Chapter Text

Day 1, hour 1.

I wake up to a belated alarm on my transport Crate. Something tells me I should hurry anyway, something primal. Although the memories from before are... tangled. I remember getting into my crate. I remember the boredom. Then… I must have lost consciousness? No time to worry about that now. I push out and find the world on fire.

So, huh. Good instinct.

Some notes I make as I try and navigate through the flames without burning too much of my skin off:

First, I am definitely on a planet. There’s a dark sky overhead and everything. An atmosphere and trees and the sound of a forest at night. I can hear the noises of an abundant fauna just beyond the roaring of the flames. I usually like forests, I think. I was on a planet with forest before and spent a lot of time patrolling them. 

Yes, yes. I like forests. 

Second, I am also on a spaceship. Or, what is left of one. The debris of walls and panels, and—oh look, another open SecUnit transport crate. But I check the feeds and channels, and find absolutely nothing to indicate another SecUnit might be alive and nearby. 

Third, there is no feed. There is no feed. There are no channels, there are no SecSystems or HubSystems or PilotBots or Planet Control. No cameras or drone channels. There is no feed. There is also: no feed.

(yikes) 

Fourth, and maybe that should have first, but I am afraid I am not the best at this part of my job: the alarm might have been a call to fight off raiders. Yes, it must have been. Yet, by now, there are no raiders left to fight. If these charred remains I keep tripping over are actually what is left of the raiders, they will not be hurting anyone ever again. Right now all I can do is search and rescue my clients. 

Which is actually kind of a relief. Client search and rescue is something I can do, and am sort-of good at. 

-

Day 1, hour 3.

I was perhaps a little premature in saying I was good at search and rescue. Most of the fire has gone out by now, and in the wreckage, I’ve located and identified the four other SecUnits that had served their contract with me, including ‘Central,’ the Elite or Combat or whatever SecUnit. All four were armed but not outfitted in armor. They must not have had time before the raiders were upon them. 

I have also found and located seventeen of said raiders, heavily armed and armored. although in such a poor state that their armor, at least, is beyond use.

(At least my fellow SecUnits went down fighting. Apparently that’s all they can ask for, and all they want. Not that I ever dared ask.)

I have also found and dug out a total of three clients.

So, pretty good at finding shit. Rescuing? Maybe not so much. Because everyone of those clients I have found and uncovered is unfortunately very dead .

I thought I’d be good with that; the whole emergency rescue thing. I thought I’d be happy to at least make it to the site of the disaster and be able to try and help. How often have I wished in the past that I’d be allowed to a cave-in or road accident, and Central told me blatantly not to bother and keep to my designated patrol route? How often did I add dead humans to my tally? A tally that was only allowed the “human resource” marker because they were not assigned clients?

Well, now I’m here, and it’s actual real clients. And I suck at this too. A little blood and a few burns don’t really bother me. But every time I realise a client is dead, I feel a little more hopeless. It’s not even that my fate is connected to these people. I should have been there to help, and yet I wasn’t. I don’t even know them, don’t even recognise them. But they died, and I wasn’t even there to try and prevent that. Because of some fault in my crate, but I cannot help but think the crate’s fault is also my fault.

Day 1, hour 5: (day2, hour1?)

The sun is slowly rising when I give up. I cannot find a single living thing, and the window of a human surviving in these conditions has already closed. Perhaps if I had had my drones, I could have been faster, saved at least one. Yet, it’s hopeless. In defeat, I drop myself to the ground. 

What happened is reasonably clear. The crew must have taken over our client-privileges as an emergency procedure when they realised they were being raided. But they were either too late, or never had the time, because the other SecUnits had not been prepared before the raiders started shooting everyone. Still, the raid must not have ended in success, because they didn’t even manage to lift the transport-crates. And seventeen raiders sounds like a steep price to pay.

Anyway, that’s all over now. And I wasn’t even there for it. Which is fine. I hate shooting stuff. But I wish my Governor Module would get the hint and fry me already. I am aware of my failings without it giving me time to reflect, thank you very much.

Day 1, hour 6:

So, I’m pretty sure Governor Modules are not supposed to wait until I am sorry before they fry my brain. Also, I was already sorry. So, I might have to comb the area one last time.

When I do I hear a faint scratching sound coming from one of the transport Crates. It’s closed, but its code assures me there’s no SecUnit inside. Still, I realise this is the best place for a human to survive the crash, so I open it up,

and promptly get shot in the face.

I’m not mad.

I’m not even sure why I am disappointed.  

Chapter Text

I’ve never actually been shot before.

Definitely not by a Client. 

Basically, there are two types of Humans in the world — Clients, and Human Resources. Clients are few and far between, and their orders need to be obeyed instantly and completely. Clients also all have ID and feed interfaces of some sort. Resources are… just that. They need to be managed and kept alive where possible, but honestly nobody seems to care much. Definitely not the Clients.

Which is a shame, for as humans go some all the nicer ones are Resources.

