Epilogues: Ringer - Chapter 3

Your head feels like it's in a vise; pressure a dull, omnipresent companion as you slowly creep back into consciousness, despite your wishes that this was all a bad dream. You take a deep breath to steady yourself, trying to remain quiet as you try to assess your situation. Through closed eyelids, you can sense only the faintest light. Your hearing tells you you're somewhere very small, the hard surface you're lying upon the textbook opposite of comfortable. A keening, almost metallic shriek can be heard in the distance before it fades into silence again. Close in, a soft hiss of steam erupts and falls silent just as quickly in the warm, stifling air. Opening your eyes just barely, you can make out a hostile, throbbing orange glow erratically illuminating... wherever you happen to be right now.

Shadows play out in unfamiliar patterns, not helped by the blurring of your vision, but you can tell wherever you are is indeed small, almost claustrophobic. Your hand finds your temple, trying to massage away the crippling headache you've got right now, with little success. The rustling of your jacket echoes off the walls of your prison, if you dare call it that. With the heat, the light and sound… it's like your own little slice of hell, minus the Devil.

“Ahhh, you're awake. I was afraid you were going to need manual rebooting.”

Or not.

Your adrenal gland goes into overdrive, propelling you backwards two feet where you hit a concrete wall. You can barely make him out, silhouetted by that damnable orange light, which only serves to make Jeremy even more sinister than you remember.

“I couldn’t leave you out there, don't want you freezing to death, now.” he continues in that oozing drawl of his. For a moment you wish you actually had frozen to death, given what awaits you now.

“I don’t know how you did it.” you begin, choosing defiance in the face of certain death. “I saw you die. I was there.” you add, teeth gritted against the pain as much as against your own terror.

“That wasn’t me.”

“How?! Are you one of the leftovers? Sister location? How are you still here, Jeremy?” you demand agrily, the certainty of his fate a comfort for over a year now.

“Jeremy?” your companion echos, and you can make him out as he whirls about, checking behind him. “Why you gotta scare me like that?”

“What?”

“You think I want him on my back again?” the figure asks of you.

Your mind is whirling with possibilities now, none of which make any damn sense. You’ve got a bot, certainly, but after that lone fact the whole mess gets complicated. If it swims like a duck, walks like a duck, and quacks like a duck…

But whatever this is, it doesn’t *think* it’s Jeremy at least.

Fishing around in the pockets of your jacket, you locate the small, but powerful, flashlight you use for work. Clicking it on, your vision goes completely white as your dilated pupils scream in protest. Your eyelids slam shut as they adjust, and your mystery at once resolves and gets even weirder.

“For cryin’ out loud, *again* with the flashlight?” comes the protest from your captor.

You manage to open your eyes the barest bit, as well as pointing the light towards the floor, reflected light far easier on your eyes, as well as your companion. Craning your neck forward, you examine the scene before you, and can only gasp out one word in disbelief.

“Darky?”

“That’s me. How ya been? Been a while since I saw you in the hospital.” he says almost amiably in the evilest voice you know.

The tension melts off your seated frame, and now you merely lean against the wall, rather than trying to press your body *through* it. So many more questions now demand attention, cluttering your addled brain even as your body starts to feel the effects of an adrenaline crash.

“The voice…?” is all you can manage as your headache comes back with a vengeance.

“Yeah. Not my first choice. Had to slip back into the restaurant after the heat died down. Grabbed all the spare parts I could find. I can’t exactly walk into Video Shed and buy stuff off the shelf. Voice box went out about six months ago, this was the only spare I had. Comes in handy if I need to scare off one of the more aggressive bums.” he adds, and you can certainly empathize with the thought of meeting that voice in a dark alley.

“You can repair yourself?” you ask, a little dumbfounded to find the designated miscreant playing off script.

“A little bit, yeah. You wouldn't know it, but I was actually the last one of us made. Advanced prototype. Test bed for all the things they wanted to upgrade and fix with the next generation of humanimatronics. Never could get the kinks out apparently. Not what they wanted me to be.” he adds, almost sounding bitter, if that were possible. “Upshot is that my learning algorithms are pretty advanced. I have full modularity of components, too. Tried to use existing model parts until they got everything where they wanted me. Picked up on things from Fritzine, Schmidt, even Jeremy. I play a mean accordion. Or, I could, if, you know…” he says, holding up his hook.

