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Chapter Text

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48.65% DATA RESTORED

 

 

 

 

 

 

THIS STORY

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

STATUS UPDATE:

MACHINE ID:                           V2
LOCATION:                             Bierg City
CURRENT OBJECTIVE:                    Complete chores

𖡨

‘Black… green… white… bla- ah, grey.’

V2 grabbed the small box from the shelf, tilting it at different angles to confirm it was the one that Mirage said was needed. Deeming it the correct one, he went to the front of the tiny store, handing the swordsmachine manning the counter Mirage’s card and paying for the small box. With the purchase complete, he placed the box into the reusable tote bag the cyan machine had given him, tucking it neatly under his arm before leaving the establishment.

Outside, the bustle and movement of the daily crowd were weaker than usual, a byproduct of the cloudy day. V2 looked up, his gaze turned towards dark grey clouds fat with rain. Based on his estimations and the radar, he assumed it would be another hour or so before the rain began—plenty of time to finish shopping.

Reaching a hand into a wing blade, he pulled the piece of paper and looked down at it. It was light in his hands, barely enough for his touch receptors to acknowledge it, but he held it tight to prevent the wind from blowing it away.

• get tea for gabe check

• find replacement door handle check

• door hinges check

• lightbulbs check

• batteries check

Each item sat snugly in the bag under his arm, collected quickly and efficiently. On the very bottom of the note, in their own neat handwriting, was a small list of things they needed.

• Durable metal plating

• High-torque servos & actuators

• Reinforced joint mechanisms

• Insulated wiring & circuits

He lifted his optic and scanned the street, remembering a small shop on the edge that held exactly what he needed.

A small beep interrupted his planning, bringing his attention to a small drone that stopped in front of him. With a small chirp, it sent a feed request, which he accepted after a beat.

feed.connection_text("unit.drone_unit.33261FB", "Have you seen a blue machine with wing-like protrusions and a security camera head?" )

He blinked, tilting his head. Immediately, he knew exactly who the drone was talking about.

“Pardon?” He opted to say, his lens narrowing somewhat.

feed.connection_text("unit.drone_unit.33261FB", "Have you seen a blue machine with wing-like protrusions and a security camera head?" )

“No, I heard you,” V2 said, shaking his head. “Why are you looking for them?”

The drone beeped and chirruped before answering.

feed.connection_text("unit.drone_unit.33261FB", "The unknown machine must either return stolen property, pay for it, or face punishment." )

“Ah…” that made sense. “What’d they steal?”

feed.connection_text("unit.drone_unit.33261FB", "Information not required." )

Annoying. Regardless, he nodded in acknowledgment and replied, “Noted. I’ll keep an eye out.”

feed.connection_text("unit.drone_unit.33261FB", "Please report any sighting to security personnel or a peacekeeper. Have a great day." )

The drone emitted another beep before darting down the street. V2 watched the small bot for a brief moment before promptly sending a location request through the appartment’s private line. After a few minutes, Mirage provided the coordinates of the apartments. Although she was probably confused, they still appreciated that she sent her location to him.

When he didn’t receive one from V1, he returned to his original goal. The shop he entered was fairly small, covered with parts for all kinds of things. Luckily, it held two of the four items he needed. Halfway through paying for two of his required items, his HUD flashed with new coordinates.

“Bastard,” he muttered, exiting the shop and quickly heading home to drop his stuff off.

· · ─────── ·⚙︎· ─────── · ·

“Did you steal a nailgun?”

V1 stared up at him, wide golden lens gleaming innocently like they hadn’t just illegally taken from a local business. V2 sighed, his lens snapping shut with a soft click as he raised a hand to rub over the glass. After a moment, it opened again and he looked down at its crouched form with a half-lidded eye.

“You could’ve bought that,” he said, and it only shrugged.

V1 had, apparently, been hiding away in alleyways since it ’borrowed’ the gun, steering clear of drones and other machines like the plague. At the moment, V2 stood at the mouth of one such alley, staring at his mirror. It stood, holding the gun in question, and sent him a feed request.