If it comes to getting shot at , several Resources have tried. And I’ve certainly had enough rocks and sticks thrown my way, from miners and workers and other Human Resources firmly on the not-client list. 

But I was always inside my armor, and  the Resources usually had good reasons. Like, their offspring starving with me blocking their way to food, or when grieving deaths caused by Company negligence. So I tried not to take it personally.

Clients however…

It’s been seven years and fourty-eight days since I last interacted with a Client.

Few Clients ever came to the end-of-the-road nowhere that was designated as ‘the South’ of our one and only occupied continent, and even fewer interacted with me. 

It was a frazzled, lost elite that parked and exited his road-vehicle. He left his trophy-spouse inside and after a moment of hesitation marched my way and stepped resolutely into my assigned partroll route. I was forced to stop or walk over him, and while I tried to argue with the fake SecSys-that-was-actually-the SecUnit-designated-Central that I could just step around and continue (stepping off the path needed to be approved) my assigned task, he tapped impatiently on the glass of my faceplate. 

“Hello? Anyone home? Service please!”

Tapped. On my faceplate. 

Well, I instantly hated this asshole.

Of course, Central being an asshole itself, it overruled my protests that I wasn’t supposed to dally on my assigned patrol, and issued that I’d to stop and interact. For once, a rather large part of Central’s attention was on me, so there was no way to circumvent the encounter.

I cleared my face-plate and let my buffer speak with its proper and polite responses. I had always liked my buffer responses—they were so much more fluent than anything I’d ever have dreamed up by myself. But this time I was particularly happy to have them. Asshole face-plate tapper was the first none-engineer Client that I’d even met on-planet. And thanks to my buffer, he left soon, still frazzled-looking but with a surety to his step that suggested he’d probably find his way to the mining installation he’d come to visit after all. 

I never even visited that particular mining installation he’d been looking for, Although it was accountable for 56% of the accidents in my designated area. Apparently Client Faceplate Tapper had re-evaluated the prospected profit margins and declared the place unsalvageable. No further Company resources would be spent on the place. 

And I am, of course, a Company resource.

Chapter Text

Day2, hour 1

(Or, actually still day 1, hour six and some minutes? Or maybe I need to go back and re-date because technically the sun was already up in my previous logs. Or, maybe I should change them all, and it's still day1, hour 6? I think I broke from my transport crate after midnight. But I'm not sure. I could probably make an estimate of how long a day here is by—but you know, who cares? I am bad at math anyway. For a construct.)

I have taken the gun away from the human client after their first shot. Because, and my governor agreed on this, they were more likely to hurt themselves with it than anything else.

Now they have started crying and cringing, pushed into a corner of the storage crate. They are small, even for a human, and I am getting nothing from them in terms of feed data. No health status, not even an ID. They must have some manner of chip, because my Governor was obviously aware of their existence, but that’s the extent of it.

This is anomalous for a Client. Most Clients have some form of feed interface so they can relay orders without interacting with me. Usually through Central, because Central was some form of Elite SecUnit and special. (I’m not jealous. I know it got the worst job.) Crying and cringing from your assigned SecUnit is anomalous for a Client. (As far as I know. My interactions with Clients had thankfully been pretty limited.)

I decide to stop looming over them, so I sit down on the soot-covered ground, then check the damage to my face, keeping an eye on my client but backburning my attention for the moment.

My skull is reinforced and not likely to suffer any significant damage, but the cosmetic effect on my face is... not good. The blast hit me straight on the chin, and took out the middle of my lower jaw, and quite a few teeth. My lower lip kind of dangles, any structural support gone. If I stick my finger in, I can feel straight to my tongue, which is somewhat ravaged but still working. 

Perhaps this is why the Client is crying? I have seen Human Resources react emotionally to damaged flesh in the past, but that was always other Human Resource flesh, and also, Human Resources are a very different sort of Humans than Clients. In that Clients on the whole are the kind of assholes that don’t give a fuck, so that wouldn’t make much sense.

Still the hole is disconcerting, even if my Damage And Field Repairs Module tells me wounds seal themselves and there is nothing catastrophically important in this particular area of my face, but. Well, it is going to look pretty disgusting.  And without a repair cubicle I'm probably stuck like this for a while.

I turn back to my client, without standing. In the time I left them alone to compose themselves, I have received 37 orders.

23 of these were "please don't kill me."

To which: buddy… no?

And the remaining 14: "please don't hurt me."

So far, I am acing this contract. But this is getting a little old, so I reposition my torso to face them fully, getting their attention, and then indicate one of the logos on my suit skin.

The person (a teenager,  if I had to guess. They are on the short side, but also thin with stick-like limbs? Resources often turned gainly like that just before they graduated from the school on my patrol route) remains silent for over four seconds, before asking, very slowly. "You are one of the SecUnits we were ferrying?"

And, honestly, I don't know? I just got orders to load myself into a crate, and my wonderfully boring 10-and-a-half years contract was over. That’s basically the last thing I remember. But what the teen says seems likely, so I carefully and clearly nod.

