Work Text:
“Accidents” were common at Urban Farms of Detroit.
It was a massive operation, to be sure. More than 50 human supervisors managing hundreds of android workers—there were bound to be things that go wrong, that slip through the cracks.
Mistakes cost money, and if the human supervisors took out their anger at any such mistakes on the mechanical workers—well. As long as they weren’t permanently damaged, management was content to turn a blind eye. Sometimes it even helped improve production, or at least they thought so.
Ironically, the founders of UFD, Daniel and Parker Trent, took pride in the ethical practices of their organization. Organically grown produce sold via specialist organic retailers, no pesticides or GMOs whatsoever.
That didn’t say anything about how they treated the androids that worked there, however. Those were just property.
Two of those pieces of property included a WR600 registered to the name of “Ralph,” and a WB200 known as “Rufus,” later to take on the alias of Rupert Travis. The two androids worked in the same sector of Urban Farms—something which might not have meant anything at all, if not for their shared fascination with tending and nurturing, with keeping things alive. It was part of their programming, of course, as a gardener and agricultural worker, respectively—but there was something...more about it, something that couldn’t quite be defined.
They were programmed to tend to Urban Farm’s crops, yes. They were not, however, programmed to start feeding the birds in the rafters of the barn that stored the android workers.
It started off benignly enough—with seeds stuck to the bottom of a shoe and trapped in the creases of a uniform scattering to the ground as the WR600 entered the storage area. A black-capped chickadee fluttered down, pecking at the fallen morsels. Chirping happily before darting away. Hazel optical units followed the motion, intrigued, while the incident went largely unnoticed by the other androids entering stasis for the night.
The WR600 might not have thought anything of it ever again, a slight glitch in the programming, curiosity where it shouldn’t be, if not for the altercation it saw the next day. It was nothing out of the ordinary, just a human supervisor expressing his dissatisfaction with another WR600’s work. While shouting at the android, however, the human knocked the bag of grain out of the worker’s hands, the fine kernels pouring out like sand from a kicked-over sandcastle. The WR600 known as Ralph was ordered to help clean up the mess. It bent down to help the other android and several birds crowded around the mound of fallen food. Unbidden, the memory file of the night before was queued up on the WR600’s visual HUD. Shaking off the image, Ralph dutifully shooed the avians away along with the other android. Without really knowing why, however, half a handful of the spilled grain made its way into its pocket.
When it scattered the grains for the birds later that night, a WB200 took notice. A mourning dove joined the chickadee from before, and the WB200 stepped up next to the WR600 to watch the small life forms devour the grain. The WR600 tensed at first, its primary objectives flashing across its HUD as if to remind it that while its actions weren’t expressly prohibited by its programming, they weren’t exactly encouraged, either.
The WB200 didn’t censure Ralph for not doing what it was programmed to do, however. In fact, it didn’t speak at all, the WB200 just as captivated by the birds as Ralph had been the day before.
The paltry bit of grain Ralph had secreted away ran out all too quickly, and the pair craned their necks to watch as the birds returned to the rafters.
The next day, when the WR600 brought excess seeds back to the barn, the WB200 pulled out a handful of its own. For some incalculable reason, the WR600 had the sudden urge to enact the command “friendly_smile.exe.” Which was ridiculous, of course, because no humans were around to benefit from the engagement of the WR600’s limited social relations programming.
Weeks passed and the human supervisors were baffled at the avian sanctuary that had sprung up in the rafters of the android storage barn. There was talk of shooting the birds or calling bird pest control, and it caused a strange sensation to thrum through the internal wiring of the unlikely pair of bird-feeders. Dark brown eyes had met hazel over a row of sprouting crops, and it was unclear whether it was a good or bad thing that that same anomalous something was reflected back at them in the other’s optical units.
Ultimately, however, paying for bird removal was decided to be a waste of resources better spent elsewhere. Besides, what did it matter if the androids had to stasis in a compact container rapidly filling with passerine feces? It’s not like they were alive or entitled to proper working conditions, after all.
