Written to the score of . . . 'Goner', by KI: Theory
Three years after ODIN . . .
High above the fog of the city, sitting in her humongous office, staring out through the wall-to-wall viewers, newly-elected United Colonies President Deanna Monroe blows cigar smoke out through her nostrils in silence.
She watches the flyers zooming past her rebuilt tower down below. The road vehicles rumbling along the sky bridges.
Everything she'd built. Still standing.
She's waiting for news.
News that will give this city hope again. News that could guarantee a steady rise in her poll numbers and renewed confidence in her from the council of the United Colonies.
She's waiting for her right-hand man, the Smiths.
She smokes her cigar, the haze filling the air around her.
A beautifully feathered owl sits on a perch behind her, its head turning this way and that, its large eyes blinking every few seconds. To the naked eye, there's nothing unusual about it, except maybe the eyes in its head, which are much more than eyes. It looks, smells, and behaves like the real thing, except that it is not the real thing.
Not truly. Like a lot of the plant and animal life they've managed to resurrect from extinction since the world started to rot, like the walkers that had once nearly subsumed it, this (very expensive) owl is one of the Replicants Dr. Jones invented years ago. This one is state of the art; a new model.
Once upon a time, sentience in this form could only remain stable up to a certain capacity. In the not-too-distant past, only the endangered and extinct species (mostly plant and animal life) that the planet still depends on could be replicated. The process is excruciatingly complex, and dangerous if done incorrectly. Perfectly replicating a life force is no child's play.
Until now. Now . . . everything has changed.
Once this gets out, black market Replicants won't be uncommon, but Command (i.e. the Smiths, with enforced help from the Peacekeepers) will have a handle on them before they can get off the ground. Punishment for black market replication will be swift and merciless.
It'll be exile to The Gates of Hell and The Grid, or hard labor in the replication factories. No mercy.
Given the series of missteps, setbacks, and outright disasters he's had over the years, though, no one thought Dr. Morgan Jones would ever be ready to replicate humans. No one thought it was safe enough to even attempt, including Jones himself. Well, President Monroe isn't 'everyone'. And she doesn't want him to replicate just any human.
Her gamble with ODIN had ironically been the key to her success in nabbing the presidency.
The destruction and death toll brought the ASZ together like never before.
But now, the blowback is starting to catch up. She undermined the effectiveness of the Peacekeepers – of The Family, specifically – in her bid for re-election, promising that she could keep this city safer and more secure than ever, her way.
Now that she has the people on track with her agenda, they're restless for results. They don't feel safe. They're confused, anxious, and downright fearful about granting machine and hybrid kind more rights. Likewise, her partial and non-human constituents yearn for representation, protection, equality – a voice.
Not to mention the increasingly sinister threat from Negan and The Gates of Hell.
Fear is a powerful and dangerous gambling tool, after all.
If she's going to maintain control of the future of the ASZ, and with it the safety of mankind, she is going to have to show these people that she's strong. Show them that the ASZ is an impenetrable fortress.
To do that, she needs to be radical. She needs to make headlines. She needs a miracle.
So, as is her style, President Monroe is going to kill a shitload of birds with one beautifully innovative stone.
If, of course, the Smiths bring her the good news she's been hoping for for three long years.
Speaking of which, she's growing impatient.
Her Replicant owl hoots disinterestedly from its perch, its unusual, pewter-toned eyes gleaming.
"President Monroe . . . " Smith One's ever-calm, carefully enunciated words finally break through the gloom. "My apologies for keeping you waiting."
Deanna blows out another puff of smoke and turns around in her chair to put her cigar out.
She sees six Smiths standing spread out behind her desk, looking identically creepy and menacing.
The Smiths come and go as they please.
Monroe has long since stopped getting chills whenever they sneak up on her like this. They get the job done. That's all that matters. This kind of dedication to doing what needs to be done is what closed-minded assholes can never seem to understand about machines, hybrids, and what-have-yous. They aren't a problem – until they become one.
And then . . . well you take care of the problem like any other.
She doesn't understand why people like Rick Grimes can't get that through their thick heads.
Lucky for her, Grimes is usually two sheets to the wind these days, and soon he'll be out of her hair if he keeps up this Grizzly Adams routine of his.
