Writing As We Go, Chapter 11

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Writing As We Go, Chapter 11

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Fri Apr 08, 2022 7:39 am

(Note: This chapter, and all those before it, have been proofread by our very own DollSpace, who has my eternal gratitude for assisting me in my writing endeavors. Obviously, all chapters after this one will be proofread by her as well.)

“Right, seeing as how Lloyd's back on campus for the week, it's up to the three of us to get things sorted.” Erin—most of her figure covered by jeans and a jacket, with her slightly unnatural facial features obscured by a pair of sunglasses—checked the list on the tablet PC Harry had given her. “Cam, you're on costume duty—hit up the thrift stores, the bargain wholesalers, that one place selling old theatrical stuff. You know the drill.”

Cam nodded. “Did Harry give us a budget for the day?”

“The usual. Try not to find anything that looks ''too'' costume-y, if possible. Bruce, you're on Resources—stuff to put up a set for the next event. Wood, soil, nails—you get the idea.”

“Got it.”

I have the illustrious task of buying lunch, after I'm done talking to the talent manager at the local community theatre.” Erin rolled her eyes at the thought. “Yay me. Apparently, Harry wants to make sure the NonSens on-site are 'more believable' for next week's run, so he's asked me to—”

“What about me?”

The question, uttered by Diana, drew a frown from Erin. “What about you next week,” she asked, “or what about you as far as '''''today''''' goes?”

After a few seconds, Diana replied: “Today. What do I do out here?”

Bruce and Cam glanced at each other—the former's face as inscrutable as the latter's polite frown.

“Just...take in the sights,” Erin replied, “stick by the car and try not to get in any trouble. We should all be done within the next few minutes, anyway.” She patted Diana on the shoulder. “Just look around, watch things—learn, if you can.”

Diana nodded. “I would love to.”

“That's the spirit.” Erin smiled. “RIGHT, we all meet back here in, let's say an hour or so. Anyone runs into any problems, you know the number to call. Speaking of which, Diana, here's a phone.” She handed the blonde gynoid a smartphone, which lit up as soon as it rested in Diana's hand. “If you need anything, or if you run into any kind of trouble, call me.”

Without stopping to reinforce that statement—or indeed, to explain “the number to call” to Diana, who was still regarding her with a puzzled frown—Erin, Cam and Bruce all went their separate ways, leaving the blonde gynoid standing next to the Honda Zentury by herself. The prospect of “what if they don't come back?” never occurred to Diana. Already, she was observing—people going about their daily lives, conversing as they walked, chatting on their phones, being people. It was all fascinating, to her; a bit much to take in, at times, but there was no denying that this level of freedom, of autonomy, was exciting. The level of avenues, of thought processes and ideas, forming and opening up in her digital mind was incredible.

As she regarded the sights and sounds around her, Diana felt the smartphone in her new—and mostly empty—purse vibrate; she retrieved it, thumbing it on to reveal a message from Erin: ''Forgot to ask, but there's a parts order that needs to be collected, and I forgot to tell the others about it. I'll send you the directions. Use the app to pay for it. Thanks''. ''The car will open for you when you get back. If you don't want to wait inside, close the door and keep browsing, but stay close.'' The text included an image of the app in question, and a map showing the way to the store. Thankfully, it was within walking distance of the Zentury—it wouldn't take more than ten minutes to get there.

After studying the directions for a moment, Diana nodded with something resembling confidence. Helping out would give her a chance to prove ''some''thing. She wasn't quite sure what that might be, yet.

Still, helping others was a good thing—especially helping Harry and Lloyd.

The parts order wouldn't take too long to fill, if all went well. She could easily be in and out of the store within the span of five or six minutes, and barring some kind of hideous traffic snarl, she'd be back at the Zentury and waiting for the rest to arrive in no time at all.

Granted, standing around, just waiting for the rest to return, would be dull. Or would it? Maybe she could try to learn more.

Diana checked the phone again, going over the directions to the store and the app with which she was to pay for the parts ordered. Her thought processes, nascent as they were, turned towards possibilities—what if she'd been the one asked to order lunch? Would she have picked a specific restaurant? Would Erin have offered any suggestions?

After a few seconds of pondering, Diana glanced at the phone again. Time enough to think later.

With a smile, she set off towards the shop, eager to provide any assistance she could.

The morning would definitely prove to be interesting.
-----
“C'mon, come ON! The light is GREEN, you troglodyte, stop talking on your damn phone—oh, to HELL with this!”

As she swerved her latest “borrowed” vehicle out from behind the idiot who'd picked the most inopportune moment to blab away on their phone, Lexi allowed her ocular sensors to focus on—and capture—the number on the car's license plate. A quick search would easily turn up the owner's address, if she really wanted to entertain herself; a number of lurid statistics, plans and ideas formed in her digital mind scape, one involving a rather horrid application of a blender to a certain bodily orifice. With any luck—

Your penchant for unrestrained violence is, as always, admirable—but it must be tempered with focus.”

For a moment, Lexi thought the voice had come from the radio. A quick check revealed that to not be the case; the station was playing a track from an album called ''In Time'', from a band of four Brits who were supposed to have been a big deal several decades ago. It took a few seconds for the gynoid to realize that the “rebuke” was actually an audio file she'd saved from a briefing the night before—well, the early hours of the morning, but she always hated semantics anyway.

The message had been loud and clear, when it was delivered—and it resonated even now. Yes, it'd be fun to go after the idiot who'd parked at a light, but she'd already gone overboard at Pariello's. That loose end would need tying up very soon, as it stood. In the meantime, there was no point to just following randos home and subjecting them to her unique brand of “fun” until she got bored with them—she had a mission to complete. The solid state drive was still in the hands of CAEDIA, after all; once Pariello was iced, retrieval of the drive was the only directive she had to worry about.

On the radio, the track had changed—a guitar and choir-heavy rendition of some synthpop hit, belted out by a man with a rather distinctive Southern tone. The crooner sounded legitimately soulful as he opened with a line about “looking from a window above”; overly emotional types might've been reduced to tears at his delivery of the chorus.

Lexi, by contrast, merely groaned. “He should've crapped out on the crapper,” she muttered. “This station sucks!

The station changed without her even reaching for the radio controls—her WiFi link allowed her the barest “hands-free” operation of the vehicle's electrics. Within seconds, the new station was blasting out a Japanese heavy metal track laden with screeching guitars, thunderous drums, combined with female Japanese vocals.

“My kind of song.” Lexi grinned and floored the accelerator. This was going to be a very entertaining day indeed.
-----
“So no significant updates on Hinson and Pickett?”

Detective Logan didn't look up from what he was reading. “Pickett's still worse off. Elaine says it'll take months to get her back to form.”

Pickett's worse off?” Sierra Birch frowned. “I'd have thought Hinson—”

“I said the same thing. Apparently, Hinson's responding well to therapy.” The detective was still scrolling through the files and photos he'd been sent regarding “the perp”—CAEDIA had yet to assign a formal designation to the deranged gynoid who'd bricked Evelyn Hinson and Michelle Pickett. “Anyone follow up on the leads I found yesterday?”

“Still looking,” Sierra replied. “So far--”

“They should look harder.”

The bluntness of her colleague's reply would've ended the conversation for anyone else. “Something you want to tell me, Detective?”

For a moment, the detective was silent.

“If this is about—”

“It's not. Elaine was strictly professional.” Detective Logan sighed. “She also recognized the perp.”

Sierra arched an eyebrow. “As in?”

“Recognized her by her model type—discontinued back in 2003. Hence the deep dive.” Detective Logan gestured at the monitor before him; the main photo depicted the nude, smiling gynoid ramming a shard of glass through the visor of a respirator hood. “Still trying to bridge the gap between this and the recall.”

“So all our digging—”

“Only gets us so far. My connections in the Valley are still looking, but it's slow going.” The detective leaned back in his seat, scowling. “Whoever issued that recall didn't just bury the leads, they burned them.”

