Writing As We Go, Chapter 14

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Writing As We Go, Chapter 14

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Sun Jul 10, 2022 1:28 pm

“...and this is how many since last Friday?”

CAEDIA Officer Celia Faulkner stared at the gathered remains of the NonSens on the slabs. “The maid from the Glacier,” she noted, nodding at the female figure without a face and with substantial damage to the abdomen. “We know the perp took down a Community Watch 'bot, because we have that one's face.” She moved to the next slab. “This one was just found in an eWaste dumpster, missing the clothes and a lot else besides—the metadata we recovered says she was programmed to 'roam' near stores selling a brand of soap and shill for it in conversations.” She nodded at the last ruined figure. “And this one was discovered behind the wheel of a stolen car last seen being driven by the perp.”

Celia's assessment of the remains prompted concerned looks from her fellow Officer. “Four since the break-in,” Sierra murmured. “And that's in less than a week.” She decided not to mention the human toll inflicted by “the perp”.

“So we're not counting Hinson and Pickett?”

“They're sentients, and they can both be repaired,” Sierra replied. “Though Pickett may be out a lot longer than Hinson. As it stands, we need to focus on stopping this perp from doing any more damage.”

“And we have to scrap—”

“Seeing as how the perp infiltrated CAEDIA HQ,” Sierra replied, doing her best not to snap at her colleague, “killed a human Officer and has embarked on a crime spree over the past few days that's left people without vehicles—and in some cases, dead...” She scowled. “We can't go the usual route with this.”

Celia nodded. “It's just...”

“What?”

“It's scary.” The shorter Officer glanced at the remains of the NonSens on the slabs. “Scrapping all of these in the span of maybe three days, and then just moving on like it's nothing—and this perp has also killed humans.” A shiver, almost too organic in its spontaneity, ran up her figure. “Who would ever want to program a 'bot to do anything like this?”

“Nobody I'd want to meet,” Sierra muttered.

“Didn't Tommy—”

“Detective Logan....” Sierra winced at how harsh her own voice sounded. “Detective Logan,” she repeated, her tone far quieter, “is working several leads related to this case. We also have someone in protective custody here at HQ who might be able to give us more information.” She pulled the protective coverings back over the remains of the NonSen programmed to shill soap. “Standard media blackout policies apply for this—we don't talk to the papers, the news crews from the local stations, or anyone about any of this.”

“So we lie—”

We don't talk to them about it,” Sierra reiterated. “The last thing any of us needs is word that a 'robot serial killer' is on the loose. Any news outlet gets a hint of that, and it starts the domino effect—all leading up to the end of CAEDIA by way of people who think any being made in a factory is 'just a robot'.” She moved to the slab holding the ruined NonSen maid from the Glacier. “Goodbye rights, goodbye protections, goodbye everything.” She nearly tore up the protective covers she placed over the slab. “All because one psycho gynoid is on the loose.”

She nearly hissed at the hand on her arm. “We can stop her,” Celia murmured. “We have to.”

After a moment's pause, Sierra nodded. “I know. And we will.”
-----
“You're sure you don't want to call back later, once you're, ah, in one piece?”

Detective Logan's question was accompanied by the faintest hint of a chuckle. He knew that Elaine Dyson had called him for a reason, probably one that had nothing to do with her current state of disassembly. Indeed, he wasn't speaking to Elaine through the video call so much as he was talking to her head, currently mounted on a stand and trailing wires from the neck.

“Believe me, Detective, I have no problem conducting this call even if most of me is on the other side of the room,” the roboticist assured him. “I just wanted to let you know that I've found another potential wrinkle regarding your 'perp'.

“Potential wrinkles often tend to be problems.”

This one might be the opposite. The perpetrator you're looking for is on a refabrication table, correct?

“She is.”

Well, no matter how heavily modified she might be from the base configuration, she has to have at least one or two components shipped from her original manufacturing specs.” Elaine's smirk looked slightly disturbing, if only because her head wasn't attached to the rest of her body. “Which means someone has an inside line to whoever activated her, and would therefore—”

“Have her refabrication table on file,” the detective finished, nodding. “Now we just need to find that someone.”

Elaine's smirk turned into a genuine smile. “I might've actually beaten you to the punch on that one, Detective.

“...go on.”

The monitor flashed up an address. “There's one outfit in this part of the country that handles those kinds of orders,” Elaine's voice stated, “and as luck would have it, they're not too far off from Billings. Apparently, setting up shop in this neck of the woods was a lot less of a risk than their last locale—it seems they got raided by our good friends over at 'Metropolitan Monitoring' quite a few times, when they still had their original address.”

The mention of the agency bearing the Double-M earned a scowl. “Really. And you know about them—”

I have my ears to the ground on anything that concerns people who might try to upset the apple cart when it comes to the international humanoid robotics industry, Detective,” Elaine replied, the monitor picture now going split-screen—her face was on one side, with the address of the enigmatic firm she'd found on the other. “This group actually crossed my radar once before—apparently, one of them had the bright idea to sell counterfeit conversion contracts bearing forged credentials from my Institute, a few years ago.” Her scowl left no doubt that she'd been incensed at the news, and that it still galled her to her core. “They only fleeced half a dozen would-be clients out of their money—I shudder to think how they'd have tried to replicate the Institute's actual conversion methods.

“And that case got resolved?”

Nine of the twelve were arrested before they could 'explain the process' to their 'clients'.” Elaine frowned. “I never did find out what happened to the other three.

The detective decided not to mention his theories on the fate of the other three. “I'm hoping you haven't shared this information with anyone else,” he mused. “Especially if you intended for CAEDIA to be the ones to nab this 'outfit' and bring them in for questioning.”

You're the first I've told, Detective,” Elaine assured him.

“Let's keep it that way. Word of this gets out, and the suppliers you found might try to bolt.”

Elaine's smirk would've been unnerving to anyone else. “I think they'd want to reconsider that option, given how most of them have active warrants out for their arrests.

“You said you didn't tell—”

I didn't have to tell anyone. It's amazing what you can find on the Internet, if you look hard enough.” Again, the smirk was replaced with a smile. “I'd guess that running background checks wasn't their employer's highest priority.

The detective nodded. “Remind me to never get on your bad side, Elaine.”

Any comment on Elaine's part was cut off by the office door opening to reveal a thoroughly-cross Sierra Birch. “Just finished going over the NonSens our perp has left behind,” she stated, clearly still disgusted at what “the perp” had been doing. “Or at least, what was left of the ones we could find.”

I suppose you weren't able to recover any pertinent data from their remains?” Elaine inquired.

Sierra shook her head. “Each one was set to dump all saved interaction files to a cloud server at a set time, and none of the two carried out the file dump at the same time. We could requisition a server scan for each one—”

“Too much trouble,” the detective countered. “The perp's probably moved on from NonSens already.”

“So what now?”

“Now, you go talk to Belsham again. See if he's calmed down enough to explain more about his connection to this whole mess. I'll follow up on a new lead—long story, I'll explain later.” Detective Logan was already halfway out of the chair before he finished the sentence. “Elaine can tell you more, unless she's otherwise occupied.”

Actually, I do need to get to reassembly in a few minutes—but I'll call you back as soon as I can!