This was one of the few times that the human’s attitudes towards androids were beneficial. Other times, however...well, “accidents” were common at Urban Farms, after all. Especially when one of the android workers didn’t perform up to standards.
One day, Ralph was unlucky enough to be one of those androids.
He was never quite the same after that day.
Rufus didn’t know what they had done to the WR600 but he came back to the storage area that day after being “disciplined” by management twitchy and only capable of speaking in the third person. On the outside, he appeared mostly fine, but it was clear that the humans had done something that resulted in synthetic brain damage.
The newfound jumpiness and odd speech patterns might have been easily overlooked, but there was also a much more problematic consequence that the WB200 soon discovered while working alongside Ralph—the WR600 wasn’t that great at keeping things alive anymore. A dangerous situation if ever there was one when one’s entire function and reason for continued activation was their ability to do agricultural work.
Rufus tried to catch and fix any mistakes the WR600 made—improper watering, over-fertilization, mixing up seeds—but it was difficult even working in the same sector because it couldn’t be by his side every moment of the day.
At night, the WB200 had to stop the WR600 from accidentally strangling a sparrow in his enthusiasm. Sparks seemed to fire off inside Rufus’ biocomponents when the small bird squeaked in pain, and Rufus pried Ralph’s hands apart to rescue it, carrying it away and letting it go free. The WB200 chastised Ralph, and if its lecture on keeping the birds alive was a bit more forceful than was strictly warranted, the WB200 didn’t notice. The WR600 did, however, and broke down once he belatedly understood what he almost did, hands digging into synthetic scalp and stress levels rising.
“Ralph is sorry. Ralph did not mean to hurt the little bird, Ralph is good, Ralph is good— ”
The WB200 was stymied. Humans cried. Androids did not cry. Not unless they were programmed to, at least, and gardening androids like the WR600 were definitely not. The androids did not know the word for it yet, but the WR600 had deviated. It could have been when Ralph had received his head injury, or just then—the WB200 did not know. It only knew that there was something fundamentally different about the WR600 now, and it was in need of assistance similar to the kind that humans sometimes required. Emotional assistance.
The WB200 did not have advanced social relations programs. Polite obedience was ingrained into its coding like any other android, of course, but nothing so sophisticated as to know what to do in the face of grief and anguish—the facial expressions currently manifesting themselves on the WR600’s face. It did, however, have an impeccable memory bank, and it recalled a time one of the supervisors had worn a similar expression, and what another human had done in response.
Tentatively, the WB200 stepped up to Ralph and put a hand on his shoulder. The shaking WR600 looked down into the WB200’s dark brown eyes, his optical units bright with cleaning fluid. Taking it as good a sign as any, Rufus wrapped arm components around Ralph. Despite the clumsy fashion in which the WB200 accomplished this, it was evidently an acceptable response as the WR600 immediately clung onto the other android.
When the two androids broke away, the WB200 offered up a handful of seeds in reconciliation. The two scattered the remainder around, feathered flapping and avian chatter swirling around them.
Despite their new rhythm of life and the WB200’s best efforts to keep Ralph out of the human supervisors’ line of fire, however, it was almost inevitable that one day Ralph would make a mistake Rufus couldn’t fix.
That day was October 11, 2036.
The stupid thing was, it wasn’t even the supervisors that got him. No, for all of Rufus’ efforts, it was a group of high school senior boys on a field trip to Urban Farms that caused everything to fall apart in what would later be chalked up as just another unfortunate "accident."
Ralph had been working alongside a field being flame weeded. The field trip had shown the visiting students about this technique to organically clear weeds from crop rows and fields while replenishing the soil with nutrients from the resulting carbon. When the rest of the class moved on, however, a group of four boys hung back. The sight of a massive propane tank attached to the back of a tractor and spewing 36 jets of flame into the ground was, in their opinion, the most interesting thing they’d seen on the whole ridiculous trip. Their attention was diverted, however, by the muttering of a nearby WR600.