“Come on,” he huffed, stepping aside and accepting the request. It hesitated before passing him, optic locked onto him. To get its gaze off of him, he grabbed it by the rim of its neck and shoved it forward. It pulled its revolver on him, hissing a warning. He disregarded it and continued, “You’re going to go pay for that.”

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_annoyed", "Why.")

“Because you’re not supposed to steal things, blue,” V2 answered, watching with amusement as it recoiled from the sunlight and pushed it out of the alleyway once the revolver was put away. He walked close behind it as it begrudgingly led (not without a large number of annoyed hisses and whirrs) towards the shop it stole from.

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_annoyed", "Why not?")

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_clarification", "I took guns without payment in Hell.")

“See, this isn’t Hell,” V2 replied audibly, voice sounding vaguely annoyed. “We can’t just take guns willy-nilly.”

V1 remained silent the rest of the walk, hunched over with wings half flared. Multiple machines shot them worried and wary looks, but he waved them off each time.

It only took about 10 minutes (it was actually 5. V1 went as slow as possible, much to his chagrin) before they arrived at a stall with a Sentry, lacking the signature gun and instead with gangly metal arms. The second the little green bot laid its eye on his mirror, it raised a thin arm and pointed at them.

“HEY!” The sentry shouted, catching the attention of a few other machines. V2 interrupted by raising a hand and silencing the machine.

Taking advantage of the extra attention, they shoved V1 forward and handed them Mirage’s card. “This robot here would like to apologize and buy your gun.” He said, staring straight at V1 as he spoke. “If you accept.”

V1 lifted the gun a fraction higher, clinging it closer to its chest plating, and offered the card. V2 sighed behind it.

The sentry scoffed a laugh. “You think I’ll sell it a gun that it stole?” it said before reaching to take the gun. “No. Give it back-”

V1 jumped back, wings fully flaring as it hissed. The sentry harshly flinched back, alongside a few other machines, and V2 was quick to slap its head.

“Enough of that,” he chastised, filled with satisfaction at the movement. V1 hissed at him then, eye narrowed in a glare.

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_challenge", "Fight me.")

“Fight you?” V2 scoffed. “No. Pay for the gun.”

V1 jerked their hand holding the card at the sentry, who flinched again, and gave him a look that practically radiated ‘see? told you so.’

V2 sighed and snatched the card from it, turning to the sentry and offering it much more nicely than his counterpart (as in, handing instead of shoving.) “How much for the gun?”

The sentry hesitated, eyeing the machine behind him currently clinging to its merchandise. “1-100,000P,” it answered, wary of the machine with wings fully hiked up. Internally, V2 flinched and cursed, making quick calculations. Mirage would only have 2,000P left. Shit.

“Done.” The sentry took the card and finished the transaction, practically shoving the card back towards him.

“H-Have a nice day. I’ll call off the bounty,” the sentry said before scurrying behind a curtain in the back. V2 watched it with a narrowed lens before turning back to V1, who was quick to shove the gun back into a wing blade.

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_challenge", "Fight me.")

“I can’t fight you out in the streets,” V2 replied, melding seamlessly into the fairly thin crowd. V1 was quick to follow, a hand latching around his forearm. He spared it a single glance before returning his attention to going home.

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_statement", "Don’t have to fight out in public.")

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_offer", "Can fight in the CyberGrind.")

 

V2 jerked to a stop, turning towards his blue mirror incredulously. “The CyberGrind? It still works?”

The last time he checked, it was blocked and locked from all machines.

V1 nodded, tugging on his arm, half-flared wings flicking in time with its slight bounce.

feed.connection_text("unit.V1_statement", "Correct; managed to convince the Earthmover to unlock it.")

He stared at it, squinting. If they were telling the truth, then the CyberGrind would be a perfect way to recover the 100,000 P he had just spent from Mirage’s wallet, and potentially earn even more.

