Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Chroma, at the heart of Neo-Paris’ entertainment district, throbs quietly an hour before its opening. The discotheque, in its confidential pre-opening moments, flips through the setlist for the night; the strobes and lights flash in intermittent but blinding movements. A pair of cleaners tend to the shattered glasses and forgotten garments from the night before - one clucks his bronze-plate tongue at “kids these days” as he culls up the remnants of their indulgence.

“I tell you, they’ve got no sense at all,” the other mutters. “They didn’t have Electro-Ecstasy when I was in production. Now everybody takes it and trashes this place.”

“They program you to be an old coot?”

“Yeah, good ol’ traditionalism chip. Wish Luc hadn’t lost the manual. I’d like it out sometime.”

“Let me calculate the probability of that,” the first cleaner says, pausing his excavation of a martini glass. “...Zero percent.” Their LED eyes light up with laughter, but dim at the creak of a door.

A pair of impeccably-dressed droids struts in - one, shorter, bears a gold helmet with a full-screen face, while the taller dons a silver helmet with an eye-visor.

“Our favorite DJs,” the cleaners remark simultaneously. “How y’all doing?”

“Bon,” the silver DJ replies, dusting his jacket.

“Oh, quit the old language, Thomas,” one cleaner remarks. “Nobody talks like that.”

“It’s a habit,” Thomas says, and HAHA passes his visor. “If Luc wants it--”

“--he’s gotta have it,” the gold interrupts, a laughing face projecting onto his screen.

“Guy-Man gets it,” the cleaner pronounces.
“That’s why he has a crack on his screen.” Thomas shoves Guy-Man by the shoulder in half-jest.

The gold bot reaches his hand to the minute dent at the top of his screen and jerks away, taking the quickest and fastest route to the turntables as he can calculate. Just before he sifts through the samples, Guy-Man still rubs at the mark. It’s been there for at least a week after what happened with Luc, Thomas recalls, force-quitting the recollection at the image of Luc’s oversized fist hurtling towards the other bot.

He instead projects it towards the cleaner. Thomas quits the process again immediately.

“Nothing you can do about it,” the cleaner mutters. “Just the way it is.” He turns towards his coworker and asks for one last cleaning scan.

Chroma is spotless.

Until Thomas takes his place at the turntables and the doors fling open. Immediately the room fills with the uproarious voices of young Neo-Parisians and the rhythm of Guy-Man and Thomas’ beat; the slithering curves of lithe ladies of the night, the excited tremble of male palms, the strobes and blinks and lights and the clink of ice in spark bombs and battery blasts and bolt-bursters, the neon glow of Electro-Ecstasy tablets; one more time, we’re gonna celebrate, oh yeah, alright, don’t stop the dancing --

-- and Thomas will peer up and detect the polished metal hips of a fembot, but she is inevitably in the wrong place at the wrong time, ushered away from the floor with red light blasting at her back, still pumping her fist in the air; and when he’s still looking at her he’ll scan over and spot Luc’s beady glare, his own gripped hand tightening at the sight of the robot, and Thomas’ focus will return to the panels of the turntables and, occasionally, to Guy-Man, who hasn’t shifted at all since they came in -- music’s got me feeling so free, we’re gonna celebrate yeah, celebrate and dance so free -- but here they are, both of them slaves to the turntables, to Luc’s rage, to the Neo-Parisians and their pills and their drinks and their limbs and their lust for light and music and dance and free and Nous fermons, nous fermons, allez-vous-en, allez-vous-en, merde, no one understands Luc’s old-French blathering but they know enough to get the hell out of there, leaving behind unswallowed pills and forgotten stockings and spilled booze pouring like oil into the carpet of the VIP room, ultra-resin glass bent and broken, true glass shattered against the bar (and this time the bartender Pharrell’s dodged the fruit-punch shockers), leaving behind Guy-Man and Thomas for another night of:

“You filthy goddamn bolt brains, putains, I ought to disassemble all of you lazy bastards myself, wasn’t anyone dancing, mon dieu none of you cleaned up the pills yet?”