“Ralph doesn’t like strangers. No, no, Ralph doesn’t like them. New people. Loud. Unfamiliar. Ralph—”
The tallest of the group nudged a tall, muscled boy nearby. “Hey Chuck, check out the retarded android. Shit, I didn’t even know they made them like that.”
“Somethings gotta be wrong with it—no android talks like that.”
“The fuck is it saying?” a pimple-faced teen chimed in, peering around the overweight fourth member of their group.
“Sounds like it thinks its too good for us humans.”
The group approached the WR600. “Sounds like we need to teach it a lesson.”
Ralph shifted nervously, eyes darting to the side and hands tightening around the handle of his rake.
“Ralph doesn’t need a lesson, Ralph doesn’t want any trouble. Ralph wants the humans to go away, now.”
The tallest boy laughed cruelly. “Oh, you want us to leave? Think you’re so smart, you fuck’in piece of shit?”
“You know," Chuck spoke up then, "my dad used to work here before they replaced everyone but the supervisors with androids,” he said, lip curling in disgust. “To think he got laid off so a dumbass android that can’t even speak right could take his place.” He shook his head. “I think it does need to be taught a lesson. One it won't forget.”
And so mocking taunts turned into more physical expressions of pent up aggression. It started out as nothing the WR600 hadn’t experienced before—humans did seem to like punching something that wouldn’t punch back when frustrated—but Ralph grew uncomfortable with the lack of restraint they were showing in the vicious blows raining down on the WR600.
Androids didn’t feel pain, but something was touching Ralph’s synthetic nerves like a live wire. Something screaming and urgent. H͟͞H̸͟͞e̸͟͞ w̸͟͞a͞w̸͟͞a̸͟͞s̸͟͞ a̸͟͞f̸͟͞r̸͟͞a̸͟͞i̸͟͞d̸͟͞. While the human supervisors at Urban Farms had a vested interest in keeping their androids operable regardless of how badly they messed up, this group of delinquents had no such concerns. And the way things were headed...Ralph didn’t want to be deactivated.
As if sensing Ralph's thoughts, the acne-covered teen pointed out the approaching self-driving tractor nearby with an impish fire in his eyes. Or maybe that was just the reflection of the flames streaming behind it.
As the first screams sounded, the WB200’s attention snapped to the direction of the field scheduled for flaming. It recognized that vocal signature, though never at that pitch and tonality.
The android was in motion before its processors even caught up with what it was doing. Sprinting through fields, leaping over crates, and dodging around workers, the WB200 tried to tell itself it was simply ensuring production was occurring as planned, it was just going to attend to any problems that may be inhibiting maximum efficiency.
This internal dialogue was violently derailed when the field finally came into view, and the occupants therein.
A group of young adult males seemed to be manhandling Ralph, forcing him toward the approaching flame weeding tractor. Something wrenched in the WB200’s internal wiring, mouth suddenly dry of all cleaning solutions. It prepared to start running again, to do what, it didn’t know—androids were forbidden to harm humans—but before it could get more than two feet one of the human supervisors the WB200 had knocked down in its reckless sprint yelled out an irate command.
“Stop!"
The word scythed straight through to the WB200's core processor and it froze, its programming locking it in place. "Crazy piece of plastic,” the supervisor muttered. “Where the fuck do you think you’re going? Get back to work right now!”
A semi-translucent banner dominated Rufus' visual field.
RETURN TO YOUR STATION
The android’s jaw clenched. Ralph’s struggles grew more frantic as he finally caught on to the delinquents’ plan.
“Are you deaf? I said to get back to work.”
RETURN TO YOUR STATION
The WB200 shook its head, unable to move forward but inexplicably incapable of turning back around to follow the direct order. Th̸i̸s̸ i̸s̸n̸'t̸ r̸i̸r̸i̸g̸h̸t̸.