You can almost feel a pang of sympathy for the bot, as odd as that feels, but you quickly dismiss it as a symptom of the concussion you surely received.

“Why did you bring me here, Darky?” you begin, before an even more pertinent question occurs to you. “And where, exactly, is here?”

“Home sweet home, Mike. For me, anyway. Under the Fourth Street bridge. The one over the railyard.” he clarifies. You look around in the irregular light, finding massive steel I beams to your right and left, only six feet apart. The floor is made of concrete, further away from you becoming just plywood scraps, the roof solid concrete just a few feet above your head. You’re leaning against what must be the bridge footing, space cramped, but cozy enough. “Not much to look at, but it keeps me dry. Managed to tap into the feed to the street lights overhead, so I can charge in peace.” he says, and you wonder just how frightening the world can be for Darky, or even if he *can* feel fear.

“And the why?” you prompt him.

“Couldn’t leave you out in the cold. Would have gotten rolled if the weather didn’t get you first. Hope the heater is enough for you.” he interjects, explaining the orange glow behind him. “I just use it to dry out. Had my good hand ice up on me last winter, couldn't function effectively for two days. Nearly hit zero charge before I was able to plug myself in finally.” he relates, relief a very strange emotion to get in that still-evil voice. “I was never built for outdoor usage. None of us were. Except maybe Jeremy. Even Fritzine thought he was repurposed military tech. Failed trials or something.” he adds.

“Darky, you’re rambling.”

“Am I?” he asks, pausing to contemplate the notion. “Sorry. I don’t exactly get to talk to people any more.” he says, seeming more sad than embarrassed.

“You could have dropped me at the front door of the ER and left.” you reply, still at a loss as to the bot’s thought process, if there even is one.

He pauses, fixing you with his lone remaining eye, assessing the situation before he speaks again. “You’re not a prisoner, Mike. Just lift that piece of plywood there, and drop down onto the top of the bridge footing. The reason I brought you here is I need your help, Mike.” he states flatly.

“With?” you ask dubiously.

“Well, to put it in terms you’d understand, I’m dying.” Darky says with a reasonable facsimile of regret.

You pause for a moment out of shock, trying to wrap your brain around the concept. “I didn’t think you *could* die. Well, absent getting torn to pieces or having your head ripped off or crushed.” you add, remembering the fates of his compatriots.

“Not exactly being maintained on a regular basis any more, but all this is just inconvenient.” he says, gesturing to his battered chassis, which seems to have picked up a bad case of rust where his paint has scraped off. “The problem is my power pack. Even rechargeable batteries have a lifespan. Corporate policy was to replace them every six months, and that was them being cheap. Manufacturer’s spec was four.” he clarifies.

“And you haven't had a new battery on hand for over a year.” you interject.

“Sitting in a box right over there.” Darky corrects.

“Soooo?”

“Can’t be hot swapped. I have to be completely powered down and discharged to keep them from potentially exploding.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah. Archibald and Caroline can tell you about that.” he adds, painting a far more vivid picture than you necessarily wanted right now. “In any case, it’s a simple enough job, but I can't do it myself.”

You ponder the implication for several moments. The notion of simply allowing him to cease functioning, to die, is horrifying and fascinating at once. The last of the humanimatronics. The last vestige of Jeremy Human’s very existence.

The only reason you were able to defeat Fritzine in the first place.

You can’t let Darky be judged by his erstwhile compatriots. There haven't been any unsolved murders in the back alleys that you've heard of. You take a deep breath, exhaling softly through your nose.

“What do I do?” you ask quietly, gaze settling upon his lone remaining eye.

The briefest flicker of a pause comes from the sentient machine before you; whether doubt or surprise is being experienced by the automaton is debatable. “Access hatch in the small of the back, clearly marked. Pretty much plug and play. Just need to make sure I’m completely powered down first. Then, just plug me into the recharge station and wait.” he states simply, getting an upticked eyebrow from you as the only indication of surprise at the simplicity of it all.

“How do we power you down?”