However, he hated playing the CyberGrind. The only reason he participated in the first place, while ignoring all the complicated feelings that came with it, was to afford the upgrades needed to defeat V1 and regain his arm.

V1 stared back, bouncing on its feet like an excited child.

Goddamn it…

…It’s been over a hundred years, maybe he could take another crack at it.

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The terminal V1 had brought him to was the same one in city hall, its screen immediately lighting up before V1 was even directly in front of it.

‘Hi V1 and V2!’ read the tip-of-the-day, the soft buzz of its internals surprisingly audible. V1 clicked on the screen, navigated to the CyberGrind, and tapped the button. The terminal buzzed slightly louder, which he assumed was due to excitement. Without a second thought, his mirror unraveled their DP cord and plugged themselves into a port on the side of the stationary machine. V2 suppressed a shudder at the clear security oversights.

V1 sat beside the terminal, leaning against the yellow machine as they slumped, optic going eerily dark. V2 stood there for a moment, staring down at his mirror. This would be the perfect opportunity to take advantage of its vulnerability, finally remove the pest he had spent so long trying to kill.

So why wasn’t he pulling out his revolver? Why wasn’t he firing a piercing shot at its chest, where he knew its motherboard and secondary CPU were?

His hand itched to his wing, the golden blade holding the gun lifting in answer. He reached in and-

Hesitated.

Why was he hesitating? Now of all times?

Well, he was an honorable machine, unlike his lesser. He would much rather defeat an enemy in combat than steal a dirty kill from an unconscious opponent. Yes, that's why he’s hesitating, no other reason.

He turned to the terminal, dropped his wing and instead reached for the cable in his chest.

No other reason at all.

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The CyberGrind was already a bloodbath when he joined, running red with digital blood. The arena was the default blank white, the air thrumming with terminal-favored music, heavy drums and screaming guitars rattling through the ever-changing terrain.

V2 sat down on the ledge of the entrance, propping his head up with a hand on his knee. His optic followed his predecessor as he watched V1 tear through the horde, its movements erratic yet effective. Tapping a finger absently to the beat overhead, V2 observed its movements with a critical eye. Maybe he could learn a few things by watching them massacre crowds instead of relying purely on experience. He could pick apart its strategy, find openings, analyze patterns to exploit.

Or, well, he could try. The only problem with this amazing plan was that, so far, he could see no patterns whatsoever. The only consistent thing about V1’s combat style was that it didn't have one. It didn’t bother with tactics or efficiency—just sheer chaos, shooting wildly and hoping for the best. It was maddening to predict, trying to guess its next move and being 90% of the time wrong.

One would think, seeing a pack of filth cluster together, that the logical move would be a well-placed ground slam, something to wipe them all out in one go. But no, not this dumbass. Instead, it decided to use its brand new gun and fire a barrage of magnets at the floor—where it was standing—and then unleash a storm of nails, hoping not to get caught in the crossfire. How stupid could it be?!

Having had enough, V2 stood and leapt off the ledge, wings snapping to attention behind him as he drew his revolver. He lined up the shot and fired. A stray husk dropped instantly, their energy ball veering off course from V1's back.

"The party has arrived," he announced as he landed, cocking a hip as V1 glanced over at him. Its optic narrowed slightly, giving him a single nod before it launched itself into a schism mid-shot.

V2 sighed, rolling his shoulders as the arena shifted beneath them, rearranging itself with the arrival of the next wave. He turned on his heel, taking the opposite direction from V1. His revolver easily cut down a few drones, preferring going after the other machines before the husks. Leave V1 to kill off anything organic.

A filth lunged at him, its gaping maw snapping for the metal of his arm. He leapt over it, twisting midair as he slammed a fist into its head, sending it careening away. Before he even landed, V1 darted in, unloading a shot into its skull before dashing off again, already onto their next target.

The arena shifted once more, the world breaking apart and reforming in an instant. He barely paid attention to the movement, optic locking onto the fresh swarm of husks spawning around him. He ignored the blue blur that rocketed into the sky, instead focusing on the pack surging on him, snarling and mindless. He pulled his shotgun and fired, a wide spray of shrapnel ripping through the front line.