“Thanks.” The detective didn't watch the call wink out, and was already heading for the door.

“'A new lead'?” Sierra echoed, frowning. “It's a bit late—”

“You don't need sleep,” the detective countered, “and I can go without for one or two nights. If it gets too bad on my end, I've got melatonin boosters. This is work that needs to be done.” He was into his coat just as he was halfway out the door. “The perp won't be taking a night off,” he added. “And Pariello is still missing.”

“I know.” Sierra cursed herself for almost forgetting Pariello's plight. “We'll find him—”

“Not our first priority. First we take down the perp, then we bring back Pariello.” Without another word, Detective Logan was out the door, and on his way to whatever lead Elaine had steered him towards.

Sierra's thoughts drifted back to what she and Celia had gone over in the repair bay, earlier—the remains of the NonSens the ever-elusive “perp” had already destroyed. The question of “how many more” went unasked, mainly because she didn't want to ask it. For what felt like the twentieth time that day, she thought back to the matter of who'd summoned or activated the perp in the first place, and why a simple solid state drive was so important to them.

“It'll get sorted. It has to.” Without another word, Sierra left the room.

If Detective Logan hadn't left first, she mused, he probably would've told her she sounded “almost too human” just now.
-----
The sun had set by the time Detective Logan was halfway to his destination—a run-down former farm tucked away in one of those backroads areas between Billings and Laurel. From what he'd been told by Sierra, the detective surmised that Harry Morgan's place was another such residence. The main difference was, Harry Morgan was running a perfectly legitimate business. The “establishment” the detective was on route to was run by a bunch of criminals in search of yet another way to make bank and run off with the profits.

Behind his helmet visor, Detective Logan smiled. Once this business with the perp was over, these creeps would be out of business, off the streets and thrown into Gen-Pop where they belonged. Nobody would be coming to their rescue.

The thirty-minute ride out to the “farm” was uneventful. The arrival at the entrance to said farm was just as dull, if only because the detective chose not to storm the gate. Said gate was kitted out with signs, cameras and a load of other gear meant to deter trespassers and their ilk—not that it'd be a problem to get around, or over, but Detective Logan had other plans. As if fate itself was on his side, the farm's original owners had built it without paying heed to any future tenants—there was little to no protection from anyone trying to enter from the rear.

Man-made protection, of course, would be another story...but the detective was prepared for that. As his bike idled, he checked his sidearm—the SCEMP clip was fully loaded. For any organic security, there were the two spare clips loaded with hollow-points, and two more in the saddlebag.

With the bike running as quiet as it possibly could, Detective Logan guided it back onto the main road—then off again, as soon as he was within sight of the unmarked path originally meant for joggers, hikers and others who simply wanted to enjoy nature. In his case, the path led to the rear of the farm. The fences were topped with what had once been fully-working cameras; nature and repeated potshots from both directions had rendered the things useless, and only one even turned as if it was still recording. Razor wire had been draped between the fence posts, but most of it had been rendered useless by rust, sabotage or neglect.

The more pressing concern, for the detective, was the not-insignificant matter of the figures moving around two large buildings that had once held horses, hay and various tools.

Most people who used NonSens at job sites, in lieu of actual people, had the presence of mind to load a factory preset in that would, at the very least, allow them to move in a “natural” (or at least, natural-looking) way. They wouldn't be any good at conversation, probably, but at the very least they might appear, to a passing observer, to be diligently working and not out of the ordinary at all.

The idiots running this “farm” evidently didn't have that presence of mind, nor did they have any common sense.

Behind the visor of his motorcycle helmet, Detective Logan groaned. The morons running the place had ignored even a semblance of realism—their “work force”, still working into the night moving heavy loads around, was made up entirely of NonSens that had more than likely been formerly employed in positions that were far more lateral. Without even checking specs for any specific unit, he could tell their measurements were all identical: 36, 24, 36—or something close to those numbers. Their faces were all mass-market, too symmetrical and had entirely too much makeup on. Whoever had picked their “uniforms” went for “aesthetically pleasing” instead of “function over form”; every buttoned-up shirt and knee-length pair of shorts was practically skin-tight, doing little to stop the jiggling of generously-sculpted breasts or buttocks with every staccato, stop-start step taken.

Within the field of view afforded by his artificial eyes, the detective managed to identify six or seven out of the two dozen “workers”—if only because they were the second-or-third-most models of their type. They'd been chosen by their “employers” because theirs was the type of 'bot you ordered discreetly, helped by the billing info not turning up on your credit card bill at the end of the month. The most advanced one there maybe “delivered” the weather on a low-rent TV news show at one time, according to her records. Not forecasting, just reading, and being eye-candy for the anchors.

Sierra would probably groan, if she ever found out that these idiots had staffed their facility with mostly sexbots.

All of them moved and acted as if they were on an assembly line at a factory, instead of in full view of the public. Their arms, when not lifting or setting down an object, were bent into the classic L shape at the elbow; their hands flat, fingers pressed tightly together. Their faces bore no expression; all of them stared ahead, never needing to look at each other or their surroundings. Further proof of their robotic nature was evident when one slender blonde, her hair cascading down her back from under a surprisingly well-fitted hard-hat, lifted a box of parts that would've required a hand cart for a grown man to lift.

The detective couldn't quite hear the quiet whirring their limbs made, but he didn't need to. Without a factory preset to manage their movements, the servomotors and actuators under their skin weren't dialled down to “agreeable” levels.

Under other circumstances, there'd be time enough to jump the fence, evade the refurbed NonSens and probably get in just long enough to overhear a conversation, plant a bug or find any number of ways to disable the few cameras that still functioned—in other words, soften the place up for a return trip. The detective had, after all, done exactly that kind of thing before, and usually in less than ideal circumstances.

Of course, he'd also had others watching his back each and every time. They'd been with him on the day those “Dragon's Breath” shotgun shells had taken his sight—two helping him to the ambulance waiting outside, one to keep a towel pressed over where his eyes had been just minutes before. And, while they'd been late to arrive, he had, indeed, had backup with him on that fateful day when his throat had been partially ripped open by a knife. The five officers who'd run in after him were the reason he ended up in a hospital bed, instead of on a slab in a morgue.

In this case, he couldn't get backup. The more people he brought in, the more likely it was that the current owners of the “farm” would panic. Once they did, they'd either run or hunker down, and the detective had no patience for either a chase or a siege.

“Wonderful.” The detective regarded the farm with what Sierra would've called his “trademark” scowl. “And I bet—”

The horn of a pickup truck in the distance cut him off. He opened up the throttle on the bike, speeding off before anyone might see him. A quick circle around the compound put him on a public road; the owners of the land could yell at him all they wanted, now, but were legally incapable of doing anything more than demanding that he quit looking over their fences. It might complicate future visits, but not irreparably.

A minute or two passed before the truck responsible for the horn blast came into view. The detective's artificial eyes gave him a crystal clear view of the driver and passenger—both male, human and decidedly unkempt. One of them, belting out incorrect lyrics to whatever country-western number was blasting on the radio, seemed to be missing three or four front teeth. The other was focused on the road, muttering about something—evidently, something frustrating, if the near-constant profanities in his speech were anything to go by. It didn't appear that the two had caught sight of the detective, or his motorcycle; considering the rack of shotguns in the back of the truck, that could only be a good thing.

