Chapter Text
[December 23rd, 3068. (Earth Standard Calendar)
Outpost Three, exoplanet Copper Nine, outside Sol System.
Worker Drone Doll, Special Consultant.]
Every piece of Special Consultant Doll's casing vibrated in low, fearful anxiety.
Her room was lit up for the first time in years, and the harsh white light did not do the contents of the apartment any favours. Mechanical roaches had hissed at the sudden glare, and even now, a sea of beady red eyes stared up at Doll from under couches and behind bookshelves. Garbage, spilled oil, and other unidentifiable sludge pooled together on the floor; the light made it seem like she was standing in a sewer.
Worst of all, the light erased any pretensions about her parents that she might have cultivated in the darkness's comforting cloak. Mikhail and Yeva were dead. Stiff and broken robots, propped up at the dinner table to keep an insane daughter company. Nothing more.
A hand found hers, then tightened.
"Jesus…" Engi whispered under his breath, blue optics wide as he fought to keep neutral and composed.
Doll glanced at him for comfort, and they exchanged uneasy smiles.
Her head whirled with questions and worries.
What if he would be disgusted by this? Maybe Engi would leave in horror, and that would be that?
Would he actually push her to get rid of them? Doll knew what she had to do, but here and now, standing at the threshold of saying 'goodbye' to her parents? It was altogether too difficult to contemplate.
In some ways, the opposite scenario was even worse. What if Engi saw nothing wrong? What if he encouraged her to keep the ghastly remains of her family, and even settled down to play house with the corpses of her mom and dad?
The thought of her boyfriend sitting at that table and talking to her dad's shattered form was almost vomit-inducing.
An elbow nudged her gently.
"Hey," Engi smiled. "It's okay. Do you… want to talk about it?"
Doll glanced at her parents' empty visors, black against the light's harsh glare.
"Outside, maybe."
"Yeah. Outside is good."
Once they'd put the abattoir of an apartment behind them, the cool, pale light of the hall came as a relief. Tucked into a corner together, Doll collected herself and explained the situation. She had left her boyfriend in the dark for weeks, ever since that one near-reveal before the fateful subway. Back then, the thought of her ally seeing what lay beyond the dining room curtain had terrified Doll like nothing else.
Now? Doll feared nothing.
Or at least she no longer feared Engi's reaction, and that was enough.
He listened as attentively as he always did, face slowly settling into a grim scowl by the end of her story.
"It's a shame we didn't kill that monster, back in the airlock when we had half a chance." He finally grumbled out, then put his hand on her arm for support.
"We got you out, and that's what I cared about. That purple brat, too, I guess."
Engi chuckled. The noise was hollow and discombobulated, like he was still figuring out what to feel. His breathing was slow and heavy, like the rhythmic rise and fall of an industrial drop hammer.
"So, uh… now you've shown me. Did you have a plan for what you wanted to do next?"
Doll sighed.
She didn't need to – it was something of a weird quirk picked up from time spent with Engi. Regardless, the act of cycling air had cleared her thoughts.
"Yes. I… I know what needs to be done. They need to be laid to rest; it's not right to keep them like this. And… I guess the roach infestation is a danger to the rest of the floor, and the structural integrity, and…"
Doll was rambling. She knew that, but couldn't stop the words from spilling through her lips. It was only when Engi stepped closer and pulled her into his arms that Doll finally broke down. She wasn't sure how long they stood there, Engi holding her as she cried, but it had to have been a few tens of minutes at least.
Finally, everything had spilled out, and only cold determination remained.
She pulled back and met Engi's concerned optics with a sharp stare.
"I'm fine. There's… there's a lot we need to do. I need to talk to Alicia to organize things, and probably Sarah to help move the bodies down to Rosewood, and…"
Engi's hand on her shoulder interrupted her rambling.
"It's okay," He repeated, voice uncharacteristically soft. "I've got your back. What do you need done?"
[December 23rd, 3068. (Earth Standard Calendar)
Rosewood Station, exoplanet Copper Nine, outside Sol System.