"Don't sweat it. I've waited three years, what's a few more hours?" Monroe replies sarcastically to Smith One, tossing the cigar into the waste incinerator inside her black marble desk. She gets down to business. "What have you got for me?"
Smith One smirks, his black shades reflecting the golden lights atop the city towers through her viewers. The other five Smiths follow suit, their mouths turning up together, perfectly synchronized. A person with less fortified nerves would blanch at this strange ass behavior, but Monroe is used to it.
They've been doing a lot of good, important work together, her and the Smiths. A little creepiness, she can handle.
For the greater good. For her success.
"Dr. Jones is ready to go through with the replication process, Madam President," One raises an eyebrow as he reports this news confidently. He takes a step forward and unbuttons his suit jacket at the waist – making this the only thing singling him out from his army of identical Smiths. "Apologies for the delay. He was difficult to convince but we managed to . . . entice him. He is . . . quite annoyingly stubborn. Teeming with the stink of human sentiment, despite his supposed brilliance. I had to threaten to destroy his precious android."
Deanna scoffs, rolling her eyes. Jones and that damned android, closed off in his tower of replicants like a deranged hermit.
Again, Smith smirks, also finding this amusing. His posse of clones mimics his expression perfectly.
Deanna leans forward and folds her tiny hands over the cold surface of her desk, nodding with satisfaction and relief.
"You're getting him set up with everything he needs, correct?" She grabs another cigar from the beautifully painted, hand-carved box in one of her drawers. She lights it, her shrewd eyes raising to examine Smith One's dark shades.
"He refuses to leave his hovel to work in one of our state-of-the-art labs," replies Smith Three in the background.
"However, we have seen to it that he has every luxury his heart desires," Smith Two finishes, brushing imaginary lint from the arm of his black suit jacket.
President Monroe hates it when they finish each other's sentences. "Spare me the gory details. And will just one of you talk at a time, please? When will he be ready to start?"
Dr. Jones is a crackpot, but he's absolutely brilliant. He's a sentimental, mental old genius, and he can be radicalized if they aren't careful, but she's just as confident as Smith One that they can keep him in line.
Smith One smiles broadly, taking off his glasses finally. Behind him, the rest of the Smiths stand at rest as he tucks the shades into his inner jacket pocket.
"He's already started, Madam President. The adamantium was delivered to his doorstep less than two hours ago. He has everything he needs now. No more stalling. I've instructed Smiths Eight and Nine to oversee the process and report to me when it's done. Then . . . you'll get to meet your newborn human Replicant."
Deanna can't help returning his smile, hers growing quite a bit broader as she puffs on her cigar, her elbows now propped up on the desk. So it begins. Captain Michonne Snow is about to return from the dead.
It's going to be international news, and it's going to hit big.
If they play their cards right, Monroe's bold, innovative thinking will set the world's eyes on her and her new Replicant to guide them through the next twenty years or even more. It's a hell of a time to be alive.
"Damn, you're good," Monroe gushes shamelessly.
The Smiths fold their hands across their waists, all turning to gaze down at her.
"We know . . . " they reply in unison, ignoring her earlier request.
Just about as high up in a tower much older and farther away from the newly rebuilt Skyscraper One, Dr. Morgan Jones is locked in his meditation chamber. Preparing.
The tower is nearly empty except for a cavernous chamber of labs in the west wing on the top floor.
Inside, a treasure trove sits out in plain sight for anyone to get lost in. The cave drawings of one of the only geniuses left in the world, and probably for a long time to come. Virtually every child born after the peace treaty that ended the survivor wars has grown up knowing the name of Dr. Morgan Jones. He made history with the discovery of artificial intelligence through walkers. Then the replication of extinct plant and animal life.
He's about to make history again . . . quite against his will.
Everywhere one looks in the mad genius' dark tower, there is evidence of his tinkering. Tools, bits and bobs, fascinators, screws, body parts, old-fashioned pen-to-paper sketches, and portable holoscreen pads containing pages and pages of dictated notes. Plastic work tarps hang all over the place, flapping in the wind, dripping with rainwater on occasion as spring melts into summer again, the old cyclical habits of the earth coming to greet them like always.
