Writing As We Go, Chapter 16

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Writing As We Go, Chapter 16

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Sun Sep 04, 2022 1:24 pm

“Lloyd?”

The shout of his name caught Lloyd's attention as soon as the front door closed behind him. “Yeah?” He strode further into the living room; while there was no immediately alarming sight in the vein of Pam's malfunction to greet him, he was still somewhat leery.

“Change of plans for this week,” his uncle called out. “We're not running a story this Friday.”

Any disappointment on Lloyd's part was replaced, immediately, by confusion as he approached the kitchen—and was nearly hit with a dry-cleaning bag tossed to him. “Ah—”

“Yours, for tomorrow.” The smile was evident in Harry's words. “We're gonna be in the parade this year!”

Lloyd looked over the suit bag, which held a gold lamé suit. “What does Elv—”

“Christmas medley, you'll be lip-syncing, unless you feel like actually belting out 'Santa, Bring My Baby Back To Me' and 'Blue Christmas'—no, you can't just throw velvet in the washing machine! Just—gimme a second, all right?” For some reason, Harry strode out in a full tuxedo—minus the jacket. “The 'bots are gonna be marching—we've got toy soldier costumes for all of 'em,” he explained. “And as for that—” He nodded at the suit bag Lloyd was holding. “Yes, I got a parade license from Graceland, so we're in the clear.”

“They license impersonators?” Lloyd asked, still somewhat confused.

“It was his idea, after all—he gets a cut of the royalties, and a guarantee that nobody busting out his looks and his songs will give him a bad name, or be given one in turn. Pretty good gig, if you ask me,” Harry chuckled. “And Diana's outfit is being ironed right now, so you'll get to see her in it tomorrow.”

Still wondering how he was expected to channel the charisma of Graceland's resident rock'n'roller, Lloyd nodded. “She'll be in the parade, too?”

“Performing, actually—still not sure which version of 'All I Want For Christmas Is You' she's gonna sing. Well, maybe not 'sing' so much as...eh, you get the idea.” Harry checked his watch. “The 'bots are all getting set up and prepped for the march in the shop, so if you want to help out, feel free—you don't have to wear that until tomorrow, by the way.” He nodded to the suit bag. “The wig and the other stuff are in your room.” He turned to leave, only to stop. “Ah, before I forget, how'd the tests go?”

Grateful for the chance to not have to envision himself shaking his hips in gold lamé pants, Lloyd grinned. “Pretty good!”

“Glad to hear it.” Harry clapped Lloyd on the shoulder. “You've got a bright future ahead of you, Lloyd. I can see it now.”

Lloyd nodded enthusiastically, hoping that his “bright future” wouldn't involve too many more instances of having to don gold lamé suits. He had nothing against the originator of the look, or his music; he just had other paths for his life to focus on, and other venues through which he could channel his creativity.

As Harry turned to leave again, Lloyd remembered something: “Didn't you see him in concert, once?”

Harry chuckled. “I did indeed. December, 2013. Made the mistake of bringing Bobby P. with me, and he damn near got us both kicked out when he started yelling all his lame 'theories' at the top of his lungs. 'He died in '77, that's not really him onstage', all that crap...I got him his ticket as a gift, and he shows his appreciation by nearly getting me kicked out of the show.” He shook his head at the memory. “Speaking of—nobody on campus mentioned him, did they?”

“Ah, no,” Lloyd mused. “Why?”

“Eh, I got a call from that detective guy you talked to on Saturday.” Lloyd cringed, but Harry continued: “Apparently, a few concerned drivers spotted someone who might've been Bobby P. in the back of a car, going East at...well, going over the speed limit, put it that way.” He frowned. “And the potential Bobby P. was apparently in a mumu and a wig.”

“That's...weird,” Lloyd mused. “Really weird.”

“Just try not to dwell on it. Bobby's got his problems.” Harry shrugged. “Anyway, like I said, Erin and Cam are prepping the 'bots in the shop. If you wanna help—”

Lloyd nodded. Despite the utter weirdness of the news regarding Bobby Pariello, his mind was already on other things.

As was always the case before a big event, the shop was brimming with activity. The 'bots had already been lined up and dressed in their toy soldier uniforms; some were carrying prop rifles—non-firing, as opposed to the ones used in the previous story—with fake bayonets affixed to the barrels, while others wore drum harnesses. Most, if not all, had been given a temporary “dollification” makeover: obviously artificial blush had been painted onto their cheeks, fake puppet lines had been added at the corners of their mouths, and other extra makeup touches served to give them the appearance of being life-sized toys “brought to life” by some manner of Christmas magic. Each of them had also been fitted with an apparatus on their “uniform” that housed a large winding key—not connected to their internals, of course, but rigged to rotate as they marched, furthering the “wind-up toy soldier” look.

“So they're toy soldiers,” Lloyd muttered, “and I'll be dressed like Elvis—”

“Could be worse. They might've asked you to put on a nappy and be Baby New Year.”

Erin's remark from the far side of the shop earned her a brief groan. “So they're still doing that?” Lloyd asked, making his way through the immobile 'bots to find Erin's station. The Christmas parade had, traditionally, ended with one last float depicting both Father Time and Baby New Year (always an adult in a ludicrous costume), as a symbol of the “out with the old, in with the new” direction that inevitably followed Christmas.

“Seeing as how it wasn't voted down at the last city hall meeting,” Erin replied, “they are, in fact, still doing it. Like I said, just be glad you're not going to be out there dressed in a cloth diaper—oh, nearly forgot.” She turned to hand Lloyd an object. “This almost got left behind at the post office when the suit showed up,” she explained, as Lloyd looked over what he'd just been given—a jewel case with a Blu-Ray disc on the proper etiquette, technique and mannerisms for an Officially Licensed Elvis Impersonator.

“Shipped straight out of Graceland,” Erin stated. “He gets a cut of the royalties for every license they sell.”

“I could've sworn I read that he died a few years back,” Lloyd mused.

“Eh, there are always a few false alarms every year,” Erin chuckled. “It doesn't help that idiots like Bobby P. seem to think he's been dead ever since '77.” She rolled her eyes. “Freaking conspiracy theorists...but I digress.”

Lloyd nearly mentioned what Harry had said about Bobby P., but decided against it. “So, the parade tomorrow—”

“I'll be off behind the scenes making sure our toy soldiers don't wind down.” Erin chuckled. “Shouldn't be too hard.”

“I'd hope not.” Lloyd glanced at the Blu-ray. “Guess I'd better go practice my hip-shaking and my 'uh-huh-huh's, then.”

“Just remember to have fun with it,” Erin advised, “and not take things too seriously.” There was something in her smile that Lloyd found reassuring. “Trust me—you'll knock it out of the park.”

With a nod, Lloyd left the shop. Studying to shake his hips and lip-sync would be far easier then prepping for his finals.
-----
“Five shots from mine, six from hers. No idea how many spare clips she has.”

Detective Logan didn't bother envisioning Sierra's reprimand for giving away his position by speaking; his artificial voice box had kept the words low enough for only his ears to detect. He briefly leaned out from behind the overturned table he was using as cover and let off a three-round burst in the general direction of Lexi—or at least, in the general direction of her last firing position. Thus far, their initial exchange of fire had resulted in the destruction of a water fountain, three light fixtures being hit by ricochets and one chair being reduced to plastic splinters.

Lexi, judging by the ecstatic shouts, cries and laughter, was loving the chaos.

“Give up now,” he called out. “You know how this is going to end.”

The only reply he got was a spray of shots—at least seven, if his count was correct—followed by a laugh.

“I have the authority to Decommission you in the field, if need be,” the detective continued; he could hear the spent clip from Lexi's weapon hit the floor as she slapped another into her gun. “I will exercise that authority if—”

Three shots tore through the upper edge of the tabletop. One narrowly grazed the detective's hair.