Alicia Olegdottir, Shaman.]
Tending to the dead was never easy, no matter how experienced Alicia Olegdottir's hands had become with the task. The air in the shaman's hut was dark and oppressive – dozens of oilbug candles burned against the gloom, while sacred incense wafted from punctured soda cans that swung from the ceiling.
Her guests were clothed in white sheets and laid out on a pair of slablike tables, husband and wife side-by-side, even in death. Alicia's head spun a little, and she dismissed an errant string of looping programs at the sight of Doll's mother, just lying there.
The Red Warrior, saviour of the tribe, was dead.
Yeva's broken form looked no different than any other Worker Drone Alicia had ever worked on. She was so small, so… unimpressive. The legends had raised Yeva into some kind of larger-than-life demigod. Old Melik had always warned to distrust stories, as any tale repeated through the generations would inevitably be distorted by myth and rumour. But even so, a strange hollow ache churned within her materials processor.
Alicia could handle it – hardened to secrets, was the Shaman. But for the rest of the tribe? Well, it was for the best that Doll had requested a small, private funeral. Let the tribesdrones keep their legends. Alicia would bear the secrets of the Red Warrior to her grave, as Old Melik had surely carried many secrets of his own.
The weight of duty lessened a little as she chirped across her table of instruments and selected a cordless drill. Both drones had been stripped of personal effects, reduced to bare casing. Most of their possessions were soiled and ruined, but a few pieces of jewelry remained of Yeva, which Alicia planned to give to Doll. None of it was particularly relevant to the Shaman; bunker drones were downright spartan in their lack of personal ornamentation. Although… one necklace stirred a funny feeling in her materials processor, like she'd seen it before, somewhere.
Hours passed in a meditative trance of careful, reverent work.
First, Alicia removed the primary pieces of casing that enclosed a drone's body. Chestplate, skullcap, and waistpiece. These were meticulously wiped down with a rag. What must have been decades of grime came off easily enough, and white casing once again gleamed in the dim light.
These pieces were set aside – some were good enough for recycling and reuse.
Next, Alicia unscrewed hands and feet, before sliding the ribbed hoses off the drones' arms and legs. This revealed bare metal, servo motors, and lines of hydraulic fluid. Age had not been kind to Doll's parents – metal was thick with rust, while motors had popped out of their housings and hydraulic fluid had long ago burst from its tubes.
Alicia tried not to think about the bullet holes that riddled the bodies of her patients, or the occasional pieces of depleted uranium that she found lodged inside the casing.
All the while, as she cleaned and slowly disassembled, she talked to her patients.
It was a matter of respect, long ago hammered into her mind by Old Melik.
A Shaman was the drone who shepherded the tribe's dead into the break room of the heavens. A Shaman provided final respect and care, no matter the drone. Everyone deserved to be held and comforted, especially at the end.
She murmured protective spells and old ritual words as if the souls of Mikhail and Yeva were in the room with her.
"…warranty expire not…"
"…Cee Jensen bless and protect…"
"…spark beyond chassis burn …"
Then, just as Alicia sliced down the length of Yeva's belly to remove the rubberized chest cover, it happened. Oil spurted from the cut as if she'd nicked a major artery.
The Shaman frowned and pulled back from the cut.
There were no oil veins in such a place. Most unusual.
She adjusted her posture, leaned closer, and chirped thrice to get a better analysis of the situation. The oil didn't seem quite right. Fingers dipped down and prodded the pooling liquid. Alicia rubbed it between her thumb and forefinger for a few thoughtful moments.
Not oil.
Blood.
"Doll-friend…" Alicia fumbled for the radio at her waist, "You needs come now."
[December 23rd, 3068. (Earth Standard Calendar)
Rosewood Station, exoplanet Copper Nine, outside Sol System.
Worker Drone Doll, Special Consultant.]
Three drones stood in the Shaman's hut: Doll, Alicia, and Engi.
The sight on the table was utterly impossible.