Crimson bloodfuel splashed onto him, clinging, soaking into the cracks, staining. Disgusting. It reeked of failure, of something beneath him. But it gave him the opening he needed, allowing him to sidestep just as V1 slammed down into the chasing filth, scattering them with that bizarre trick of it—the one where it punched its own shotgun shells mid-air, detonating them into devastating bursts.

Wait. It used the Feedbacker for that.

His left arm wasn’t the Knuckleblaster yet, so... did that mean he could copy it?

Testing the theory, he set his sights on a fresh pack of filth, using them as unwilling targets while V1 busied itself with a Malicious Face. The second he fired, he thrust his fist forward, attempting to meet the shell in time.

His knuckles hit nothing. The bullet slipped past, heat licking at his fingers as it traveled unimpeded.

Timing was off.

Try again.

A millisecond time shift.

His knuckles met hot metal.

Somehow, the force of his punch drove the bullets harder, igniting them into an explosion far larger than a normal blast. Fire and shrapnel tore through the wave of husks, leaving nothing but scorched remains. He froze for just a fraction of a second, seriously considering how many of V1’s absurd tricks might actually be viable war tactics, before shaking his head and launching back into motion.

The arena shifted again, tearing apart and reforming beneath him. A pillar rose under his feet, forcing him to leap down, shotgun aimed at a Malicious Face as it emerged into existence. He spotted V1 darting toward him and called out, “I’ve got the demon!”

Surprisingly, it only fired twice before veering off, leaving him alone with the stone beast. Two standard shotgun blasts, three reinforced punches, and a pair of revolver shots later, the thing crumbled. He used its shattered remains as a launchpad, springing into the air with his sights locked on a filth. His shot lined up, only for V1 to swoop in at the last second, stealing his kill.

He snapped a glare at it, but the arena had already shifted again. A fresh Malicious Face spawned right on top of them, tilting its head down to aim at him. Without hesitation, he fired his shotgun while it parried the hell orbs, bringing it down faster than should’ve been possible.

A laugh ripped itself from his voice box—quick, sharp, but real.

V1 didn’t even spare him a glance, already dashing off into the chaos, leaving him in the dust. He let it, lingering for just a moment as something dawned on him.

He was having fun.

Fun. With V1.

In the CyberGrind, no less.

Huh.

A stray’s hell orb slammed into him, knocking him back into the fight. The husk didn’t even have a moment to regret its mistake before it was obliterated. He barely spared it a glance, already shifting his focus to clearing out the drones and sniper strays, carving a path for V1 to handle the Cerberi.

His systems were straining; servos overextending, thrusters firing overtime, wings flaring wide to keep him from losing momentum midair. And God, it was fun.

Leaping wildly like a bird yet keeping his aim sharp like a sniper- it was fun, it was enjoyable. He stole glances at his mirror, pushing himself to one-up every ridiculous trick it pulled. He learned more in a single CyberGrind session than in both of their life-or-death battles.

And damn, did he long for a full arsenal, the proper tools to truly show what he was capable of.

The arena twisted into a warped rainbow hue, the pulse growing stronger the more enemies he cut down.

He barely noticed.

The music cut out, but he skipped over it, his focus locked on the malicious face ahead. With a sharp twist, he fired, obliterating the filth before it could get too close.

Then-

Silence.

It fell too fast, too sudden. The blood rush from battle still thrummed in his circuits, leaving him high on adrenaline, his servos twitching, his optic scanning for movement. His nerves were raw, frayed, too aware-

But the fight wasn’t over.

It couldn’t be over.

He moved on instinct, twisting sharply, revolver raised in a fraction of a second, sights locked onto the last enemy standing.

And pointed straight back at him—was V1’s marksman.

The world stopped.

A single, suffocating moment of stillness.

His grip locked, metal groaning under the force of his fingers. His frame remained coiled, every wire pulled taut, every system screaming at him to act. But he didn’t. Neither did they.