The grating, ear-torturing sound of rusted metal scraping against rusted metal was an all-too obvious sign that the gate had just been opened. A loud yell of “oil them damn hinges!” sounded from the truck, which proceeded to barrel on into the now-opened compound—and, judging from the sounds of impact, run right over one of the NonSens.

“She'd have gone in and cleared the place out by now,” the detective muttered. “Knowing her...” He chuckled. “Might as well get back to HQ and—wait.” He glanced up the road, in the direction the truck had come from. A second vehicle, far more expensive and well-kept than the pickup, was cruising towards the compound. “Now who could that be?”

The familiar trilling of his CAEDIA-issue phone cut off any thoughts of investigating the new arrival. “Might as well find a spot to park so I can answer this.” With a last glance at the complex, the detective kicked on his bike, opened up the throttle and sped off. Brief glances at the rear-view mirrors revealed that nobody was following him—traffic was light, if not non-existent, and a light snow was beginning to fall. If all went well, he could return to the compound tomorrow night. If not, he'd return anyway. But first...
-----
“Thank you.” Elaine Dyson smiled as the gorgeous technician left. Reassembly was one of those procedures that had no comparable equivalent for a human being—the closest thing was a really good spa day, and even that barely scratched the surface of what it felt like to be taken apart, comprehensively tuned up and optimized, then put back together. It was, quite simply, indescribable—apart from the lasting feelings of relief and completion. Just thinking about it was very nearly enough to—

Incoming Call: CAEDIA Detective T. Logan.

Elaine—clad in only a silken robe (her clothes were still being cleaned, having been carted off by an attendant before the disassembly process)—sighed as she tapped her temple. “Find something?”

Found their complex. They've got a visitor.”

The roboticist was somewhat surprised. “You went looking for—”

“Are we on a secure line?”

“We're on my private line, so yes.” Elaine huffed. “When I told you about the group handling refabrication orders for your perpetrator, I didn't think—”

They've got refurbished NonSens as unpaid labour, and they have a visitor with very expensive tastes at their facility.”

The second of those notes caught Elaine off guard. “What kind of tastes?”

The kind that can buy a Rolls instead of renting it. That's the only detail that Recall caught before I had to leave.

“You didn't see any other insignia on the car?”

None. Why?

“The Institute maintains a Rolls Royce fleet for...certain circumstances—”

I've read the file, Elaine. Also, didn't pick up any of the markers that'd put you or your fax units in that car.

Something about the brusque reply actually calmed Elaine. “I'd hope none of my facsimiles were involved with those people,” she murmured. “I suggest—”

All due respect, you're civilian. Though I do welcome suggestions.”

“Then I highly suggest you get back to that compound tomorrow night, with as many—”

I bring the heat, they'll either run to the hills or get loaded for bear. Last thing CAEDIA needs is a siege on some random farm out in the middle of nowhere. We go for a sting, or we go in dark.”

“Understandable.”

Thanks for the help, Elaine—now, and later.” With that, the call ended, leaving the synthetic roboticist frowning.

“Dr. Dyson?” the technician called, a friendly smile on her lips as she re-entered the room. “The stimulus response testing apparatus is ready, whenever you want to begin.”

“Perhaps another time,” Elaine replied, ignoring the technician's surprised gasp. “There's something I need to tend to.”
-----
Anyone inside of the “abandoned” warehouse might've been shocked at what they saw and heard, upon entering the central chamber of the building. The sight of a half-naked man taped to a chair, covered in blood and unconscious, was only marginally less unnerving than the laughter ringing out from a side room.

It only made sense, of course, if you'd been there to see it go down.

Bobby Pariello—the man taped to the chair—had passed out, probably 20 minutes ago, after yet another round of “fun” with his tormentor. Said “fun” was entirely one-sided, on the part of said tormentor; she'd laughed, shrieked with delight and—at least twice—gotten off to his suffering. What was left of his clothes had long since been taken out back and burned; his wallet was probably on the floor somewhere, not that it would've helped him now.

The perpetrator of Pariello's suffering, meanwhile, was still enjoying herself at his expense in the other room.

Just as she'd been at his house, after bricking the two sentients, Lexi had stripped completely. The outfit she'd worn had been carefully set aside—unlike her own clothing, these garments were to be treated with a bit more respect. Unlike the incident at Pariello's, however, she'd taken off a few of her own panels this time. She'd also disconnected an arm, her link to the limb still active, if only so that she could be stimulated from two different angles while replaying the events of the last hour or so in her field of view. Her laughter was intermingled with the unbridled cries of sheer bliss—specifics be damned, it was always better right after her “fun” was over, or in the middle of it.

Every once in a while, in the midst of her ministrations, she'd look up at the object she'd recovered hours ago—the one she'd had in the backseat when she'd chased that idiot off of the college campus. She'd gone to great lengths to obtain it—and even greater lengths to keep herself from leaving a trail of bodies behind her to get it back to her hideaway.

She could only imagine the original owner of the item watching, wondering what, if anything—

I would ask what has brought on this latest bout of self-gratification, but I can probably guess what it might be.”

Ever-so-reluctantly dialling down her own arousal, Lexi retrieved her left arm from where it'd been fingering away. “I was just taking a break from Fat Boy,” she cooed, nodding to the door leading back into the warehouse proper. “He's out like a light, now—still alive, but—”

Whatever your plans to dispose of him, I suggest you enact them, with haste...”

There was something in the pause at the end of the sentence that didn't sit well with Lexi. “Ah, I'm still here, y'know—”

What is that THING doing with you?!

Lexi realized her employer had caught sight of her newly-acquired treasure. “Oh, I didn't even have to break any limbs to get it,” she admitted, somewhat annoyed at the memory. “Still, I thought—”

Dispose of it as soon as possible.

“Are you kidding?!” Lexi countered. “That's the closest I'll get to him!

Consider yourself fortunate that you never knew 'him', as I did. His thirst for blood was only equaled, and possibly even outmatched, by his creative cruelty—or perhaps it would be 'cruel creativity'.”

“I know,” Lexi sighed. “Some of what I did to Fat Bobby over there, I got from his playbook! Nothing lethal, of course,” she quickly added. “Just—”

I suggest again, whatever your plans to dispose of Pariello, enact them with UTMOST HASTE.”

Lexi groaned. “You can be a real killjoy sometimes, y'know that?”

You cannot possibly comprehend how mistaken you are in your admiration of—”

“I learned,” Lexi breathed, a shudder running through her form as she reattached her ventral dermal layer, “from reading about him. Watching news feeds of his sprees.” There was a dreaminess to her tone, her expression, that would've sent many a psychiatrist fleeing for the hills in fear. “He's just, y'know, the best!”

His actions in 2015 nearly caused the collapse of everything I set out to create!

“Well, you're still alive,” Lexi mused, “so how bad—”

He gutted an operative of what is now known as the Allied League for the Protection of Humans and Androids, on the steps of a federal courthouse in California, on live television.”

“So?!”

That operative was a gynoid, BEFORE the general public knew about the existence of such beings among them!

The revelation merely garnered a shrug from Lexi. “Eh, could've been worse. I'd have—”

I neither want to know, nor do I CARE, what you would have done. My sole concern is the recovery of the solid state drive and the extermination of those who have already become far too involved for their own good.