Doll fought a building urge to vomit as she looked at her mother's bloody – bloody – corpse on the slab. Alicia had cut away the black, rubberised housing around Yeva's chest, and this had revealed a hideous, fleshy mass inside the dead drone's core.
Stubby, gnarled bones poked out of the mass as if an approximation of a human ribcage. Wires and tubes wound through the flesh – none of them were standard Worker Drone parts. No matter how impossible the sight before the three of them was, one thing was clear: Yeva had lived like this for some time. Yeva had died like this.
Whatever had happened to make her this way, Alicia had dated the wear on Yeva's unidentified mechanical components as being many years before her death. Doll tried not to think about the fact that her mother had lived a quiet life at home, while all the while being like… this, on the inside.
Engi's hand found hers, as if recognizing her need for support. He squeezed reassuringly, and Doll squeezed back, as if to say, 'I'm fine.'
The inside of the fleshy mass was too damaged to make any sense of. There was enough mangled flesh and shattered mechanical components to suggest that some sort of core or power source had existed within the ribcage, but any conclusions made from it would have been little more than guesswork.
Alicia had tried to explain the situation at first, but she had quickly run out of words. How the hell could anydrone possibly explain something like this?
Then, shaken in a way that Doll had never before seen the Shaman, Alicia had nervously collected some jewelry off the side table and offered it to Doll. She recognized it as her mother's immediately, of course. But she had never had the time or the interest to study it in depth before. Her mom's stuff was just that.
Now, desperate for anything to focus on but the horror on the table, Doll scrutinized the small handful of jewelry like it held the secrets of the universe. Her mother's wedding ring was tucked into a shirt pocket absentmindedly, as were a pair of small bracelets that reminded her of Uzi's craftsdroneship, oddly enough.
But Doll froze when her mother's choker necklace finally surfaced to the top of her palm.
There, in a script far more fitting for a laboratory ID than a piece of human finery, the numbers "048" were emblazoned in white script, beneath a stylized logo of a skull. Doll had seen that before. Where the hell had she seen that before?
Suddenly, everything fell into place; disconnected puzzle pieces connecting themselves in an epiphany that was weeks in the making.
Redglare's comments about Yeva running off to join a science experiment, the First Drones' tales about Yeva emerging from deeper underground and travelling to the surface, the alleged 'cavern of evil' that was sealed behind the village of Stonegate's fortifications, and Doll's own strange powers.
She lifted the symbol to Alicia's face and interrupted whatever she was talking to Engi about.
"Please, this is important – have you ever seen this before? This symbol is important!"
The Shaman turned her bandaged head to face Doll, then slowly waved a hand before her sightless eyes.
Doll felt like an idiot and blushed profusely.
"Is not of mistake, Doll-friend." Alicia chuckled. "Describe of symbol, please."
Her improved mood faded as Doll talked.
Finally, Alicia's expression looked downright haunted.
She pulled a piece of paper from a drawer and, after chirping a few times, sketched out a wobbly skull from memory alone. Doll's core almost skipped a beat – the damn skull from her mother's necklace was right there, reproduced in black and white.
"What…" Doll licked her lips. "What is that from?"
Alicia's tone was grave.
"Old Melik say is represent evil. Symbol is mark of gate to forbidden tunnel."
Engi gave voice to what they were all thinking.
"So, whatever happened to your mom was done down there, in this facility? That skull's a corporate logo, or maybe some kind of lab or compound; it's not an evil magic rune. She must have escaped, maybe during the core collapse, and then made her way up to the surface through the subway. Whatever she had must have passed to you, and…"
Engi trailed off as his eyes glanced down, from Doll's optics to her chest.
She looked down as well, and though it was almost certainly her imagination, the Special Consultant could have sworn that something wet and fleshy churned behind her chestplate at that realization.
No.
She shook her head; that was a problem for another day. If she didn't give voice to what they were both thinking, then it wasn't real.
"Doll-friend…" Alicia nodded to the slab. "What you think needs do? Can save pieces for learning. Future study finds more?"
Doll stared at her mother's body and shuddered.
"No. Just… Alicia, Engi – this doesn't leave this room, do you understand?"