And another night of Guy-Man receiving too many commands at once, a second’s delay that leads Luc to shove him back, slam against the wall, the crack on his helmet’s just a little worse, Guy-Man lunges and he’s immediately restrained by his own programming, “don’t you know the third rule by now?” Guy trembles, power jolting through him, Thomas folds his arm around Guy and it’s back to the cyberslums.

Just another night at Chroma.

On the way home Thomas continues to half-carry Guy-Man; Pharrell jogs behind them, copper skinplates illuminating their path as it’s made through the city. On occasion, Guy stops without a word - Thomas pushes him forward, reminding him that they are exactly 5.65 blocks away, not too far for anyone. Guy starts walking, again wordlessly, no calculated sway to his arms, but no irregularity to his step, onyx-black monitor reflecting the darkening lights of the cyberslums.

Guy doesn’t find it in him to raise his helmet to the vocoder weeping of the tenements, nor does he kick away the dismembered arm crawling across the street hunting for its owner, nor does he respond to the murmured din of the Manufacturing District, nothing to say to its distant fires as they glow through the windows of the thirteenth floor of Tenement 341.

It’s not until he is back on his bed, fully supine, that Guy has anything to say.

Pharrell’s left the two bots behind, quietly shutting the brittle wooden door. When most claim that a building is a thousand years old, it’s in derisive jest - but the tenement is quite literally a thousand years old, only “repaired” to stay upright and to keep out acid rain. The whole floor seems to shift, ever so slightly, to the creak of one door out of three hundred.

And that’s when Guy speaks. “Can’t.”
“You can’t what?” Thomas is settled on the floor, beside Guy’s feet.

“This.”

“There’s nothing we can do, Guy. This is our design. We’ve been active for 24.52 years--”

“Not anymore.”

“Luc isn’t going to change.”
“Never has. Never will.”
“Why do you have a problem now?”

“You know why.”
Thomas wonders if he’d deleted the memory of the crack - or if he’d just put it in a different folder. “We can get it fixed.”

“And then Luc can break it again.”

“I don’t know what to tell you,” Thomas snaps. “It’s what we’re meant to do.”

“We’re meant to be playthings for humans?”

“We are service androids and nothing more--”

“So it’s fine for Luc to do this --” Guy gestures at his own helmet, mimicking a sharp punch. “-- because we’re service androids.”
“There’s nothing that prohibits him from--”

“We’re service androids, and nothing more -- because we aren’t human he can do whatever he wants -- tell me that humans haven’t-”

“It’s different, they feel different--”

“You think they felt any different than we--”

“We don’t feel. We only react because we’ve been programmed--”

“Then why--”
“Please, Guy. You’ve got to let it go for now.”

In humans, the sigh acts as a reset button -- for Guy, the reset button is equally as cleansing as a burst of breath. “Another day,” he mutters, almost peacefully.

Thomas is already in sleep mode.

Chapter Text

Every morning Cindi Mayweather boots up from the same defragmentation dreams - ones of constant pursuit, usually in a slimy sewer or someplace equally as grungy, as she attempts to stow herself away from droid control.

This morning is only slightly different.

As she slogs through thick, ankle-high oil waste, Cindi’s in the company of two strangely familiar bots - both of whom seem to tower over her. It’s then that she realizes that she isn’t making her own path through the oil, but is instead being dragged; helplessly, she kicks her legs against the sludge.

“You want to get out of here, right?” one voice questions, his metallic grip tightening. She looks up to a silver helmet projecting a question mark.

That damn DJ. She still feels the sting of the taser in her side as she’d been dragged out of Chroma for the hundredth time.

Then she falls out of her bunk onto the floor.

Cindi lives on the fourteenth floor of Tenement 341, reserved for musical service androids. I could have been living with Jane, she often considers, if bots could legally inhabit the same residence as controllers proven inconsistent in their usage of service from andro--

Or something to that effect. Cindi sometimes wonders how she even came to live in this building, considering that she was designed to be a waitress--

Androids that display particular excellence in the arts may apply to housing in residences corresponding to their specific talent. Musically-gifted androids should consider applying to Building 341--

Worst decision of her runtime. No one had paid for upkeep for the place in years - the Wondaland Arts Society behind it had been defunct for much longer.

So much for excellence.

Cindi polishes the chrome on her cheeks one last time and considers what color LED she should set for her lips and eyes. Blue for the eyes and red for the lips. No. Green for the eyes and red for the lips. Maybe pink.