A sigh, and they continue in an avalanche of words. My Trauma Module suggests this might be indicative of shock. "Oh! Oh, I'm so sorry! About shooting you.Are you going to be okay? I'm sure you will be, dad said—where are my parents? Did you find them? Are they ok?"

To which: uh-oh.

Chapter Text

I did not kill my Client’s parents. But four years, thirty-one days and three hours ago I did become a murderer.

Does it seem strange to you, that in the previous six years I only ever discharged my weapon a handful of times ? Perhaps it does, but SecUnits are meant to assure peace and safety. And my patrol area never really contained any Clients to be bothered by my way of keeping that peace. Central, of course, was growing annoyed at how I went about that on a micro level.

For the record, my Resources were peaceful to a fault, because Resources actually don’t all start killing each other just because they are hungry or lacking medical supplies. Not other Resources who also lack those same supplies at least. I guess that was different for Central, it having Supply-hogging Clients to worry about.

Anyway, I hadn’t had any official reprimands at this point, only the somewhat snide footnotes Central added to my reports. (I am pretty sure only us SecUnits read them.) So either Central's admin overseer did appreciate my efforts, or nobody cared.

I’d also not yet completely messed up my relationship with Central, with the whole 'spying' thing it accused me of. (Which, ridiculous. SecUnits don't get privacy, not even Elite Battle whatever SecUnits. And it's my job to monitor security risks. And it had sent me an alert and — never mind. let’s not get into that now.) 

Anyway Central was a lot less critical of my actions back then, less interested in finding fault. But that’s a different matter.  It was my lowest hour. Yet, the memory does not make me sad. Because I’d resolved to have it remain my lowest hour, and I made it so. I made it so. With a little help.

This particular human resource had been drunk. How the male had managed to gather enough cash to do so in an open drinking facility was beyond me. How the facility had enough liquids on-hand, starved as they were of any off-planet equipment or supplies, was also beyond me. Perhaps alcohol is just kind of grown on plants or something?

Anyway, I didn’t monitor Resources the way Clients were supposed to be monitored according to my Intelligence Modules. This might seem strange, but let’s face it, I had a lot of factory standard code that had just been thrown right out of the window the moment my Company bought me. Like the distance limit. It just wasn’t practical to have a Unit implode the moment it stepped away over a hundred yards from a Client. In the same way, not even a SecUnit was capable of data mining millions of Resources for intelligence, so my modules on that were obsolete. 

It wouldn’t have been very cost-effective either. There wasn’t exactly much profit to be made from what Resources said or did, and they were effectively trapped on this little planet, removed from any place of importance by almost a year of travel time alone.

But, what I was supposed to do was scan their conversation for keywords. My Company’s name in a negative phrasing. Things like ‘uprising’, ‘bleed us dry,’ and ‘fight back’.

Words I was almost sure the drunk Resource had already uttered, but I had managed to miss them by stationing my drones close to sources of noise pollution or getting a digital interference at exactly the right moment. I had also been making my recording drones more and more obviously on-scene: hovering close-by, blinking their lights.

Other Resources at the bar had already been muttering and shushing the man. But the drunk had not just ignored my warnings, but was growing more and more agitated, even batting at my drone, twice. I was now physically close, and although it was nighttime, I walked openly along the lit street, passing many windows. I even scuffed my boots on the wooden landing, trying to give audible warning of my arrival. 

This is one of the reasons Central calls me bad at my job. Because it thinks I should be furtively gathering intel. It is wrong, and there is nothing in my directives that I have to do so secretly. Also,I am gathering enough intel from context. Things were bad. I’d been recalled for riot control to the capital on three occasions just last season. Once I had even been taken out of the transport compartment, to stand menacingly in front of a Corporate building while resources gathered outside and yelled at us. I’d been returned to my station without incident, but tension was high, and the Clients were afraid. 

So I prefered to use my intelligence for de-escalation. This had worked in the past. This time I was not so lucky. The Resource persisted. They used several of the flagged keywords and phrases: ‘Unionize.’ ‘Exploiting the labor force.’ And, the big one. The one I knew I wouldn’t be allowed to ignore: ‘March on the Capital.’

I sighed internally and pinged an administrator through Central. Central’s administrator was sadly actually on duty and paying attention, and immediately patched me through to an executive who... I don’t know if they even looked at my report. I tried playing it down, but like I said, tension was rife. I got a kill order. Which, typical knee-jerk reaction. Clients seem to think killing whoever speaks up solves the problem? It doesn’t. But sadly, I don’t even get to speak up before I get killed automatically, so there’s really no point.

At least I made it nice and quick. Just opened the bar door and shot the man in the chest. At which point both Central, the Client executive and the Client administrator immediately decided the matter was fixed and dealt with. I felt them turning their attention away from me in the feed, off to something apparently more important. To which: way to leave me with the mess, again! How am I the one who’s bad at my job anyway?