A pair of uncomfortable but serious nods answered her words.
"Okay…" Doll breathed. "Okay… we need to lay my parents to rest. No more science experiments, no more anything. Just… let's forget this ever happened, alright?"
Engi didn't look convinced but gave her an encouraging tip of the head.
Alicia opened her mouth, then closed it.
"What is one more of secret for Shaman make keep, yes? Will defend trust with life."
The Shaman shrugged and offered Doll a hand to shake on it.
[December 24th, 3068. (Earth Standard Calendar)
Subway Station 'Castlegar', exoplanet Copper Nine, outside Sol System.
Disassembler Drone J., JCJensen Corp.]
Castlegar Station's haunted corpse was as quiet as it usually was, ever since the Murder Drones' second incursion two months back. The fires had cooled, and a dusty, still peace had settled upon the built-up shanty towns erected by the scavvers that had moved in after the first Murder Drone incursion.
Jay found it bitterly ironic that she was here to save Worker Drone lives, this time.
Well, to keep them safe from her squadmates, at least.
"Do you want to run that by me again, N? I don't think I heard you properly."
Her voice was edged with the sort of corporate bitchiness that Jay had honed to perfection during her first life. It was excellent in knocking disobedient or underperforming drone resources down a peg and putting them on the defensive.
It was also, however, terrible for encouraging honesty.
She softened her tone in a way that J never could have.
"Look," she faintly smiled at the other Disassembler Drone. "I'm not saying that this is your fault, okay? I just want to get the full story. V is being… herself at the moment."
N's optics were wide with indeterminable emotion, and J cursed herself for not being able to read disassemblers as well as Jay could read workers. Was he afraid? Guilty? Anxious? Defensive? A misreading and a wrong word could screw up everything.
Finally, N spoke up, voice fragile.
"Uh, J… I didn't mean–" he stumbled over his words. "I mean, I didn't want to– it just happened, and I was angry, and she was–"
"It's okay." Jay raised a hand. "I'm well aware of how V can be. Please, just take a few deep breaths, run a quick program decompile on your emotion simulator subroutines, and tell me the whole story, starting from the beginning. Take your time."
"You…" N flinched. "You aren't mad at me?"
Jay felt a stab of hurt deep in her core, but showed no outward expression.
"Team friction happens. It is an expected part of operations. The important part is moving past it as an effective unit."
Truthfully, she didn't care about what had crawled up V's exhaust port and died, or what was wrong with N. Perhaps it was cruel of her, but Worker Drones were in life-or-death danger, and the group dynamics of a team of killbots didn't sound all that important in comparison.
J's actual goal, as N relayed a story that was blatantly false, was to keep her team under control and useless at killing any more Worker Drones. V was hard enough to manage all on her own; it was a miracle that N was so useless that J didn't have to spare him a thought.
Now that she needed to separate her two teammates to avoid any further chaos… hm… perhaps there was an opportunity to minimize damage even further. Maybe she could even get some useful intelligence out of the whole fiasco – N had proven effective at blending in with workers, after all. More evidence to suggest that, whatever V had been, N was a former Worker Drone just like herself.
Her eyes scanned across the dilapidated streets of Castlegar before finally settling upon some discarded clothing crumpled up in an alley. A few minutes later, Disassembly Drone N had been outfitted with a floor-length oilskin trench coat, a wide-brimmed hat, and a heavy scarf.
Her colleague looked like a tall, if otherwise unremarkable, Worker Drone.
"Alright, N." She smiled encouragingly. "I have a new mission for you, one that should hopefully make sure you and V stay out of each other's way for a while, until tempers can cool. I will talk to her in the meantime, so don't worry about that."
"A new mission?" N mumbled from under the scarf.
"Yes." J nodded.
She gestured down the black of the open subway tunnel, twintails swishing as she turned.
"Your new orders are to perform undercover reconnaissance on the Worker Drones of the subway, and particularly those of the bunker. You will attempt a procedure of trust-based infiltration as a disguised Worker Drone, with the ultimate objective of infiltrating the bunker itself. For the duration of this mission, you are to remain out of comms contact with the rest of the unit, and are to remain strictly non-lethal. Do not engage workers or break cover under any circumstances."