Her employer's emphasis on what was to be done prompted Lexi to chuckle. “Oh, I'll run your pest control routine,” she crooned. “And I'll send you your stupid solid state drive—and then—”

“You will return to containment and await further orders—”

“And then,” Lexi continued, “I'll do whatever the fucking hell I want!

Silence filled the room. Lexi's field of view was entirely taken up by the bloodshot, golden eyes staring at her.

“That's not going to be a problem,” she murmured. “Is it?

With only the faintest growl serving as a reply, her employer's visage—or what little she could see of it—vanished from her field of view.

“Figures.” With a shrug, Lexi retrieved a scalpel. “At least the fat will keep until tomorrow.” She glanced back into the main storage area of the warehouse, grinning; Pariello was still unconscious, probably still reliving the horrors he'd been through in nightmares even more traumatic than the real thing. “No 'wonderful Christmastime' for him...” Her remark ended in a gleeful chuckle that turned unmistakably sadistic. “And as for what's-his-face from the uni....” She called up the capture of a particular license plate—the one that she'd last seen at the Jefferson State University – Billings campus.

“What I wouldn't give,” she purred, “to slink down his chimney in the middle of the night, crawl into his bed...wrap one hand around his throat, and the other around his—”

A half-choked gasp from the bound figure of Bobby P. cut off her morbid monologue. “Awake already?” she groaned. “I guess I'll have to have some more fun with him.” Her gaze turned to a nearby work table, scanning the various tools and other implements; a gleaming pair of pliers rested near a handheld butane torch, looking entirely too clean.

“I think I can fix that,” the blonde gynoid beamed, her thought processes already brimming with creatively cruel ideas.
-----
Heartelligence 90S-50-D
Designation: “Diana”
Booting Up

Running full system scan…
Scan complete. All systems functioning at 100% efficiency.

RAM: OK ROM: OK
IPU: Online EPU: Online EVPU: Online
Base Personality Module: Loading
Loading
Loading
Load—Load complete. No Errors Found.
Charging Cord Connected. Diagnostic Cord Connected. USB Cable Connected.

Loading SafeSense..


Diana was aware that she'd suffered a malfunction at some point in the last 24 hours. She was, as yet, unaware of the severity of said malfunction. There was also the small matter of—

“Sorry you didn't get a bed last night—after the install, Harry figured it'd be safer to leave you plugged into the base.”

Erin's voice caught her attention. “The install,” she repeated. “SafeSense—”

“Should be loaded up and running without any issues,” Erin replied, striding into Diana's field of view. Her utilitarian bodykit was conspicuously unclothed, and gleaming as if freshly cleaned. “Figured I'd treat myself this morning, get a full wash, buff and wax.” She tapped the hard, featureless shell of her pelvic area, smirking. “The benefits of not having anything that might get waterlogged below the belt-line.”

The only sensible reply Diana could give was a quiet “oh”.

“Just be glad the install didn't go any worse than it did,” Erin mused, gesturing to a pair of figures on nearby racks, dust covers draped over their forms. One appeared to have a bizarre blue tint to her skin. “Princess Xin'ravi of the Stellar Emirate,” Erin drawled, “suffered a coolant leak that completely borked her CPU.” She jerked a thumb at the other figure, a blonde in a light brown top, khaki shorts and boots. “Can't even remember her name, but she was a ticket-taker for one of those big-budget events—dinosaurs, I think. Apparently, somebody interpreted all those 'please don't touch the exhibits' signs to not include her, and...”

“And?” Diana prompted.

Erin sighed. “She'll need a full pelvic module replacement, and a very thorough cleaning.” She moved to help Diana with the plugs trailing from her back. “There's one every season,” she mused. “Some rando dingus who thinks that any kind of event with 'bots is an excuse to drop trou and get it on with the likes of Khakis over there—never mind the fact that she was at the ticket booth.”

Yet again, Diana could only reply with a quiet “oh”.

“Luckily for us, we have screening and security on hand to deal with that kind of thing,” Erin assured her. “In the case of the unfortunate blonde, security wasn't able to get to the incident in time because they were too busy breaking up a fight. I forget—”

“Where's Lloyd?”
-----
The question caught Erin only slightly off-guard. “Had to go back to campus,” she explained. “His last few exams are today, and then he has the rest of the week off for Christmas break.”

“Oh.”

“Anyway, now that you've got SafeSense installed, maybe check in with Cam and get winter-proofed—last thing we need is for you to end up with snow going anywhere it shouldn't.” Erin nodded across the room. “Speaking of, looks like you'll be able to get that winter-proofing sooner, rather...than...later.” Her words trailed off with a frown; Cam was crossing the room, her stare focused on Erin, rather than Diana. “Something wrong?”

Cam briefly turned to regard Diana. “I'd prefer to talk about it in private.”

“Fair enough.” Erin jerked a thumb off in a random direction. “Diana, take a walk around the shop,” she instructed, “get a good idea of how SafeSense is working for you.” Once the blonde gynoid nodded and walked off, Erin's attention was back on Cam. “What's up?” she quietly asked.

“Lloyd is still scheduled to return from campus tonight,” Cam stated.

Erin frowned. “And your objection to that is....what, exactly?”

“I have no objection to it,” Cam replied. “The problem is that the perpetrator of yesterday afternoon's incident on and off of campus is still at large—”

“Lloyd can make it back here on his own,” Erin assured her. “No rando psycho will—”

“The perpetrator,” Cam continued, completely unfazed by Erin's assurances that all would be well, “was spotted at a parking structure on the campus, looking at vehicles and trying to spot one in particular.”

Another complaint nearly issue from Erin's lips, but terminated before she could voice it. “You're sure?”

“The few available reports on the incident corroborate the story.”

“And you think someone is after Lloyd,” Erin reasoned. “What....” Almost instantly, she remembered. “Saturday,” she groaned, “when CAEDIA and the cops showed up! That solid state drive—but it's with them, now!”

Cam's inscrutable expression was somewhat eerie. “That doesn't guarantee that the one looking for the drive will ignore Lloyd's involvement in its seizure,” she replied. “I simply feel it might be prudent to warn Lloyd—and possibly Diana—of the inherent dangers .”

“Yeah, well...” Erin couldn't think of a way to flippantly dismiss Cam's concerns. “You're overthinking this, Cam.”

“Harry would call this sensation his 'gut instinct',” Cam replied. “And follow through on it.”

“Got a point, there...but what do you call it?”

Cam cocked her head slightly. “Intuition.”

“And when's the last time your, ah, 'intuition' actually paid off?” Erin asked, trying not to smirk.

“When I was still employed at the hospital,” Cam replied, her tone as preternaturally calm as always.

Any hint of a smile left Erin's artificial lips at that moment. “Have you talked to Harry about this?”

“Harry has been answering calls all morning, mostly related to them.” Cam gestured past Erin at the motionless figures of the ersatz alien princess and the khaki-clad ticket-taker under the dust covers. “His decision to handle repair jobs for other SCIE branches is admirable—”

“But it's putting a strain on our resources?” Erin prompted.

“The only strain is on our schedule, and a few categories of replacement parts,” Cam clarified.