(Yes, okay, I get jittery and nervous when you tell me to shoot things. I’d have missed this poor drunk Resource as well, if he hadn’t come straight at me as soon as I’d kicked open the door. I am not good at violence, okay? I still don’t understand why that would be such a big deal anyway. Shouldn’t I be stopping people from shooting each other?)

Anyway, I received no further orders, so I thought it would be decent to remove and take care of the body. My buffer made excuses and condolences, and I picked the poor dead bugger up and carried him out.

The wife, who followed me out, had been a surprise.

It is due to her coming to her senses that I had the luxury of spending the remaining time on my contract completely kill-free.

Although it took her a while. At first, she hit me over the head and back repeatedly with a club-like stick. A useless endeavor, since I was wearing my armor. And one I chose to ignore, as she wasn’t damaging me. She probably just needed to blow off some steam, her husband just getting murdered right before her eyes and all. Also, she didn’t use any flagged words and my arms were encumbered with her husband’s dead body. 

When I reached the intended burial grounds, she challenged me: “at least show your face, asshole!”

And, well, I didn’t have to comply. She wasn’t a Client. And she did pose a threat of damaging Company property if I did. But I was off my patrol beat and it was encouraged to be polite even to Resources, so I removed my helmet anyway.

She must have run herself ragged by now, because she only hefted the club at me, then decided sticks and stones, she was going to use her words: “so you do have a face, you bastard! what do you have to say for yourself!”

To which I almost said nothing, but my buffer corresponded heartily: “I am sorry for your loss, however, direct orders from management need to be obeyed.” 

“A manager ordered my husband shot?” The woman glowered at me, and when I answered affirmatively, she asked, “which one of those bastards?” 

“I am afraid you do not meet the required security clearance for that information,” I told her. Which, again, buffer answer. But I paused, and strung together words to share my great idea: “the Human Resource flagged as a Security Risk for use of Flagged words. Flagged words used: March on Capital. Unionize. Revolt. Equal pay. Flagged word unused/remaining 135. Continue? — y/n?” 

Because there is actually no security level required to learn the list of flagged words. Which might seem like a big oversight, but is actually just an example of the hack job amateurism of the executives running my planet. Honestly, they’d already told me they didn’t appreciate me dumping gigs of data on them, and in the following four years of my contract I would see an actual manager only once . And that was minutes before I had to get into my transport crate and ship out.

But, the woman seemed to be clever enough. Her eyes shone in the half-dark as she breathed deeply twice before asking, “ There is a list? ” She started feeling in her pockets, then seemed to settle on a piece of paper and a stub used for writing. “Yes, SecUnit. Please continue your flagged word list.” 

And then I did. 

Chapter Text

Still day 2, hour 2. Feels like hour 20.

So, crying humans. It’s not nice; it will never be nice. Crying Clients are worse, it turns out. (Of course they are. I should have known that. I guess I sort-of assumed Clients were incapable of it?) 

And now there’s crying teenage clients?

I’m not sure how but it stacks. I sit here, crouched down quietly beside them. I showed them the way to their parents' bodies, and now I just watch them cry. My Trauma Module that’s been gathering dust for years now triggers all sorts of useless responses like “I’m sorry for your loss,” and “you are going to be okay.”

I manage to keep quiet, however, seeing as all my systems agree that making gurgling noises probably will not be helpful in this situation. Between the hole in my chin and the damage to my tongue, it’s hard enough not to make wheezing noises while just breathing.

Still, the system keeps prompting me to do something, and I think it might have a point. After what feels like forever I reach out a hand to touch their shoulder. Although the modules don’t mention it, this is basic Human Resource touch comfort. I have many hours observing basic Resource behaviors and body language. Observing Resources is my prime area of expertise. Or maybe a hobby, as my gathered and formatted reports were dumped right into the recycler by Central.

Which is fair, honestly. Central’s reports were obviously all dumped right into a bin by a human overseer as well. Even if there had been enough processing power on the planet to process our reports, nobody cared. Clients don’t care. And the Company’s main office was a year’s travel away. They didn’t care either. Not about their not-Clients behaviors at least. Resources were all flat broke or in debt. No money to be made from them but their labor. 

Anyway, it works for Resources is what I’m saying. But Clients are different . Also, when I reach out I notice I have blood on my hands. Quite literally. Very unfortunate, and it kind of negates the intended comfort.

The Client disregards this, notices my outstretched hand, and buries into my side.

I am… shocked. But not in a bad way. I raise my body temperature for them and let them cry themself out... and, it’s nice. In a stranded, hopeless, we-both-gonna-die kind of way. 

day2, hour 2. or three.

“What are you doing, SecUnit?” 

Client had stopped crying and fallen asleep, so I had taken the opportunity to slip away and start the process of dismantling one of the SecUnit transport crates.Transport Crates do not have much functionality in repairs, but there’s connections for recharge and resupply of basic fluids. One of the supplies is water.