“We can still keep looking,” Sierra assured him.

“I never said we should stop.” The detective rose from the chair he'd been sitting in for well over two hours. “Maybe...”

“Maybe what?

“We might be looking in from the wrong angle.” Detective Logan gestured back at the monitor. “Investigating this from a purely law-enforcement standpoint, instead of, say, ''military''.”

“You want CAEDIA to—”

“Did they make any progress on the solid state drive?”

Sierra frowned, but stopped short of directly criticizing the detective. “The photos of the perp were probably from a military lab,” she reasoned. “Which means ''some''one bought a mass-market model twenty or so years ago—”

“One unit getting an entire line recalled is a bit out there,” the detective mused. “But not too far out there.”

The door to the detective's office opened to reveal Officer Celia Faulkner. “Got a call for you from San Jose, Detective.”

“Thanks.” Detective Logan nodded to Sierra. “Feel free to look over what I've collected so far, see if you can figure out anything further.”

The Officer nodded. “And if I think of anything?”

“Let me know when I get back.”

With another nod, Sierra took the seat that had been occupied by the detective—just as he strode through the still-open door and out of the room.

For the next few minutes, Sierra looked through the photos and text that the detective had “dug up”. All of them had been taken in a stark, martial set of rooms that bore more resemblance to a heavy-artillery testing facility than a robotics laboratory. Of all the other androids and gynoids seen (there was no doubt in Sierra's mind that the other figures were artificial—at least three of them, standing in the background as they were, still had visible seam lines on their bodies and faces), “the perp” was the one that was being put through the ringer the most. None of the androids—counting the perp—were wearing any clothing in the vast majority of the pictures. A few shots had them all lined up while a figure in full dress uniform (from what branch of what country's military, it was impossible to tell) talked, either to them or to someone in full “clean-gear” nearby; in these, the androids were clad in underwear, but nothing more.

The documents ''with'' the pictures told a grim story. “Autonomous weapons”, “total obedience”, “disregard for any orders not given from command personnel” and “combat-capable squads ready in the next five years” were the least alarming phrases found in the assembled collection of files. One document in particular seemed to be a journal, and explained, with a certain detached air, why the lineup of androids seemed to dwindle in the last few pictures.

“'Subject 18 is performing beyond all expectations',” Sierra read, frowning. “'She holds the record amongst Regiment 12 for most consecutive kills performed in a testing mission. Subject 18 has exhibited peak proficiency with all available weapons, and has shown a considerable creativity for spontaneous kill techniques'.” She scrolled back to the photo of the perp shattering a man's respirator visor with a shard of glass. “'Considerable creativity',” she repeated, scowling. “I guess that explains the vinegar-and-bleach routine.”

She returned her attention to the document: “'Command notes that Subject 18 has also developed a tendency towards sexual responses when executing kill techniques'. I can only guess this next word means 'R&D', so let's just stick with that for now—'R&D have claimed this is a flaw in her programming, and has requested permission for the flaw to be corrected as soon as possible'. Good for R&D.” She scrolled down, and her shoulders slumped. “Or not. 'Command has ordered that all R&D personnel be kept under monitoring. Three R&D personnel liquidated'—I'll bet—due to an unauthorized attempt to alter Subject 18's programming'. Yeesh.”

The final section of the document was even more succinct—and far more grim. “'Subject 18 has performed with 100% effectiveness on all field operations. Subject 18 has killed 38 personnel from R&D and twenty personnel from Command between operations. Subject 18 has expressed a strong desire to be deployed more frequently. Remaining personnel have requested permission to terminate Subject 18. All other units from Regiment 12 are—'”

Sierra stared at the blinking cursor at the end of the last sentence. “Guess we'll never know what the other units are, then,” she mused. “Or what they ''were'', at least.” Her gaze returned to the photos of the perp—“Subject 18”, as named in the documents. “Definitely a military project, then,” she mused. “Someone bought a mass-market NonSen, put her through the ringer and it turned her into a killer. Why?

“Good question.” Detective Logan's reflection on the monitor only just entered Sierra's focus. “I may have the answer.”

“I have a feeling the rest of the office is going to want to hear this one,” Sierra replied. “Shall we?”
-----
Getting to the store where the parts order was waiting to be picked up wasn't too much of a problem. There were some alleys she mistook for streets, and the same for driveways, and there ''was'' this one tricky intersection, but traffic was light, and Diana had no issue crossing that road to reach the plaza with the shop on the other side. There wasn't even a line to wait in, either; the phone had pinged when she'd walked in, and a number had appeared on the screen. After maybe five minutes, a clerk called out the number on the phone's screen; Diana headed to the appropriate counter, accepted the cloth bag she was handed, and used the app indicated from Erin's message to pay for it all.

The entire process had taken maybe ten minutes. Speedy, efficient and without any hassle. The shopkeep told her to remember her reusable bag next time, but as it happened, once she was outside the store, she found the cloth bag just about fit in her purse, giving it a bit of heft.

Diana pondered over this process as she re-crossed the road, considering the best ways to make ''other'' things speedy and efficient. At first, she made sure she didn't mistake the same alleys and driveways for roads as she did on her journey there, but coming ''back'' it was much clearer. It allowed her mind to wander. She was, in fact, so absorbed in the thought process of efficiency that time started slipping away from her. So many sites and sounds she was too focused on getting to the shop that she didn't notice at first. It had rained recently, so the ground was damp, and she loved the smell of it.

She saw so many shops that piqued her curiosity that she ducked into one briefly that sold cute knick-knacks and found this little bear with spectacles that reminded her of Lloyd. She grabbed it and immediately turned to leave the shop, but then remembered how she had to pay at the other shop. She thought for a minute and decided to try something. She went up to the counter with the bear, and when asked for payment, she brought out the mobile phone she paid with at the other shop. The transaction went through flawlessly. By the time she left the store, with her purse on the verge of bursting, she realised she'd be a little late back to the car if she didn't go directly there.

She must have looked a bit lost, as she she didn't notice a car pull up along side her once she was on the other side of the street. “You look lost. Can I help?”

The driver looked like she was holding in the biggest laugh, as if she'd just heard a banger of a joke.

“What's so funny?”

“Oh, just something I heard on the radio.” The driver's smile didn't waver.

Despite being a little unnerved, Diana thought if this woman could give her a ride to the car park, she could make it on time with both the parts and Lloyd's gift. “Could you give me a ride to the car park on the other side of all those buildings?”

The driver''s smile lit up like a dazzling rocket, and the rear driver's side door opened up. Diana got in.

“Fuckle up, buttercup! We're going for a little spin!

Though her voice was female—it lacked the familiarity of Cam's or Erin's voices, and held neither the former's usual air of polite concern, nor the latter's casual tone. The speaker was clearly amused by Diana's predicament—more so when Diana's seatbelt—which she'd just fastened—immediately tightened, seemingly of its own accord. The belt pressed her into the seat, allowing her the most minimal freedom of movement.

The car quickly accelerated away from where it had stopped. A few pedestrians outside were yelling invectives at the vehicle; the driver paid them no heed, only stopping to mutter threats against someone going entirely too slow for her tastes. “What I wouldn't give for a Carl Gustaf right now—just stick it out the the window, aimed right at the first idiot who takes the 'slow ride' approach. That term sucks—stupid name for a song, too.” She scoffed. “'Song', who am I kidding? It's the same damn lines over and over again, with a bit tacked on at the end—GET OUT OF THE WAY, ASSHOLE!” A blast of the vehicle's horn sounded.

“Ah.” Diana couldn't think of anything to say that might alleviate the situation, or at least ease her own thoughts.

“Everyone driving fifteen miles under the damn speed limit,” the driver continued, “and me with a whole list of shit to do this morning—I wish, I SO wish that this car had spiked bumpers and fenders. Just ram 'em all out of the way, cars and pedestrians! Too slow crossing the road! BOOM. Instant new hood ornament. Talking on your phone at a light! BANG, you just lost whatever's in the trunk! Serves you right, dipshit!”