“You kill me, you only get on the Decom line faster—”

The detective let out a hiss of breath; a throwing knife had just pierced the surface of the table, barely an inch away from the right lens of his sunglasses. Had he leaned forward while issuing his threat, the lens and his replacement eye would've both been shattered in an instant.

Ooh, did that get your eye?” Lexi called out, her tone dripping with fake concern. “I was aiming for—”

Five shots from the detective's gun cut off the taunt. The top of the table Lexi was sheltering—had been hiding behind (he saw, via the expanded peripheral vision his artificial eyes offered, that the gynoid had dove for the nearby bar) was cut off at an angle.
-----
“Touched a nerve?” Lexi called out, more than likely grinning as she prepared to fling another knife—or loose another volley of shots—towards the detective. She made the mistake of thinking that her target was still behind the table as she taunted him. Like the spirit he'd taken his call-sign from, Detective Logan was moving silently, going into a run with his sights on the bar.

“...you get your ears shot out with your eyes?!” Lexi snapped, even as her aural sensors just started to detect the sounds of footsteps against the hard floor. “Don't tell me you're still ass-hurt over what's-her-face with the power cable—”

Her decision to glance up over the edge of the bar treated her to a sight that would've filled any human in her position with utter fear: Detective Tom Logan, his eyes blazing sunset red, racing towards the bar and looking every inch like a vengeful, Hell-spawned wraith. The pistol in his left hand was immaterial; as Lexi sprung up, hoping to unload a full clip into the CAEDIA Operative, she failed to take into account the position of his left foot as he vaulted over the bar. That same foot, as a result, smashed into her face and sent her to the floor; her finger squeezed the trigger as her right arm went wide, putting a bullet through the door of the break room.

The gynoid tried to reorient herself, but the detective's right hand smashed into her face, forcing her head to the side.

“You like it rough,” she managed, smiling even as she felt his full weight pinning her to the floor. “Why don't you get off of me, and we can—”

Something pressed against her neck, and she felt every system in her body and mind begin to go into a loop.
-----
Even as Lexi spasmed under his weight, Detective Logan kept her in his sight. The department-issue Deactivator had served him well; now, the silver tool went back into a pants pocket as he moved off of her stomach.

Ignoring the tell-tale twitches and open-mouthed gapes of the feedback loop Lexi was stuck in, the detective rolled her over and begin searching the pockets of her stolen Dyson Institute uniform. Three spare clips of ammunition, four throwing knives, a stopwatch-sized object that was more than likely some kind of an explosive and—last, but definitely not least—the security pass from the Dyson Institute employee who'd ended up head-first in a bin were all recovered. All but the pass and the probable explosive were thrown across the room, well out of her reach. Still keeping the incapacitated Lexi in his sights, the detective pocketed the security pass and set the watch-like device down, carefully, before standing.

With Lexi never leaving his stare, he checked his sidearm—two shots left. Not enough to finish her off here, but just enough to keep her from reactivating in transit. He trained the gun on the base of her spine; if anything, two shots there would disrupt most of her electrics and keep her from getting back up—

Something beeped.

It wasn't muffled, meaning it hadn't come from within Lexi's form. A second beep, followed soon after by a third, and a fourth, clarified the source: the watch-like device, near the detective's foot. The screen was flashing numbers, letters and symbols, getting brighter with each passing second.

As quickly as he'd vaulted over the bar, the detective jumped over it again—just as blue arcs shot out of the device. The leaping tongues of blue almost seemed alive; several arced into Lexi's form, ending her seizure-like motions and freezing her in place. Her lips stopped forming half-syllables and fragments of words; her eyes no longer rolled in their sockets.
-----
“What just happened? That flash, behind the bar—”

Sierra had no idea how to answer Elaine's question, primarily because she was wondering the same thing herself. The cameras in the break room had been positioned in such a way that they'd seen Tommy vault over the bar, kicking Lexi in the face as he went, but not much else after. The wanton flinging of objects across the room—Sierra could make out shapes of what had to be ammo clips for a firearm—had probably been part of a search. After that, though...

“Tommy, what's going on in there? Has Lexi been Decommed or—”

A harsh, grating sound filled her aural sensors, only to cut out as quickly as it'd started. On the nearest monitor, Lexi rose behind the bar, turning to stare at the detective...then calmly walking out of the break room. She stopped again outside the doorway; a few flashes of light could faintly be glimpsed.

“The other cameras!” Elaine moved past Sierra to get to the controls for the rest of the network, switching between the available cameras as fast as she dared. Most showed empty halls; occasionally, Lexi would stride through a camera's field of view, not stopping even as she no-look fired in a random direction. She thus appeared on five monitors, each one stationed closer to the nearest lift; by contrast, Tommy had already left the break room at a sprint, clearing three out of the five monitors in the time it'd taken Lexi to cross one.

“The nearest lift will take her to the ground floor, right?”

Elaine, still moving between monitors, nodded. “It will. And your team is still securing the conversion chamber she was just in—”

“They can re-prioritize.” Sierra was already contacting the Operatives. “All personnel not actively securing the conversion chamber,” she ordered, “get to the lifts—on the double! The perp is on the move and heading to the ground floor! Cut her off before she gets to an exit!”
-----
“...the fuck am I doing in an elevator?!”

Lexi regarded her new surroundings with confusion and a bit of disdain. “I was behind a bar,” she recalled, “and that detective was kneeling on me—”

Allow me to spare you any further mystery as to how you escaped from him.

The sound of her employer's voice rumbling in her ears was all too familiar. “Let me guess,” she sighed, “Zina did her little direct control trick?”

I will neither confirm nor deny your suspicions. You should be lucky that your systems were shielded against the effects of anything stronger than a CAEDIA-issue Deactivator well before you were sealed away, otherwise—”

“Wait, those shits in the uniforms can just shut me off?!

CAEDIA, ALPHA, the Coalition and other agencies that deal with potentially dangerous androids and gynoids are issued such tools as per their policies.

The reply was met with a groan. “Way to take the fun out of it.”

Lest your tirade derail this conversation entirely, I must redirect it back to its original course: why is your tracking signal currently issuing from the interior of a Dyson Institute facility?

“I thought Zina told you my plan for Fatty Bob,” Lexi cheerfully replied, her annoyance already gone.

She mentioned some aspects of your idea, in passing. Has Pariello been neutralized?

“Hmm, more or less.” Lexi bounced on her heels, grinning at the memory.

“...more or less?

The growl was met with a giggle. “You're not going to have to worry about old Fat Bob causing any problems,” Lexi assured her employer. “We can move onto the Morgans now—”

You can move onto the Morgans. Zina will be monitoring your actions going forward.

“Getting tired of me?”

I have more urgent matters to tend to than your proclivities—and I feel it necessary to remind you that—”

“I'll get the solid state drive.” Lexi managed to avoid growling the words, barely noticing that the lift had stopped. “Just leave me to it, and I'll get it.

If the drive is not retrieved within 72 hours after midnight tonight, you will have reason to regret those words.”

Lexi's only reply was a groan. Her employer, clearly taking the hint (or perhaps just tiring of the interaction), ended the call, leaving the blonde to her own thoughts as the lift doors opened. The lobby was clear—though it likely wouldn't stay that way for very long.

“And Tommy stole my pass,” Lexi sighed. “Eh, no worries. I'll find some way to get out of here.”

A smirk crossed her lips as she left the lift car. Three days was plenty of time to get everything done.
-----
Sierra knew, as she entered the lobby, that Tommy would be pissed off.

The Operatives had secured the area with the same efficiency they'd displayed in the conversion chamber, this time with added support from Burton's team. Their only mistake, of course, had been their inability to reach the lobby before Lexi did—the murderous gynoid had already left the building, with the Operatives getting into the lobby half a minute behind her departure.