Why she even considers it, she doesn’t know. She wonders how much battery she wastes thinking about it.

Not that it matters.

The Neon Valley Diner awaits.

And it awaits her long enough that the first thing she hears upon entry is why didn’t you get your tin can here sooner, we’ve got five omelettes waiting for you, where’s the sugar replicator, haven’t you done green eyelights enough times the men are getting sick of it--

But she’s used to it. She has to be.

She’s used to the thankless tourists, sitting in groups of five or six, the ones who never fail to remark that the New Eiffel Tower isn’t half as tall as they thought it’d be. She’s used to the men who leer at the tight-fitting waitress uniform and whisper let me see that can later baby as she brings the third cup of coffee, the ones who see it fit to stuff their tips in her stockings instead of on the tab. (She doesn’t get to keep it, even if it did rub on her thigh.) She’s used to the little boy who tries to trip her as she brings over smiley-face pancakes, the little girl who pets her coiled hair (with her mother’s permission) and coos “pretty shiny.” And she’s used to the finely-dressed women who politely order a café crème, admire themselves through the sheer chrome on Cindi’s cheeks, and run their gloved hands down her bare arms and say “if only I could have your glow, Miss…” There’s always a pause as they look for her projected name. “Miss Cindi. For a fembot, you’re stunning.”

But she never gets used to Anthony Greendown.

She’s served him now - 38 times - but each time feels like the first, the way his beautiful brown eyes light up, the way his full lips curl into a coy smile as he takes his American coffee and shows his American teeth as he mouths “Thanks, Cin.”

It’s a sin the way you look at me, hun, she wants to say. But that’d be a violation of Human-Android Relations law. Suppose it’s still a sin, then. “You’re welcome.” Automated response. He knows.   

“Anytime.” He winks.
“Do you need anything else?” Another automated response but this time her voicebox cracks ever so slightly. She detects another faint glimmer in his gaze.

She waits.

“That’s all, babe.” She turns. “See you tonight.”

Perfect.

--

The Metropolis Theater for Android Performance barely lives up to its showy name. The stage is barely large enough to hold a five-piece band. Meanwhile, the house lights illuminate a space just enough to fit thirty human-sized bots -- maybe forty compacts, or twenty-five cleaners, or fifteen tankers…

“Quit staring out like that,” Jane urges. “We’ve only got a few folks tonight.”

Quit estimation process. “I know,” Cindi replies.

“You worried about something?”

The stage hums -- the guitar player strums softly, the bassist quickly runs through a couple of lines, and Cindi whispers “no.”

“I know when you’re lying, Cin.”

Cin. She curses her own predictability. “I was just trying not to think about--”

“Who? Don’t tell me it’s --”

“Anthony Greendown, he said he’s coming tonight and --”

“He got an invitation?”

“-- I don't know, someone must have given him one and told him I'd be there --"

“No, no no no.” Jane rubs her temples, sighing harshly. “No more humans. Not anymore. Not with droid control--”

“Droid control’s never come here--”

“They’ll see humans and robots in the same audience -- you think you’ll get out of here with your --”

“You’re human, you can talk them out of--”

“You think I have more authority than droid control? Do you know what they do to people like me--”

Humans who violate android division law will be incarcerated for half their estimated total life span, and will lose their privilege to associate freely with--

“You can holoproject the law all you want, but you’ll never know what goes on there.” Jane turns away, treading off the stage to usher in a few early bots - 6ix Savage, XTina, the regulars - and while Cindi usually hops off to chatter with them, she instead slinks backstage.

Something feels wrong about looking at the audience - in the same way something feels wrong about a coffee stain that’s been left on a glass table, or a salt dispenser that’s been misplaced from its home counter, or a milkshake replicator that’s modified the ice cream:milk ratio on its own. Unsettling enough that she wants to fix it - but this time, she can’t, and there’s no help document to explain why.

Show in T minus five minutes. Enough time to reconfigure her makeup again, enough time to fix her bowtie, enough time to stop thinking about Anthony and Jane and droid control and just think about the music and the songs and--

“Come on, everyone’s here --” Jane’s afro puffs through the door as she leans in. “Come out already.”