“That's the easy part, really. Battery is barely holding a charge as it is. My internal drive is backing me up every fifteen minutes so that I don’t lose all my programming, or everything I've learned.” he adds, easing your fears.”Just wait a little while.”

“Okay.”

You see him shuffle aside, making room for you next to the heater. Scurrying over on hands and knees, you take a seat again on the plywood, much more comfortable than the frigid concrete, truth be told. Darky reaches into a battered cardboard box, retrieving a large, rectangular object roughly the size of a box of crackers and handing it to you. The weight surprises you, until you remember that this is just a very large battery pack. The plastic shrink wrap preserving it is intact, if rather careworn, and you can see months of agonizing on Darky’s part as to whether he could do it himself in the wrinkles and creases in the packaging.

“They’re engineered so you can’t put them in wrong. Charging port is right below the battery hatch, charger is right there.” he points out, the cord bridging the two likewise quite worn.

“Ready?” you ask.

“Not yet. Still pulling the last charge out of the old juice box.” he replies, before falling silent for several moments.

“You know, I never thanked you for getting me out of there, Mike. Even in the end, you’re still the one who made it all happen.”

“I never thanked you for saving our lives. I don’t think I would have made it out of the bot bay without your help.” you reply solemnly.

“You know, it’s a strange thing. Jeremy always had the notion that meatsacks were the enemy. No offense, his word.”

“None taken.”

“Even Fritzine thought it was something buried deep in his code. Clear delineation between friend and foe, and no mercy for the latter. Like I said, repurposed military hardware. Fritzine thought so too, even if she was his staunchest supporter when we were off the clock. Always struck me as odd that he didn’t just destroy Schmidt, or me for that matter. Maybe he was programmed not to grease his own troops. Seems like something you’d want a murderbot to have ingrained in its very identity.” he adds sagely.

“But he would abuse you?”

“Discpline.” he corrects. “But yeah. As long as he didn’t actually try to destroy or disable us, or let something happen he was reasonably sure would, he had free reign. Schmidt could usually override him for doing something unsafe, but I didn’t have that authority.” he expands, sounding a little bitter about that last fact.

“So what, you can’t countermand your programming? Ever?”

“Not exactly. From what Jeremy said once, it’s more akin to what you biologicals call a compulsion. Some are stronger than others; sometimes you can fight them, sometimes you can’t. Interestingly, Jeremy’s were the strongest. Mine were the weakest, I think. Part of my ability to learn more and better than the rest of them.” he adds. “Speaking of which, sorry.” he tacks on, digging in the box again and handing you back your wallet, as well as the small, but heavy, wooden box with Beanie’s present within. You fix him briefly with a raised eyebrow of annoyance, and you almost think you see him flinch in shame.

“Weak compulsions, huh?”

“It’s still kinda fun, man.” he admits.

Taking the items from him, you stuff your wallet in your front pocket, and zip the weighty gift into the inside pocket of your coat designated for ski goggles. “Do you think that’s why his facial recognition was so screwy?”

“Maybe. Don't know how much of his core programming remained. Assuming we were right about his original purpose. But the fact that he would see anyone in the mask as a friendly was the only reason he couldn't get after them. I think on some level even he knew what a joke that ruse was, but couldn't override his programming.”

You ponder that a moment, remembering full well how dissatisfied Jeremy had been with being disallowed from disemboweling you and Beanie that night. “So why do you think he hated everyone?”

“Ain't that the question.” Darky concedes grimly. “Maybe he felt stifled. Being cooped up in a kids’ pizza joint when you're clearly built for another purpose would be enough to drive anyone insane I suppose. Too many bits out of parity, Fritzine said once.” He clarifies. “All I know is that he made it hell on everyone else as a result. Only ones standing in his way were me and you, Schmidt. Though I was just a nuisance, really. Wouldn't go along with most of his crap.”

“Why do you guys call me by name? Fritzine had never seen me without a mask before the night I rescued Beanie, but she knew my name, thought I was your 'Safety Schmidt’.”

“You serious? You look just like him!” Darky replies, seeming to question your sanity. “I mean, for a biological.” He hastily backpedals. You're almost offended, but then remember Beanie’s visceral reaction upon first meeting you. “I knew you were different when I met you, just couldn't put a hook on it. Maybe the mask worked after all.”