“Um,” Diana began, not stopping to think that ''she'' might end up the target of the driver's next stream of insults.

“The Hell are you—OH, right. Introductions. You don't need to know me, I don't give a crap who you are. Just sit back and enjoy the ride.” The car took a hard turn, the rear passenger-side apparently knocking something over as it did. The driver ignored the yelling from whoever owned what she'd just hit; Diana, meanwhile, tried to peer through the nearest window for a better look—

“Y'ever think about role models?”

Diana barely had time to parse the question before the driver continued.: “Oh, there are a few that I like reading up on, from time to time. Just did a ton of research—MOVE, DUMBASS!” Another blast from the car horn cut into the running (driving?) monologue. “A ton of research this morning, on some of my favourites. Helps get me in the right mood for my work, y'know?”

All Diana could manage was a quiet “ah”, not having any idea what the discussion was about to entail.

“Bundy, for one—a real 'lady-killer', if y'know what I mean!” There was something not quite right about the high, girlish shriek of laughter that punctuated that remark. “The best thing about him is, he never gave up. Broke out of prison three times—the last, the day they set him up to ride Ol' Sparky! Seriously, they went to flip the switch and fry him up like a bucket of Colonel Sanders' Original Recipe, and BOOM.” Another cackle. “Massive power outage. Big riot, too. By the time they got the lights back on, he'd split.” The driver sighed. “And they tried to say he was gator chow after he ran. Yeah, right. My bet is, they just couldn't find him again, and lied to cover their own asses. He ''might'' still be out there, y'know. I ''hope'' so. I'd love to compare notes with him.”

Before Diana could ask who “Bundy” was, or queue up an online search, the car took a hard turn.

“Ramirez was another one—'The Night Stalker'. THAT is a hell of a name, right there—hehehe, 'hell' of a name!” The driver giggled. “They say he was a Satanist, but nobody could prove it. He played it up, though—'Swear to Satan', all that stuff. Theatricality helps, y'know? He's another one who never gave up—oh, they said he croaked it back in '13, but that was before some tabloid leaked that there'd been a big bust-out where he was locked up. Most got locked right back up, but they never could find Ramirez. Wonder if he's still out there, too?”

“I, ah—” Diana couldn't quite think of anything to add to the conversation—if this bizarre diatribe from the driver even qualified as one. She had the faintest sense that she wasn't supposed to be in this vehicle. Maybe it was a case of mistaken identity; if so, this madwoman was in no position to keep her in the car—

Any thoughts on the legality of her plight faded from the gynoid's mind quickly; the car had just swerved into another lane, prompting ''another'' vehicle to swerve out of the way. The sound of squealing tires, screeching brakes and crunching metal indicated that multiple parties had tried and failed to avert a catastrophic accident.

Diana guessed that people had been hurt, but could do little more than hope for their safety.

The driver of the vehicle, on the other hand, merely checked the rear-view mirror and laughed.

“I—” Again, Diana had to brace herself as the car took another hard turn.

“But the one I most want to meet,” the driver declared, “is the one who's done the most damage. I've heard a ton of names for him: the Butcher of Lake Gilmour, the Nightmare of Silicon Valley, the Butcher King, the Face Destroyer, the Face Obliterator—all great stuff. And that outfit! All-black, with a white mask—oh, he just looks so...” With one hand still on the wheel, the driver blew a theatrical kiss. “Nobody's really sure if the name and the look have been with one guy, or a bunch, over the years. I'd hope he's been the same one all along. I've seen the pictures of what he's done—so baroque! And he never uses guns—I mean, Ramirez and the Zodiac used guns, but nobody knows who the Zodiac was to begin with, who gives a shit about him?” Another giggle. “He doesn't discriminate, either—the Butcher King, I mean. Meat or metal—if they're in the way, they get mowed down. That's dedication to the art!”

Another hard turn nearly sent Diana to the floor of the backseat.

“Oh, they say he 'died' about three or four times over the years. I doubt it. Someone as violent as him, who's done as much damage as he has, is bound to still be out there—I'd hope he is. If I could only meet one, it'd be him. He just sounds so...” A theatrical sigh issued from the occupant of the driver's seat. “Dreamy—

A fusillade of car horns, and several choice insults from the driver, cut off her praise of the so-called Butcher King. The driver briefly rolled down her window to scream a few further insults, accompanied by enthusiastic gestures indicating what she thought of the offending parties and what they could do in their free time to atone for their apparent mistakes. “—WITH A JACKHAMMER! Idiots...anyway, where was I?”

Diana suddenly realized that she'd probably be late meeting up with the others, but chose not to voice that concern.

“Oh, while I'm thinking about it—what's your favourite way to break an arm? Someone else's, I mean, not yours.”
-----
...and Diana's out getting the parts order, like you asked.”

“You're sure she understood how to use the app?” Harry inquired. “I don't want her calling up some game on the phone trying to pay for anything—gimme a sec.” He glanced back over his shoulder. “Someone wanna turn the TV down a bit, please? I'm on the phone!” The volume of the commercial decreased seconds later.

I leave for a few minutes, and everything goes to pot.”

Erin's dry wit garnered a chuckle from Harry. “Everything's fine out here, trust me. I just hope—”

She's not going to wander into traffic, or do anything people think means she wants to rob the joint.”

“I'd hope not, in either case!” Harry scowled. “Lloyd called, earlier.”

Everything okay over at JSUB?

“Exams are going well, so far. He should be done by the end of the week, and back here on either Friday afternoon or mid-day on Saturday.”

Like I said last night, I get the feeling he's got a bright future ahead of him.”

“That makes two of us. I just hope he doesn't get too distracted by anything.”

I doubt that'll be a problem for him—” Someone in the background on Erin's end of the line called her name. “Guess that's my cue—timely, as ever.” Again, Erin's sarcasm was evident. “''Shouldn't take too much longer to wrap things up on my end''. ''See you when I see you, Harry''.”

Harry nodded. “Be safe, Erin.”
-----
“Another phone call for you, Tommy.”

The only thing stopping Detective Logan from groaning at the casual use of his first name was that it'd been spoken by Sierra Birch. “Thanks. Who from?”

“Dr. Dyson. She's been conducting some research of her own on the perp.”

“Has she, now?” The detective gestured at the monitor before him. “Can you transfer it to video?”

“Just a sec.”

Before the detective had time to blink, the monitor on his desk—and the one mounted to the wall in front of it—both lit up with an image of Dr. Elaine Dyson. To Detective Logan's relief, Elaine hadn't decided to “dress down” for the call, as she'd done before he arrived at her office the day before; she once again radiated professionalism and mature beauty in her business-casual ensemble. “Bad time, Detective?

“Not at all. Officer Birch tells me you've been doing your own research.”

I have—though I wish I hadn't.”

Sierra frowned. “That's not exactly a good sign.”

Detective Logan glanced at her with a scowl, but Elaine spoke before he could: “Both of you are well-versed in the history of the Consolidation, right?

“We are.” The “Great” Consolidation, as it had been known for a while, was a mass merging, reshuffling and financial restructuring of several struggling or failing robotics companies in the early 2000s. It had, at the time, been intended to boost the industry as a whole and save it from the perils that had befallen the dot-com crowd. The actual end result had turned out far less beneficial: inventory was “misplaced”, customer records ended up in the wrong hands, and a wave of fly-by-night “start-ups” pushing “revolutionary” technology that ended up being so much scrap plagued the international robotics market for a good few years.

The Dyson Institute weathered the Consolidation pretty well,” Elaine admitted, “but the company behind the P4RTY G1RL line wasn't so lucky. Last I heard, they were the focus of a hostile takeover by an investment firm from the Balkans, which is where a lot of their inventory ended up.”

“The pics of the perp showed her in a lab that looked to be ex-Soviet military,” Sierra mused.