Despite her colleague's likely rage at Lexi, Sierra kept herself from going straight to him. She had other concerns, at the moment—including the debriefing of those who'd been in the conversion chamber.

Madison White, Mia Mason and the other surviving employees had all been directed to a cordoned-off area of the lobby to get a full systems check. Terrence Scott, the Field Technician for the op, was looking over the results as Sierra made her way over. “Military-grade suppression routines,” he explained, nodding to the Officer as she approached. “Highly illegal to use on sentients without proper command authority—our perpetrator must've subtly introduced them into their systems after isolating them from the rest of the network.”

Madison scoffed. “I figured she'd pulled something. I could've taken her down—”

“All due respect, Mrs. White,” Sierra cut in, “the perpetrator was designed to be deployed against human or synthetic targets She—”

“I have years of Marine Corps training to fall back on,” Madison countered. “I—”

The gentle touch of a hand on her shoulder ended what could've been a massive rant. “Another time, Madison.” Elaine sighed. “Thea dismantled, Kari out of commission...and five days before Christmas, at that.”

“We'll get her before Christmas,” Sierra stated—partially to reassure Madison, Mia and the others, and partially because she had no desire to hear of Lexi going on another rampage during Christmas. She noticed a hardness in Madison's eyes, a hint that the darker-skinned gynoid didn't quite think CAEDIA was up to the task on their own. Without missing a beat, the Officer continued: “And we'll accept any help that we can get to take her down.”

After a moment's pause, Madison nodded.

Sierra returned the nod. “Anything else we need to—”

The sight of a gurney borne by two Operatives, with the unmoving form of Bobby Pariello on it, cut her off. “...still breathing,” one of the Operatives stated, “but not responsive. We need to get him to hospital ASAP.”

“Lexi used the transfer on him.” Madison stepped up to watch the two Operatives brief a still-seething Tommy. “Had a floor model brought in for the process...that was before she went after Thea.” She turned away. “Kept yelling at us to keep him stable—she was going to use that fire axe on him.”

Elaine was still watching the gurney. “And the floor model is—”

“Still in the conversion chamber, screaming about 'being turned into a robot'.”

Sierra frowned. “I'd actually like to talk to her, before we roll out...the Operatives may have to leave early, but Detective Logan and I can stay for a while, help get this sorted.”

“I appreciate it, Officer.” Elaine shook her head. “All of this madness, from one gynoid...”

Sierra didn't reply. She had a distinctly bad feeling that the madness was only just getting started.
-----
“Thankyou, thankyouverymuch.”

An hour into his practice, Lloyd was honestly beginning to enjoy impersonating Elvis. After the initial phase of “I look like a goof” upon seeing his gold lamé-suited reflection, he actually didn't mind wearing the threads—or the wig.

The Blu-ray had opened with an introduction from the man himself, politely requesting that the addressee not use his name and image as a means to promote hatred, oppression or aggression against anyone—the “number one rule”, according to the charter at Graceland. The rest was handled by an instructor giving advice on how to talk like Elvis (always address others with “sir”, “ma'am” or their honorific of choice; don't swear; keep the “uh-huh-huhs” to a minimum; string “thank you very much” into one word and try not to mumble too much), move like Elvis (health permitting, hip-shaking was “mandatory”) and hit all the right notes (for those merely lip-syncing, photos and footage were provided as reference points). The classes were even broken up into a timeline, for those who wanted to mix and match their preferred “look” with a specific style of performing: 1950s, late 60s (including the famous NBC comeback special), the Aloha Hawaii special, the World Tours of the 70s and 80s...

Seeing as how he was going to be performing on a parade float, Lloyd decided to mix the “too hot for 50s TV” hip-shaking with a bit of the Aloha Hawaii theatrics—karate kicks, mostly. He even tried his hand at actually singing a few of the tracks on offer, having the most luck with “Blue Christmas”, while sounding just a bit shaky on “Santa Claus is Back In Town”. He'd just fired up “Santa, Bring My Baby Back (To Me)” and was swaying in time with the music when someone knocked on his door. “It's unlocked!”

The mirror positioned to the side of the TV—to help him get a good idea of how on or off the mark he was—gave him a glimpse of Diana entering the room, in her outfit for the parade. All thoughts of clapping in time with the music faded as he turned to greet her. “Diana! You look...amazing!”

Once again, the gynoid's hair had been done up in ringlet curls, this time with a Santa hat perched atop her hair. Her usual attire had been traded out for a well-fitted, curve-hugging red velvet jacket with white trim, a matching skirt, white stockings and gloves and back shin-high boots. Her makeup, minimal though it was, had been expertly applied; her smile looked particularly radiant.

“Wow,” Lloyd muttered; the song he'd intended to practice was still playing.

“You look nice, Lloyd.” Diana glanced past Lloyd at the TV. “What's that?”

“Oh, ah, I was just practising for my bit in the parade.” He grinned. “Elvis Christmas stuff.”

Diana frowned slightly. “You don't look like an elf.”

Lloyd chuckled. “Elvis. Elvis Presley. Y'know? Hound Dog, Don't Be Cruel...” He struck a pose. “Thankyouverymuch.”

“Oh.” Diana nodded.

“Anyway, ah, did Uncle Harry tell you what you're doing for the parade?” Lloyd barely noticed that the Blu-ray was now playing “If Every Day Was Like Christmas”.

“He said I'll be on a float,” Diana replied, “singing.”

“Any song in particular?”

Diana shrugged. “I don't know yet,” she admitted. “But I look forward to it.”

“I think you're gonna do great,” Lloyd assured her, adding “At least you probably won't have to practice.”

Before Diana could reply, Lloyd's phone rang. He briefly searched the pockets of his gold lamé pants, only to remember that he hadn't put the phone in them. “Where is it,” he muttered, turning—and finding the phone an inch away from his face, held up by Diana. “Thanks.” He smiled, accepting the phone and keying it on. “Hello?”

Diana stood by, her attention turning from Lloyd to her own reflection in the mirror by the TV. There was something about the way she looked—the outfit, the makeup, the way her hair had been done—that struck her as...she couldn't quite figure out what. The fact that it struck her at all, that it stood out, was surprising in and of itself. She realized, in that moment, that she hadn't really taken a good look at herself in a mirror before that point—

“Thanks.” Lloyd ended the call, hanging up the phone. “That was Mandy, she—” He stopped, noticing Diana staring at the mirror. “Ah, Diana?”

The sound of her name drew the blonde out of her apparent trance. “Yes?”

“That was Mandy, on the phone. Her dad's part of the committee organizing tomorrow's parade, and there's a dinner tonight—I guess that's why Uncle Harry was wearing a tuxedo.” He shrugged. “Anyway, she invited me to come along.”

“Oh.”

“Seeing as how you don't have the hardware to eat or drink yet,” Lloyd mused, “you'll be staying here with Erin, Cam and the rest.” He checked his hair in the mirror, only to remember that he was still wearing the pompadour wig. “Gimme a sec...” With an embarrassed smile, he carefully removed the wig and set it on the bed, quickly turning back to the mirror and smoothing his actual hair with one hand. “Pretty sure I have a blazer or something somewhere around here,” he muttered. “Have to put this back in the suit bag for the parade tomorrow—” He shrugged out of the jacket as he spoke, quickly shucking it off and landing it on the bed with a spinning throw. “—and the pants...” He started to work at the zipper, only to stop; Diana was still standing nearby. “Ah, could you...”

“Could I what?”

Lloyd sighed. “Never mind.” He quickly removed the pants of his “young Elvis” costume, careful not to take the boxers with them; he crossed the room with the pants still in hand, as Diana watched. “I have to get changed for the dinner,” he informed her. “So just, ah...” A quick glance revealed that Diana was, in fact, still there, and still watching as he traversed the width of the bedroom. There was something about the pure, innocent curiosity in her stare that made it impossible for him to get annoyed with her.