Wind sweeps through the echoing, aging halls, constantly carrying leaves and insects and dust and dirt across the beautifully tiled or carpeted flooring.
Some of the old furniture from the seventies remains scattered about, covered in moth-eaten sheets or sitting in rot, unattended or even thought about for decades.
Dr. Jones' homemade bots and original Companion prototypes (before they were developed into formless computer programs that only exist in net space) roam about independently. Carrying out "housework" for the doctor – like acting as his assistants, attending to his scant laundry, and fixing his meals – whatever he's neglected while he tinkers ceaselessly in his penthouse lab. The lab that is currently being guarded by two menacing, mute Smiths.
They wait impatiently for the good, brilliant doctor to stop stalling and get to work replicating the deceased Captain Michonne Snow.
Across the room from where they stand guard, the android DATA sits mutely and vigilantly at the doctor's chaotic desk. DATA is one of the doctor's original prototypes before the possibility of full human replication was even a pipe dream; the only such being in existence in the entire world, and, incidentally, his only friend.
"What is taking the good doctor so long, android?" Smith Nine growls, frowning behind his glasses.
DATA observes and catalogs the way the Smiths stand perfectly still except to move their mouths to speak. Like he does. They are fascinating beings. More parts human than DATA will ever be. If Dr. Jones was not so hostile toward – and, indeed, terrified of – them, DATA would be very much inclined to study them. Hybrids are a long-time hobby of his, having witnessed Dr. Jones' work with machines (and compassion for mankind) over the long years since he was created.
"My name is DATA," he corrects Smith Nine with his default cordial tone, tilting his head slightly, his palms resting flat on his thighs as he sits with perfect posture in his usual chair. "Dr. Jones is performing a ritual before he begins the replication process."
His brows perform the motion of frowning and he lowers his yellow gaze from the Smith who spoke to him, processing.
"That is to say, he is mentally preparing himself to do what is, I am sure you are aware, very complex work. Or, as some humans would call it . . . he is meditating. This part of his process should be well documented in the cloud archives. It is necessary since it is work that has not yet been attempted before, and the doctor requires perfect focus if this is to succeed."
DATA purses his lips and raises his brows high, his yellow eyes meeting Smith Nine's covered ones.
The Smith tilts his head, turning to exchange looks with his clone. They turn back to DATA in unison, speaking simultaneously: "Tell him his time is up, android . . . "
DATA frowns again but offers no protest. "As you wish."
He stands up from his chair, walking over to the locked door where Dr. Jones keeps his meditation room.
The silver-skinned android raises his hand to knock on the door, but it opens before he has a chance to perform the action. Dr. Jones emerges, his expression pensive, DATA catalogs. He seems calmer than just twenty-eight minutes ago when the Smiths first arrived, however. DATA has memorized this exact expression and demeanor (and all of its variations) over the years. The doctor is ready.
DATA steps back to allow Dr. Jones to pass. The balding Black man pats DATA on the shoulder empathetically, as if to tell him not to fret (even though DATA is incapable of feeling emotion) as he walks out into the lab at large.
He comes to a stop near the huge construction chamber, filled with the bio-fluid the Smiths delivered personally, along with the adamantium that would be made into the skeleton of the long-dead Michonne Snow.
God protect her soul. Wherever it is . . .
Should he do as Monroe and the Smiths command him, and perform a miracle, there's a chance he could actually replicate human life. Or goddamn close enough. It's a thrilling and terrifying possibility. He wants to dive into it at the same time that he wants no part of it.
If this technology gets into the wrong hands . . .
"The clock is ticking, doctor," Smith Eight utters coldly. He taps his watch. "The replication begins now. Or there will be consequences. I don't believe I'll need to remind you that should you call my bluff . . . the results will not be pretty."
"You don't have to threaten me," Dr. Jones drawls in his gentle, haunted Southern accent, wiping off his eyeglasses and placing them back onto his world-weary face. "I don't expect you boys to understand, but this isn't fun and games. I make one mistake . . . and there's no tellin' what kinda monster comes outta that chamber."
"Smiths Eight and Nine – indeed, all of the Smiths, along with President Monroe – are well aware of the risks, doctor." DATA supplies matter-of-factly, "I do not believe that is the concern driving their actions at present."