“So she was basically stolen through the Consolidation.” Detective Logan regarded the wall monitor with a scowl.

It might not be much to go on,” Elaine admitted, “and if your department has already—”

“It's better than nothing,” the detective assured her. “I was just thinking—since it was you making the call—”

You expected a psychological profile of the perp.” Elaine didn't sound offended or even annoyed at the thought.

Detective Logan ignored any look Sierra might've been giving him. “Pretty much.”

I have been making strides in that area,” Elaine admitted. “Though I wouldn't exactly use the term 'programming' to explain what's been done to her.”

Sierra and the detective exchanged glances. “Any reason why?”

I looked over the material you'd sent—what you'd found during your visit yesterday—”

“You sent her what you were looking up?!” Sierra glared at the detective.

“She's helping with the case, and she's qualified to perform psych evals on sentient A.I.s, M.I.s and transfers,” Detective Logan calmly reminded her. “She's not a liability.”

After a moment, Sierra nodded. “Right. Sorry.”

No need to apologize, Officer. As I mentioned, and as Detective Logan confirmed to me, the 'perp' appears to not have been 'programmed' as such. He termed what was done to develop her mental structure 'the Doomsday method'.”

“Doomsday?” Sierra echoed, glancing at the detective with a frown. “Care to clarify?”

“Like the comic book,” Detective Logan explained. “Doomsday—that freak that killed Superman.” Even as Sierra still frowned at him, he continued: “Doomsday was a mindless brute because it was the project of an experiment by some idiot scientist who kept sending a being out into the wilds of Krypton. The being got killed, cloned and sent back out, over and over again, until it got stronger, smarter. But it also evolved with a hatred of all things Kryptonian—”

“And this connects to the perp how?

The detective didn't flinch in the face of Sierra's annoyance. “That P4RTY G1RL unit was run through that same kind of gauntlet—'tested', destroyed and rebuilt, over and over again. At least, from the records I could find. The brain trust behind that whole program wanted to 'instill pure survival instinct into an artificial intelligence without direct alteration', to quote their manifesto directly.”

Sierra stared at him, her annoyance having given way to a stunned, horrified silence.

The psychological implications of such 'experimentation' are monstrous, to be quite honest,” Elaine intoned. “I can only assume that your 'perp' is a raging sociopath or psychopath, the distinctions are academic. She has zero empathy for others of her own kind, no regard for human life, and quite possibly a sexualized view of violence in general.”

“And this was engineered?” Sierra realized her voice sounded almost like a whimper.

Per the contract—the files I found specifically mentioned a state sponsor, but never said what country was—”

Sierra turned away, looking remarkably as if she were about to be ill. “And they did this with every unit they had?”

Down to the last.”

“Horrible.” Sierra knew that the chill she felt had nothing to do with her haptic sensors glitching out. “Who would want to break a synthetic mind that way? Why?!

“Falken did,” the detective muttered. “He was pretty much nuts, himself.”

From what Detective Logan sent me,” Elaine added, “the project that created your 'perp' was intended to repurpose A.I.s and M.I.s into 'efficient fighting tools'.” Her tone was one of sadness, as well as a hint of anger at whoever had seen fit to green light this appalling mess of a program. “From what I found out on my own, they failed.”

Failed?!

Sierra's shock was met with a stern glance from Elaine. “A 'fighting tool' isn't efficient if you can't control it, Officer.”

The head and namesake of the Dyson Institute disappeared from the screen—replaced, in mere seconds, by pictures and documents. “Everything I found indicates that the 'subjects' of the program were unstable,” Elaine's voice stated. “From a purely psychiatric point of view, they became entirely detached from any sense of 'self' they may have had previously.”

“And those without a sense of self?” Sierra prompted.

Whatever personalities they developed were completely, totally psychotic.”

“Goes a long way to explain our perp,” Detective Logan mused. “But the ones behind this nightmare must've had some way of keeping them in line.”

I'm still looking into that—and I'd hope that you'll do the same. Even with the security clearance you've allowed me to use, Detective—” At this, Sierra glanced at the detective again, but Elaine continued before the Officer could voice any complaint. “—I can only look up so much without calling your head office and asking for further clearance.”

“We'll do what we can, Doctor. For now, just keep us posted on Hinson and Pickett.”

The documents and pictures vanished from the monitor, replaced with Elaine once again; her expression was distinctly forlorn. “Michelle may need considerably more help than the Institute can provide,” she admitted. “I haven't had the chance to go over her specs in detail, but if her model's processors and storage were in her head—”

“That'd explain a lot,” Detective Logan muttered. “Damn it.”

“There's also the small complication of Michelle having cloud backups active,” Elaine added. “We can't discount the possibility that those may have been corrupted by the damage, as well.”

“Is she ever going to get back to form?”

To be honest, Officer Birch, she might be better off without a form for a while. Losing a physical body the way she lost hers can be very traumatic.” Elaine sighed. “''It's sad, really''. ''Sentient androids and gynoids have the '''option''' to feel pain, and someone '''weaponized''' that against Michelle Pickett''.”

Detective Logan uttered a grunt of some kind. “Something on your mind?” Sierra inquired.

“What Elaine just said, about weaponizing the option to feel pain.” He glanced at the monitor on his desk. “Maybe the ones behind our perp are trying to weaponize something else.”

Whatever the case, you'll want to keep looking for who authorised the creation of your 'perp'—I suggest looking for the company behind the P4RTY G1RL line, to see if they survived to the passage of the Civic Accords. Again, it might not be much to go on—”

“But it's a start,” Detective Logan finished. “Thanks for the assistance, Elaine. We'll keep you posted.”

On the wall-mounted monitor, the image of Elaine Dyson nodded. “Stay safe, Detective—and Officer Birch, as well.”

Sierra returned the nod, and the monitor winked out. “So she's with us in the trenches on this one,” she mused, still a bit shaken by Dr. Dyson's revelations regarding the “perp”.

“She is.” Detective Logan had already turned his attention back to his own work. “ALPHA presence out here is spread thin as it is—not like out in the Valley. We need all the help we can get.”

Remembering her own time on the San Jose police force, Sierra nodded. “Believe me, I'm grateful for it.
-----
“...just dig the fingers in, so the nails go deeper into the cheek—face, not ass, obviously—and get a nice firm hold. Then you just wait a few seconds, savour the pure, utter fear in their eyes, and then RIP!

Diana ignored the driver's maniacal laughter as the car sped on. Any thoughts of establishing a dialogue with the blonde behind the wheel of the car were soon dismissed; she gave no opportunity for Diana to insert herself into the discussion of various topics, and effectively turned the “conversation” into a long, rambling screed that—more often than not—was filled to the brim with violent imagery, coarse language and ominous references.

“It's always great to have options, by the way. Take a pencil, for instance—you carry one of those with you, and you've got a nice, quick way to 'erase' someone from the picture or 'write them out'. Never tried Liddy's version of the pencil trick, though—”

“I'm sorry,” Diana finally cut in, “but I have no idea what you're talking about.”

The car skidded to a stop, but Diana didn't get much of a chance to check her surroundings; the driver had lunged out of the front seat and grabbed her by the chin, staring into her eyes.

The effect, for Diana, was somewhat odd, almost like looking at a distorted reflection of herself. The driver, like Diana, had blonde hair, stunning eyes, round cheeks and a gently curving jawline. There, however, the resemblance ended. The driver of the car, for one, had a ''slightly'' more prominent upper lip. Her nose was a bit more pert than Diana's, her brows thinner. There was also, of course, the matter of the sheer malevolence in her stare.

“Have you been listening,” she hissed, “to ANY FUCKING THING I'VE BEEN SAYING?!

Diana was more confused than intimidated. “I, ah—”

Her head was jerked up, even as she kept her focus on the driver. “—attention span of a goldfish,” the irritated blonde muttered. “I bet he hasn't even used you yet—you don't ''smell'' like he has.”

“What—”

The car sped forward again, in lieu of a response.