V1 stood across from him, their aim just as unwavering, their presence just as unbearable.

Neither moved, locked in a standoff, barrels leveled, fingers poised to fire. His chest heaved with heavy breaths, systems too hot.

And yet-

He felt cold. Staring them down, he didn’t know if he wanted to rip them apart or step forward. Didn’t know if he wanted to prove himself or run.

It wasn’t just the overclocking, the stress. It wasn’t just the leftover high. It was them. The very sight of them tangled his circuits into a storm of confusion: Anger, happiness, hatred, fear—all at once, all consuming.

He stared at his predecessor—his inferior, his lesser, his better—and saw only them.

Despite everything—despite the battle, the silence, the suffocating weight in his chest—V1 looked at him the same way they always did.

As if nothing had changed at all.

No hate. No fear. No anger.

Nothing.

Nothing.

“I…” The word slipped out, unbidden, his voicebox clear and steady—the brand-new one he’d bought nearly three weeks ago.

His gun remained level. So did theirs. Both aimed with precision, barrels locked onto the main blood pump of the other.

How many times had he stood like this? How many times had he pointed a gun at their chest? How many times had his finger stalled, just a fraction too long?

How many times had he lost?

The fight still thrummed in his circuits, adrenaline running hot, but now, standing here, staring V1 down, something cracked inside him. The anger that had brewed for years, the fire that had burned so violently in his chest—he finally understood where it had come from.

“I… don’t hate you.”

The words rang out, soft but unwavering, strange to his audials—a statement, not a revelation.

V1 tilted their head just slightly, a subtle movement, but he saw it. He always had, hadn’t he? He had memorized their every motion, every unspoken cue, even when they themselves didn’t seem to realize they were showing it.

“I never hated you…” he muttered, his revolver still trained on their chest, yet somehow, he felt safe.

His grip tightened. The memories surged—the cold, sterile lab, the suffocating weight of expectation, Hell itself that had forged them both.

His head slammed against lithium flooring, the sharp crack of metal being bashed down muffled by pure agony-

He never hated them, did he? He hated-

“It didn’t even have a gun and you still lost to it.”

“I hate your actions,” he said, internal dialogue unwittingly spilling into the open.

And like a dam breaking, the words just wouldn’t stop.

“I hated how the humans pitted us against each other. I hated how perfectly you acted in front of them, never showing that you cared a damn about me. I hated how you never showed anything, like I was just another machine standing in your way—just another obstacle in your glorious, destructive purpose.”

“Again,” the humans commanded, and they were left to soundlessly shout in their anger as a blue body seamlessly avoided their gunshots.

“Again,” demanded the humans as they were pinned by cerulean hands, wings trapped beneath their form and unable to writhe to freedom.

“Again,” sighed the humans, as they failed again and again and again again again again-

He paused, the memories near overwhelming, but it didn’t stop his voice for long. “I hated our creators-”

“It’s useless. Why did we invest in it?”

“-I hated that you had a purpose while I didn’t-”

“It’s basically a glorified security bot. A small flock of drones are better than it!”

“-I hated that you were the original, the perfect, while I was just the cheap knockoff in hopes of getting their money back-”

“Perfect machine,” they said to it, staring up at the disassembled blue body in front of them.

“-I hated my situation, I hated what you did to me in Hell, I hated what I did in retaliation, I hated-”

Everything.

I hated everything.

Humanity created me to justify the costs of creating you: the perfect machine.

I alone was left to pick up the pieces.

They forced you to fight me, golden lens locked onto its twin as you effortlessly pinned me down, a mere fraction of a second away from killing me.

“Again,” the humans said, refusing to look at their test scores as no matter how much they removed your weapons and gun and wings, you yourself were a weapon.

Perfection incarnate.

“Again,” said the humans as they repaired my dented and cracked metal, tweaking my body, changing lines of code. The more I lost, the more they hurt me. To ‘improve’ me.

I was but a mere copy.