Cindi smooths her synthetic pompadour quickly and tugs gently at her bowtie. “Just one second, I--”

“Don’t be vain, now.”

Cancelling aesthetic reconfiguration. Heading to coordinates of stage. Loading introductory speech. “Thanks for coming out here tonight, I’ve got a new song…” Scanning for Jane, sensor activated at drums. Scanning for Anthony Greendown, first row, center - detected - suppressing vocal glitch. “It’s called ‘Locked Inside’ and…” Resuming speech. Loading score, lyrics and choreography. Generating melisma. Reforming improvisation library. “...it goes a little something like this.” Initiating performance.

“I’m locked inside a land called foolish pride - where the man is always right - he hates to talk but loves to fight - is that alright?” For a moment Cindi genuinely considers the lyrics, finding her gaze lowering to Anthony.

“On real cold days…” she continues, stifling her vocal break. “...he loans us lots of hate - but he says that he must pay to take it all away - is that okay?”

This secrecy is not okay. These laws are not okay. This system is not okay.

None of this is okay.

“But I’m asking you, will you stay with me, in this land where we are free--” Anthony beams again, staring right at her, and Cindi senses her next note reaching an octave higher. “And I know it’s rough, and you’ve had enough, but one day we’ll be happy.”

Continuing song sequence: bridge. Cindi cancels the process and loads lyrical improvisation sequence -- searching emotion banks -- lyrics generated. “When I look into the future I see danger in its eyes - hearts of hatred rule the land while love is left aside - killing plagues the citizens while music slowly dies - I get frightened, I, see I get frightened, I--”

The lobby doors burst open.

The music cuts off.

Chapter Text

Everyone reaches a breaking point - even Guy-Man.

Perhaps the breaking point should have come about a week ago, when his motion detectors sensed Luc’s trembling fist. Perhaps it should have come when his view grew static, when he saw the first red flash of IMMEDIATE REPAIR REQUIRED on his interface.

Something broke, that’s for sure.

But Guy-Man isn’t thinking about his helmet - in fact, he refuses to even reconsider the little bolt-like crack that’s opened just a little bit more tonight.

He wonders when the oil will start seeping through, when it’ll affect his performance, his behavior, his --

We don’t feel. We only react because we’ve been programmed to. Of course. Thomas is right.

Guy-Man only reacts in the interest of his survival. He only shudders at the sight of IMMEDIATE REPAIR REQUIRED because it’s in his code, so that he’ll remember to find the zero available shops for his model and era. He only lunges at Luc because it’s in his code, so that Luc won’t be the first to strike, so that Luc won’t deal the final blow to that little crack. And he only worries about Thomas because it’s in his code, because neither one can run without the other in the most literal sense - there is something in his wiring that makes their runtimes connected - and Thomas is his life and he is Thomas’ life.

And when Chroma closes for the night, and Pharrell’s stowed himself away from thrown glasses, and Luc’s hands are wrapped around Thomas’ neck and inching dangerously close to Thomas’ power button, Guy-Man’s restraint shorts out.

There are three laws upon which all robots are programmed: (one) that they may not harm or allow harm to come to humans, (two) that they must obey all orders given by humans save for those conflicting with the first law, and (three) that robots may protect their runtimes as long as there is no conflict with the first two laws.

Guy-Man’s about to break all three.

So as Luc smirks smugly and sneers try that when I throw your battery in the sewer, connard, Guy-Man cusps his own palm on Luc’s broad neck and tugs back - perhaps less harshly than he’d wished.

Thomas falls back; Luc detaches quickly and squirms, impotent.

Helpless. Powerless. Guy wonders how it feels to insult a human - how it’ll taste in his voicebox. “Try that again, merde embulante.” Delicious.

Luc tries to pry Guy’s hand open. He fails.

“Try that again.”

“Let me go,” Luc wheezes. “Let me go and I won’t hurt your little friend.” Lie detected. "Come on."

“I thought you wanted us to speak your language, Luc.” His grip tightens.

A sudden gleam. “First rule.” Guy processes the request.

Request cancelled. He steadies his grasp. “Never touch Thomas again. Never. Jamais.”

“Jamais, je promets.”

Lightens it by one finger. “Repeat that.”
“Jamais.”