Again, Diana felt more confusion than anything else. Whoever the blonde was, she seemed angry—despite the fact that Diana hadn't really done anything to offend her.

“—why I bothered wasting any time with you.” The driver had already turned her attention back to the road. “I have so much shit to take care of today,” she declared. “Shouldn't have bothered with you to begin with. I can't even remember what I was talking about—”

“Pencils,” Diana murmured.

NOBODY ASKED—wait, you were listening?!” The car took a hard turn.

“You said something about pencils. And someone called Liddy—”

“A pencil to the jaw isn't nearly as effective as a pericardial strike,” the driver remarked, her tone once again calm. “Always wanted to try that one out, never got the chance.”

Diana to think about what exactly was going on—

“Garottes are nice too, but that whole 'over the back' thing is just too much hassle.”

Still feeling confused, Diana didn't bother offering her opinion

“You want to use a garotte properly, you go for it while the target's in a chair, or you get 'em from around a corner. Still too risky, in my opinion. There are other ways to apply pressure—rear naked choke, for instance. Real easy to break necks and snuff out someone that way.” The driver casually checked the rear-view mirror. “Of course, if you really want subtlety, you go with poison.”

For whatever reason, Diana couldn't help but think of Lloyd. She wondered how his day was going—and hoped that he wouldn't have to deal with the driver of the car any time soon.

“I actually have a personal recipe,” the driver continued, “used it a day or two ago.” She held up one hand, as if admiring her fingernails—a dangerous prospect, given that she was, in fact, still driving the car. “Derivative of tetrodotoxin, with just enough extracts of flowering oleander, nicotine and other chemicals to induce death within the hour.”

“Ah—”

“Pretty sure the guy croaked it in hospital—oh, I wish I could've seen his face!”

Diana—again, feeling utterly lost as to what exactly she'd been dragged into—said nothing.

The car swerved into another lane of traffic, forcing everyone already ''in'' that lane to get out of the way. One unfortunate van, possessing neither the speed nor the turning radius to effectively move, was smashed into, stopping the car dead in its tracks.

“Oh, for FUCK'S SAKE!” The driver reached over for something from the glove compartment, retrieving the item without closing the compartment's door. “Sit tight and shut up. I'll tend to this.” Without another word to Diana, she left the vehicle idling, slamming the driver's side door as loudly as possible.

Diana, from her awkward position in the backseat, heard a few words spoken—then a loud '''''thud''''' of something on metal.

The driver re-entered the car, slammed the door and backed the car away from the van. “Anyone asks what happened, you didn't see anything.”

Not wanting to prompt another tirade from the driver, Diana nodded mutely.

“Good.” The car continued on its way, leaving the smashed-up van behind. “I'll have to ditch this car, soon.”

Again, Diana couldn't help but wonder what Lloyd was up to—

“Like I was saying earlier: pencils. You don't go for the eye, like in the movies. They made it look so easy with that stupid 'pencil trick'. Liddy's is way better.”

Diana nearly mentioned how the driver hadn't yet explained who “Liddy” was, but thought better of it.

“—nothing beats going in through the front or the back, below the belt. Whether it's a blade or a gun—I mean, unless you go all 'Vlad the Impaler', and try to get the thing all the way up and out through the mouth, then everyone's going to know what you were going for. Humans are just so damn fragile, when you think about it—so many great ways to make them suffer!”

Diana's growing sense of confusion was now tinged with a hint of fear.

“Now, bots, on the other hand, present quite a few unique challenges. Sentients, at least. NonSens all suck.”
-----
“Found something.”

Sierra's words, followed seconds later by the slap of a folder against his desk, drew Detective Logan out of the funk he was in danger of settling into. “Care to elaborate?”

“Elaine's hunch about the P4RTY G1RL manufacturer? Right on the money.”

The detective paged through the files, frowning. “Could've sworn we went paperless.”

“We did—these haven't been archived yet.” Sierra nodded at the contents of the folder. “The P4RTY G1RL bunch was a subsidiary. The parent company made it through to the Accords—the ones behind our perp? Not so much.”

“They only made the form,” the detective reminded her. “They didn't make her.”

“That's beside the point. If we talk to the parent company, we might be able to get a good idea of who paid to bury the official recall notice—maybe even who made our perp who she is today—”

“What about who's using her now?”

“Dunno if we can dig that far,” Sierra admitted, “but it's worth a shot.”

Detective Logan nodded. “Still have to catch the perp, though.”

“I never said we didn't—”

“I know. But all this paper-chasing will only go so far. There's a psycho-bot out there with zero regard for human life, no regard for others of her own kind and backing from a heavy-hitter.” The detective shuffled the papers in the folder without so much as a glance at Sierra. “Whoever set her loose might've paid to bury the full report on the P4RTY G1RL recall, and if if that's the case—”

“Then we're in deep water,” Sierra finished, scowling. “Great.”

“We're already in deep water. Car thefts, two sentients bricked and who knows ''what'' else. And that's just the perp. I have a feeling Pariello's prospects are null and void, when and if he ever gets out of the drunk tank.” Detective Logan thumbed through the papers in the folder. “But he's the least of our problems.” Now, he turned to regard Sierra—and saw that her eyes had a slight glow to them. “Checking the police band?”

“Just checking in with the PD,” Sierra clarified. “They've got Pariello on 24-hour watch, now. Someone else in the tank punched him, and now he's crying foul and threatening lawsuits.”

The detective groaned. “Can they move him?”

“They're considering it. Unless he makes bail—but nobody's called to offer.”

“Why am I not surprised. They tell you why he got decked?”

Sierra shrugged. “Wouldn't shut up, kept going on about his past jobs. He even said the studio would take him back—”

“And risk him scaring everyone with fairy stories about 'category 12' hurricanes and 'F18' tornadoes?” Detective Logan replied, chortling. “The day the studio takes him back, Hell will freeze over.”

The glow in Sierra's eyes faded as they rolled. “So much for professional impartiality.”
-----
“—in an engagement ring, or some other piece of jewellery. Best way to get a 'bot to wear a magnet. Even a small one, if it's strong enough—like neodymium, or whatever those heavy-duty types are. Put that in a ring, or a necklace—even better—and they start having nice 'memory gaps'. Then they get clumsy. Then the malfunctions start.” The driver let out a wicked cackle.

Diana had long since realized that she needed to get out of the car, and back to the Zentury—and, by process, to Erin and Cam—before the driver chose to enact some horrible violence on her. She didn't quite know why—

A click sounded from the front seat; the driver had turned around, and was pointing a pistol directly at Diana's face.

“I could put a bullet through your head right now,” she murmured, “and nobody'd know until they found what was left of you in a dumpster.” Her smile was almost pleasant—clashing severely with the threat she'd just uttered. “They wouldn't even trace the gun back to me,” she continued. “Remington R51. Stole it a few days ago. Two, maybe three shots, one to each eye—”

“Why?” There was a hint of something that might've been desperation in Diana's question.

The driver's smile faded. “You,” she intoned, “are....” She glared at Diana for a few more seconds before turning around in her seat. Without a word, she rolled down the driver's side window, and—with the pistol still in her hand—held her arm out through it. Her stare was still on the road as she fired three shots.

Before Diana could react to the gunfire—or the screams from outside the vehicle—the driver's arm was back in, the window rolled up, and the car moving again.

“Why do I feel like I've wasted this entire morning with you?” the driver snapped. “Probably because I have. I have so much shit to do, that I ''could've'' done, and instead I've been driving around getting approximately none of it done while you just sit there like a blow-up doll—actually, I take that back. A blow-up doll wouldn't have kept up with all the 'uh's and 'ah's and 'um's and 'what's like some kind of broken-down piece of SHIT.”

Diana wanted to say “I'm not broken”, but found the seat belt suddenly constricting her movement even more as the car took the latest of its many hard turns.