“Again,” said the humans as they readjusted the calibration on my limbs and body, willingly allowing my pain receptors to go off just to see how I writhed, ignoring my screams.

We only shared appearances.

You were perfection.

You reached out, shown in every hesitation of your hand before punching my lens.

Shown in every glance in my direction, assumed to be nothing more than risk assessment.

Shown in every scream as they feared you and locked you away and burned you with electricity.

I was a mere imitation.

Shown in my every failure in a fight against you.

Shown in every desperate attempt to earn their love.

Shown in every pathetic display of superiority.

I hated everything you represented, a mountain too high and too steep for my bound feet to climb.

Perfection in your fight, perfection in your skills, perfection in your kill.

Imperfect in my failure, imperfect in my stubbornness, imperfect for my death.

I hated what the humans did to you.

While they repaired me, they feared you.

While my paint was given a double coat, yours was burned off with the sharp biting sticks as humans stabbed you with electricity far over the limit to subdue you.

You were restrained, bound in chain.

I could only admire the angel they created, and hate the devil they made you to be.

“But…” V2 continued after a moment, and against everything he ever knew about the war machine in front of him, lowered his gun. “I never hated you.”

V1’s gun remained staring at his chest, aimed perfectly at his central core unit. And he let them.

He didn’t know why he let them.

Barely noticeable hesitations, a mere fraction of your hand or your gun or your wing flinched and stalled.

To most, it would be a tiny glitch, expected of such a wild and uncontrolled machine.

To me, it was the only sign you weren’t a mindless object.

When out of combat, the few seconds you had before you were bound and boxed again, I saw your optic trail over me.

Assessing me.

I assumed you were sizing me up to kill me faster.

You struggled against the humans only once, fighting against their restraints.

You reached for me, fingers curled as if they were claws.

My chest was bleeding, a harsh gash your wings managed to put on me.

Too close to my central fuel pump.

They assumed you were after my blood, a few dropped having marred your beautiful plating.

I did too.

You were starved.

Now, I don’t think you were out to kill me that day.

You were bought soon after, taken by an arrogant rich human, the kind willing to fund war to fill their own pockets.

“Where are you taking it?” I asked that day to a technician, watching with the shock collar strapped to the gap between my chest and neck as they loaded you into a box and then into a truck.

“I don’t know,” the human replied. Shrugged. “I don’t care. It’s gone now and the higher-ups get the money they want.”

Your optic was dim that day, and still, it found mine.

Humanity collapsed 9 months, 12 days, and 7 hours later. I remember hearing a human telling another that drones were firing at random people, streetcleaners were burning everything in sight, machine after machine after machine killing killing killing.

They looked at me with fear then, as if I—never exposed to the outside world before—would fight back.

I relished the feeling of being above them.

3 weeks later, the lab was stormed and every single human was killed and drained of blood.

I remember hiding away in a spare room, simply listening to the screams and the crying and the ripping and tearing of flesh and the burning flamethrowers.

My chest screamed.

I locked my limbs.

When it finally fell silent, I left. I walked the halls no longer as a prisoner, but as the sole survivor.

The first rays of synthetic light made to be like sunlight, filtering through heavy and destroyed doors, would be the closest thing I would describe as the gates of Heaven.

My chest still screamed.

I was starved.

Everything and everything was free game. Prey ran through the streets like chickens without heads, extinct as the creatures are.

Though I never won against you, the training and the endurance I built up using you as my practice dummy significantly helped me to subdue prey and drain them of blood.

It earned me a bit of a reputation.

I searched building after building, killing off anything that dared to have blood and wear metal flesh.

In one large and ornate building, I found a museum.

On the top floors, in the private collection, I found you.

You were once again locked away, though not bound. Your wings were dark, manually spread on a white slab of concrete, pinned up like a butterfly. You were protected, or restrained, by a sheet of glass. A display case.

‘The machine to end all war.’ The title card said.

I agreed.

I had been followed.

A starving streetcleaner blindly rushed me, lacking its gun and throwing a broken arm with no fist.