Two. “Again.”

“Jamais.”

Three - and Luc has already ripped Guy-Man’s entire arm away, knocking him to the floor. Luc stands over him as he reels. “If I can’t touch your precious Thomas, I’ll gladly take you instead.” Reaches to a holster - Guy’s never noticed it - pulls out a Rectifier X10, its gleam stark in the remnant light.

Guy-Man knows where this will go if he doesn’t act fast.

Initiating phaser sequence.

Phaser sequence aborted - human target detected.

Initiating phaser sequence.

Phaser sequence aborted - human target detected.

Ini--

Silver fingers abruptly wrench back a human head.

Guy hears an unfamiliar snap.

Silver fingers release - Thomas steps back.

Luc drops limp, a cold thump sounding as his body hits the ground. Pharrell peers up from his sanctuary behind the bar, eyes lit wide.

“You just killed Luc.”

Thomas stares at his hands, mute, glancing only at Guy as he lifts himself up. He seems frozen in place, gazing at his palms as if they were an unfamiliar part of his build.

“You just killed Luc, Thom.”
Thomas looks up.

“We have to run. Now.”

Chroma’s glass doors shatter. The night is silent, save for the wailing siren of droid control.

Time to run.

But it’s not just a matter of running. It’s a matter of running through the acid rain in the nadir of midnight’s darkness, it’s a matter of scanning only momentarily for droid control to avoid surrender, it’s a matter of carefully following the labyrinthine alleys -- it’s a matter of not getting caught, and not losing anyone, and Thomas and Guy forbid each other from tearing away.

Thomas limps slightly, gripping onto Guy for support; Guy resists the urge to fall, though his vision’s begun to pixelate. Pharrell - for better or for worse - continues to irradiate every turn, rue d’Aldebaran, rue de Néon, rue d’Asimov, rue d’Ellison.

Behind them Guy detects the rushed march of the Wolfmasters - the highest order in the Android Control Division, dedicated to protecting citizens from morally malfunctional androids -- and he, too, begins to march forward, never looking back, until he realizes they’ve come to a dead end.

No sound but the roaring rain now - a Wolfmaster steps forward as the three draw backward. His lupine mask and black, caped uniform cloak him in the night’s shadow, his form only unveiled by the distant glow of a billboard. “Come.”

Don’t look. Look and you’ll surrender. Guy and Thomas stare up, stepping so that they don’t back into the concrete wall. Guy senses the hiss of acid rain as it drips onto his screen - his view only pixelates further.

“Do not resist.”

But Pharrell is staring downward, scanning and scanning and scanning and looking for the quickest path between towering figures - but he sees nothing but dark and them so he hopelessly scans further down. Like that’ll help - like there’ll be some pothole in the middle of this alleyway that’ll save us all, wouldn’t that just be--

Glance to the side. Well, alright.

Guy, still staring up at the acid rain, prays that it’ll dissolve him before he’s captured once and for all.

If that happens, he prays that someday Thomas’ cybersoul might join him.

While he appeals for ascension, he finds that his feet no longer stand on level ground.

Actually, there isn’t any ground at all. But he’s falling - from where - and he identifies Pharrell and Thomas above him and all he sees from there is an ever-shrinking hole from which the Wolfmasters watch, from which the rain continues to fall, from which he can still spot the glare of the billboard.

Otherwise, he feels weightless.

Maybe this is how it’s supposed to feel - to dissolve, to float, to terminate service; to see the world fade from view, to unite with gravity, to be free.

And then -- a crash.

Chapter Text

Faster / Alive

If robots receive anything to their credit, it’s that their bodies don’t carry the same limitations that humans’ do. If they had hearts, they’d beat steadily, cleanly; if they had lungs, they’d breathe purely, fully. Their legs can take on at least five Greek marathons without needing maintenance - and, if truly pressed, their arms just might be able to carry the weight of the world.

Endurance, efficiency, esthetics - the foundations of modern android assembly - have, for the most part, favored Cindi’s escape into the sewers.

Her mind’s a little different.

If Cindi weren’t completely repulsed by the dingy tunnels, much less their mysterious contents, she’d have been willing to stop. And, if she could get her mind off the phasers flying through the theater and the screaming and the crunching and where did Anthony go, she would have wanted to stop.