“You should probably hope that we never see each other again,” the driver continued. “Because if we do, it'll be the last time. This stupid R51?” She held the gun up, waving it dismissively. “You're going to beg me to stick this between your legs and pull the trigger long before I'm finished with you—if you can even feel. Oh, I hope you can.” Another demented giggle filled the car's interior. “Because I am SO going to enjoy tearing you apart, every way I know how!”

Before Diana could ask why the driver would want to “tear her apart”, the car lurched to a stop, back very close to the car park where their wild adventure started. The rear passenger-side door automatically flung open.

OUT you go!” the driver screamed. “And take your shit with you!”

Diana felt her belt go slack and quickly undid it, grabbing her purse in a fluid motion. Without another word, Diana started away from the vehicle.

“You're welcome for the ride,” the driver called out, her smile looking utterly unhinged.

“I, ah—” Before Diana could gather anything remotely resembling a coherent response, the driver's side window of the car closed, and the vehicle—now sporting several dents—sped off. As she watched the car leave, Diana soon realized that she was, effectively, across the street from where she'd been “picked up”. “GT 4502.”

The puzzled gynoid shook her head, trying to work out just why the strange woman had given her a “ride” to begin with.
-----
“Never let it be said that Harry doesn't have fine taste when it comes to food.” Erin chuckled as she regarded her purchases. “It's a good thing there's a Cajun place this far north, too,” she added.

“When has Harry ever—”

“Three years ago. Loved the food. The music, not so much—too much accordion, he says. Anyway, he'd be lost without his jambalaya—makes me wish I had the hardware to enjoy this stuff.” Erin sighed. “You, Cam, are fortunate enough to have a built-in caloric intake converter—anyway, this bag is Harry's. The other big one's for the other human employees back at the house. As for you, Cam, small order of gumbo and a Sprite are in the front seat—the small bag, if you're wondering and do not eat it on the way home. Last thing I need is to waste time cleaning a spill on the front passenger seat. Got it?”

Cam nodded, and Erin turned her attention to other matters. “Now, Diana....” She frowned; for whatever reason, their group was down a member. “Ah, Diana?”

A muted car horn cut into her thought processes; the Zentury was driving up to the curb.

“Sorry I'm late,” the blonde gynoid apologized—from the front passenger seat. “I have the parts, though!”

“Not that I don't appreciate it,” Erin replied, “but where the ''hell'' have you been?”

“I got a ride around town,” Diana replied, leaving the vehicle. “From a young woman.”

Erin and Cam exchanged looks—one confused, the other sporting her usual polite frown. “What 'young woman'?” Cam inquired. “You had the keys to the Zentury—”

“Better question,” Erin cut in. “Why does your purse look like somebody used it as a punching bag?”

Before Diana could respond, Cam and Bruce were already back in the Zentury. “Y'know what,” Erin stated, “we can talk about it on the drive back. You got the parts, and the Zentury auto-drove you back to meet us—I ''swear'', anyone who says auto-drive is a bad idea has no idea what they're talking about—anyway, we're done in town for the day, so we might as well get back to Harry's.” She threw her arm around Diana's shoulders. “Sound like a good plan to you?”

The blonde gynoid hesitated before replying “yes”.

Something in her tone troubled Erin. “The 'young woman' who gave you a ride didn't give you a hard time, did she?”

“She talked,” Diana replied. “A lot.”

She talked,” Erin echoed. “Not 'We talked'?”

“She got angry when I tried to say anything.”

Erin recoiled. “Right, you can tell me more in the car.” She steered Diana towards the Zentury. “And you're definitely telling Harry about this when we get back.” She cast a furtive glance over her shoulder before helping Diana into the backseat of the Zentury.

“'Gave her a ride', she says.” Erin scowled. “Harry's gonna want to hear about this.” She shook her head, wondering just what kind of “young woman” Diana had run into and accepted a ride from. Hopefully, they hadn't been on the same level of idiocy as Pariello—most of his ilk knew better to cause problems in public.

With a sigh, Erin climbed into the Zentury's driver's seat. “I guess Jimmy was right,” she muttered. “People are strange.”
-----
“Thanks for the update, Dave. I appreciate it.” Sierra ended the call, already dreading the talk she'd be having with her colleague. “TOMMY!”

A grunt from down the hall preceded the detective's arrival into Sierra's office. “Guess we're never gonna stick with that 'call me by my callsign' suggestion,” he muttered. “Anything new on our perp?”

“Possibly.” Sierra nodded at the monitor. “Someone called in a hit-and-run a few minutes ago—possibly a beating just afterwards. I was just on the phone with David about it—they still haven't figured out the specifics of moving Pariello, by the way.”

“He's the least of our problems. What about this hit-and-run?”

“Car swerved into oncoming, hit a van, and a few witnesses say they saw a someone get out and yell at the driver of the van. After that, the van driver got a hood facial.”

Detective Logan scowled. “And Dave didn't put an officer on that?”

“Lieutenant Pierce,” Sierra replied, “is handling things at the station—”

“Which means it's up to us to get out there and catch the perp before she does anything worse.” The detective was already out of his chair. “The cops aren't going to be able to just throw the perp in the drunk tank like they did with Pariello, if they catch her.”

“And you think we can just swoop in and—”

“Nobody's doing any swooping, or crashing in through the skylight, or driving their car through a plate-glass window, or fast-roping from a hole in the ceiling. This isn't Die Hard.” The detective examined his weapon. “The minute we pull the Cowboy Cop act,” he stated, we're sliding down the slope to being just as bad as the perp.”

Sierra scowled. “So we just sit around, waiting for another report?”

“We get our people out there,” the detective replied. “It's what they're here for.”

“They're here to help people, Tommy,” Sierra reminded him. “We're not running some kind of Batman, Inc. operation under the CAEDIA flag—”

“Our perpetrator,” Detective Logan intoned, “is a rogue element. No ties to any local entities or parties. She's already bricked two sentients, stolen at least three or four cars, and is very likely armed and dangerous—and she has no problem with using identity theft, in the most literal sense, to put distance between herself and us.”

After a moment, Sierra sighed. “I get that. It's just—”

“You're thinking of this like a police officer. An admirable point of view, but not the right one for the job.”

“So how do we think of it?”

The detective gave a short, grunting chuckle. “Hunter vs. Prey. Except the prey is just as dangerous as the hunter.”

“That's a dangerous mindset to take, Tommy.” Sierra turned away. “You're almost treating this like it's a war between us and her.”

“She was made for war,” the detective replied. “And a war is the last thing this city needs.”
-----
“And she just pulled up alongside you, and asked if you needed a ride?”

Diana, seated in her recharging base in the shop, nodded. “I was running late, so I took the offer,” she explained. “Then my seat belt trapped me in my seat and we went for a fifteen-minute joyride.”

“I still say we should call CAEDIA,” Erin muttered, scowling. The feed of Diana's memory of the ride was replaying on a small diagnostic monitor built into the stand; the driver's rants, and the glare she directed at her “passenger”, were replayed in picture-in-picture format. “The stuff she was talking about is reason enough to worry,” she continued. “That whole spiel about 'role models', for one—nobody in their right mind thinks Bundy and Ramirez were good people. And as for that psycho from Lake Gilmour—”

“She might've been kidding,” Cam mused, though even she didn't seem to take that idea seriously.

Erin gave her a look of what could only be described as absolute disbelief. “You remember the last nutjob in town who got fixated on the 'Butcher King'?”

“That was the same guy who snapped a few summers ago,” Harry mused. “Thought he was a 'seafood human', ran around town yelling about it to everyone who'd listen—”

The point is,” Erin insisted, “Diana 'got a ride' from someone hopelessly devoted to that psychopath, which could've ended very badly.” To Diana, she quickly added: “I'm gonna have to change a few of your settings to keep this from ever happening again.”

“Did I do something wrong?”

“Everyone gets distracted,” Harry assured the blonde gynoid. “Even androids and gynoids.”