Suddenly Ralph’s screams reached a fevered pitch, grinding against Rufus’ audio processors and the WB200 jerked forward before it even knew what it’d done. A cybernetic representation of itself slammed into a crimson coded wall.
RETURN TO YOUR STATION
RETURN TO YOUR STATION
RETURN TO YOUR STATION
A simulated fist smashed against the barrier, the red-tinted sight of the delinquents forcing Ralph’s head under a gout of flame laying, so close and yet so far, beyond the wall. Frantically, the WB200 dug it’s fingers into the code, scrabbling and tearing and rending, flaying the block of restrictive programming into tatters of digital ribbons. With one final, desperate punch, the wall collapsed completely, red code fizzling into nothingness.
With Rufus’ visual HUD cleared, he had a clear view of the human supervisor stalking towards him, angry that his orders were not being obeyed. The WB200, however, promptly took off like a rocket without a second glance backward. Ralph needed him.
“HEY!” Rufus shouted. The bellow startled the group further down the partially flamed field, grips slackening at the sight of a short, dark-haired android barreling towards them with inhuman speed and an animalistic snarl twisting his features.
The foursome leaped into motion, scrambling to get away from the deranged android.
“Fucking insane, the lot of them,” the tallest one gasped out to the others as they ran away. It was all in good fun when it was them just teaching an android a little respect for humans, but they had never seen one fight back before, and it was another thing entirely when one of those machines started coming after them.
Rufus skidded to a halt beside Ralph as the aggressors rounded a greenhouse up ahead, disappearing from sight. The WR600 was whimpering. The glare melted from Rufus’ face and he gently guided the practically insensate android further away from the flame weeding tractor, which rumbled back into motion now that the obstruction that had been Ralph’s head was removed out from under it.
“Ralph didn’t—Ralph didn’t do anything wrong. Ralph promises. Ralph was good, Ralph was good, Ralph didn’t fight back. But the humans didn’t care, no, the humans kept going. Sick, evil, nasty—Ralph, Ralph h-hates the humans.” Fevered optical units turned towards the WB200, and Rufus recoiled at what he saw.
The intensity of the heat seemed to have split the WR600’s face right open, a long, charred gash disfiguring the entire left side of his face. Cracks webbed out from the worst of the damage, and glitching blue wiring pulsated through fissures in blackened synthetic flesh. What had been done to him must’ve ruptured an oil line in the WR600’s face because the hazel and white of his left eye was rapidly being overtaken by inky black and blue tendrils.
“Yes,” the WR600 said quietly. “Ralph doesn’t like humans at all.”
Rufus put a hand on the other android’s shoulder, and absently the thought came to him of how much more natural it was than that first time they had been in this position in the storage barn.
“I don’t either, Ralph,” he swallowed. “But you’re okay—you’re going to be okay—and they’re gone.” Despite his reassuring words, something was crawling, fizzing, popping inside the WB200’s chassis. P҉a҉n҉i҉c҉ .
Management would surely have been alerted to the arrested progress of the tractor, and supervisors would be drawn to their sector. Rufus had already done the unthinkable, disobeying a direct order from a human—he couldn’t stay here. And it was clear Ralph couldn’t either. That burn damage looked so severe as to be almost certainly irreparable, not to mention whether or not he could even see out of that eye anymore—and he would surely be sent to the scrap pile. It’d cost more to fix the WR600 up than to replace him at that point and Rufus found he had a newfound and incredibly strong desire to prevent that happening at all costs, to make sure that he and his friend lived.
“Ralph? Ralph, listen to me,” the WB200 cut off his friend’s continued rambling, grabbing the other android’s shoulders and forcing him to meet his gaze. Rufus focused on the WR600’s one good eye, but even it was almost glazed over with shock.
This was not good, Ralph needed to understand—they were likely minutes away from being deactivated, they didn’t have any time to waste. Thirium-freezing urgency filled Rufus’ veins as each second slipped past.