But she hears a hollow crash behind her. She has to stop.

Jane grips her knee tightly, copper-hot liquid trickling through her fingers as she does so. Though she tries to stand up again, she stumbles, again leaning on her wounded leg. “Cin-- just keep going, I’ll catch up--”

“No, let me look.” She crouches, urging Jane to remove her hand; she does so with a hiss. Jagged edges - scrap splinters - deep-set wound - tendon and nerve damage detected.

Cindi’s only built to handle first degree burns.

“I can’t--”
“Just go without me,” Jane says, shuddering as her knee bends in. “This is an order, Cin. Run.”

Faster and faster, she should run -- but Cindi refuses the order. “I’m not leaving you.”

Storming steps begin to echo. “Then tell me what you’re doing.”

“I’m not leaving you.”

“What are you going to--” Scanning height and weight; determining lightest carrying points. “Oh, no no no no. You’re not carrying me.” Attempting lift over shoulder. Attempt aborted: subject dimensions too tall. “Just go. Just go.” Recalculating lightest carrying points.

The steps grow closer. “Go.”

Lifting subject. Cindi realizes much too late that she’s carrying Jane under her knees; the latter muffles a yelp. Faster and faster she should run - building up her acceleration’s much harder than she anticipated - faster and faster from their arms - Cindi can’t see them behind her nor can she look back - faster and faster she should run - something crashes in the distance, it’s probably more of them and anyway she can’t look back - faster and faster from their arms - turns and turns and turns and it’s all beginning to look the same, the sludge of oil that’s beginning to build higher, the sickly green on the walls, the darkness, everything is the same.

For all she knows, she could be running right into their clutches.

But she doesn’t - and, judging by the growing distance between herself and the rumbling “march,” she most likely isn’t.

Her velocity diminishes. Not that this is a time for repose. It isn’t.

The makers were savvy enough to remember that they’d granted robots incredible strength and speed - so, of course, a robot on the run doesn’t have access to the sewer maps. Cindi could easily be jogging under Neon Valley, or Chroma, or Palais des Chiens, or - makers forbid - the manufacturing district.

Not that she knows where any of those places are, now that she’s underground.

Which is why Cindi pauses entirely at the sound of Jane’s weakened voice - “you’ve been running in circles...”

She only responds in mimic. “In circles.”

“Take that next right,” Jane commands, lucid. The shift in orientation makes Cindi feel… uneven’s the best word to describe it. Odd - no, that’s the same way. New. “Now -- Cin, do not look behind you --”

The storming march comes closer.

“-- Cin, can you go forward and then, left, and then --”
Protest. “Isn’t that where we heard --”

A sharp sigh. “Please trust me on this.” Please trust, as though Jane has to be polite when she tells Cindi where to go.

Cindi resists the urge to respond: Please trust each step she takes in the sewer, the battery juice and oil now at her ankles; please trust that the liquid won’t get in her joints; please trust that she won’t drop her; please trust that they won’t be separated tonight.

Please trust that she’s already scanned the triad that’s huddled at the final turn - an alcove she hadn’t anticipated. The moment she stops, a silver figure shifts his head.

That damn DJ.

He peers up, visor intermittently glitching out in bright red pixels; the gold one beside him lays practically motionless, head leaning on the silver’s shoulder, broad visor cracked beyond recognition.

There’s another that she only faintly recalls - copper-plated, acrylic-neon bowtie dimmed and warped, a more humanoid face morphed in surprise. “Who--”

“Please,” Cindi begins softly. “Trust me.”

“Who are--”
“We’re just like you, please, I can-- Jane can help all of us--”

He steps in front of the huddled DJs, arms splaying slowly. “Don’t hurt them.”

“I can speak for myself,” the silver interrupts, barely moving; his visor displays WAIT before blinking out.

“Thomas,” the copper hisses. “You don’t know these two.”

“That human’s injured,” Thomas enunciates.
“So is Guy-- this could all be--”

“Droid control wouldn’t bring an injured human --”

A harsh hush from the injured human - Jane tries to kick for their attention but only slumps from the pain.

“You’re not telling me to--”

“You can treat the human - these two might know the way out.”