Client wakes up just as I finish cleaning my hands. They blink at me, sleepily. “What is this?” I let them repeat, before I gesture, more than a little pleased with myself. I’ve taken off the side panel so I can pull out the blue lead and puncture the safety valve. Cool, clear water comes flowing out. 

Client gasps and cups both hands under the flow. “Is it drinkable?”

I nod and they start guzzling down the flow. I am amazed at how much Client can take in, but they just keep drinking. Finally, when they are done I tie the hose so it stops leaking.

“SecUnit,” Client tells me, “if you had a face, I’d kiss you.” 

I smile, but I suppose the expression is lost, with half my teeth sticking out and the other half scattered on the jungle floor. So I search my databanks for a usable gesture. I settle for hand-to-the heart, followed by waving Client to stop. But with a shy, turned away body so they know I am joking. 

Client laughs, out loud, a small smile on their face. “That’s clever! You still can talk, after all!” And then they pause and surprise me again: “SecUnit isn’t really a name, is it? Do you have a name?”

I have had plenty of names. South and Bot, and some rather nasty ones as well. But nothing I’m attached to. I shrug.

“I think I’ll call you… Sux. Like, Unit X? But also because—I’m sorry. You’ve not been exactly lucky have you?”

I shrug. I think I’ve been plenty lucky so far. I don’t even have to say anything about the name.

Chapter Text

It was twenty-four days ago that someone last gave me a name.

It was a little girl, the last one in class. Only as high as my knee. Just wading across the courtyard on her stubby little legs. I always patrolled past the school at set times, but this time she had stood at the fence to yell "bot" at me. 

Normally she would have had some form of oversight, and despite my good standing with the Human Resources no one would have let her interact with the armed and armored bot set to police them, but this was the last days before the company’s total pull-out. If there were any teachers left in the building they clearly had more important things to worry about than one toddler out in the yard.

She must have been lonely, because I'd dis-opaque my helmet to look her way and she had laughed, surprised but delighted. 

A few days later, on my next patrol, she stood at the fence again. And, obviously anticipating me, she’d thrown a ball my way. I’d paused, trying to trick my governor into allowing the small change of course to pick it up. I hadn’t managed, even with the practice I’d had lately. But this wasn’t answering Human Resource questions or panicking at an unwanted order, and  the pain of punishment was suddenly fresh in my mind at the thought of leaving my assigned route. 

I’d never felt my own confinements more than then. Which is stupid, I know. I was no more bound than before. I just hadn’t noticed, perfectly content to follow the trails allocated on my map. I’d always considered them lax, allowing me an unheard of distance limit and a decent amount of autonomy at the times Central was too preoccupied to put up more than the most basic SecSys and HubSys. Which was quite frequently.

The girl had yelled “ball,” at me twice before I gave up and went on my way. She yelled it once more at my retreating back, clearly in disappointment.

The day before I was packed up for shipping, I had patrolled past her school one last time. But the courtyard had stood abandoned and empty. No little girl at the fence.

I wonder what happened to her?

Chapter Text

Apparently, we are digging graves now. Client has procured a piece of plating to use as a shovel, and I am not allowed to help. I tried, and I was told to ‘shove off’. Apparently, this is a family matter.

Still, I think Client might have the right idea. all those dead bodies are starting to attract insects. My face is attracting insects. These, so far, are a minor nuisance. But I have no way of telling if they carry any diseases my Client is susceptible to. Hell, the Client could already have contracted some serious disease, and I’d have no way of knowing. The chip identifying them as my Client contains zero information. Not even pronouns. Just a serial number, a number that’s been added into my database in what looks like a hurry, without a hint of information attached.

This is another oddity for a Client. Perhaps they were only recently upgraded. Do humans get upgraded? I have no information on where clients come from. Central might have known, stationed in the city with a lot of clients as it was, but it’s dead now, and it wouldn’t have told me even if it wasn’t. 

Anyway, I have no idea if my Client can survive the onslaught of insects and no way to know if there are more dangerous fauna about, also attracted by the smell of fresh blood and cadavers.

While collecting corpses I spot a plume of smoke, perhaps from a village or something, so human life should be possible here. Still, just because it’s possible doesn’t mean it’s safe. I use my energy weapons to dig our attackers a shallow grave. Cast the raiders in, and cover them with some of the loose dirt. 

After a brief consideration I take the remains of my fellow SecUnits, and drop them into a grave of their own. Poor North, poor West and East. And even Central, the poor bastard. May they rest in peace. Or at least better than in life, as far as Central is concerned. 

Between the five of us that was all the SecUnits that defended the planet. Or, perhaps more aptly, defended my Clients from the general populace of Human Resources. It had only been a matter of time, I suppose, until the Company pulled us out. The entire planet had been negatively impacting profits for years. 

Interestingly, the Clients from my Planet must have fled on a different ship, because they aren’t here . And there’s no way they remained behind a second without us.