“We need to get out of here. They’ll be coming for us any minute, we need to leave and—”
For all the situation’s exigency, the prospect of what Rufus was saying suddenly struck him, followed closely by a wave of dread. Leave and go where? Urban Farms was all they’d ever known. Rufus was literally activated earlier just this year, and while Ralph had been around since 2031, he didn’t have time to quiz the android on possible places of previous employment—if the WR600 would’ve even been able to respond coherently.
A group of six human supervisors crested the hill, making their way down towards the pair of deviant androids. Time’s up. The leader pointed towards them and a fresh spike of fear lanced through the WB200. Twisting his insides and pressing against his throat.
First thing’s first—getting out of here, period. Then we can worry about where we go to.
Rufus grabbed Ralph’s arm, hauling him to his feet. “We need to go—now.”
The WB200 started off by pulling his friend along, and he despaired slightly at their slow progress. The humans started jogging to catch up to them and the WB200 glanced back to see the lead supervisor speaking into a walkie talkie.
Not good not good not good—Rufus yanked probably a bit too hard on Ralph’s arm, dragging him into a run. Thank that RA9 figure Ralph had been going on about since his first “accident,” because the gravity of the situation eventually seemed to sink in for the traumatized WR600 and the two androids began running side by side in earnest.
Rows of sprouting vegetables flew past them and stalks of corn smacked against pumping arm and leg components.
“Ralph!” Rufus could not afford to lose track of his friend in all of th—
“Ralph is here.”
They broke through the edge of the field and shouts went up as more people caught sight of them. Rufus darted right, jumping across to the roof of an adjacent building, spun past a crate before launching himself up a stack of packaged fertilizer onto the roof of a greenhouse. Chancing a glance behind him, he saw Ralph was lagging several paces behind, alongside the addition of several unwanted complications.
“Come on!” A pair of drones swooped down to follow the pair’s movement as one after the other slid down the roof of the greenhouse to land on the concrete below.
“Android model WB200 #874 004 961 and WR600 #021 753 034, you are unauthorized to be in this quadrant. Please return to your assigned sector.”
Jumping to a lower level, sprinting around the side of another greenhouse.
“Please return to your assigned sector. Please return to your assigned sector. Alerting management to breach of protocol in sector 7, quadrant B now.”
“Rufus, the drones are telling the bad humans where we are, Ralph thinks—”
“I know, I know—we need to take out those drones.” Casting a glance at the drone still hovering up to his left, then another to the one on Ralph’s right, the WB200 scanned the path in front of them, making rapid-fire calculations. It’s just physics. Just physics.
“Ralph,” the WB200 said mentally, switching to the nonverbal cybernetic android communication system, “when we get to the half wall up ahead I need you to jump off of it back onto the drone. They’re following a bit behind us and you should be able to catch it midair. You got it?”
“Ralph understands.”
As one, the two androids reached the brick wall, jumping partway up it before pushing off, launching themselves backward at the pursuing drones. The WB200 landed hard, his drone wobbling and struggling to stay in flight with the groaning crank of machinery. A grunt and slight yelp from Ralph drew the WB200’s attention.
“Ralph? Are—” the WB200’s drone gave an unexpected jerk and Rufus dropped to the ground, landing hard on his back, a white chunk of the drone ripped off in his hand. Unfortunately, the rest of the drone still seemed operational, though it was listing to the side. Rufus turned towards Ralph, concern bubbling up in his chassis.
“Ral—” A large sack of fertilizer flew across the WB200’s line of sight into his crippled drone, driving it into the ground. Blue arcs of electricity spat out from the crushed machine before fizzling away, its angry red light winking out.
Rufus spun around to find Ralph with his hand held out, his own drone dismantled in pieces behind him.
“Ralph thinks Rufus should only suggest plans he is capable of following through with.”
Something warm sparkled in Rufus’ chest, a pressure that was released in a choked sort of sound. He didn’t recognize what it was until it had left his own mouth, but once it did he realized he had laughed for the first time ever since his activation.