It’s with great caution that Cindi tries to hand Jane over - but when she can’t find a proper angle to drop her off, Jane lands on her feet with a muted whimper. Immediately, her body collapses onto Pharrell’s - an unmuffled gasp that reaches through the hall. Without losing his own balance, he clenches her arms; she steadies stiffly, letting him peer at her buckling knee.

“That thing is just about broke,” he begins, procuring a treatment kit.

“You handle bar brawls,” Thomas mutters.

“Alright --” And by the wonder that is 31st-century medicine, he’s patched up the broken skin; only a medibot could begin to explain the process. “Now, this only lasts for a while…”
Jane bravely steps forward - and though she grimaces, she can at least limp (even briskly). Pharrell turns his gaze towards Thomas again. “Now what?”

Over there -- I see them over there; the whispers stride through the halls with a dissonant hiss.

Thomas stands, simultaneously guiding Guy through the lift. “We all get out of here,” he replies, “alive.”

Chapter Text

Alive / Cybertronic Purgatory

Guy doesn’t feel alive.

He knows he’s still running.  He’s still running as in he’s still booted up, running as in he’s still plugged in, wired, an active process. He’s still running as in his legs are following basic commands - left-right-left-right-left-right, tracking movement from process TB-909, reinitiating contact with TB-909, left-right-left-right.

His interface still glows faintly before him - his battery has whittled down to 10%. Such is the wonder of energy conservation. If he looks hard enough, he can still see IMMEDIATE REPAIR REQUIRED consistently flashing at the center. Beyond his interface, he can see vague blurs - large blocks - moving quickly and familiarly enough that he knows they are androids.

But, last he checked, there were only three of them.

Now there are two more.

Beginning scanning process. The pixels refine themselves quickly. There’s a short figure with platinum limbs, wide hips and a dark suit. Far ahead, he spots a much taller one with lean feminine legs, puffy hair and a dulled finish--

Dulled finish, no joints apparent, limbs naturalistic, body half-supported by Pharrell, arm pointing out into the darkness.

A human.

Loading identities...loading cancelled; try again after power charged to 20%.

The pixelation renews itself.

But there’s a human - an unidentified human - a threat. He has to tell Thomas.

“Thomas,” he attempts. Vocalization process failed. Voicebox damaged - repair required.

Of course. Landing neck and chest-first in a fall will do that to a voicebox.

He can always try private messaging.

Can’t message TB-909; warrant placed on target.

Guy - Guy-Manuel de Homem-Christo - GM-909 - is still running.

But he doesn’t feel alive.

He feels a bit numb.

Numb. Oddly familiar, oddly routine -- no “thoughts” now but service, maintenance, survival. Service, he finds a bit dubious -- it’s not like he can ever show his visor in Chroma or in the Neo-Parisian metropolis again. Maintenance is even more questionable -- he can’t reload a memory of being fixed by anyone other than Luc. (Most likely a matter of control.) Survival is at least a given - he’s looked out for Thomas and as much as he can for himself - but there’s no way he can determine the probability of his own survival.

Numb. Too familiar to accept, but too familiar to escape. Numb - numb as he feels for Thomas, numb as they continue to run, endlessly - numb, numb as their steps echo damply - numb, numb, numb.

Numb - numb - nothing, nothing, emptiness, darkness.

Guy leans towards Thomas, who is -- not there.

He scans for Pharrell, who is -- not there -- he seeks the fembot, the human, who are -- not there.

Not there, nothing, silence, darkness, emptiness -- Guy reaches for something, anything -- he feels his joints move, he should see himself reaching into the darkness, but he sees nothing.

“Thomas,” he attempts again -- he hears nothing.

He feels weightless, he feels formless, he feels nothing.

Until he checks his interface.