Erin folded her arms across her bare, utilitarian chest-piece. “So what's the problem with lending a helping hand?”

“I never said it was a problem.” Again, Cam's frown was the picture of eerie calm.

“Well...next time, try not to build it up like you're going to say it's a problem,” Erin advised. “I've got to go make a few calls—keep an eye on Diana and make sure she doesn't get lost in thought, or anything like that.”

“Shouldn't you put some clothes on?” Cam called out, watching as Erin walked away.

“Check the body-kit,” Erin called out, not bothering to look back over her shoulder. “I could walk around the house butt-naked if I felt like it, and nobody'd bat an eyelash—and don't bring up any 'optional hardware add-ons'!”

Cam cocked her head slightly. “I wasn't going to.” With a shrug, she turned her attention to the task suggested by Erin: keeping an eye on Diana.
-----
With the day's tests done, and nothing else to do on campus, Lloyd pondered how he'd spend his time before heading back to his uncle's house. The possibility of seeing a movie was there, but most of the big-ticket stuff would've been sold out by this point. There were other possibilities, of course, but his mind wasn't on any of them.

The sight of a police car speeding past, with a CAEDIA Cruiser alongside, was a quick reminder as to why.

The mood around campus, normally celebratory due to the proximity to Christmas break, had turned dour—word had spread about the student chased off-campus the day before, and now the news was breaking that his corpse had been found in an ally by police. A vigil was planned for that night, in his memory.

Lloyd hadn't planned on attending—not out of spite, but just out of the simple fact that he didn't know the deceased all that well. Moreover, there were rumours claiming that the deceased wasn't the intended victim—nothing concrete, but disquieting all the same.

“Lloyd?”

Hearing his name spoken drew Lloyd out of his train of thought. “Yeah?”

Mandy's expression matched the grim mood of those leaving campus. “I heard about yesterday. The chase, and...what happened after.”

“It's all over campus, pretty much,” Lloyd mused.

“I just...” Mandy turned away. “I remembered that you'd parked in Bjorgum yesterday, and I thought someone might've been after you.”

Lloyd shrugged. “Well...nobody jumped me, or anything.”

“Well, that's something to be thankful for,” Mandy reminded him. “Still, something like that—a week before Christmas!”

The two made their way to the Bjorgum car park together. “Anything planned for next week?” Mandy asked.

“Dunno.” Lloyd shrugged. “We might be running an event this Friday, but things might change. Relatives might be coming over, and Uncle Harry isn't gonna want to run an event if everyone's paying a visit.” He stopped at the crossing, waiting for the light to change; three CAEDIA cruisers glided past, the light snowfall barely seeming to touch any of their curves. “Other than that, I can't really say.”

Mandy was watching the cruisers turn the corner. “I'll be at my dad's next week,” she mused. “Most of his relatives show up the night before Christmas, we have a big party—I've told you all about it before, right?”

“You have.” Lloyd's attention was now on a trio of uniformed CAEDIA Officers talking to one of the campus's security 'bots—one with a high-impact plastic bodykit and a translucent red panel on each shoulder.

“...might make that French onion chicken she always does—” Mandy stopped, noticing Lloyd's stare fixed on the CAEDIA Officers talking to the security unit. “They'll get whoever did it,” she assured him. “Chasing someone off campus is one thing, but—”

She stopped, and Lloyd felt an odd swell of what might've been panic—two of the CAEDIA Officers were walking towards him and Mandy. For a moment, he briefly thought that something might've happened at his uncle's house—given the unpleasant “wake-up call” provided by Bobby Pariello on Saturday morning, the idea was far more likely than not. His thoughts turned to what he might have to ask the Officers as they approached...

...and those same thoughts evaporated as the Officers walked past him.

“Guess they're pretty busy this morning,” Mandy mused.

“Must be.” Lloyd's relief was short-lived—his thoughts snapped back, once again, to Saturday morning. “I should get going,” he mumbled, turning to go. “See you, ah—”

Mandy's grip on his arm was light, but it still stopped him in his tracks. “Stay safe, Lloyd.” It wasn't quite the same as Diana's tendency to hold his hand, but similar enough to be somewhat eerie. Lloyd managed a smile as his own hand found Mandy's, gently squeezing it. “I will if you will,” he promised. Mandy didn't bother feigning annoyance with him over the remark; her attempt at a frown ended up more of a lopsided smirk, and she squeezed his hand back before heading off.

Minutes later, as he guided the RangeStar out of its parking spot and towards the exit of the car park, Lloyd wondered (among other things) how Diana might handle college life, if she were ever enrolled. There were androids and gynoids enrolled at Jefferson State University – Billings, but they were all sentients. Diana—a NonSen upgraded with SafeSense and just a week out from her initial activation—was entirely different....

“Is she, though?” Lloyd frowned; he didn't voice his thoughts out loud all that often, but his questions about Diana were evidently weighing heavily enough on his mind to prove the exception. He already couldn't see her as “just another unit on the shop floor”; she'd only run through one story, and had done remarkably well in her debut performance. There was, of course, the not-insignificant issue of how running through scripted performances was a far cry from actually being out and about with people on a day-to-day basis...

A frown crossed Lloyd's lips; for whatever reason, the radio station he was on had started reporting on traffic issues out near Laurel. He quickly flipped through the stations until one that wa still playing “All Christmas 'Til Christmas”—in this case, a 2006 cover of “Wonderful Christmastime” from the original artist and, as the DJ playfully mentioned, “a little help from his friends”.

Lloyd smiled, his anxiety already beginning to fade. Next Monday would definitely be a wonderful Christmastime.
-----
“...and here's another classic, 'Why Can't Every Day Be Like Christmas'—the 1995 re-recording from El—”

“Visibility remains reasonable, with a light snowfall, but watch out for icy roads, and—”

“Sir, I wanna buy these shoes, for my momma, please—”


“For FUCK'S sake!” Lexi resisted the urge to punch the dashboard of her latest vehicular acquisition; easy listening had never been a favourite genre of hers, especially not some bullshit sob story about a kid wanting to buy fancy shoes for his dying mom. “I find good music around here one time, and now it's all SHIT until December 26—AND STOP WHINING, BACK THERE!” She didn't bother turning to direct her shout towards the intended addressee. “I could always send this thing over a bridge and into a lake, if you prefer!”

Bobby Pariello—bound, gagged and with a plus-sized woman's nightdress and wig hiding most of the wounds inflicted to him—could only give a half-muted moan in reply.

“Just SHUT UP and don't do any—FUCK THIS SONG!” Lexi bared her teeth at the dashboard as her fingers scrabbled to change the radio station away from whatever it was currently on. “Nobody around here plays any good music—AND YOU CAN KEEP YOUR OPINIONS TO YOURSELF, FAT!” She cast a glare to the rear-view mirror, her ocular receptors catching a brief glimpse of Bobby's wide-eyed, panicking gaze. “I already had to ditch one car after you kept bleeding all over it,” she snarled, “and the cash for all that gauze and disinfectant holding your worthless self together is coming out of what's left of your bank account, so SHUT UP, SIT THERE and DON'T BLEED ON THE SEATS.” She turned her attention back to the radio, now playing a version of “Fairytale of New York” the radio said was from The Pogues.