“Yes?” Diana prompted.

“I gotta go get changed,” Lloyd reiterated. “Just need a nice jacket, a good shirt and a pair of dress pants, and I'll be in and out of the bathroom before too long.” He moved past her to the closet, finding what he needed and quickly retrieving all three items. “How do these look?” He held up all three against himself.

Diana could only frown politely for a moment.

“Eh, no worries. I'll check the mirror before I leave the bathroom.” He turned to leave—

“Will you need your phone?”

After a second, Lloyd nodded. “Wouldn't hurt to bring it.” He accepted the phone with a smile, leaning in to give Diana a quick peck on the cheek. “Thankyouverymuch.” With another grin and an Elvis-like double-point, he dashed out of the bedroom with his evening's attire in hand.

Diana called out “You're welcome!” just as she saw his foot clear the threshold.
-----
“Report, Mr. Scott.”

Sierra's greeting was met with a frown from the technician. “Now's definitely not the time, Officer.”

“It wasn't a joke—your last name's Scott, and I'm asking for a report.” Sierra wasn't smiling as she walked up. “Pariello's already been carted off, so I need everything you've got on her.” She nodded to the sobbing blonde on one of the two couches in the conversion chamber. “ID, anything?”

“External scans say her name is Bobbi, with an “i”. I can't do internal scans because she won't open any panels—”

“She turned me into a thing,” Bobbi wailed. “A stupid, plastic thing!

“...and she's been carrying on like this ever since Pariello was carried out,” the technician finished, raising his voice in a futile effort to drown out the weeping gynoid. “We should probably get her into—”

“People can just shut me off, now,” Bobbi sobbed, “take me apart, control me, do whatever—this is horrible!” Her face was buried in both hands. “How am I even feeling anything?! I don't have a heartbeat anymore, I'm not breathing...this isn't life! It's....I don't know what it is!

“What about ownership?” Sierra inquired. “Is there any—”

“Her ownership was set to 'Lexi', whoever that is, but the field self-erased five minutes ago.”

NOBODY OWNS ME!” Bobbi insisted. “I'm...” She stared at her hands, looking almost horrified. “No pulse, no pores, no little imperfections,” she groaned. “I'm just a THING from an assembly line—” She gasped as Sierra's hands gripped her shoulders. “Ma'am,” the Officer stated “listen to me. Under the Civil Accords, you meet the requirements to be classified as a sentient being, afforded all the rights and protections thereof—”

“HELL with your stupid Accords!” Bobbi snapped, shoving Sierra's hands away. “I'm a thing, now, a stupid robot!” Her anger quickly gave way to despair. “Why don't you just do us both a favour and shut me off?” she moaned. “Forever?”

Sierra put her hands back on the grieving gynoid's shoulders. “Because that's not how we do things in CAEDIA.”

“...what?”

“I'm here to help,” Sierra continued. “And it'd be easier for me to help you if you helped me—”

“Why should I?” Bobbi sulked. “My life is over. That stupid robot bitch killed me, made me this...a thing, like her—”

You are not a 'thing',” Sierra insisted. “You're you. You're a person—like I am.” Her eyes glowed faintly. “And I'm going to help you however I can.”

A sudden realization hit Bobbi at that moment. “You...you were at my flat—my house, last week. After the break-in.”

“I was.” Sierra nodded. “I was there to help, then—and I'm still here to help now.”

Bobbi stared at her, eyes wide. “I...” Her head kinked to the left. “I...I....I...”

“She's crashing! We have to get her—” The technician nearly fell as he stumbled backwards; Bobbi was seizing on the couch, her limbs tensing and flailing. Electric sparks shot from her ears with every few kinks of her head.

Sierra turned away, heading for the door. CAEDIA technicians rushed past her as she went.

It occurred to her, as she stepped out into the hall, that her abrupt departure might come across as somewhat callous, almost uncaring. Bobbi, certainly, wouldn't have appreciated it. The simple truth of the matter was that Sierra had seen 'bots malfunction before—far worse than what she'd just seen in the conversion chamber, in fact. There was, of course, one major difference between all of those malfunctions and what was happening to Bobbi.

None of the 'bots whose malfunctions Sierra had witnessed had been unauthorized, non-consenting transfers.

That, by itself, made Bobbi's case a potential landmine for CAEDIA. Lexi—for whatever reason—had subjected Bobby Pariello to the Dyson Institute transfer, somehow leaving the human Bobby comatose and the gynoid Bobbi in significant mental and emotional distress. Apart from rumours of unauthorized experiments in third-world laboratories or private tests carried out by billionaires seeking “immortality”, the last recorded instance of an unauthorized human-to-robot consciousness and memory transfer had been in the 1980s—a far different time, with technology ages behind what the Dyson Institute had on hand now. Theoretically, Bobbi should've been fine...

“Of course,” Sierra muttered, groaning. “Pariello hates 'bots, now Pariello is a bot...relatively speaking.”

It was the only explanation that made sense, apart from deliberate sabotage on Lexi's part. There were also, of course, other factors to consider...but that was for the technicians and the Psychological Profile to sort out. As unfortunate as Bobbi's situation was, Sierra had other concerns—chiefly, finding the one responsible for Bobbi's situation.

Tommy was still in the lobby when Sierra reached the ground floor. The last of the employees who'd been held hostage by Lexi in the conversion chamber had been cleared, and the lobby was empty. Not surprisingly, Tommy was looking out at the entrance—the same one Lexi had come in through, as revealed by the security cameras.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, Sierra spoke: “Well. I think we've done all we—”

“No.”

“...no, what?”

“We're not done here. Not by a long shot. For one, we need to wait for the ambulance.” Tommy didn't look at Sierra as he spoke. “When they leave, we leave.”

Sierra frowned. “The ambulance was already here—”

“And we're waiting for it to come back.”

Those eight words rang with a horrific weight. “What?”

“We put Pariello in a standard hospital, someone's going to ask questions,” Tommy replied. “They ask enough, someone else will talk. Pretty soon, more people are talking, and then people will start looking.” He took off his sunglasses and polished the lenses on his sleeve.

“Tommy,” Sierra hissed, “what exactly are you suggesting—”

“The Institute has medical facilities on hand to take care of anyone under contract,” Tommy continued, his tone slightly less sinister. “Pariello gets a stasis chamber and constant medical attention. Bobbi gets counselling, therapy and whatever else she needs to adjust.” He held up his glasses. “The Herring News creeps get a missing persons report, a C&D from Elaine and a writ of stoppage if they try to dig any deeper. And we...” He put his sunglasses back on. “...get to sleep easier.”

Sierra stared at him. “I wasn't told about any of this before.”

“Just got off the phone with HQ. They gave full authorisation, and Elaine has no problem with Pariello getting a stasis chamber and a 'lifetime contract'.”

“And we just lie to Pariello's family?” Sierra countered. “What if—”

“If Pariello dies, that part of the contract is closed. Bobbi still gets therapy, counselling and the rest.” Tommy regarded Sierra with a frown. “Any family members come looking, and can verify their identities, we tell them that Pariello is in the hands of qualified medical personnel—” He stopped short of finishing the sentence, mostly due to Sierra glaring at him. “Something wrong?”

“You're treating this like it's nothing,” Sierra muttered. “What happened in that conversion chamber—”

“What happened in that conversion chamber,” Tommy cut in, “is part of a bigger picture, and that picture includes every single thing Lexi has done. We can't focus on just the break-in at Pariello's, or just one 'bot she's scrapped—”

“That's not the point!” Sierra insisted. “She converted Pariello against his will.”

“Pretty sure consent was the last thing on Lexi's mind.” Tommy held up a gleaming metal object; it took Sierra a moment to recognise it as the head of a fire axe. “She was going to use this on Pariello before Burton cut the power.”

A number of replies, most of them scathing, formed and died in the span of three seconds. “And that means what?”