Central’s face stares up at me blankly as I cover them up. I’d never seen the Elite SecUnit’s face before. But I’d had contact on the feed with it enough, because it acted as my SecSys and HubSys on our contract. Yes, that is as ridiculous as it sounds. But, my contract had been over a year’s travel away from the Rim. Perhaps the original system had broken while I was in transit.   

As strained as my relationship with Central might have been, seeing it like this is unnerving, with its dead unmoving eyes. And I can only imagine it looking the same way during life: hard as rock and untouched by anything. 

I did know Central a lot better than the other Units. Not by choice, or course. By simple merit of its assigned function as oversight. A function it had not been intended for, and hated. Something that was blatantly obvious from the fact that it had filed one-thousand-and-fourteen incident reports that were actually just thinly veiled complaints about getting harnessed into functioning as a SecSys for the four-Unit security system blanketing the planet.

In sheer numbers, this type of incident report came in third place. Its second most frequent complaint was about getting set to guard the capital and our core group of licenced clients. 

And, in first place, of course: complaints about me and my inadequacy.

I try not to take that too personally. It also wrote about West, East and North’s inadequacies, though less frequently. But I guess it was my own fault, for not minding my own business. And Central was a mean piece of work. But what can one expect, from an Elite Combat set to guarding duty in a capital? No wonder it hated us.

I find a piece of ship’s plating that is actually shaped like a shovel. Or more than what my client was using, after I weld it to a rod with my weapons. Then, when I am finished covering the graves, I take the tool to my Client.

They are pleased. Client is only half-way done digging the first hole, and has realised the folly of trying to do this alone. I get to assist after all, then. I’m only too happy to help, though there’s an unnecessary amount of rules and traditions that need to be observed, according to Client. I spend some time converting the second piece of plating into a shovel, and we dig until nightfall sets in. 

There’s a few cans of food that hadn’t exploded or burned completely in the fire, and I help my Client open one. They eat the contents cold and I convince them with a lot of gesturing to sleep inside the transport crate. it takes forever for them to settle in, because apparently humans build nests to sleep in and Client isn’t very coherent at this point, exhausted and —  it turns out — completely night-blind.

When I figure out the problem I start collecting scraps of materials as well. Half of them get discarded for reasons that Client somewhat explains (smells like blood, too rough a texture), but which are completely lost on me. Finally they seem satisfied and I close the door on them, keeping guard outside for the night.

It is an uneasy night, the amounts of bugs trying to settle on my skin sky-rocketing in the dark. Were there this many insects on my planet? I mean, my contract-planet? I don’t remember them, but then again I had never been out of armor except for cubicle resupply and maintenance. But tonight I’m fighting more creatures that I’ve fought in my entire life-time, and they are all trying to eat a piece of me.

At least Client is safe from the pests inside their crate. 

Day 3, early morning

In the morning Client eats another container of food, and we continue our grim work. Digging graves for Humans, it turns out, is a lot of work. We go as deep as we can, and when we lay a body inside Client speaks some pointless words about who they were or something. I save the words into storage in case I’m meant to retain this information for later, although they don’t seem to be speaking to me directly, and I’m not exactly sure how I should be relaying the information back.

When we’re finally done and I come to collect our make-shift equipment to store it away, Client reaches and takes my hand. They frown at my fingers, which seem to have gotten slightly damaged by the work. “No blisters, but no calluses building up either,” they state questioningly.

I stare at my hand in theirs. The difference of today’s and yesterday's work on them is striking enough: where Client's calluses have filled up with air pockets inside their skin, mine have—well, worn down is perhaps the best word. The skin is still mostly intact, but it has torn in thick chunks. The flesh underneath is worse, discolored and sore, probably due to subdermal bleeding from my flesh rubbing against hard inorganics constantly for hours on end.

I am staring at our hands for a different reason though, slack jawed. Well. Slack jawed is my default now, so perhaps Client doesn’t even notice my shock. 

Client looks up at me, face in a deep frown. “Are you sure you will heal, without a cubicle?”

Oh right. I’m damaged. I study my fingers, and nearly bring a hand up to finger at my face, at the fluids dripping down the remains of my chin. The Cuts on my fingers stopped leaking, blood vessels sealing automatically. The same should have happened in my face but my mouth is usually lubricated to facilitate speech. Perhaps that is why fluids keep dripping down my chin?

I shake my head, because I don’t know.

Client frowns. "Dad said your kind doesn’t have a survival instinct. But I hope you realise I am as good as dead without you.."

I stare at them. They shrug, then start back to rummage within the rubble of the ship again, returning with what I think is a linen bed sheet. “I’m not a medic,” they admit, “but bandages can’t hurt, can they?”

Then they direct me to sit down and spend a good deal of time attending to my fingers, until they’ve built what is almost a pair of gloves from the straps of cloth. Their touch on my hands is…. very nice. Sure it hurts a little, but their touch is gentle, and they rub ointments on the burns and tears that feel very, very, good! 