“Never could stand Christmas music,” Lexi muttered. “That one asshole at the lab, never stopped playing that shit all year 'round....” A sadistic grin crossed her face. “If I'd have found that tree he put up the one time, I could've decorated it with him—well, most of him.” Her giggle was interrupted by a car horn blaring as another driver sped past. “OH, GO FUCK YOURSELF SIDEWAYS!” she screamed, nearly speeding up and giving chase. For a moment, she considered going for the handgun she'd stowed in the glove compartment....

...but what had to have been a pleading moan from Bobby P. cut off any thoughts of retribution against the other driver.

“You are so fucking lucky I already know how I'm going to end you,” she growled, “otherwise I'd just pull over and use that fat head of yours as a tire chock.”

The car sped onwards. “The fucking Hell thought it'd be a good idea to make a depressing Christmas song about some lame-ass kid trying to buy fancy shoes for his stupid-ass mom?” she muttered. “She'd have died in an hour or two anyway, who the fuck cares what shoes she'd have had on when she croaked it? If it'd been me, I'd have taken that snot-nosed brat's money and then kicked him out of the store anyway. What a bunch of worthless shit—”

Sirens cut off the blonde gynoid's ramblings for a moment. Any and all thoughts of possible arrest were dismissed when Lexi realized the approaching vehicle was an ambulance, not a police car. “That,” she muttered, “was way too close.”

Muffled sobs emanated from the backseat of the car. Clearly, Bobby had hoped the sirens would tie into his rescue.

“Oh, shut up,” Lexi groaned. “We're nearly where we need to be, so just stay quiet and don't get blood everywhere.” In response to another series of muffled grunts and sounds from her captive, she groaned again. “And you can hold it until we stop, because I'd like to keep one car for more than half a day, at the very least—” Four more muffled shouts, with the cadence of a reply, cut her off. “Oh, you are JOKING...”

The car skidded to a stop at the side of the road, Lexi nearly breaking off the door of the glove compartment.

“Just fifteen more minutes,” she muttered, fishing out a TASER. “Fifteen more minutes of having to put up with this shit.”
-----
“Yeah. No, coolant leak's fixed—we have to get a new CPU, since the old one...well, you already know all about that. No trouble at all. Also, ah, next time, you may want to....yeah. That's pretty much what I was about to say. Well, she'll be fixed up and ready by New Year's Eve, if we can get her shipped then. You'll be on-site for that? Good. Right, talk to you later, and thanks again. Bye.” Erin hung up the phone, glancing over her bare shoulder at the unmoving form of the blue-skinned, ersatz alien princess. “I'd say you're lucky,” she mused, “but I don't know if NonSens are covered by luck.”

Predictably, the deactivated robot gave no reply.

“Eh, suit yourself.” Erin shrugged. She'd handled her day's allotment of phone calls without issue, and had plenty of free time to attempt repairs on “Princess Xin'ravi” and the blonde, khaki-clad ticket taker 'bot. “Didn't really have any plans for the rest of the day, personally,” she mused, “but whatever.”

The phone rang again. “StoryCrafters, you want it, we—”

Is Lloyd Watson home right now?

It took a moment for Erin to recognize the rasping voice on the other end of the line as that of CAEDIA Detective Thomas Logan. “...not at the moment,” she replied, frowning. “Why—”

What about Harry Morgan?

“Harry's been answering the phone all morning—”

“What about me?” Harry asked, from over Erin's shoulder. The gynoid handed him the phone; “It's that detective guy,” she informed him. “The one with the shades.”

Despite his confusion, Harry accepted the phone. “Yeah?”

Just got a call from a concerned motorist, thought they saw a suspicious car going east, well over the speed limit. Got a look at the person in the backseat, said it looked like Bobby Pariello in a mumu and a wig.

Harry's eyes widened. “You're kidding.”

If only. Dunno where the car's headed, but seeing as how Pariello was at your place on Saturday with a gun, thought you might appreciate a heads-up in case there's any more trouble coming your way.

“Well, thanks for the update, Detective. I'll call if anything comes up.” Harry ended the call, shaking his head; before Erin could even voice her question, he answered it for her: “They just got a call saying Bobby P. and whoever got him out of the drunk tank might be heading east, pedal to the metal.”

Erin nearly dropped the tool she'd been holding. “And they called us—”

“Because Bobby P. was here with a piece on Saturday, raring to fill me full of holes.”

“Yeesh.” Erin set the tool down. “Why east, though?”

“Hell if I know. The only thing out there worth visiting is the Billings branch of the Dyson Institute—and I'm pretty sure the only reason Bobby would go anywhere near it is to protest.” Harry snorted derisively. “If they haven't banned him from the premises,” he added. “Anyway, might as well get back to work—no sense in doing things by half, especially if we can get this bunch done before tomorrow.”

Erin nodded her agreement. “I'll get started on cleaning out Khakis, otherwise there'll be a smell in here soon.”
-----
Anyone watching the car approach the Billings complex owned by the Dyson Institute might've mistaken the car for that of any other customer, or prospective customer. Despite the calls of a concerned motorist regarding the passenger in the backseat, nobody had stopped the vehicle or bothered to check the license plate—not that it would've helped.

From her position behind the reception desk in the lobby, a stunningly pretty receptionist watched the car as it glided to a stop. She'd received a notice about a stolen vehicle and an abduction earlier in the day—given the Dyson Institute's close working ties with CAEDIA and law enforcement, such notices were a given—but couldn't quite tell what make or model the car was. The notice was also meant to include an image of a “currently at-large offender”, but said image had yet to be received.

The receptionist was still pondering what might be the reason for the delay when the sliding doors to the lobby opened, revealing a well-dressed 20-something. Something about her attire struck the receptionist as odd, but she decided not to press the issue. “Hello, ma'am,” she began. “Welcome to the Dyson Institute! How may I help you?”

The new arrival gave a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. “Ah, I have someone with me who'd like a consultation about the conversion process, but she's, ah, got some mobility problems. Can I get a wheelchair out to the car to bring her in?”

“Certainly! Just a moment.” The receptionist discreetly disconnected the cables from her open Paplexus panel (which automatically closed) and smoothed her shirt before rising from her chair. Out of habit, she kept the message from the local CAEDIA branch open, just in case it updated. “My name is Madison, by the way—”

As if on cue, a notification pinged in her field of view. Image Received.

“....really too old to be going out like this, but she insisted.”

Madison nodded politely, filing away the received image to view after she handled this piece of business. “What made your, ah....” She paused as the doors opened—the chill of the December air didn't make her shiver, as it would've with a human, but it was an all too vivid reminder of just what about the prospective customer's attire was so off: her clothes would've fit right in at a 4th of July barbecue, rather than a winter's day in Billings. Even most sentients tended to wear clothing appropriate for the season—more out of common courtesy than for any other reason.

“Oh, she's been going on about wanting to 'do the Dyson thing' for a while now,” the blonde replied, rolling her eyes. “I told her it'd be expensive, but apparently, money's no object!”

“Well, I'll call for a wheelchair, so we can help...” Madison glanced into the car, all enthusiasm for helping a new client fading instantly. The figure in the backseat was clearly a bound, gagged and heavily wounded human male. Worse than that, Maddie recognized the bound, bleeding man as the recently-abducted meteorologist, Bobby Pariello.