“Nothing yet. Pariello still being alive—”

“If you say 'complicates things', I'll punch you.”

“Might as well hit me now, then.”

Sierra glared at her colleague. “So we're really doing this?” she muttered. “Giving Pariello over to the Institute, letting them help Bobbi?”

“Only thing we can do, for both of them.”

Tommy's turn of phrase caught Sierra's attention. “So you—”

“The moment that floor model activated, she stopped being just a floor model. Bobbi is her own person now. Having Pariello's memories and personality isn't going to change that.” Tommy checked his watch. “Ambulance should be here in five,” he muttered. “On-site medics are prepping a stasis chamber for Pariello. We're going through medical records to look for anything that might complicate this—pre-existing conditions, possible undiagnosed diseases, all that.” He checked his watch again, only for Sierra to gently guide his head away from it.

“What we're doing,” she murmured. “This is...”

“This is what we're here for.”

“Covering up what happened to—”

“You'd prefer it goes to the papers? Once that domino falls, the rest aren't far behind. Lexi makes the headlines, and CAEDIA gets called into question—if we don't get hauled before a subcommittee first.” Tommy eased Sierra's hand off of his chin. “You were briefed when you first joined—”

“Not about this,” Sierra countered. “There was nothing about anything like this!”

She stared into those blatantly artificial replacements for eyes, sunken into the prosthetic that took up the upper half of his face. It was impossible to gauge what he was feeling at that moment. The irony of a human being hard to read, while his gynoid colleague was practically an open book, wasn't lost on her.

After what felt like entirely too much silence, Tommy turned away. “Ambulance should be driving up any minute now.”

“So we're just going to act like—”

“We can continue this conversation at HQ, Officer.” There was no hesitation in his words, no hint of doubt in his body language. “For now, I suggest you get to the conversion chamber and see if Bobbi's been stabilised yet.”

Sierra nodded, not caring that Tom—that Detective Logan wouldn't see it. “I'm on it.”
-----
Detective Logan knew Sierra wasn't satisfied with the answers he gave. Even as she followed his suggestion and headed back to the conversion chamber, he knew she'd be seething—that she'd been seething, ever since this business with Lexi had started. Probably even before that, if he had to be honest; his insistence on keeping things “professional”, call signs and ranks only when communicating on ops, grated on Sierra more than she'd ever let on.

There were reasons for it, of course. Just as there were reasons to handle the Pariello situation in exactly the way it was being handled now.

For a moment, as he waited for the ambulance to back in, the detective thought of calling his old partner. He'd extended an offer to her, when he'd joined CAEDIA, to go with him—possibly even become a joint ALPHA/CAEDIA operative, keep up the fight on two fronts. She'd smiled, told him it was a tempting offer, but that she had things to think about before she made her decision. Two years ago—the last time they'd been together.

She'd been on the talk show circuit, the week before. From a warrior to an ambassador...hell of a trip to make.

The detective smirked. Of course she'd go effortlessly from one role to another. He'd seen her pull it off before.

Sounds of brakes, the familiar beep of a heavy vehicle in reverse, cut into his reverie. The ambulance had arrived, pulled the requisite J-turn and was backing up towards the entrance. The rear doors were already opening to allow EMTs to exit, bearing the gurney to which Robert Pariello was still strapped. At least three of the EMTs bore faint seam lines, or a slight plastic sheen on visible areas of themselves; had Pariello been conscious at the moment, he probably would've demanded an all-human team of medics tending to him. And yet, here was CAEDIA, bending the knee to keep his current state out of the limelight and his name out of the papers.

Detective Logan wondered, as he watched Elaine Dyson emerge from a lift to meet the paramedics, just how Pariello's situation would eventually end. The obvious path was, of course, that he'd pass away peacefully while in stasis; a crack legal team, already in the wings, would show up to ease Bobbi into “inheriting” Pariello's estate, remaining holdings and so on. Another team entirely would “collect” Pariello's remains for discreet, private burial or cremation. To the general public, Robert Pariello would remain a missing person for a while longer, until being declared legally dead.

Given what had happened to get everyone where they were now, that'd be the “good ending” to this whole mess.

Thea wouldn't get a good ending, of course. Neither would Kari—she could be restored, yes, but unlike the rest of the Dyson Institute's employees, she didn't have an organic form in a stasis chamber to go back to in the interim. Once she was returned to form, she'd remember. So would Thea—even in an organic body, she'd have nightmares for weeks.

And all of it, because of one psychotic gynoid, on some kind of mission for her unseen masters.

The longer this dragged on, the fewer “good endings” there'd be to go around.
-----
As her latest “acquired” ride continued on, Lexi dismissed the fifth replay of what she'd done to the Dyson Institute 'bot who'd stood up to her—yes, it'd been just as good on rewatch, but there were pressing matters to attend to. The matter at the top of that list, of course, was getting back that stupid solid state drive everyone was raving about...or at least, that her employer was raving about. Not that she'd say he was “raving” to his face, of course.

The drive was, of course, still in the custody of CAEDIA. She'd breached their defences once before, and gotten away with it. Doing so a second time would be...unlikely, at worst, and difficult at best.

Right below the SSD on the priority list was, of course, the Morgan problem. She was on the way to what the GPS was saying was the Morgan residence, at the moment, with a backseat full of weapons and a head full of creatively cruel ideas on how to do a bit of “redecorating”. An anti-materiel rifle, fired into the main residence from a significant elevation, would be great for laughs—all the better if the meat fought back. Let them arm up with their shotguns and revolvers; let them think they had a snowball's chance in Hell of actually doing any damage to her.

Of course, setting up shop from a high point and firing down into the property was also the most efficient way of solving the problem. Efficiency, alas, tended to be boring. Mind-numbingly dull, in fact.

Lexi, not surprisingly, had no love for the “most efficient” method in cases like this. To her, this needed something more.

Five minutes of driving later, the “borrowed” vehicle rolled to a stop. Lexi didn't exit the vehicle entirely—Auto-Drive was still enabled, meaning the stupid thing would probably try to take off without her as soon as she got out. Thus, her safest bet for observing the Morgan place was to lean out the driver's side door with a pair of binoculars, one of the few non-combat supplies she'd been put into storage with that she didn't absolutely hate. A few seconds of fine-tuning, and the binoculars aided and abetted her enhanced optical sensors to get a very good look at the Morgan residence.

There was the house itself, of course—two stories, three counting likely attic space, maybe more with a basement. A large prefab metal building out back seemed to be positively buzzing with activity; a passive long-range scan detected multiple power cell signatures. Off to the far right side of the property were a few smaller buildings and a barn, likely all left over from when the place had served as one of the many ranches in the “Big Sky Country”—well before the state of Jefferson had been formed and ratified, of course. Total occupancy estimates ranged from as low as a family of six to the potential highs of twenty or thirty, possibly even 40 if every structure on the property was made habitable. Granted, that estimate didn't take 'bots into account—not that it made a difference to Lexi. Any 'bots she'd find would end up in pieces anyway.

Any and all thoughts of driving up, knocking on the door and simply asking if Harry Morgan was home were abandoned when she noticed movement in one of the upstairs windows. She focused the binoculars, staring intently, only to nearly laugh. The blonde 'bot who'd been with Morgan's nephew at the Rimrock was looking at herself in a mirror, wearing an approximation of a Mrs. Claus outfit. She was apparently alone, at the moment—what fun would it be to wreck her before the meat got back...

Even as she licked her lips, Lexi figured it'd be better to scope out the rest of the house. There'd be more than enough time to indulge later. For now, work.

Movement in a window on the lower floor caught her attention, leading to her refocusing the binoculars to see just who was moving where, and what they might be up to. She recognized one of the two figures she could see—the plasticky one with the sort-of cartoon face and the too-bright hair—from the lobby at CAEDIA HQ. The other was unfamiliar...not that it really mattered. What was important was drawing out the meat, and then....