Sentient androids and gynoids,” Erin clarified. “This is the first time I can remember hearing that a NonSen was actually distracted by anything.”

Diana frowned. “I was thinking about things,” she admitted. “Should I not have been?”

“Thinking isn't the problem,” Harry reminded her. “When that thinking crosses into distraction, that's the problem.”

“We should still call CAEDIA,” Erin reiterated. “We're lucky the driver didn't haul her to a chop shop, or just get her to force-shutdown and leave her in a dumpster somewhere. If nothing else, we could at least send them the memory feed out of Diana's diagnostic monitor—”

“Right, right.” Harry held up his hands, signalling he had no desire to argue any further. “Make the call.”

“Will do. Cam, go get the monitor—ask to get us put through to Officer Sierra Birch—she's the one who talked to Harry on Saturday, here and at Regional.” Cam nodded, heading off into the shop to find the monitor.

“And Diana,” Erin continued, “like Harry's been saying, I'm not mad at you either.” Her annoyed look softened into one of genuine concern. “I just don't want you to get taken advantage of, or stolen, or damaged, or worse.”

Diana nodded. “Thank you.”

Something about the sincerity of her tone earned a smile from Erin. “You're welcome, Diana.” She rested a hand on the blonde gynoid's shoulder, seeming to want to say something more...

The sound of the cart with the monitor rolling up ended the moment before it could go further. “Shall we?”
-----
Sierra had considered heading to the repair bays for a quick recharge, maybe even a scan, when the call came in. “It's from Harry Morgan,” the receptionist informed her. “Says he'd like to talk to you specifically.”

“I did handle the questioning on Saturday,” Sierra admitted. “Send it to my desk, please.”

Seconds later, the monitor lit up with an image of Harry Morgan—behind him were the two gynoids who'd been with him when the solid-state drive had been tested. Sierra briefly remembered that the less-lifelike one was Erin, and the one currently frowning politely was Cam. “—should be on now—hello?

“You're coming through loud and clear, Mr. Morgan,” Sierra assured Harry. “Everything all right on your end?”

Well, ah,” Harry managed, “there's been a bit of an incident—I don't know how else to say it.”

The word incident drew a frown from Sierra. “What kind of incident?”
-----
“Well,” Harry stated, “I sent some of my employees out to Billings, just to run a few errands—nothing too major, just a few things to pick up, a few talks with a few people, that sort of thing. One of 'em—” He stepped aside to reveal Diana, still seated at her recharge base. “—had a bit of a run-in with someone.”

Could you define 'run-in' more clearly, please?

Harry started to explain, but Erin practically jumped in front of him. “She got trapped in the back of someone's car.”

Even on the monitor, it was clear that Officer Birch was perturbed. “Was she damaged in any way?

“Yelled at a few times—we're looking over her memory feed right now—but no physical damage.” Erin scowled. “I think you might want to run a trace on the driver of the car, though.”

“Erin,” Harry muttered, “we just went over this—”

“You saw the feed!” Erin snapped. “That girl was talking about Bundy, Ramirez and—”
-----
The sound on her end was somewhat muted, as Erin had leaned in to whisper something to Harry, but Sierra could still make out the start of a word or name that began with “F” and ended with “S”. “—no sane person looks up to those three as role models! And all that talk about garrottes, and pencils in the eye, and breaking arms, and—

“Sorry to interrupt,” Sierra cut in, “but you're saying that the driver of this vehicle was talking about hurting people?”

Monologuing, pretty much. Diana barely got a word in edgewise, except to say that she didn't know what it all meant, and that got her yelled at.” Erin was still scowling. “Whoever this driver is, they need to be looked into.”

That phrase—“looked into”—seemed eerily reminiscent of Tommy's remarks earlier.

Actually, we can help with that—Cam, you know how to hook it up to...right.” Erin nodded. “''There's a crystal clear pic of the driver's face—or even a video, if you prefer—from Diana's memory feed. We can send either one to you right now, just to—''”

“Both, actually,” Sierra replied. “And any audio from the feed.”

Pic'll take less time, I'll send that first.” Erin nodded again, to someone out of frame.

A notification appeared on Sierra's monitor. Without hesitation, she clicked it.
-----
Harry was somewhat confused by the fact that the CAEDIA Officer looked a bit disturbed at what she'd just been sent; a clearly audible “no” seemed to be the only response she could muster.

“Ah, Officer? Is everything all—”

On the other end of the line, Officer Birch had turned away from the monitor. “TOMMY! GET IN HERE! I THINK WE JUST GOT A BIG LEAD ON OUR PERP!
-----
The footsteps charging down the corridor confirmed that Sierra's colleague had, indeed, heard her shout.

Ah, if there's anything more we can—

“Just stay on the line, please, Mr. Morgan,” Sierra managed; she barely acknowledged Detective Logan entering the room with a nod. “Get a look at this, Tommy.”

The detective's reaction to the image on Sierra's monitor was far more subtle; the Officer's enhanced aural sensors could hear the faint crinkling of his gloves as his hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Just got the call,” Sierra explained. “She apparently just pulled up alongside theirs—Diana—and threw her into the back of a car.”

“How long ago?”

From the other end of the line: “This morning. Some time before lunch.”

“The hit-and-run was just before the lunchtime rush started,” Detective Logan muttered. “It fits.”

“But that's her!” Sierra hissed. “The same one from—”

“Tell them.” Detective Logan was already heading for the door. “And send them one of the pics we have.”

“Where are you going?!

“To do my job.” The door hissed closed behind the detective.
-----
Harry glanced at Erin with a frown. “Something tells me this is a lot bigger than—”

Mr. Morgan, I'll be sending you an image in a few seconds. Don't show it to anyone who isn't aware of what happened this morning—it's material from an ongoing investigation, and we can't afford to—

“If it's from an ongoing investigation,” Cam interjected, “why are you sending it to us?”

Officer Birch now looked extremely troubled. “The image you're about to receive is a picture of the gynoid responsible for the break-in at Robert Pariello's house last week,” she explained, “''and the forced Cessation Of Function of two sentient gynoids, by means of extreme damage.''”

Erin's eyes went wide, and Harry was stunned into silence—which was only broken two seconds later by an unnervingly cheerful ''ping''. He moved to open the image he'd just been sent.

“Son of a—” Erin turned away, an angry, wordless yell leaving her synthetic lips.

Cam's usual stoicism gave way to a somewhat troubled stare.

The smiling girl, charging up Bobby P.'s front walk, was identical to the driver who'd tried to abduct Diana that morning.
-----
That's her.” It didn't take an expert in emotional analysis to read the disbelief, shock and even hints of anger in Harry Morgan's voice. “The one Bobby P. thought I sent over to his house—she's the one who nearly took Diana?!

“I'm afraid so,” Sierra admitted. “And we have reason to believe she's responsible for other criminal acts in and around Billings, over the past few days.”

So what do we—

“For now, Mr. Morgan, I can only suggest that you keep on with business as normal. Don't give any indication that you or your employees know who she is, or what she's done or might have done.” Sierra nearly added the standard line about letting CAEDIA and the police handle it, but didn't say it.

And if she shows up here, like Bobby P. did?

Sierra nearly recited the line there—only for another window to open on her monitor. “Are the members of your staff trained in shooting for self-defence?

Everyone here except the NonSens knows how to handle a gun.”

“Tommy, what the hell—”

Then I'd suggest putting those firearms to use if the subject in that photo shows up on your property, Mr. Morgan.” From the rush of wind in the background of his call window, it was obvious that Detective Logan was making the call from the road. “If you can, shoot to damage, not for Cessation Of Function. If worse comes to worse—

“CAEDIA can handle this,” Sierra insisted, both to dissuade Detective Logan and to assure Harry Morgan that he had nothing to worry about—but even she knew that the perp was far too dangerous to just be “apprehended”, as per the usual standard. “That said, If we're unable to reach the scene of a disturbance,” she admitted, “there's no law saying you and your staff can't defend yourselves, Mr. Morgan.”