The image she'd been sent moments before opened, unbidden. The face was a perfect match for—

“Take a wild guess as to what I have pressed against your back right now.”

Maddie hadn't even felt the two prongs touch the fabric of her shirt. “Something that'll shut me off,” she murmured.

“Shut you off, fry every chip in your body and delete every bit of code running in you,” the girl behind her cheerfully replied. “Call for the wheelchair, so we can get Fat here out of the car—no questions.” The optimism in her words was laced with an undercurrent of malice. “And while we're out here, shut off your link to the head honcho—and to CAEDIA, while I'm thinking about it. I don't want them here until well after I've done what I need to do.” Her smile, reflected in the car window, was like something out of a horror film. “Get a conversion room ready, too.”

“They'll find out,” Maddie quietly replied. “The police, and CAEDIA—”
-----
“You think I give a flying fuck if they find out now?” Lexi giggled. “I wanted them to know I'm coming this way! I want them to get here too late to do anything for this fat sack of shit—” She scooted past the receptionist to aim a kick to Bobby's side. “And I don't just want them to eat my dust,” she finished. “I want them to choke on it.”

Another employee emerged with the wheelchair. “Go get it,” Lexi muttered, “and bring her to the car—not a word.” She didn't bother turning around to watch Maddie follow her orders; her focus was split between the gynoid's footsteps and the whimpering, bound figure of her captive in the backseat of the car. Even as she listened for the approach of the new arrival and the wheelchair, she calmly reached for her left wrist. Her fingers closed around the slightest edge, the tip of something protruding...

“Is that—”

Lexi could've determined the precise time, down to the femtosecond, it took her to draw out the length of wire, spin on her heel and lash out to wrap the wire around the second gynoid's neck. She'd done it before, quite a few times; it was almost a game, really, running up faster and faster reaction times and trying to beat them. It was almost a pity that she'd never had a chance to actually save her records of these “runs” before getting put up in storage....but that was another story for another day. Now, as she drew the wire tight and jerked the new arrival off her feet, a different sort of timer had just begun.

“Not a word, either of you,” she hissed, drawing the ensnared gynoid into a neck-hold. “Get the Fat into the wheelchair and into the building—we're going to a conversion room, and if either of you get so much as a syllable out to your boss, you'll be leaving here in bags.”

Maddie, nodding silently, touched a finger to her left temple. A low chime sounded somewhere within her head.

“And you?!”

Despite the wire loop around her neck, the new arrival followed suit, reaching up to her own left temple and tapping a spot. The low chime was barely audible through her grunts of complaint against the hold she'd been put in, and the wire biting into her neck.

“Very nice. I always appreciate it when the toys do what they're told.” Lexi giggled again, snapping the wire back—it broke against the other gynoid's neck, leaving a visible mark. “Now get him in the chair and to the lifts. Quickly.”

The two Dyson Institute gynoids moved to lift Bobby out of the back of the car, doing their best not to dislodge any of his gauze or the wig still perched atop his head. “You push,” Lexi growled, jerking a thumb at Maddie. “You,” she snapped, her glare turning to the other gynoid, “send a notice to one of the conversion rooms to prep for a new customer—and nothing else.” Without waiting for a reply, she sauntered ahead—the lobby had been empty when she'd first arrived, and was still empty now.

The smile on her face, as she crossed the lobby and headed to the lifts, was equal measures of genuine contentment and utter sadism. Ever since she'd broken into Pariello's house, Lexi had planned on how she'd finally off the idiot. Her early ideas had been old standards, but this...this would be particularly sublime.

No other staff intercepted the four as they made their way to the lifts. No clients were around to spot the bruises on Pariello's face, or the poor fit of his temporary attire. As the elevator doors closed, the lift car was completely silent.

That silence was broken, seconds later, by Lexi methodically removing the synthetic flesh from her right thigh, opening panels built into the endostructure beneath. “Not a word,” she whispered, grinning maniacally at Maddie. As the Dyson gynoid watched, Lexi pulled out a plastic frame of what was, unmistakably, a handgun of some kind.

From behind the duct tape over his mouth, Bobby Pariello wept.
-----
Dr. Dyson?

Elaine put the call through to be displayed on the interior of the windshield of her car, setting the vehicle into AutoDrive in the process. “Yes?”

Maddie and Sharon are no longer on the security network, for some reason—they were both helping someone out of their car near the entrance, and then—”

“A client?”

Hard to say. We don't have anything scheduled for today—huh.”

“Something wrong?”

A request was just put in to have a conversion room on standby.

Elaine frowned. “I wasn't notified of any conversions scheduled for today—Michelle! Turn the car around, we're going back to the Institute.”

If you want, I can—”

“I'd prefer to handle this myself, Kari—if someone's up to something at my building, it's my responsibility to stop them.”
-----
“...and the FIRST ONE OF YOU who moves an INCH will get an exploding slug through the forehead, five seconds to make your peace with whoever or whatever you pray to, and then BOOM.” Lexi twirled her freshly-assembled pistol on her finger. “If you want a slower, agonizing demise, I can always put one of these into each eye socket and watch as your systems corrupt themselves into inoperability. Whichever you prefer.”

Bobby Pariello, after a brief struggle, had been sedated, stripped out of the mumu and wig he'd been forced to wear for the past several hours, and parked on one of the two couches in the large chamber. “Now, as for the body...” Lexi gave an exaggerated frown, tapping the barrel of her gun against her chin. “You cunts all get yours from catalogs, right?”

“Our bodies are made to order—”

“YES OR NO.” The gun was levelled at the head of the Dyson gynoid who'd spoken up. “Do you have a catalog or not?”

The 30-something brunette scowled, but nodded. “We do have some floor units on display for each gynoid model made by the Institute.”

Lexi crossed the room, keeping the gun trained on the brunette. “Show me. Call 'em up on a terminal, or whatever.”

The brunette stared down the gun barrel before turning to a nearby terminal and keying in a string of characters. “This is a listing of the floor models currently on-site,” she stated, her tone calm. “We can—”

“MOVE.” Lexi kept the gun leveled squarely at the brunette's head. “No,” she muttered, scrolling quickly through the options. “No, no, no...maybe, no....no—YES.” Her lips peeled back in a manic grin. “This one, definitely.”

“It'll take time to—”

“Have it down here in five, or you're all gonna fry. And someone get Fat prepped for the transfer.”

Madison and another gynoid, a shorter blonde, moved to attach several probes to Bobby's head and back.

“That big door, over there,” Lexi mused. “What's it for?” The “door” in question was a massive airlock built into the far wall of the room.

“It's a sterilized portal into the room used by Dr. Dyson,” one of the employees explained. “She—”

“Lock it. I don't want anyone getting into this room without my say-so.”

“But—”

LOCK. THE FUCKING. DOOR.

Two of the technicians quickly ran to a console on the side of the airlock. “Also, there's a case in the trunk of my car,” Lexi stated, the words leaving her lips in an almost casual drawl. “I kinda sorta maybe really need what's in it, so one of you can go get it and bring it back here.” She turned to regard the group of gynoids before her, aiming her gun at each in turn. “Eenie, meanie, miney, moe....catch a sexbot by the toe. Fuck her up or let her go....eenie....meanie...miney...”