There were so many options, all lovingly gathered in the backseat. The pistols, shotguns and the like were for thinning out any resistance. Everything else was for what came after.

“Decisions, decisions...” Lexi giggled. Efficiency had its uses, but improvisation was so much more fun.
-----
“...and after everyone gets over their New Year's hangovers, it's back to business as usual on both fronts. The client who graciously cancelled so we can run the parade tomorrow will be in the queue again, for starters.” Erin looked over the list on her tablet. “Also, remind me to remind Harry to never set up an event at a water park.”

Cam, as always, frowned politely. “May I ask why?”

“You can ask the team from the Hollywood branch, if you can get a hold of any of them.” Erin handed over the tablet, scowling. “Apparently, the Princess of Atlantis got her personality setups scrambled, and she went from offering story prompts to giving handshakes below the belt.” She muttered something as Cam read the notes from the Hollywood team. “Good thing that was just a test run, instead of one with paying customers.”

“Like Esperanza's,” Cam mused, “from last week.”

Erin scoffed. “There's a pretty big leap between a bump'n'grind dance and revving the rocket.”

“D'you think it was sabotage?”

“Unless there was yet another wonderful instalment of the ongoing saga that is Human Drama playing out behind the scenes,” Erin replied, “I think we can chalk this one up to good old-fashioned bad luck. Things like this happen, Cam—a 'bot can be fine one minute and reeling off backwards Spanish while doing a horizontal lambada the next. Hell, I know from experience.”

Cam looked up from the tablet with an arched eyebrow. “You're referring to your...intimate malfunction?”

“Interesting way of putting it, but yes.” Erin chuckled. “Funny to think that all it took to fix the problem was uninstalling the software and debugging the hardware...still haven't put any of that back, yet.”

Cam nearly spoke again, but Erin continued: “How the hell did we get sidetracked by reminiscing about my 'intimate malfunction', anyway? I thought we were going over the parade tomorrow.” She nodded to the tablet. “You're working maintenance before and after the march, right?”

“I am, yes.”

“Good. Last I checked with Harry, he wanted me trailing the march and making sure everyone stayed on the route. That, or I'll be on the same float as Diana, making sure she runs without a hitch—and that the music track doesn't skip, if she's lip-syncing to it.” She looked up, glancing out the window at the pristine landscape....and frowned. “Huh.”

“Something wrong?”

Erin didn't reply. Her eyes narrowed, the zoom function within the ocular sensors focusing on something off in the far distance, past the gate. “...the Hell?” Though her expression looked slightly comical, the scenarios running through her thought processes were anything but. “Cam, do me a favour and check the schedule, see if we've got any visitors scheduled to meet with Harry here at the house today.”

“One moment.” Cam touched a finger to her temple, her eyes fluttering. “...we have no visitors scheduled today.”

“Then who—” Erin paused; the glare she detected off in the distance, which could only come from a windscreen, was rapidly receding. “Never mind.”

“Should we call Harry?” Cam asked. “Tell him about—”

“Nothing to tell him. Whoever parked out there turned around and drove off. Good for them, great for us.”
-----
Lexi was giggling uncontrollably as the car sped off—of course she'd been spotted, of course the one that looked like a NonSen could see her! Her employer would've been appalled at the situation, of course, but Lexi didn't particularly care for what he thought.

What others would've seen as an obstacle, she saw as a new challenge. And challenges were made to be beaten.

Her thoughts turned to the lethal cargo in the backseat. With luck, she'd be bringing most of it to bear on the Morgan place before too long. Her directives (she never saw them as “programming”, primarily because the last time anyone had tried to manually program her ended with them in a body cast and three other people dead) had been intended to guide her mission to its inevitable conclusion, leaving collateral damage at a minimum. Freedom to carry out those directives as she saw fit, of course, gave her ample opportunities for loophole abuse.

Once she got a full grasp of what the Morgans were willing to do to defend themselves, it'd be all too easy to—

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

Lexi's immediate reaction to the radio kicking on was to punch the dashboard. “FUCKING DAMN IT!” Her second punch broke the panelling around the controls for the radio, and her third sent those same control buttons flying. “I HATE THIS SHIT MUSIC—FUCKING STOP, ALREADY!” Somehow, the radio was still spitting out garbled fragments of lyrics, switching between stations and randomly lowering or raising the volume.

A low, keening growl from behind the gynoid's teeth soon turned into a shriek; her flailing in the driver's seat somehow put her into a position to actually kick the radio, which she did. The subsequent shower of sparks prompted the vehicle to pull over by itself, detecting a hazard to the driver; Lexi barely noticed, taking the opportunity to rip the mangled remains of the radio out with her hands, fling open the door and hurl the wretched thing onto the road. With one hand still on the driver's side handle, she jumped out of her seat and stomped, hard, on the radio. Three more stomps reduced it to a pile of components not even fit for salvage.

With a last, infuriated glare at the radio, Lexi pulled herself back into the driver's seat and slammed the door. Slowly, her ride guided itself back onto the road...and proceeded to effectively crawl along at 5 MPH.

“Oh, what the FUCK...” Lexi glared at the dashboard, looking for any sign of what had gone wrong.

Two seconds later, she spotted it: a blinking “ANTI-THEFT/TAMPERING MEASURES ACTIVATED” signal.

Another shriek rang through the interior of the vehicle, followed soon after by Lexi diving into the backseat. She'd had the foresight to bring a kitbag with her armaments, and was now in the process of gathering up as much as she could before the worthless anti-tampering measures stopped the vehicle entirely. One gun in particular, a KS-23 shotgun, was left out of the bag, which was now slung over Lexi's shoulders. She loaded a pair of shells, kicked open the rear driver's side door and dove out.

Her “borrowed” ride was now going even slower. Had the radio still been enabled, it would've started broadcasting a message to the would-be thief ordering them to park the vehicle and wait for the police to arrive...not that Lexi would've obeyed such a warning. She walked alongside the slow-moving truck, glaring at it all the while, before eventually breaking into a jog and getting in front of it. Even moving backwards, she was faster. Soon, she was well ahead of the truck, which now trundled along at 1 MPH.

Without a word, Lexi took aim, bringing the KS-23 to bear. As the truck inched closer, she fired.

Something under the hood gave off horrific sparks. Lexi fired again.

As the truck lurched forward, Lexi reloaded. She'd get another ride soon enough, but first...
-----
“Hey.”

Sierra barely noticed that her colleague had spoken until she realized he was staring at her. “Yeah?”

“You've been quiet ever since we left the Institute.” Detective Logan's hands were on the wheel, despite his attention being focused on the CAEDIA Officer. “Something—”

“I have,” Sierra replied, “entirely too much on my mind right now, Detective.”

The corners of her colleague's mouth turned up briefly. “You can call me Tommy. We've been working together long enough, by now—”

“What happened to Pariello,” Sierra snapped. “What Lexi did to Thea and Kari. The fact that a psycho killer gynoid is on the loose in Billings, of all places. And all of this over some damn solid-state drive!” She almost slammed her head against the backrest of her seat in the CAEDIA cruiser. “It just....I want it to end.”

“It'll end when we bring Lexi in.”

“And how much more will she wreck between now and then? Who else will she kill?”

“Nobody, if we can help it.”

“That's not...” Sierra sighed. “It's times like this I want to just turn off the ability to feel anything. Just let logic take over and see how far I'd get.” She stared at the readouts on the interior of the windscreen. “I can't help but wonder if it'd help at all with this case.”

“Probably not.”

Just as she was about to ask what would help, Sierra caught a glimpse of a police-band notification: an Anti-Tampering alarm had gone off on a stolen truck, broadcast for about five or ten minutes, then gone silent. “Huh. You see this?”

“I noticed. There was a report of a vehicle theft not long after Lexi got out of the Institute.”