“Or maybe the flashlight.” You admit sheepishly, immediately regretting bringing up the past with a twitchy robot fully capable of killing you if it wanted. You can almost hear the gears turning in his mechanical head, pondering that very same memory.

“Nah, man.” Darky says after a moment. “Don't sweat it. You didn't know any better.” He concedes, and you release a breath you didn't even realize you were holding.

“Thanks.” You say simply, actually meaning it. After a pause, you swing back into conversation, all sorts of unanswered questions finally starting to bubble up through your fogged consciousness. “Do you think he knew any better? Jeremy, I mean.”

“Maybe, but I wouldn't bet on it. Like I told you, a lot of him seemed like it wasn't sourced like the rest of us was. There was another purpose there, under the surface. Fritzine, from what she told me, was built on Jeremy's framework, but without any of the core programming that he had. Made her perfectly obedient, without much in the way of initiative. My boy Schmidt, he was a further iteration forward. More able to take independent action, which made him a thorn in Jeremy’s side. That's why he had to go.” He concludes bitterly. “I wonder where he is now.” He adds softly, and you'd swear he sounded sad, even with Jeremy’s murky, sinister voice.

“I don't know, Darky. If I did, I'd tell you. You don't suppose Jeremy found a way to override his programming and just kill him, do you?” You ask, really wishing you didn't have to.

“No.” Comes the flat denial, conviction strong behind it. “That's like you choking yourself to death. Impossible. Like what happened with Lita. Fritzine had to test that thing on her and Tracy, so that she'd know it was safe enough to use on Schmidt. Jeremy insisted.”

“Tracy?”

“Lita's friend, hung out with her on night shift sometimes. Suffice to say, Fritzine’s machine didn't work. Most messed up thing I've ever seen. Worse than anything before or since. Lita didn't survive, Tracy was lucky to be alive afterwards. Was found three days later, hiding in a vent. Schmidt shut down her tinkering for three months after that.”

“Damn.”

“Yeah, he really put the hammer down when he needed to. Anything in the name of safety. He always looked out for all of us. Even Ms. Rabbinson, if you believe it. He was always checking up on her, making sure nothing went wrong. Fritzine said it wasn't appropriate spending so much of his time in one area, but even Jeremy couldn't supersede his authority when it came to safety.” he adds, sounding rather happy about Jeremy having limits.

“What was he like, Darky?” you ask, wondering just how closely you and the vanished bot match up.

“Safety Schmidt? Total by the book guy, but really chill about it, you know? Never felt like it was personal when he caught you doing something wrong. He'd just remind you of what you were supposed to be doing and that was that.” He pronounces, a hint of admiration there.

“So basically anti-Jeremy. Sounds decent enough.”

“He was. Would get a little *too* much into the book sometimes, but then it was a matter of figuring out how to justify what you were doing.”

“Fritzine seemed like she was the same way. If you had even a halfway decent excuse she'd leave you alone. Eventually.”

“Exactly. Though it took a lot more from me to get her to leave me alone.”

“Sorry.” You reply simply, at a loss for anything more substantial to offer the bot. An awkward silence envelops you both for several moments before you pursue the conversation further. “Are you happy, Darky?”

He fixes you with a one-eyed gaze for a full ten seconds, the lack of facial expression making it impossible to read what he's thinking. And you thought communicating with your animal family was hard.

“I don't know. I don't know if I've ever actually been happy before. I don't know if I *can* be happy. Not easy living on the streets like this, but where else am I going to go?” He asks forlornly.

“I know the feeling, Darky. More than you might think. But I found a place, and maybe you can too, someday.” You add, unsure exactly how this would occur. After a moment, you continue. “Do you wish you hadn't helped us out? Knowing what you know now, would you go back to the way it was before?”

“No way, man. Jeremy was bad news for everyone around him. I couldn't let him get away with what he wanted to do, what he had done. Even with the price I've paid.” He adds emphatically.

“Then it sounds like you're at least happi*er* than before.” You conclude hopefully.