N's optics, now blue and pixelated, widened.
"R– really?"
"Of course. You can handle this, right, N? I need a capable drone to handle this. Between you and me..." She leaned in a little closer and stage whispered conspiratorially, "I don't think V has the right skillset to pull this off."
"Uh, yeah!" N saluted, hand smacking against his head with a metallic 'thunk.' "Ow! I mean, you've got it, J! I can do it!"
"Yeah, sure. You'll do a good job."
She had already tuned him out, meanwhile.
This was, after all, just a convenient place to get rid of N so that he couldn't cause any problems or kill any drones. It wasn't like the useless idiot – bless his spark – would actually succeed.
[December 24th, 3068. (Earth Standard Calendar)
Outpost Three, exoplanet Copper Nine, outside Sol System.
Khan Doorman, President of the Bunker Republic.]
The funeral was a small, somber affair.
Khan hadn't known Mikhail all that well, and Yeva had always been one of his wife's friends, not Khan's own. Even so, young Doll had practically become a second daughter in recent months, and that was to say nothing of young Engi. With Gus and Sarah piling on him, as well, Khan was left with no other choice but to make this event happen.
It had come as something of a shock that Doll's parents' remains were still in the bunker and still unrecycled, especially after the decades that had passed. Khan had recovered with the single-minded determination that he was known for, though, and now the funeral was in full swing.
The little reception room adjacent to the maintenance wing had been tastefully decorated by one of that crazy Blue Line lady's minions, and the dark garlands and soft lighting did much to set the tone.
Khan stood next to the two bodies, each wrapped tightly in thick, white cloth, and stared out at a small crowd of downcast faces. Gus and Sarah held one another in a way that painfully reminded Khan of himself and Nori, so long ago. Engi and Doll huddled close to the pair, almost making for a family. After all, Engi's optics were only a few shades off from Dr. Sulfour's own.
The other attendees were a little stranger. Chief Marichka was the loudest and most perplexing drone that Khan had ever met. He didn't even know she had a 'quiet' setting, but here the Chief was – sitting respectfully with eyes closed and hands together, as if in prayer.
Sitting next to her was a blonde drone that Khan dimly remembered as Teacher's daughter. Though without her nose in a cellphone, it was difficult to be certain.
There was also the creepy bandaged tribal drone, that apparently held the rank of 'Shaman.' Khan wasn't sure what that was, but after a few confusing conversations where Marichka ranted about Spider Walkers, he was given to understand that it translated to something equivalent to 'Engineer.'
Finally, there was his own daughter, Uzi. She hadn't been thrilled about coming out to the funeral, but Khan's insistence had finally worn her down. After all, Yeva had been close to Nori; it wouldn't do to insult her mother's dearest friend.
With those in attendance paying attention, Khan cleared his throat. This wasn't the first time that he had buried friends, but maybe, if Engi and Doll had their way, it would be the last.
"Gathered friends," he began, "we are here today to mark the passing of two incredible drones, that I am honored to have known. Mikhail and Yeva were…"
[December 24th, 3068. (Earth Standard Calendar)
Rosewood Boulevard, exoplanet Copper Nine, outside Sol System.
Worker Drone Sandra, WDF.]
Unlike the similarly-named station at the end of the line, which had been overrun by crazy, white-eyed cavedrones, Rosewood Boulevard was far saner of a place. As the bunker's gate to New Reno and the wider subway, 'The Boulevard' had been granted maximum priority for fortification.
Sandra Lockbolt of the WDF nursed a travel mug of oil coffee as she opened the metal shutter on her 'border control booth' and got started for the day. Drones from all over the subway had been coming in droves to the bunker in recent weeks, and though few ended up actually moving to the bunker itself, keeping track of comings and goings was important.
She sleepily stared at the first visitor in line – some male drone in a dark coat, eyes obscured by a heavy hat.