“Any way we can pinpoint where the truck is now?”

“Let me call Pierce, see if he's got anything.” The detective keyed on the handless phone set, autodialing CAEDIA's main contact in the Billings Police Department. Sierra, meanwhile, couldn't help but wonder how Lexi had managed to stay ahead of the authorities despite leaving such a trail of mayhem in her wake. “Tommy?”

“—let me know if you get anything else...yeah?”

“You don't think Lexi has anyone....helping her, do you? Giving her gear, a place to hide, repairs...”

“The thought had occurred to me. Why?”

“Because someone else out there has to know about her,” Sierra insisted. “And if we find them—”

“We find Lexi. Very good point—I can get Dave on that, see if he knows anything.” The detective resumed his call with Lieutenant Pierce, leaving Sierra to her thoughts once again. It'd make far more sense if Lexi wasn't just some rogue gynoid going off on a rampage, or worse.

A shiver ran up the Officer's form. Something about Lexi's apparently random crime spree was too familiar.
-----
“Diana?” Erin knocked on the door frame twice.

“Yes?” The blonde gynoid was looking herself over in the mirror, checking every aspect of the costume she'd be wearing at the parade. Her smile was positively radiant, looking so unlike any factory preset that it could've easily been how she really felt.

“Just wanted to check and make sure everything's copacetic on your end.” Erin entered Lloyd's room, which Diana had apparently commandeered while Lloyd was out. “Ah, just wondering. Did you happen to see anything weird, earlier, off in that direction—” She pointed at the window, directing Diana's gaze to the road leading up to the property. “—at all?”

The blonde gynoid frowned. “I wasn't really looking that way, actually.”

“Eh, no worries.” Erin shrugged. “Just...if you see someone, I dunno, lurking out there with a vehicle, and it's not anyone who works here or one of our vehicles, then tell me, or Cam, or Harry or even Lloyd.” Her tone turned somewhat bitter: “Last thing we need is anymore trouble around here, like on Saturday.” She patted Diana on the shoulder. “You look great in that, by the way.”

Again, Diana gave her winning smile. “Thank you!”

“Any time.” Erin glanced at the case for the Blu-ray Lloyd had been studying to practice his moves for the parade. “I just hope nothing happens tomorrow that'll leave anyone 'all shook up',” she muttered, half-jokingly.

“Hmm?”

“...nothing.”
-----
Elaine Dyson looked over the two tables in the Institute's repair bay, feeling a deep sense of loss—while she knew (or at least hoped) that both Kari and Thea would be back to form at some point, neither would escape without significant mental trauma.

The look of anguish on Kari's face was still there. Slowly, a manipulator arm extended from the rig mounted overhead, a fine-tuned extension moving to the back of the gynoid's head. A smaller mirco-arm extended from the tool at its end, going into Kari's hair until it found the connection it sought. Briefly, the gynoid's expression changed—her eyes went wide, her mouth became an O of surprise—before resetting to a far more neutral look. The eyes and mouth closed; the arm, its job done, disconnected and pulled back, rising up towards the ceiling.

Every other aspect of Kari's repairs would be far more complicated. The therapy that'd come after was another story altogether—few studies had been conducted on the trauma of Cessation Of Function to a transferred mind, and Elaine had never wanted Kari, or any of her employees, to serve as the bedrock for future cases.

Thea was, again, a different story entirely. While her new form was being fabricated at that very moment, her organic self had been brought out of stasis for a debriefing on what had happened—and, of course, therapy, given the excessively violent nature of her robotic form's COF. Elaine had even offered to cancel her contract, if Thea wished to not undergo the transfer again, but Thea had refused.

It'd take a week or so, after the end of the Christmas break (Elaine had insisted Thea take that time off, at least) for Thea to undergo the transfer again, return to stasis and let her robotic self pick up where she'd let off. For her, the only lasting aftereffect would be the occasional bad dream, possibly a certain wariness towards cutlery and sharp tools.

Kari wouldn't be so lucky. She had no organic form to return to, and her nightmares would linger on far longer.

Not for the first time, Elaine couldn't help but think that Kari deserved far better than what life kept throwing at her.
-----
“...that should be more than enough. At least, it fucking well better be.”

Lexi stowed her phone (one of the few assets she'd left behind at her newest bolt-hole), scowling. The money she'd been allotted to carry out her mission was in no danger of running out, but there was also the not-insignificant problem of CAEDIA now knowing her by name and by sight. “CAEDIA,” she muttered, almost spitting the name. “What kind of acronym even is that?!” She considered checking on her phone, but decided she didn't care enough to even bother.

When she'd been sealed away, all those years ago, the world of international robotics was a lot different. Nobody was advertising out in the open, and even the agencies trying to better their lot were operating from the shadows. Back then, ALPHA was the ALPA, and CAEDIA didn't even exist. Officially, of course, her employer didn't exist either. With all of the titles, honorifics and prestige stripped away, anyone looking for him under his old alias would find...

...well, she wasn't quite sure what they would've found. She'd only met him face to face once, and...

Lexi frowned. For some reason, the memory of that particular meeting was entirely too fuzzy to recall.

With a shrug, she dismissed the thought, turning her attention back to the matter at hand: firing the KS-23 at the truck had, indeed, been a barrel of laughs, but the recoil on the final shot had kicked like an oversexed mule, which led to the butt-stock hitting her in the right arm. As a result, several actuators in that arm had been put deeply out of alignment; at least one had been driven so far inwards that it was going to rupture a wire, if it hadn't already. Thus, she now had to waste time that could've been spent on recon or further resource-gathering to repair herself. With the phone safely stowed, she turned her attention back to the already-exposed internals of her right arm; the synthetic flesh had been stripped completely away, laying like a towel over a nearby bit of furniture.

The power screwdriver worked just as well in her left hand as it would've in her right, as did the other tools with their micro-manipulators and other such fittings. The damage itself wasn't that big of an issue—she'd barely felt it, after it'd happened, and only just noticed her arm lagging when she tried to bum a ride afterwards. If not taken care of now, of course, the problem would only get worse. She couldn't afford for that to happen, especially during a fight.

The thought of fights, and her last encounter with Detective Tom Logan, called up unwanted images of Lexi's shutdown by way of a CAEDIA-issue tool. The thought of it brought a snarl to her lips—there had to be a way around it.

It didn't matter, for now. The next time they met, she wouldn't give him a chance to use the Deactivator.

Fixing the damaged actuators took a while—not too long, but just long enough for Lexi to mutter about how annoying it was. She had more important concerns to think of, as it stood—specifically, tracking the Morgans and getting that stupid Solid State Drive before the three-day limit expired. Had the limit been five days, she might've been able to sneak into CAEDIA HQ on Christmas Day, retrieve the drive and then wreck the place on the way out...but no, she'd been stuck with three days, starting on the 21st, for some reason.

“Couldn't even let me pull it off the night before Christmas,” she muttered, her tongue between her teeth as she reset another actuator. “I could've done it, too!” She set down the power screwdriver as her right arm went through the full range of motions—no lags, no snags and no audible or visual signs of damage.

With the repairs complete, she retrieved the artificial skin that went over the arm, carefully tacking it back into place and ensuring it connected properly at all mounting points. The sooner she could finish the repair, the sooner she'd be back on the job of taking out her targets and retrieving the SSD. Even with the three-day limit, she knew she'd pull off the job to her employer's satisfaction.

First, of course, there was the matter of finding—and eliminating—Harry Morgan and anyone connected to him.

Lexi grinned as she resealed the synthetic skin of her right arm. This three-day job could easily be finished in one.
-----
“Earth to Lloyd, come in, Lloyd!”

Lloyd glanced at his uncle, his half-frown already giving way to a chuckle. “I wasn't daydreaming.”