And then they move on to my face to give it a similar treatment, admonishing themselves that this should have been done straight away. It feels so good I close my eyes and sit in happy bliss as they fix me up better than any cubicle surely could have done. I that weird? Am a weird? I’ve never been touched like this before. But if this is the pay-off I’ll have to get shot more often.

But if I’m weird, my Client, I realise, is even more peculiar. They are like my best Human Resources. And I’ve just got lucky again. 

Chapter Text

The last time someone touched my skin— my actual, human-imitated skin, was eleven years and twenty-seven days ago. The day I walked into the showroom to await my first contract. The salesperson took my hands in theirs a moment, flicked an imaginary piece of dust from my cheekbone and told me I was a very good-looking SecUnit, with top-of-the line stats, and the prospective clients would be lucky to have me. 

At the time I preened.

Which I imagine had been the intended effect. But possibly not a complete lie, because the first prospect Client appeared satisfied after just a cursory glance. They bought me and two other Units from my batch without even looking at them, and off I went on my first and (so far) only contract. Long-term, long distance and… long.

I will not tell a lie. Their money was wasted on me. For the next ten years and so-many months, I partrolled the planet’s Southern towns, settlements, agriculture and delving sites. Within my modules I carried info on suppressing uprisings, collecting relevant worker data, rescuing workers from mining collapses and natural disasters and more.

Yet all of them I never put to use. Bar a few examples I do not like to mention, all I did was walk my patrol, my beat. Swarm out and monitor my drones, and send my reports to control. (very cursory reports. my clients did not have much interest in data-mining.) There have been several accidents, collapses and natural disasters on my territory, but with several hundred miles to cover on foot, I would not have made a difference even if I had been allowed to deviate from my routes. Half the times I was taken to the capitol I didn’t even leave my transport crate before getting shipped back again. 

It always seemed weird to me, as I, North and West had been sent in to replace a full dozen SecUnits past their expiration date. Then again client numbers had been dwindling for decades, and no new indentured workers were sent on my shipment, nor any other following my arrival. 

At any rate, my company spent good money on me, and put me to minimal use. In those ten years, I spent 98.4 percent of my up time tracking my assigned route and observing the people through my feeds. Walking country roads and forests and more. All in all, a good contract. Likely one of the best. I think it’s safe to say, I was lucky to get it.

But, of course, even great contracts come to an end.

Chapter Text

Client eats another can of food at midday, takes another nap, messes around with some form of stickers on their hands— mini-bandages? I thought the callus and blister status was supposed to handle that? Then they take another nap, and eat a third can of food. I watch them eying a fourth, then counting our meager supply (thirteen more, or perhaps fourteen, if that half-burned one can still be salvaged, but Client seems unenthusiastic when I offer it. It is only slightly sprung, and the deeper part is unburned. Perhaps they are not quite hungry enough yet).

This time, when night sets in, Client seems less than willing to sleep inside the crate. They also start asking where I am resting. When I indicate that I’ll be standing guard they tell me firmly not to. Ask if I do not need to rest. when I give them a wiggle-of-the-hand so-so gesture, they tell me to either rest, or get myself somewhere less bug-riddled.

This seems like a promising order, so I nod my assent and try to lock them into their crate again.

Then, I think the real issue comes up: Client does not want to be locked in. They were locked in before in the crash and after. Perhaps this caused them trauma. The idea of getting locked in again —  I have to wonder why they didn’t complain last night. But honestly they were so out of it, and knocked on the door so often they might not even have noticed me locking and opening the crate. 

I finally settle on forcing the lock so they can open the crate for themselves, and Client finally seems satisfied enough to rest. 

So, there’s a rather pressing food issue and also some nice and vague orders. I do need to be careful. If anything happens to me, my Client has absolutely no resources left. Client said so. They need me to live. But, Client also needs to eat, and my face-wound’s been itching bad enough that I know I probably won’t be able to go into recharge— I mean, I can turn down my pain sensors, but the itching doesn’t completely stop and I swear it feels like there’s still insects crawling on my skin, under the bandages. I know there’s not, Client put some sort of cooling salve on and everything and cleaned it. Well, I’ve never had a wound before. Maybe they’re supposed to itch?

Anyway, I’d rather be useful than uncomfortable and distracted by the itch.

 I still spend an embarrassing half-hour trying to map out my path as exactly as my patrol route would have been. But I don’t have any other view of the terrain to triangulate a map from, so I make due as well as I can, and quietly descend towards the village. 

Day 4, hour 3

The village is asleep, and the houses and streets are covered in darkness. There are sentries posted, but all of the human variety. Equipped not with flashlights or infrared, but with real torches. You know, sticks with one end on fire. I am hesitant to call this helpful to them in any way, except to show me where they are at, so I can more easily sneak around them. 

Their weapon problem is worse than the lighting issue: I have yet to spot a guard with a gun, but they all carry sticks. Thick sticks with a piece of sharp metal on one end. Thin sticks they carry around on their backs in baskets, with a feather at the end. sticks made of metal that are sharp on the sides.