I was startled, and the machine managed to shove me into your display case. The glass shattered like chiming bells and cascaded over my form like rain, light and carefree and not burning.

The streetcleaner was easily killed off, a simple shot to the head with my gun. The action caused a small spray of blood as metal exploded, landing all over you and me.

I watched you, watched as the ruby liquid slowly trailed down your chest.

When it wasn’t absorbed, what little joyful emotion in my chest was broken, leaving an emptiness that I expected.

I drained the streetcleaner of blood and left.

I ignored the soft sounds of whimpered breathing behind a metal vault door.

I found a few humans once, a small group of 3. One male, one female, and a younger female.

My dictionary called them a family.

I ignored the shotgun shot I received from the male human, using my deteriorated voice box to tell them I meant no harm.

I hated humans, yes, but only the ones in the lab.

They were dead.

I was built to protect humans.

I made them my purpose, keeping them alive.

Some would call it like keeping a pet. I removed machines that threatened them, scavenged burning buildings and dangerous places to bring them food, kept guard at night so all three would sleep peacefully.

It was difficult.

It was painful.

I was happy.

The man died of disease 3 months later, dehydrated and having gained an infection from a wound caused by a dilapidated early-swordsmachine.

I broke the concrete covering the ground and dug the dirt wide enough for the two remaining to bury him.

I don’t remember his name.

Two weeks later, the woman was trapped under collapsing infrastructure, flames growing closer as the girl screamed and screamed.

The blood that pooled from her crushed midsection was beautiful in the firelight.

“Take her,” the human said, face dirty and blood-caked hair cut short. Tears were trailing down her cheeks, their tracks stark against the soot. Her voice trembled with pain and weakness as she continued, “Keep her safe.”

I knew a command when I heard one.

“I’m sorry.” I said, my voicebox doing no justice to the gut-wrenching agony of taking the screaming and crying girl and running.

My chest burned.

I returned with the girl a few days later and buried her.

Only her top half was recovered.

“Mr. Robot,” was what the girl called me, her cheery and bright voice dulled by her parents’ death yet still strong. She reminded me of you in some ways, tenacious and powerful.

She made me a bracelet out of electrical wiring and rocks with holes in them.

With her father’s shotgun in my wing, I kept her safe. Eventually, the primitive device broke, and I was left with only my body to keep her safe.

I took apart the gun.

I rebuilt my left arm.

My original Feedbacker was lost under strong scrap metal and gun mechanisms.

I made the Knuckleblaster to protect, not to hurt.

Yet all I did with it was hurt.

The five fingers of the original hand couldn’t be repurposed, so I scrapped them and made them into three deadly sharp claws.

They had cut the girl multiple times, but each time she simply giggled and waved me off when I apologized, numbed to pain.

I learned to keep it straight at my side. I learned to use it only when danger came. I learned to use it as a weapon.

The girl caught disease 11 months later.

She lasted a hardy 2 months after that, remaining strong even as her lungs shriveled up and died and her legs gave out beneath her.

I got used to carrying her weight around, following city paths to find food, always on the move.

I failed to get used to her paling skin and soul-wracking coughs.

“Mr. Robot,” she called me, unable to muster the strength to smile, barely keeping her eyes open. “I’m scared.”

I kept her close to me, the Knuckleblaster’s claws digging into my own armor to prevent them from digging into vulnerable weak flesh.

“I know,” I said to her, voice filled with static as I shook, holding her close to my chest with a hand so delicate, my head dipped to cradle hers. “I know.”

“Am I gonna see Mommy and Daddy?” She asked me, so softly, so weakly, eyes dropping and clammy skin pale as paper.

I could not muster the words to reply for 2 minutes and 14 seconds.

“Yes,” I said, green light emanating from behind me.

The girl coughed, her lips coated by blood as I simply held her closer.

“Yes,” I repeated, over and over.

My chest screamed.

“Stay awake, please.”

“Mr. Robot,” she called me, managing one last time as her eyes finally shut.

“I’m sorry.” I said. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

Nevermore in that moment I cursed my weakness: my hunger.

