slouching under the weight of the branches. "Derrick."
The man let out a scream and, propelled forward by his feet, leapt forward only to hit his head against a tree trunk. The branches on his shoulder fell off all at once as he spun erratically in place, turning out and about before he'd realized whose voice he'd heard, breaking him out of his stupor.
He wiped off the nosebleed, and hunched sideways on the sloped ground before resting his hand on the machine's head. "You know what, you carry it. I don't even know what the fuck that was." He caught his breath, voice cracking, biting the skin off his phalanges, "in fact, I wouldn't know my own name if I weren't wearing this," he pointed to his helmet, "before I smacked that tree. What the fuck kind of wildlife is that?"
"That is the carcass of a mutant brown hare. The resident shot it to death, claiming it was not a form of life."
"Mighty bold of a nuts-and-bolts nutcase to decide what's too freaky to live. What a joke, robots pretending they're alive!" he watched the machine pack the branches one by one. "I-I'm sorry about that, by the way."
The machine stared him in the eye for a moment. "To what is your apology in reference?"
"The branches," he delivered in curt deadpan. "It's about the fact you're picking them up and carrying that Franken-Winchester rifle at the same time. I'm apologizing for that."
The two wended back to the field as the sound of cicadas and the stench of rot chafed the man. He stuck the longest branches down into the soil amid the field one by one, shoving them down vigorously with his knuckles akin to a hammer striking a nail… until he'd heard a snapping sound, after which he'd lightened his touch. I'm not going back to the Mutant Forest. No no no, Boltbucket can deal with it well enough on his own—and he can call the Department of Fish and Wildlife if he needs help.
"What is the goal of this endeavor?"
"I'm disposing of it the way we dispose of all good things: with respect. Nine damn years I've had this with me in three states, and I'm not feeding it to some moose."
With a few more held up horizontally by the rest, he dusted his hands off and went off to search for the old shirt: it was right where he'd left it, in a dry and dirty puddle. He bent down, grabbed his underwear and sweatpants in one arm, and the shirt in the other.
Holding it up by the corners of the shoulders, he stared at it, recalling the countless stories each tear, each hole and each stain told. While his arms flipped the shirt back and forth, a wave of chilling memories froze his eyes and feet in place.
The machine, standing by the stake, called out to its partner. "Are you inspecting the article of clothing in your hands?"
"H-hey, hargh" the man gasped for air, "I-I can't burn this just yet, you know," he chuckled nervously and turned around, "this isn't any old shirt for me."
Stiff as a statue, the stubby glanced at the jaundiced man's dour face. "Do what is necessary," it briskly advised him, and added after he'd hesitated: "and waste no time on needless thoughts. It is unhygienic to preserve your old clothes, and I consider it a health risk to do so."
Nodding his head, he overlaid the clothes over the many sticks and branches, as if to dress up a snowman. It's Christmas in July 2004… no, this isn't funny anymore.
"Know what the text that's ripped in half says on the back of this shirt, Cog?"
"Is it of relevance?"
His posture tensed up, and a sudden stutter overwhelmed him. "Yes, it's very rel-relevant, very absolutely fucking much. Before you tore it," his lips kept moving as his voice cut off.
"I am not trained in lip-reading."
Slapping and crossing himself, he tries to speak again. "Before you tore it," he pointed his finger at the machine then the shirt, "it read Idaho Falls Tigers 1995. That was a baseball team," his entire body shook uncontrollably, "they called me 'The Dam'. We had a flood in the Seventies. My mom used to curse me, saying I'm like that flood, made her move out her parents' home when she had me."
"I do not yet understand the significance of this. It is highly likely that you are in need of psychiatric treatment."
"Shut the fuck up, you're a nudist with no sense of fashion. That year," he shouted, "the one on the shirt, I was a freshman, and I was the dam. I saved the Tigers in the state championship," his teeth chattered as he sped through his words, "I pitched away at the rich little shits whose daddies could afford private Catholic high school. I wish I could do it a hundred times again to see the look on their faces knowing there was no Viagra for their limp arms. If I earned one fucking thing in life, it's that nickname and this shirt… make that two," chills rose up his spine, shaking him from behind. Within him, a silent panic awaited the stubby's retaliation.
"I see. This shirt symbolizes a source of self-esteem for you."
One sob on the man's part was all the confirmation it would need.
With a sigh, he frowned, and turned his back to the wood. "Let's light this. How do we do that?" his voice softened to a murmur.
Steadying its rifle, the stubby fired a few shots at the tinder under the stake, setting the stake ablaze.
My sweat more than makes up for all the tears I'm holding in.
After all that remained was smoke, ashes and charred sticks, the man sat down at the empty dinner table, staring at the machine head hung on the wall. The back door behind him shut loudly; a familiar whirring returned.
"It smells like shit here too. Just a bit different," he dryly complained. "I had to flick ants off of my ankles."
"It is my understanding that you are frustrated at the moment."
"I want to forget it," he rubbed his eyes without turning his eyes away from the wall. "Listen—we gotta fix the soil. Don't know how, maybe we gotta water the shit out of it."
"The amount of water required for this endeavor would be tremendous. It would conflict with your hydration needs."
"Well, I'm not feelin' up for reading, writing, or even talking to be honest. I don't know what to make of myself," he hunched over and quieted down to whisper to himself. "I never noticed the killer cologne our furry friend outside was brewing until now," he swallowed the reflux in his throat and grimaced. "Gotta be one of those things I'm told only women can appreciate."
Another voice rose up from behind: the creature. "Georgebooooooosh!"
Oh no. Oh no no no.
A ping-pong ball struck his helmet, doused in the scent of soap. Grabbing it, he'd finally broken eye contact with the lifeless tusks and eyes facing him, stood up and threw the ball back at the creature. "I'll be in the attic, folks," he murmured and trudged up the stairs.
A cat hissed, turning the man's attention behind him: the pet was back. "The fancy lightbulbs in the basement make the floor look like a disco," he sniffed in the staircase, "you and the ballkid can have a dance party or something," he pointed at the animal. "I'm out."
Lying down in the sleeping bag, he listlessly watched the ceiling without a single fully-formed thought passing through his head, only echoes of places he'd been—and it took another ping-pong ball rattling his helmet to make them whole again. "Christ!"
"Watashi ca to-asobou do!" the boyish voice called out.
"Fetch, bitch!" he sat up and tossed the ball out the window.
The grinning face spat out something else: the necklace. "Holy shit, I forgot about that," he grabbed it before shooting a glare at the creature.
"If that's how you want it," he grumbled, "well, nice to…", he readied a salvo, "meet you!" he shouted, firing the toy at its teeth. "I'm the dam!"
Back and forth, the two took turns throwing and spitting. With his arms growing tired from one turn to the next, he'd realized his opponent had no shortage of stamina and could go on for fucking years, when he'd finally rested his back on the wall and pulled down the glass cover on his helmet. He shut his eyes for a moment; a hard object crashed into his head with the weight of a brick. "Sweet Mary's tits!" he yelped, opening his eyes: it was the handgun he'd forgotten on the kitchen floor. "What the fuck?! That could've-", he he ripped his throat shouting, "nevermind, you're retarded." he whined before falling asleep.