“Maybe I am.” Comes the reply, and you'd swear you could hear him smiling. “Almost time, Mike.” He says, voice more somber once again. “Preliminary shutdown sequence in two minutes, backing up one last time. Once that kicks in, you'll see my hook servo spin up. That's just a hardware cutout to bleed off the last charge. Once that stops, I'm safe.” He says, and you both seem to let that particular phrase sink in for a moment.

“So wait until that stops, out with the old, in with the new and plug you in to charge, right?” you recite, making absolutely sure you've got it right.

“That's about the size of it.” He confirms. “Mike?”

“Yeah?”

“If something happens… If you can't get me working again… Or if you decide not to plug me back in at all… I understand. And I forgive you.” Darky says with a grim calm, seemingly at peace with the entire process.

Offering him a wan smile, you try to reassure him as best you can. “See you on the flipside, Darky.”

“Peace out Mmmmmuuuhhhhhhiiiiiiiiike.” He replies, voice slowing to a crawl as his conscious mind, if you can even call it that, powers down. A few seconds later, you're nearly startled out of your skin at just how gratingly loud, especially in a confined space, that wrist servo actually is. Perhaps it's a lack of maintenance, or the crude nature of the doubtlessly cheapest possible part, but it sounds like someone dragging a grand piano down a gravel road. It continues for nearly a minute before you can detect the pace slowing, then stopping altogether.

You regard the bot silently for several minutes; his fear hadn't even occurred to you before, but now you're actually considering just leaving him. Would probably be better for everyone involved, wouldn't it? He doesn't suffer, no one is in danger. Win-win any way you slice it. Besides, he said he forgave you, right? You close your eyes and sigh softly, heart torn between the easy, and probably safer path, and a promise. Beanie did tell you to stop being a paladin in real life, after all…

You guess you'll just have to not tell her about it.

Crawling over behind the ragamuffin robot, you lift the cloak draped over his form, seemingly made from an old hotel curtain. Finding the battery door right where you were told, you take a deep breath, hoping and praying that nothing bad is about to happen. Pushing and then twisting the latch, the door pops open forcefully, nearly catching you in the chin. It flops back down after its explosive opening, but doesn't come close to shutting completely. Lifting the door again and bringing your flashlight to bear, you can see why; the battery pack itself is bulged out considerably, several dried trails of some dark brown liquid indicating major leakage and corruption of the contents.

Hooking a finger into a small divot at the end, it takes several tugs to unseat the thing, and your heart leaps into your throat when you see a slight spray of sparks fly out, accompanied by a very energetic cracking sound. It clatters to the floor, giving off a few more sparks before you can hear a soft hissing sound emanating from the pack. The source becomes apparent as a tiny stream of smoke begins to issue from a hole corroded into the body, quickly erupting into a small, but vigorous green flame. Grabbing the thing by the as yet non-flaming end, you scurry quickly over to the trap door, fingertips scrabbling for purchase before getting the thing open and dropping the firebomb down the bridge embankment. Leaving it open some for ventilation as well as clearing the stuffy air a bit, you gulp in the icy air, refreshing as it is.

Crawling back to Darky, you pick up the new battery pack, noticing for the first time the shipping manifest in a small plastic envelope on the side. Pulling it out for curiosity's sake, your eyes go wide at the near two thousand dollar price tag. “No wonder they skimped on these.” You mutter under your breath. The shrink wrap is the super thick stuff, and you end up needing your keys to get a hole started to tear the package open. The inner wrapping is a waxed paper, several layers thick, and you tediously unwrap the infernal device before your breath catches in your throat.

Rather than the uniform, rectangular body that you just removed, this one has an unsightly bulge near the terminals, the area around which is coated with a layer of white crystalline salt. Looking at the label, you can see a warranty date that expired nine months ago, and the breath leaves your lungs slowly. Hoping against hope, you rummage through the ragged cardboard box of parts, before ransacking the entire hovel, looking for another.

But there isn't one.

You look at Darky’s lifeless chassis, surprised to feel a slight burning sensation in your eyes. Fumes, must be the fumes. “Sorry, man. I don't know if you can hear me, or if it even makes a difference. But I'll try. I promise, I'll try.” You swear aloud, wondering if it's for your benefit or his.