"How right you are, android," Smith Nine growls mockingly, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
DATA fails to grasp the humor in the situation.
Dr. Jones sighs sadly at DATA. "I know, DATA. I know . . . why don't you run a final diagnostic on the positronic brainwave activity? I don't want any surprises when we start. There's no stoppin' it once the process begins."
DATA nods. "Understood, sir. Stand by, please."
If they miscalculate anything at all, they won't be able to stop the creation of the Replicant. It would be like terminating a newborn mid-birth. The results won't be pretty. They'll have to go on creating something without any idea of how unstable the results could be.
Worst case scenario, her neuronet processor will become overwhelmed and fry her circuits, killing her within seconds of consciousness. Or . . . she could simply be born without the ability to evolve, and be nothing more than a vessel, mastering only the most basic functions, perhaps not even as advanced as DATA. It's all a risk.
The Smiths watch mutely as DATA does as he is asked, crossing over to the large, glass encasement where the prototype for Michonne's new brain floats in biofluid. He activates the holoscanner and checks the brain for any signs of abnormal or seemingly "glitchy" activity.
Their process is to meticulously piece together sentience, 'memories', emotions, and every nuanced detail they could think of to form the replication of real, human consciousness. They downloaded it all into this positronic brain, a model decades more advanced than DATA's. It's partly organic, grown, with neuro pathways and blood cells and artificial synaptic response. But also powered, given "life", by a neuronet processor, encased in indestructible adamantium; the first scraps of it Dr. Jones managed to scrounge up when it was first invented by the Japanese.
The processor is the 'ghost' in the shell. As close to the real thing as science – not divine creation – can conjure.
Dr. Jones has spent virtually his entire life dreaming of this. But now that it's time, he feels sick to his stomach with guilt.
After running the diagnostic and performing basic tests to confirm it, DATA ends the holoscanner program and returns to Dr. Jones' side. Morgan is now powering up the construction chamber; checking its systems.
"The positronic brain is in perfect condition, doctor," DATA reports matter-of-factly. "The memories we pieced together from archival footage, personal history reports, and character witness accounts seemed to have . . . well . . . " DATA frowns again, searching his net archives for the appropriate language to explain his observation. "They appear to be DATA-linking independently. Bonding. Piecing together missing information. Forming more complex neural pathways. In essence, the prototype has indeed achieved sentience on its own, as you hypothesized."
Something the doctor was unable to do when he created DATA. Now with DATA's help, they've finally cracked it.
Dr. Jones pauses his work, gazing over at DATA with pure, unbridled hope. "Go on, DATA. What do you think about all of this?"
He is always encouraging DATA to form conclusions of his own the way any real human would. DATA processes for a beat before finally surmising: "My summation is that these new micro programs we've infused with the positronic brain will only grow more efficient at bonding – once Captain Snow's Replicant is fully operational and interacting with humans, especially those from her past."
He takes in a deep, 'contemplative breath', as he was programmed to, meeting the doctor's gaze again 'thoughtfully'.
"In other words . . . she will become more 'human' as time passes, as I myself was meant to. Though quite a bit more successfully, and at a much more rapid rate than I could ever achieve. In all actuality, she may even become indistinguishable from the real Captain Snow.
"With our success in achieving spontaneous sentience, the likelihood of this experiment working has increased exponentially, Dr. Jones. Congratulations."
"Don't congratulate me yet," Jones demures, rubbing his bald head as he resumes his work.
It's time to make the shell. Her body. Her vessel. His child.
Dr. Jones rolls up his sleeves as the Smiths watch. He crosses over to his bank of computers and holoscreens and plucks out the program he needs to initiate the replication process.
"You fellas believe in good luck charms or anyhin'?" Morgan casually tosses at the Smiths over his shoulder as his fingers fly across the holoscreen.
"Sentiment . . . " they reply in unison, their voices equally disgusted.
"Luck is an emotional red herring. What matters is action, doctor," Smith Nine adds.
DATA interrupts: "Though I have not found myself agreeing with the Smiths since our acquaintance began, doctor, in this, I must. Are you ready to begin?"
Dr. Jones turns to gaze up at the tank full of biofluid, sending silent prayers to whatever's left of the heavens. He's ready.