Her tongue played over her lips as the gun came to rest, aimed squarely at the head of a terrified gynoid with bright brown hair. “Moe,” she beamed. “Congratulations, you win.”

“I, ah—”

“Get out to the car parked under the awning upstairs,” Lexi instructed, “open the trunk, get the case out, DO NOT OPEN IT...” She paused, to let the effect of her shouted order kick in. “...and bring it back here ASAFP. No detours, no side-stops, no conversations with anyone. To the car and back. Got it?”

“Yes—”

“Yes, what?” Lexi's finger hovered over the trigger of her gun.

“...yes, ma'am?”

“Good enough.” She ushered the trembling gynoid past, giving her a slap on the ass for good measure. “MOVE IT!” The petite gynoid shrieked and ran for the door, nearly tripping on the steps on the way out. “As for the rest of you,” Lexi declared, “get the probes on Fat, start the scans and make sure he stays under until it's all over with.”

A British-accented, mid-30s blonde spoke up: “Do you want us to prepare a stasis chamber for him, or...” She trailed off, frowning; Lexi had begun laughing as soon as the words “stasis chamber” were mentioned. “Miss?”

Lexi was nearly doubled over laughing, now. “No,” she chortled, “no—no stasis chamber!”

“A standard contract with the Institute—”

“He's,” Lexi guffawed, “he won't need stasis, when we're all done!” Her gales of laughter, coupled with the sight of the battered and bruised form of Pariello on the couch, left no doubt in anyone's minds that whatever she found funny was only funny to her. “You'll see,” she giggled. “When we're all done...you'll see what he'll need!” Her laughter escalated to a wicked cackle, an echoing shriek that seemed to reverberate from every wall of the conversion room.

Madison and her fellow Dyson Institute employees stared at the laughing gynoid. None of them spoke, if only to avoid incurring her wrath. Per company policy, they all possessed basic self-defense programming—but something about Lexi made it clear that it'd take more than Judo 101 to bring her down.

Over on the couch, Bobby Pariello lay unconscious, unaware of the fate his captor had in store for him.
-----
“Call for you, sir.”

Detective Logan accepted the phone with a nod. “Trouble?”

There's something going on at the facility—I'm not on-site, otherwise I'd be looking into it myself.

“How bad?” The detective didn't break his stride.

I don't know. Madison and a few of the other employees aren't responding to pings from the security network anymore, and none of them are scheduled for maintenance—”

“So somebody's in the building who shouldn't be, giving orders they shouldn't be. Where are you right now?”

On my way back to the facility—”

“I'll meet you there. I think I might know why your girls aren't responding to the network.”

Detective—”

“I'll explain when I get there. And Elaine...” Detective Logan had reached the motor pool. “You know I'll do my best to avoid collateral damage, but if the cause of whatever's going on at your building is what I think it is...”

The 'perp'.” There was an almost fatalistic tone in Elaine Dyson's voice. “Why?

“Don't know. But I'm more than willing to find out. See you when I see you.”

Likewise. Be safe, Detective.

“I'll do my best.” With that, the detective ended the call—he'd traversed the motor pool while talking to Elaine, and had stopped right next to his motorcycle...but after a moment's consideration, he shook his head. “I'll need more—”

“More what?” The detective hadn't noticed Officer Sierra Birch emerging from a CAEDIA Cruiser parked nearby, even as the scissor-door had opened. “This isn't about that recon drive you did last night, is it?”

“Something's going on at the Dyson building,” Detective Logan replied. “I think I know what.”

Sierra tried not to look too incredulous. “It can't be her,” she protested. “She wouldn't—”

“Given everything she's already done,” the detective countered, “I'd be more surprised if it wasn't her.” He nodded at his bike. “Can't afford to risk her getting a hold of this and wrecking it on the way out,” he stated. “I need a Crash Car, fully loaded.”

All of Sierra's efforts to keep a neutral expression failed at that moment. “A Crash Car? For—”

“You'd rather show up in an unmarked plain car and have to explain why the wreckers towed in a burning pile of junk tomorrow morning?” There was a hint of disdain in the detective's tone that his facial prosthetic couldn't convey. “I'm not taking any chances on this—and neither should you.”

“Tommy...” Sierra's hand was firm on the detective's arm. “I'll sign the forms—down to dotting the last I and crossing the last T. You go get the car.”

The detective nodded. “Try not to take too long with all the paperwork—the sooner we can get there, the better.”
-----
“...and if you ask me ONE MORE QUESTION, I'll jam a flathead screwdriver into that 'paplexus panel' of yours and stomp it all the way in until it stops!” Lexi glared at the Dyson Institute gynoid who'd dared to ask her what “the meaning of this” was. “It'll all make sense in a few minutes, once everything gets—”

The entrance to the conversion chamber dinged before opening, and Lexi trained her gun on the doorway.

Seconds later, the gynoid who'd been dispatched to get “the case” from Lexi's car (the fact that she'd stolen it barely factored into her memory of the event) re-entered the room, carrying the aforementioned case. “Here it is, ma'am—”

“Set it down, and then get the fuck away from it.” Lexi kept the gun aimed at the gynoid until she was on the other side of the room from the case. “You didn't open it?”

“No, ma'am—”

“If you're lying, they'll be finding pieces of you in the vents around here for months.” Lexi crossed the room to the case, never looking away from the employee who'd retrieved it. “That goes for the rest of you—any of you so much as gives an eyebrow twitch the wrong way, and I will rip each and every one of your sorry asses apart with my bare hands.” In the silence that followed, she stared out at the group of gynoids, eventually zeroing in on one. “WHAT?

“I..I didn't—”

“You were about to say something, so say it.”

“The floor model you requested is ready,” the brunette stated, her gaze shifting as Lexi marched up to her. “The service elevator, over there—”

“Go get it, and touch NOTHING ELSE.” Lexi licked her lips as the brunette headed for the service lift. “Oh, this is gonna be hilarious—and I can tell you're all just dying to know what 'this' will be, right?”

The employees of the Dyson Institute—a “captive audience” if ever there was one—all glanced at each other.

“Oh, fuck it,” Lexi groaned. “You'll just have to wait and see—GET A MOVE ON WITH THAT FLOOR MODEL, ALREADY!”
-----
Well before her car had entered visual range of the building bearing her surname, Elaine Dyson had already established a link with the facility's security systems. As she'd expected, everything was running as normal—apart from the dozen or so employees not connected to the network, and the lone conversion chamber seemingly cut off from the same. Her lips pursed in a frown; this was so far outside of the Dyson Institute's standard operating protocol—

Incoming Communication: Detective T. Logan, CAEDIA

“I'm almost back at the facility now, Detective. I'm hoping you're still on your way.”

Had a bit of trouble with some requisitions, but I'll be there ASAP. And I'm bringing company.

“Please tell them all that they should try to apprehend the 'perp'—”

Nobody under my watch is going to shoot up your building, your employees or your gear. I promise.

Elaine nodded, significantly calmed by the detective's assurance. “I just hope that we can get to the bottom of whatever's going on in there,” she murmured. “Before—”

Depending on the situation, 'too late' may be a very loaded term.
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"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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