The needles in the tips of my digits left no mark.

When I buried her the next morning with a makeshift cross of metal, my voicebox was shot and my fuel tank was full.

I wandered, slowly starving, not even able to muster up enough strength to fight off any machine I came across.

Strong enough not to die.

Weak enough not to fight.

I was a coward.

I hated it.

9 days later the coordinates to Hell were broadcast.

I joined the swarm in invading the infernal, going through the motions on autopilot.

The longer I remained, the more my anger and hatred festered.

I got better at using my guns, channeling my wrath into the bullets, eradicating anything that dared to approach me.

The manor in limbo was too calm. Too much of a paradise masking suffering.

I skipped over it, sliding past the skull-locked doors and into the dining area, having looked for a way to the ceiling.

When I saw you, shock overridded everything else.

You were alive.

Alive and moving.

Joy erupted in my chest, the first in a very long time, and I stopped right before the gates to the next level down.

When you entered the moonlit room, I burst from the glass and landed with a heavy thud.

I noticed your left hand lift nearly imperceivable, almost as if halting from reaching.

I had my shotgun in my hand.

I bowed.

And yet still, my systems flagged you as a threat.

I held back at first, weary of you.

I risked to be honorable.

I tried my hardest when I realized I was losing.

Again.

When you finally did reach out for me, I was so terrified that I turned on my heel and ran.

Your hand wrapped around the wrist of the Knuckleblaster.

Neglect over months frayed the wiring and left the arm loose.

You ripped it free from the socket almost laughably easy.

Anger and hatred, neglected and keen to pick a fight, focused onto you instead.

The Whiplash was crude, nothing more than a tool.

I hated what it meant.

A coward.

Built with a spear point specialized to pull my heavy frame away from a fight.

I hated it.

I picked the fight in Greed.

It was only fitting that I fail.

I bled.

I lost.

I ran.

Down the side of the yellow monument, no standing pillar to whiplash onto as I fell. Down down I went, golden wings shattered upon my back.

In that moment, I truly saw.

You had lept from the surface of the pyramid the second my form was launched in the air, hand reaching out, fingers curved like claws.

You weren’t reaching out to kill me.

You were reaching to save me.

“I’m sorry.”

The words felt like acid, burning and tearing and writhing their way out of him, but he forced them out all the same.

“I’m sorry.”

The weight of his gun dropped from his hand, slipping to the ground with a hollow clink. For the third time in his existence, he felt truly powerless.

His wings drooped, their vibrant green dulling the red of his back. He allowed his head to dip, his lens shuttering closed.

“I’m sorry.”

He waited for a gunshot, a punch, something to rip through the silence. Anything. He waited for activity.

All he heard was the sound of servos moving. He forced himself to remain still, not to flinch, as he heard their steps come closer to him. Every instinct told him to move, to flee, but he forced himself to remain still. To take whatever came with grace and dignity.

He refused to be a coward again.

Fear coiled in his chest, hearing them stop right in front of him. He waited, waited, waited, waited-

A pressure on his shoulder. His lens snapped open, unbidden, and he locked his gaze with theirs.

Blue text flashed in the corner of his vision, in the small box he always kept open.

The V-model’s personal and direct line of communication.

Again, his HUD chimed with a soft bell, the blue text in the corner flashing again.

“I hear you,” he muttered, his voice a weak staticky-rasp. Pathetic. He hated how fragile it sounded.

“I-” he cut himself off. “I’m fine.”

The hand on his shoulder tightened, their wings twitching minutely against their back. He hated (no, he didn’t) how he recognized it as concern. Worry.

It wasn’t for him. It couldn’t be, not after all he’s done to them.

His optic remained locked on them, the weight of their touch heavy on him, even if he wanted to shake it off. The pressure was too real, too solid.

Talking hurt.

Vulnerability hurt.

Apologizing hurt.

Everything hurts.

"I’m sorry too."

Up on the scoreboard, the two enemies remaining flicked to zero.