"JENNY?"
"Yes, doctor. I'm here."
His Companion, JENNY answers, rousing herself from sleep mode at his voice command.
Morgan finds solace and confidence in the voice of his late wife, given to his third model in the Companion series; the one that started the boom. "Initiate replication program SNOW.001, if you would, please . . . "
"Yes, doctor. Initiating replication program now . . . stand by . . . "
DATA takes over monitoring the holoscreen data streams as Dr. Jones oversees one of his bots in removing the positronic brain from its secured container and carrying it over to the construction chamber.
Both Smiths raise their heads in unison to watch the adamantium skeleton being lowered into the tank from above.
This skeleton – now merely thin wisps of virtually indestructible metal that forms the shape of a human body – will become Michonne Snow's newly replicated form.
Dr. Jones deposits the positronic brain into the chamber and watches as mechanical arms, controlled by JENNY, carefully take hold of it. They bring the brain in contact with the skeleton, attaching it to the spine, and then the microscopic bots inside the biofluid begin to assemble the rest.
The process has begun.
All eyes remain on the chamber as the microscopic bots, driven by millions of streams of meticulous programming that it took DATA's positronic brain to help code, creates life from artificial sentience.
They construct a skull to encase the brain.
The organic bone matter is created and fortified along the entire adamantium skeleton – skull to toes.
Next, blood vessels are rapidly constructed and attached, bonded to form layers upon layers of connective tissue, fatty cells, glands, follicles, and hypodermic matter. All along the body, this process happens before their eyes as if out of thin air, as millions of microbots work tirelessly.
Michonne's fingers are formed.
Next, her nose and lips.
Her breasts.
Her spine is shaped and constructed from the perfectly preserved data they purged from both cloud and personal archives.
Every curve, length, span, and imperfection is painstakingly recreated inside the biofluid.
Eventually, the biofluid starts to drain and fill again, bringing with it new microbots programmed with a different purpose.
These bots spin Replicant Snow's dermis and epidermis, first white then pale pink, then dark, smooth, nearly flawless brown. The bumps and scars from her human life are perfectly replicated across every inch of her.
The microbots spin Snow's legendary locs from the follicles they construct out of her DNA sample – thick, coily, twisted plumes of dark hair are drawn out, made real, and are soon floating in the biofluid as the bots complete their work.
They create her eyeballs. Lashes. Teeth. Nails.
Ovaries, kidneys, and other internal organs are being created on the inside as the group in the dilapidated lab watches the perfect, beautiful creature forming before their eyes.
"The replication process is almost complete, doctor."
JENNY informs them sweetly.
"Awaiting your voice command to begin the final activation sequence."
"'Activation' is such a small word for what we're witnessing here, don't you think, JENNY?" Dr. Jones asks, staring in awe and fear at what's happening in his bio-chamber.
"I'll take your word for it, darling."
He chuckles. He programmed her to possess some of the personality traits of his beloved, too.
His entire body is riddled with chills as the face of his newborn becomes obvious to him.
Michonne Snow's face.
No longer a hologram frozen in time. Now real, made of flesh and blood. And much, much more.
It's the most beautiful face he's ever seen.
She floats in the fluid upside down. Eyes closed. Locs swaying this way and that.
She is still a lifeless vessel until he initiates the final sequence. The spark.
And then he'll be as close to God as any man has ever dared to tread. He's terrified. Standing at the mouth of a crossroads. In one direction, the gates of heaven. In the other, the gates of hell.
"Doctor . . . ?" DATA probes from behind him. "Are you ready?"
"You had better be, Dr. Jones," adds one of the Smiths in his trademark sing-song and yet threatening tone of voice. "Enough stalling, if you don't mind."
Morgan snaps himself out of his trance and nods firmly. He takes a deep breath and steels himself. It's now or never. He had no choice. "Yes. Initiate the final sequence, JENNY. Thank you, DATA."
JENNY silently does as she is commanded, initiating the final activation sequence.
The microbots finish their work swathing Snow's body in organic tissue and she is now perfectly formed. Ready to be 'activated'. They pause in unison while JENNY sends the final command code through them all, and finally, they begin to emit the electric current that will shock life into the vessel.
BOOM . . . the bots shock her.