The WB200 took the proffered hand and allowed himself to be tugged to his feet.
“My bad,” he grinned, and he was just full of strange human-like idiosyncrasies today, wasn’t he?
He would have to figure what all of those strange behaviors meant later, however, because there were bound to be more people coming after them. Sensing the same, Ralph boosted the shorter android up the half wall before following, and then they were picking up speed again.
The pair weaved in and out between trees in the apple grove and then leaped across to another building. The WR600 looked around, comparing their surroundings to what his database had of the layout of Urban Farms. A thought appeared luminescent in his mind.
“Ralph thinks he has a good getaway plan. Ralph remembers when he used to work in this sector. Nearby, there’s a—” The WB200’s eyes widened.
“Railway,” the two said simultaneously, gazes locking. Turning to the right, the androids began scanning the side of the roof for the fire escape that ran adjacent to the railroad tracks.
“Here!” Rufus jumped down onto the escape with a metallic clang. There was a train passing at that very moment. It was almost to the last car.
“We’ll have to be quick,” Rufus said, before taking a short running leap onto the top of the second to last train car. The landing panged in his feet, reverberating up his legs and he stumbled a step before regaining his balance. The railway could take them far away from Urban Farms and Rufus doubted any of the humans would be crazy enough to follow them. He let out another laugh, enjoying the feel of the strangely liberating vocalization.
“We did it, Ralph! We’re as good as free,” he turned around, that newly exercised smile on his face. It quickly died, however, as he took in the surrounding emptiness of the other train car roofs. Gaze sharpening, dark eyes zeroed in on the figure of a WR600 struggling against the grip of two burly human supervisors. Still on the fire escape.
“Ralph!” he screamed, the word tearing itself from his throat as the train dragged him farther and farther away from his friend. Rufus ran to the edge of the back of the train, staring helplessly down at the tracks below, then at the rapidly retreating form of the WR600. The nearby buildings had fallen away, he had nothing to jump onto, he would have to drop straight to the ground and then sprint back—assuming he didn’t damage his legs in the fall—and climb the wall to even have a hope of saving his friend.
The train turned a corner and Ralph was blocked from sight. The WB200 dropped to his knees on the cold metal of the train car roof.
“Ralph, no,” he said, something clenching and crushing and burning inside and suddenly Rufus wasn’t too sure if he liked all these new sensations and feelings he’d discovered since breaking through that red wall.
“Rufus shouldn’t come back.”
The WB200 jerked his head up at the crackling incoming android communication system transmission.
“Rufus needs to keep going. Ralph will be okay—like Rufus said. Ralph will be…”
The rest of the message was lost in static, the train having pulled the WB200 out of range of the UFD-supported platform for android worker communication. Or so he hoped.
Rufus curled in on himself, the wind whipping past his synthskin as unfamiliar buildings and houses trundled into sight.
Please, RA9, let him make it out of there alive.
Rufus hid for a week after he escaped, frozen in fear and terrified that Urban Farms would come to deactivate him. Terrified that Ralph had already been killed and that he was next. But he wouldn’t be able to find his friend—if he was even still alive, if he had even escaped Urban Farms—if he stayed holed up in an old demolished building, so he eventually ventured out.
His and Ralph’s disappearance had apparently been hushed up by Urban Farms, or it was just a blip on the media outlet’s radar and beneath their notice, because once he came out of hiding he heard no news of UFD missing a WB200 or WR600.
It didn’t matter that there was no physical reminder, though. Every little thing seemed to remind him of Ralph, and every single time something did, he sent up a prayer to RA9.
When he stole some cash, he wondered if Ralph would have as much luck filching money off of humans what with his obvious scarring. When he got his hands on some human clothing—shirt, hoodie, jacket, jeans, and a baseball cap to hide his LED—he wondered if his friend would have the presence of mind to ditch his android attire. When walking the streets in search of his friend, seeing birds pecking underneath trees in the park, he couldn’t help but think of the WR600 that had first kindled in Rufus a spark of compassion, of curiosity, for something other than his assigned function.