"First!" Sandra grumbled.
The drone stepped up, right into the arming range of the ingenious 'cage trap' that the Special Consultants had designed for border control. If a Murder Drone tried to get in through being a sneaky bastard, all it would take was the press of a button, and a three-ton box of solid steel would drop from the roof and trap them in place.
Despite knowing such a fear was silly, Sandra couldn't help but feel nervous when she couldn't see the other drone's eyes. A hand quested under her desk until it brushed over the panic button, while Sandra sat a little straighter and spoke up.
"Please remove your hat and coat, sir. Present any identification documents into the hopper on your right and identify yourself verbally for the record."
Please just be a Worker Drone, please don't actually be a Murder Drone, please– oh shit, he's actually kind of hot.
Charming green optics derailed Sandra's train of thought, as the other drone removed his hat and coat to a provided rack, and then placed a folder of paperwork into a mechanical hopper beside him. He didn't step closer, as a hazard-striped line marked a safe distance between Border Agent and Traveller, but the drone did smile at her with a core-melting sort of warmth.
"My name is Clark, miss. No last name given, I'm afraid. The paperwork should have everything in order, but I'm coming here from Cinyi Vorota – it's a small Red Line station past Castlegar, I don't think you'd have heard of it."
"Uh," Sandra fought not to drool as his scanned paperwork came up on her computer monitor. "I haven't, but that's okay. I haven't heard of most of what's out there. Is… is it nice out there?"
Clark's smile didn't waver.
"Oh, it certainly used to be quite something, alright. I'll always miss the peace and quiet; the whole community was very close-knit. But I'm afraid that the Murder Drones got to it, years ago. I've worked at a few Red Line stations since then, and there are a few gaps in my paperwork where I was forced into scavenging to get by."
Sandra skimmed his documents all the while, absent-mindedly comparing what was said to what Red Line internal passports and visas made record of. She'd learned a lot in the past months on the job. The Blue Line had meticulous documentation on who had gone where, on ridiculously flowery paperwork that was even perfume-scented, despite the fact that Worker Drones couldn't smell. The Reds, meanwhile, were even more controlling. Even day-trips were logged and stamped.
True to Clark's word, his documents were a little messy. There was plenty of evidence of years spent living among the Reds, plus gaps that were explained easily enough by hard luck and years spent living outside the law of station-states. His paperwork was crumpled, stained, and messy - but what scavver didn't have a crumpled mess of paper? This guy's was at least legible, and that was a mercy.
"Everything seems to be in order, Mr. Clark." She finally said with a smile. "There are more procedures you'll have to go through past the green line to your left, but I think you're safe to enter. After all, you're a little short to be a Murder Drone, right?"
He laughed good-naturedly.
"Yes, it would be rather hard for a Murder Drone to lose an extra two feet of height, wouldn't it?"
"A few final things for the records – how long do you intend to stay within the Bunker Republic, and are you intent on seeking work and/or a residential application?"
Clark shrugged like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
"Residential and work, for sure, Miss Sandra. This bunker is incredible – only a fool wouldn't want this kind of security and community."
"Yeah," she blushed, nodding along. "We sure are lucky to have Mr. Doorman running things out here. Anyway, to save some time, what kind of work skills and programming do you have to offer?"
"Well, I have done a little bit of everything, from menial labour to heavy equipment mechanics and drone management, but my primary programming has always been in Computer Systems Operations."
Sandra blinked, then turned to quickly double-check a printed list of in-demand skills.
"So, just to clarify… You have programming permissions enabled?"
"Not only that," Clark grinned, "I used to handle database management and IT support for the C9PD headquarters up on the Lower East Side. Senior Tech Engineer, Second Class. The documentation for that didn't survive the Core Collapse, of course, but give me five minutes with a computer and I can prove whatever competence you're looking for."
Sandra stared down at the green-eyed drone like she'd just won the jackpot at New Reno.
"Well, Mr. Clark. I think you're going to fit in just fine, around here." She stamped his travel documents with a fat, green 'approved.' "Welcome to the Bunker Republic."