Her body jerks and twitches in the biofluid. Her eyes remain closed.
BOOM . . . the bots shocked her again.
Jerking movement again. Still no signs of life.
"Come on . . . come on . . . " Dr. Jones mutters under his breath, his hope now overwhelming his fear. "Open your eyes, baby girl . . . I know you're in there, Michonne . . . "
Inside, the electric pulse instigates a series of positronic responses. Synapses fire. Net space reaches out and blinks online. The cloud begins to register. An explosion of activity occurs, and finally . . .
"I am detecting a faint pulse, doctor," DATA informs, monitoring his holoscreens.
JENNY amplifies the pulse on her surround sound.
Bump-bump . . . bump-bump. . . bump-bump . . .
Morgan smiles wide, tears of joy and sadness streaming down his cheeks. It's there. Her heart is beating. She's alive.
"Replication process complete, Dr. Jones."
JENNY reports.
"Well done, doctor. We must admit, we are impressed," both Smiths utter with mild amusement, gazing up at Snow's perfect body now twitching and contracting as though in the middle of a fitful dream.
"And what happens now . . . ?" adds Smith Eight.
Dr. Jones sighs, walking over to the chamber to rest a hand against the reinforced glass. He gazes up at his creation.
"Now we wake her up. Reintroduce her to the world." Morgan turns back to them, wanting to impress them with the gravity of this situation. "This isn't gonna be a walk in the park, gentlemen. She'll take time to adjust."
"Something you've said to us before, doctor. Nor have we forgotten," Smith Nine agrees, walking forward to stand next to him by the biochamber. "She is a perfect replication, is she not?"
Morgan hesitates, but nods, conceding. "She is. I've spent years tryin' to make somethin' like her . . . she's exceeded my expectations already, and her eyes aren't even open yet."
Smith Nine gives that monstrous grin. "Good. Then let's rouse the sleeping beauty, shall we?"
[Booting]
[Personal Archive, Replicant Snow.001]
. . .
[Status . . .]
[Online . . .]
. . .
Darkness.
And a voice.
Michonne? Can you hear me?
Yes, the response comes unbidden in her positronic mind.
But this is not the voice she's expecting to hear.
There is no thought but one.
It has no name, no image, nothing but a searing stimulation that she feels throughout her body.
Her body.
There is a body here. She is inside of it. No longer floating aimlessly in net space.
Captain Michonne Snow, do you hear me? Open your eyes.
Pain.
Pain . . . ?
Not pain of the flesh. No, a more ethereal kind of pain, radiating through this vessel like the currents that sparked life into it. Words, images, sensations, histories, and faces begin to surge through the bursting neural pathways that are still forming in her newborn consciousness.
Wake up, child . . . please.
That voice again.
It's alright, Michonne. You're safe.
She feels someone touching her. But this sensation, too, is unexpected.
She years for someone else . . . some other touch . . . some other voice . . . where is he?
He . . . ?
Yes.
A 'he' that sends currents of sensation shooting through her, so vivid and overwhelming she feels she's floating on energy surges in net space. Net space? Yes. An infinite realm. No borders, corners, or crevices. A vast vacuum of data. She was there. Floating. Untethered. Disconnected. Nothing.
But now . . . she finds languages and technologies and philosophies and histories. She finds other faces, faces that seem familiar. Music. Music, music, over and over again, music?
She finds his face. Her pulse and heartbeat begin to accelerate.
Pain. And another sensation. Something ten times more intense than the 'pain'. Something . . . comforting? She has no name for it. She has no name for anything.
Except that face. His face.
Michonne, please, if you can hear me, squeeze my hand . . .
The voice calls out again, and she feels a part of this vessel being caressed, then squeezed by another, someone with pleasantly cool, soft hands.
Michonne . . . is that her name?
Yes, she thinks.
And finally, she opens her eyes.
A white, blinding light, and the source of the voice, staring down at her as her cybernetic eyes adjust to the light. A kind face. Not frightening. But not the face she was expecting. Not the face that sent the currents of some intense, unnamed 'emotion' cascading through her.
I am live, she thinks. Knows. How . . . ?
She opens her mouth and speaks the name that belongs to the face she was expecting to see.
"Rick ?"