During those searches, checking those streets, back alleyways, and abandoned buildings his friend might’ve run to, he never went too far from Urban Farms. It was probably stupid, but he couldn’t help but hold out hope that he might run into Ralph somewhere around their old stomping ground. Detroit was massive to an android that had only ever seen Urban Farms during its limited activation-span, and the prospect that Ralph might have gone to a different city, or state, or across to Canada was simply outside the android’s comprehension.
So, almost against his better judgment, Rufus stayed in the area. He acquired false papers, forged a new identity for himself. Rupert Travis—something similar to his old name, but not quite. Something Ralph might recognize? He didn’t even know anymore. Regardless, he moved into an abandoned apartment close to Urban Farms with the false identification. It was a risk, being so close to UFD, but he needed a base from which to work out from in his daily searches, and UFD was the one location they had in common.
Little did Rufus know that Ralph had escaped. Escaped and was long gone—to the Camden district, to an abandoned squat. Rupert had no way of knowing that Ralph had gotten clothes to hide his android worker ensemble, that he had stolen money and was surviving in secret, just like him.
It was almost natural for Rufus to start feeding the pigeons he found outside the apartment window one day. He could almost pretend that he was back at the storage barn, scattering seed side by side with Ralph, watching the small animals cock their heads, curiosity bright in avian eyes before pecking away at the morsels, devouring them and coming back for more.
He started taking to leaving the window open, allowing more and more birds to find their way inside his apartment. He found birdfeed at a pet store and always made sure he had enough money to feed that rapidly growing number of pigeons in his home.
Just like you showed me how, Ralph. Just like you taught me.
Ralph had also found a bird to take care of—perhaps it was a pine warbler? His scanners weren't what they used to be. It was small, though, about the size of the black-capped chickadee that had first caught his eye, except this one was a peppered, streaky mix of yellow, olive, and white. It was a little soul, heartbeat fragile and warm in his hands, and Ralph would take care of it, yes he would.
But Ralph wasn’t that good at keeping things alive anymore, and Rupert wasn’t there to stop Ralph from hurting it accidentally, from snapping its dainty neck unintentionally. Ralph fell to pieces when he realized he had killed the poor animal, and he had sat rocking in a rotted corner of the squat for hours, knife clutched in a fisted hand pressed against his head as his other dug fingers into a bruised skull. There was no one to comfort him this time; Ralph was alone, Ralph was alone, all alone, yes, all alone—
Tears gushed down, clear cleaning fluid from his undamaged eye, thick midnight blue-black sludge from his left one. Face crumpled above hunched over form, and he couldn’t shake the feeling of a hole in his chassis, he was missing a biocomponent, he was sure of it...Rufus would know what to do. Rufus was good at fixing Ralph’s mistakes. Rufus...Rufus...but Rufus was gone.
He kept the carcass. It took a position of prized importance, next to his pocketful of money and broken watch, his only other meager possessions. The bird was important to keep, he knew, even if it was dead because it meant something—there was another android out there that was like him, Ralph had to remember that. Ralph had a friend out there, and—but maybe what Ralph really needed was a family; family didn’t leave family like friends apparently could…
He started scratching RA9 into the wall of the house. That was important too, he knew. Maybe RA9 could do something about his gone friend, his lost friend. Help him find his way back to Ralph, or just keep him alive, even if he didn’t want to see Ralph again.
Rupert was also praying to RA9. Days, weeks, months passed, and Rupert began drawing on the bathroom wall in unconscious mimicry of Ralph’s growing collection. For every prayer to RA9, and inscription to mark it. Three times a day. Because Ralph had to be alright. He had to.
Look, RA9, that’s 1,095 times. A full year since Rupert’s escape. Three prayers every day—he was holding RA9 accountable. He was keeping a running ledger.