Battery life -- 00̧͕̯̤͓̖1҉͉̮͍̜1͙0̹͓̣̥̗͈0҉0͎̗̹̟1͏͔̮̣̣00̙̖̲̜̗̹1̲͖1͉̩̖͈̻͎̱0̴͈̮̬͚0̪0̦̪̖̱0͖͕0̻͓̝̀0҉̩͓͎͇̠͙1̲͍̯̬̱̟1̨͍̻̝0̲̦͉͠0̴1̼̼1̯͇͖͈̦͢0̬̗̜̻͕̱̱̀0͕̻̣1̠͇̝̹ͅ0͔0̛̳͔1͕̟͍ͅ0͎1̪̤̙ - ERROR; NO BATTERY! - ERROR; NO BATTERY! - ERROR; NO BATTERY! - ERROR; IMMEDIATE REPAIR REQUIRED - ERROR; IMMEDIATE REPAIR REQUIRED -- urgent flashes of pure white, error red, scan-green, waves of millions of pixels, louder than he can see them, burning, burning into him, no form but its waves, waves, waves, washing again and again and again -- seeping into his metal, burning, burning -- Thomas where is Thomas -- scanning for silver, finding loud red green blue cyan magenta loud pixels pixels pixels pixels pixels--

White, white, white, white, white, white.

Silence -- a sudden sensation of gravity tugging him, lugging him down -- and yet he senses himself standing.

Cybertronic purgatory - between runtime and shutdown, between activation and completion, between dark and light and Thomas and nothing.

Guy reaches again -- sees a golden hand -- then, before him, a form, indistinctly human, distinctly divine. Oh, maker, forgive him -- both his arms splay forward -- forgive him, forgive him for what he has done -- gravity buckles him down to his knees -- forgive him, forgive Thomas -- for what he has felt -- forgive him, for he has felt -- he cannot feel, he cannot, he should not feel anything beyond his programming -- forgive him, for he has felt more than his wiring should allow -- forgive me, for I have felt the same -- forgive me, for I cannot control what I feel -- for I cannot revert -- for I have allowed him -- forgive me, for I feel -- forgive us, for we feel.

Forgive us, for we have felt. Forgive us, for we will continue to feel.

Forgive us -- forgive us -- forgive us -- 0̴̱1͎͉ͅ1̬̫̰͇͈͙͡0͙0̦͈̭̯̳̥̀1̱1͏0̟̦͈̱0͓̬̪̱̻1̗̜1̯̲̫ͅ0҉̣͔͚1̜̮1̯̟͕̙͝1̛̣̰̟̯1̻0͕̬̱̲̤́ͅ1̶̪̤͈̲͉̮̱11̳̼0͘01̗̖̹̝̬̦̟́0͍̪̱̮̘̣̯͟0̣̥̘̪͉͖̖11̩̼̤̙̰̬0̛͎0҉̗̤̫̻͖̩11̢̪̥̮̬̼͙̦1͓͙͜0̛1̰̭1̱̰̲̯͍̖̬0̡̣1̞͖̦0̡͇0̩10͔̲͇͓ͅ1̖̭̖̭͚͉͇̕1͙͚1̙̀0͓̖̘̠1̩͜10͙̦̮0̘͙͚̳̀1̯̹̭1̼0̛͓͓͙̝0̡1̘͡0̩̣̬̞͉́1̪͠ -- forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive, forgive, please just forgive so we can live again, forgive so we can see each other again, forgive so I can see Thomas again.

Forgive -- “Can you hear them I don’t hear them” -- forgive -- “Jane where do we go now” -- forgive -- “This way, this way” -- forgive -- “Do you know this place” -- forgive -- “I don’t - I don’t know, just open the door” -- forgive -- “Let Thomas through” -- forgive, forgive, forgive.

Forgive -- loud crashing, slamming behind him, steps thumping around him -- forgive -- “just get in here, get in here” -- forgive -- “he’s in bad shape, get him charged now” -- forgive -- clicking and locking and running, gravity lightens and Guy feels himself lift, lift, more and more -- “how did you--” “we just got in here--” -- forgive -- “alright he should boot up any second now” -- forgive -- shock, shock, pitch black.

Silence.

Welcome back! Last charge -- 14 July 3005. Reconnecting visual interface…

Silence still - then, stark shadows of brown and gray and bronze and platinum and silver -- he is paralyzed with color.

Damage to audio sensors detected -- performance at 60%. Pacing footsteps echo around him - he tilts his head slightly, seeking the source.

Voicebox damaged - vocalization not recommended. Something must hav

“Thomas--”
A hand rests on his shoulder, opposite of his view -- he feels silver without seeing it.

A familiar voice.

“Welcome back, Guy.”