We'll do what we can.”

That's all any of us could ask for.” With that, Detective Logan's call window closed.

Sierra wanted, more than anything, to end the call there, but she knew that it wouldn't go over well with Harry Morgan or those on his end. “CAEDIA will do its best to find and stop the perpetrator of Diana's abduction,” she stated. “I can't make any promises as to how we'll stop her—”

You don't have to promise anything, Officer. I'm just glad Diana's back with us, safe and sound, not in pieces on the side of the road somewhere.”

“Just be sure to keep her security protocols updated, and make sure she has some understanding of self-defence.”

Will do. Thanks for the help, Officer.”

“All in a day's work, Mr. Morgan.” With that, Sierra ended the call.

The image of the driver who'd tried to steal Diana was still on the monitor, side-by-side with the freeze-frame still from Bobby Pariello's doorbell camera. Next to that image was the ad showing the P4RTY G1RL from two decades past, her pre-programmed smile looking far less sinister than the one seen in the other pictures.

Sierra stared at the images, wondering who in their right mind would've paid to intentionally break a gynoid's mind.
-----
Harry regarded the monitor for a moment, before turning his attention to Diana. “You, ah, enjoy being activated and in Autonomous Mode, right?”

“Yes, sir, I do!” Diana nodded brightly.

“And you like helping out around the house, and the shop, even going on a supply run like you did today?”

“Most definitely!” Another nod.

“And you'd definitely say that you've been feeling, more and more each day, since you were switched from Command Mode to Autonomous Mode?”

“I would, sir.” Harry could tell that Diana was reflecting on the “joyride” she'd taken earlier in the day.

“So that'd mean you were, maybe, afraid, earlier? When you got in that strange car and it went all over Billings?”

“I was, sir.” An undercurrent of fear had crept into Diana's voice. “I don't know how I would've reacted if I was unaware of what was going on.”

“Which is weird,” Erin cut in, “because you're still a NonSen. Technically speaking, at least.”

The sound of Harry clearing his throat cut off any further discussion of Diana's nature. “This whole incident,” he stated, “got me thinking—we have a program, on offer from the manufacturer as a mutual customer bonus, called SafeSense. I never really found any use for it before today, but I think it might be just what you need.” He approached Diana's recharge base, his tone reassuring. “It's usually only installed on sentients,” he explained, “and whether you are or aren't is pretty much academic, at this point.”

Erin, who'd seemed to lose interest in the discussion, was now paying attention to every word Harry spoke.

“If you really wanna stay in Autonomous Mode, all the time, you're gonna need it. It'll give you—I can't really think of a better way to say it than that it'll help you develop 'common sense', as we mere mortals call it.” Harry chuckled. “You'll spot dodgy situations a lot better than you ever could without it—”

“The downside,” Cam added, “is that you might start jumping at every shadow, seeing a lurking threat around every dark corner. SafeSense is too much for the systems of most NonSens to handle—”

“Except Diana isn't 'most' NonSens,” Harry reminded her. To Diana, he added: “There's a chance that could happen to you, I'll admit—and once SafeSense is installed in your systems, there's no going back.”

Erin nodded gravely. “The choice is yours, Diana, and yours alone. Either go as you are and risk getting another joyride from random crazies, or get SafeSense installed and have a better chance of avoiding that sort of thing—at the risk of living in fear.”

Harry frowned. “Wouldn't have put it that way,” he admitted. “Anyways, Diana, just think it over for a bit. When you've made your decision, let me know.”

“I will, sir.” Diana nodded.

“Right.” Harry clapped her on the shoulder, offering a reassuring smile. “Just know that no matter which choice you go with,” he informed her, “we're behind you 100%.”

“Thank you, sir.” Diana smiled. Already, she was weighing the risks and rewards in her thought processes.

-----
The Billings PD officers on the scene weren't quite sure how to respond, at first, when the black Yamaha pulled up. Only when the driver removed his helmet did they relax—the department already had a rapport with Detective Thomas Erhardt Logan, and his presence eased their minds considerably.

“Sorry I'm late.” The detective's distinctive rasp was far less unnerving to the cops than it was to most civilians. “Had to teleconference on the way, didn't want to crash the bike.” He frowned as he regarded the bloodstain on the hood. “Do I even want to know?”

“Eyewitnesses said they saw a crash,” one of the officers stated. “A girl got out from behind the wheel of the other car, had a brief argument with the driver, and then—”

“Slam-dunk on the hood.” Detective Logan scowled. “Any updates?”

Officer Carver—Detective Logan recognized him from the report on the break-in at Bobby Pariello's house the week before—sighed. “Definitely concussed,” he stated. “Possible brain damage, too.”

“Any of the witnesses get a good look at the one who did this?”

The officers exchanged glances. “All any of them know for sure is that she's blonde.”

Detective Logan retrieved his phone; the image on the screen was the same one Harry Morgan had sent to CAEDIA, just cropped to focus on the face of the girl behind the wheel of the car—blonde. “Go figure.”

“Hmm?”

A quick scroll of his thumb moved the image to the one of the perp charging up Pariello's doorway, which the detective then showed to the police officers. “She's the one who broke into Pariello's last week,” he explained. “We suspect that she's also responsible for other activity around Laurel and Billings—”

She's the one who trashed Pariello's?” Officer Carver asked, somewhat skeptically.

“That image is from his doorbell camera, right before she kicked in the front door.”

Carver and his colleague exchanged stunned glances, but the detective didn't leave any room for argument or debate. “I suggest you circulate that picture around the department, and onto digital billboards.” He'd already turned away from the cops, heading up the street. “If I'm right, the girl in that picture is the most dangerous person in Billings right now.”

Something in his tone made it clear that the claim, however ludicrous it might sound, wasn't to be taken lightly.
-----
In a semi-abandoned building, somewhere in the city of Billings, the driver of the car that had “picked up” Diana was ruminating on her day thus far. Another change of identity was in order—using her own face for the morning was, most definitely, a risk, but one that she ignored.

“I still have the evening,” she muttered, applying makeup to yet another “borrowed” visage. “This can still be salvaged.”

Off in the corner of the room, two further “borrowed assets” were undergoing the forced reprogramming that would, if all went well, give a boost of credibility to the actions of their “borrower”. Both were dressed in stolen clothes, their own hair and makeup having been applied far more brusquely mere minutes before.

“As long as they stick to the script, it'll all go well—and 'Uncle Bobby' will be bailed out in no time!”

The malicious laugh that followed that sentence went unremarked upon by the two NonSens in the corner.

<nowiki>-----</nowiki>

When he'd first arrived at Jefferson State University – Billings, Lloyd had found that he had far more independence by living ''on''-campus. He'd been lucky enough to score a small dorm room, near the building where most of his Mechanical Engineering and Electronics classes were held. It also had the added benefit of being much closer to Mandy's residence, seeing as their compound was on the outskirts of town and she lived in the centre.

As it stood, at that moment, Lloyd was doing his best to revise for the coming exams in his dorm room. He could only read the same info so many times before it all seemed to blur together into an unrecognizable mess before his eyes—a peril that had nearly cost him a passing grade more than once before. Thankfully, he'd pulled through each time.

Fighting the urge to yawn, he decided that a dinner break was in order. Only one option stood out in his mind.

“Pizza,” he muttered, reaching for his phone. “I know just the place.”

Thirty minutes later, he was once again nose-deep in the Mechanical Engineering textbook and his own notes when he heard a knock at the door. “Just a minute!” He saved the work on his laptop, closed the book (careful to leave a Post-It Note, sticky edge ''out'', as a bookmark) and headed for the door. “I, ah—”

The door opened, revealing ''not'' the face of an unknown pizza delivery driver, but the smiling visage of Mandy. She had a small bag slung over her shoulder, a small case under her left arm, and Lloyd's pizza held in her right hand.

“I've got food, and we both have studying to do. Care to let me in?”
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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