“I'd hope not.” Harry checked the rear-view mirror. “You and Mandy kept sneaking glances at each other over the drinks and appetizers,” he mused. “Thought you'd tuned out all the planning stuff completely.”

“I didn't,” Lloyd insisted.

“Exactly.” Harry grinned. “Any time a question came your way, you nailed it. That's what I'd call multitasking like a pro.”

The RangeStar drove on, passing a police-issue tow truck hauling another pickup truck behind it. From the looks of it, someone had taken a weapon of a particularly-large caliber to the towed vehicle. “Now that,” Harry declared, “is a waste of a good truck.”

“I hope nobody got hurt,” Lloyd murmured.

“Doesn't look like it,” Harry replied. “The windshield, the hood, the doors—someone shot that thing. And call me crazy, but I think they'd have put a tarp over the interior of someone was in the cab when it got ventilated.” He shrugged as the tow truck headed past. “Might not want to pay too close attention to it, Lloyd,” he cautioned. “There's been enough weirdness around here to last a lifetime—if anyone asks, we didn't see anything.”

Even as he averted his eyes, Lloyd nodded.

Noting his nephew's unease, Harry clapped him on the shoulder. “Whoever shot up that truck,” he assured him, “they're probably long gone. Nothing for us to worry about.”

“What if they're—” Lloyd hesitated, almost as if he expected Harry to cut him off.

“If they're what?

“...I dunno,” Lloyd admitted, “what if whoever shot up that truck is...connected to what happened to Bobby P.? And to whoever did that joyride with Diana?”

Harry sighed. “The cops and CAEDIA are all over that,” he stated. “Fine-toothed combs and everything. I guarantee they'll have the case cracked before Christmas.” Sotto voce, he added “At least I'd hope they did.” He gave a light cough before continuing. “We've got a lot to look forward to for tomorrow—mainly, the parade.” He grinned. “Might wanna get back on practicing when we get home, just in case.”

“Got it.” Lloyd tried to distance his thoughts from the obliterated truck. “Is Diana—”

“If she can pull off her number without needing to load a preset, we'll let her do the same on the float,” Harry stated. “I already had Erin get a few personality profiles ready just in case, so we can load one up into Diana for the parade if we have to. If not...” He shrugged. “Might be nice to let her take a crack at it as herself, though,” he mused.

Lloyd nodded his agreement. “I just hope SafeSense doesn't go nuts or anything.”

“It won't. It's the latest version, updated and fully patched—Diana's gonna be fine.” Harry glanced at the hands-free set holding his phone. “And seeing as how Erin hasn't called since we left,” he added, “I'm guessing everything's still fine back at home.” He drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. “Just relax. Christmas is five days away, after all.”

Knowing—or at least hoping—that his fears were baseless, Lloyd nodded. It was probably just pre-parade anxiety.
-----
By nightfall, everyone at Harry's was in the process of prepping diligently for the next day, as they'd done for numerous events before. The only significant difference was that there was no real “story” to be told, no script to follow—apart from sticking to the parade route, of course. The 'bots would march, Lloyd and Diana would sing, and their part in the parade would be one of many parts of the whole.

Just as they'd been the night before the last story Harry had run, the 'bots were all lined up in the shop, costumed and waiting for their activation. This time, however, there was one less in line.
-----
Diana regarded the outfit she'd been wearing for most of the day—and would wear again, first thing tomorrow. The red velvet, white faux-fur trim and polished buttons were a distinctly upscale change from the casual wear she'd shipped with—not that she was complaining, of course. Thus far, she'd had little reason to complain about...well, anything.

A room had been set aside for her use, officially so that she could dress and practice for the parade. Unofficially, there were many murmurings that the room would be her official quarters from that point on. Her charging station was still in the shop, but Harry—after returning from the parade-planning dinner with Lloyd—had mentioned something about having it moved to “the” room. Not “her” room, yet, but it was a start.

Her thought processes drifted to her performance tomorrow—how it might go, how people would react to it, and the other “how”s and “what-if”s that invariably accompanied such things. She had no idea what people would think of her performance—if all went well, they'd enjoy it. Thus far, in the preparatory stage, all was—in fact—going well.

Whether it would remain that way during the parade itself was another story.
-----
Once again wearing the wig—a far more natural-looking representation of Elvis Presley's famed pompadour than quite a few of the more “costume-y” takes—Lloyd had decided to practice singing along to “Blue Christmas” before bed. With a comb standing in for the microphone he'd have on the float, he actually sang along to the track on the Blu-ray: “I'll-uh have a Buh-luuuuuue Christmas....without you. I'll-uh be-uh so bluuuuuuuuue thinking....about you.”

The thought occurred to him, even as he belted out the lyrics, that quite a lot of his memories of Christmas past involved spending time with other relatives—Uncle Harry, and plenty besides—than his own parents. His recollections included no signs that his own home life had ever been troubled; if anything, his parents just had one of those jobs that involved a lot of travel. And they did show up, of course—right before the gift opening, or right before the big dinner. The doorbell would ring, someone would go to answer it, and there they'd be, all smiles and gifts and hugs.

Even as he returned his focus to the lyrics, Lloyd found himself realizing something else about many Christmas gatherings of days gone by: there was always a moment where his mom and dad found the time to go off with another relative, adopting hushed tones and discussing things that sounded vaguely ominous. The last time it'd happened, it was right before the arrangement had been made to send him to live with Harry—they'd told him, the night after Christmas.

It'd be four years ago to the day, next week. Four years since he last saw or heard from them.

A creeping sense of unease settled on Lloyd. Belting out “Blue Christmas” had quite suddenly lost all appeal to him.

Not sure what, exactly, was making him so anxious, Lloyd set down the comb, found the remote for the Blu-ray player and turned it off. After a minute or so of introspection, trying to figure out just what had him on edge, he took the wig off and went to set it down with the rest of the costume. He frowned, not quite sure what he was frowning about, or why “Blue Christmas” had sent him down such a melancholy rabbit hole of memories. There'd been no big rift with his parents, before they left, no words shouted in anger. Their last goodbye had been amicable—emotional, yes, but still.

Lloyd glanced out the window, sighing. For some reason, Christmas had always felt a bit melancholic since 2019.

Maybe this year, things would change.
-----
“Erin?”

The sound of her name being called did little to draw Erin's attention from the starry night sky she'd been looking up at, or the light snowfall currently blanketing the house, the shop and everything in the area. “Yeah?”

“I'm going back to the house to recharge. If you intend to stay in for the night...” Cam trailed off. “Is something—”

“Just thinking,” Erin replied. “Or trying to lose myself in thought, if I'm being honest.” She nodded towards the house, where only three of the windows were still lit. “It's not even about the parade tomorrow. It's...I don't know if I can really explain it.”

“Are you worried about Lloyd?”

Cam's question caught Erin only slightly off-guard. “A little bit, yeah,” she admitted. “Ever since he moved out here, it's like a cyclical thing—Christmas comes around, and there's this unspoken...it's a vibe, y'know?”

“I don't possess the capabilities required to measure or feel 'vibes',” Cam replied, “but I have noticed that Lloyd tends to become more melancholy around Christmas.” She stood beside Erin, staring up at the sky. “Perhaps we should both talk to him about—”

“He's got the parade to focus on, tomorrow,” Erin countered. “That might take his mind off it.” She turned and headed back into the shop. “You should probably head back in, recharge and all that.”

Cam frowned for a moment, but nodded. “See you in the morning.”

“Right.” Erin gave a thumbs-up without looking back.
-----
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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Re: Writing As We Go, Chapter 16

Post by Baron » Mon Sep 05, 2022 10:30 pm

Mijo, if you're not careful Rachel Bloom's gonna write a Song about ya....... :twisted:

Fabulous chapter - KUTGW!!! :mrgreen: :rockon: :mrgreen:
Assemble the ladies? I didn't know that they were broken......

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