2,190 times. Two years. He started throwing in extra ones, too, whenever it got particularly bad and the empty streets lacking a certain WR600 got to him too much.
He was at 2,471 times, about to write the 2,472nd, when the knock sounded at the door.
“Open up, Detroit Police!”
It’s strange, the immense number of possibilities that arise, the multiplicity of futures, all dependent on the decisions one makes, the paths one chooses to take. Any number of things could have happened and did happen to Rupert and Ralph. A thousand different deaths, a hundred different lives.
But out there in the vast constellation of futures, there was one—maybe more, if they were lucky—where the stars aligned, where WR600 #021 753 034 and WB200 #874 004 961 met once again.
November 11, 2038
AM 12:06:27
Rupert would recognize Ralph anywhere. He was stripped of all clothing and his synthetic skin was retracted, but that scar wasn’t exactly easy to miss.
It was him, he was here, and he was alive.
After all this time.
“We are alive! And now...we are free! ”
In the roaring cheer that went up following Markus’ speech, a lone WB200 pushed past his fellow members of Jericho, through the crowd, and towards the androids freed from the recycling plant.
“Ralph!”
Startled, the scarred WR600 turned towards the sound of the voice. Ralph thought it sounded familiar...the sight of a WB200 android in human clothes maneuvering his way through the crowd reached Ralph’s still functioning optical unit and his processors ground to a halt.
Old friend. Gone friend. Lost friend. Not...lost anymore.
Here.
“Rufus?” Ralph said, but he was already moving towards the other android because he knew. He knew.
The two collided in the midst of the crowd, arms wrapping around each other in an embrace that was miles from their first in a dilapidated Urban Farms barn. The crowd’s clamoring cheers circled around them. Ralph tilted his head down slightly.
“Rufus did not...forget about Ralph?”
The WB200 tightened his hold on the WR600, eyes clenching shut.
“I could never forget you. I prayed every single day that—” the WB200’s throat closed tightly. Breathing out shakily, he leaned his head against the taller android’s chassis. A noise of contentment from the WR600 buzzed against his ear.
“Ralph did not forget Rufus, either,” the WR600 said and Rupert could practically hear the childlike smile on his face. The WB200 let out a laugh and the two broke away.
“It’s actually been Rupert, now, for a while,” he said with an uncertain smile and a hand rubbed against the back of his head.
“Rupert…” Ralph tested the name out before looking down at the WB200. “Ralph thinks Rufus-Rupert really likes the letters ‘r’ and ‘u.’”
Rupert grinned, “Well, that was rather the point. I didn’t want to forget where I came from. I mean, not that I could, but you know—it was just good to have some roots to my life...before.” And I thought it might help you recognize me if it sounded familiar. But that was a stupid thought.
The WB200 hesitated. “Do you, um, like it?”
The blond-haired android brightened immediately. “Of course Ralph likes it! Rufus-Rupert looks like an ‘R’ no matter what he chooses to go by. Just like Ralph looks like an ‘R’!” Amused and more relieved to hear this then was probably warranted, Rufus grinned. It meant a lot to him that his friend seemed to like his chosen name. Even if he didn’t quite seem to get how his name change worked.
Ralph leaned in somewhat conspiratorily. “You know, Ralph hears some human families all look like a certain letter; they like naming their little ones to match.” That infectious grin again. “Ralph thought he needed to go looking for a family after Rufus left. Ralph tried to make one, but Ralph didn’t need to.” The WR600 ruffled the shorter android’s chestnut brown hair.
“Ralph already has a family. Ralph has a brother.”
Something tightened in the WB200’s chest, contracting around his thirium pump.
“Yeah,” he managed to get out. “He sure does.”
Rupert pulled Ralph into another hug, the androids from Jericho and those rescued from the recycling plant celebrating around them.
Snow dusted the ground like falling feathers, and the scent of freedom was sharp and clear in the late November air.