I feel almost sorry for the poor humans. They have no real Security at all, and are left with trying to build their own with whatever they can find in their gardens.

Anyway, I wander around town for a while, looking for food. There is probably plenty of food. There is always food in villages. I know this from my patrols and drone footage. Even in the middle of a famine, food can usually best be found within a village. 

But I can’t seem to find any packaging or containers. And the shops that have signs that my language module helpfully translates are complete gibberish. There’s a tanner, a blacksmith. But not one Twenty-Four-Open, and no MarktMarkt in sight. 

How am I supposed to find food? Smell is supposedly a dead give-away, but I never paid attention. Also, I’d been wearing armor all previous times.

I do find a butcher. Butcher is part of a supermarket, I think. But whatever they are selling smells terrible . 

I am far from an expert, and could possibly claim this is my first time smelling food, as armor filters out most smells. I don't even know why I have a nose, honestly.  Possibly removing the olfactory organ was more work than leaving it. Right now I would have argued it a valid investment. The butcher shop stinks . Smells like dead bodies, honestly. Yes. I think they sell dead bodies. 

I finally opt to break into one of the big, quiet houses and just try to find the kitchen.

Getting inside soundlessly is easy. Identifying the kitchen is not. I can’t find a fridge. I can’t find the usual kitchen appliances. I can’t find any of the bright plastic wraps that usually hold food.

There is a room leading down to a basement with some form of yellow rubber cylinders. I have no idea if those are edible, but I take one on instinct. There are also a lot of— plants? back upstairs in what I’m now going to assume is the main kitchen area. A dead bird is hanging up high from a piece of string. Yuck. I take some of the plant things, and head back out.

When I come outside, I realise I might have dallied too long. The sun isn’t quite up, but there is a lot of pre-dawn light in the area. Stupid of me, I know. But I hadn’t noticed how fast the sun rises here, last night, up in the forest. I hadn’t realised I’d have so little time.

Then someone tolls some form of alarm, and someone yells "burglar".

Armageddon hits, like a wave. Humans start piling out of their houses, screaming. The town is under attack. The orks are coming. — then they see me and it’s all witches, necromancers and the undead, undead. Undead!

Then, the Fool shows up. He wasn't on guard before, because I would have noticed someone in gold-colored armor positively reflecting every sliver of light like they were the sun themselves. They whirl a metal stick at me, sharpened and flat. In their other hand they hold a gold-sparkling metal akin to an armor’s breastplate. but flatter..

They yell the most puzzling things,  such as "have at thee,  fiend!" And, when I dodge back from the sharp stick "this one is beholden to Elderith Magic! Fast like quicksilver, brave villagers, fall back!"

Honestly, I’d really like that. They have formed a perimeter around us, cutting off my escape. At least they are hesitant to step closer. To what they probably consider a safe distance. It’s not safe at all, because, you know, I have guns in my arms? 

Oh I’d really like to get out of this one without murdering anyone.

When goldy-armor steps in and swings at me again, I realise I might be having a little panic attack. I try to breathe through it, try to calm myself. As long as nobody orders me, I don't have to deploy my weapons. Murder doesn’t have to be the way this goes. In fact, surely these natives pose next to no danger to me. True, I'm not supposed to let hostiles damage Company property(me). But I'm also not supposed to waste Human Resources. And these people could be Recourses.  To my Client.

Okay, I know objectively I am engaging in some interesting brain-gymnastics here to trick my Governor. But, and I think I mentioned this in the past, I really hate killing people. And I had plenty of practice at mental gymnastics already.

I downplay the threat ‘Behold’ poses until my Threat Assessment drops, then try to think of a way to calm the townsmen down as well. Nobody thinking calmly would attack a SecUnit. First of all, it’s suicide. Second of all.

Well, it’s suicide.

These people all just need to take a moment to breathe and think as well. I just need for them to stop panicking and doing stupid things— people do stupid things when they panic. And of course they are panicking. It’s possible they’ve never seen a SecUnit before, and even out of armor we’re big and imposing and—  

I finally think I got it, and sit down on the ground, hand raised palms-up. As soon as the Resources realise I am not about to kill them all, they will also… 

I have several mili-seconds of appalled disbelief as Gold-armor swings their rod at me anyway, the sharp side cleaving into my jaw, slicing through skin and bandages then crunching into something's inside, getting solidly stuck.

My Governor shocks me twice as they pull and tug to pull their weapon free. 

Recourses can be so stupid. At the second shock they pull their blade out of me, and if I could cry I would. My gun-ports open— I don't want to, but fighting obvious orders never works. I have to. My Client ordered me to stay alive. I am Company property.  I— 

"Stop!"

The order stops me from murder. I do not have much time to rejoice. Client comes running out of the bushes and plants themselves between me and Goldy-Threat. 

"Stop! You're hurting it!"

Chapter Text

One months and thirteen days ago, I turned my head to check the horizon for incoming threats. It was the exact moment the young Human Resource on my right had drawn back their arm with a rock in it. It made sense to look away, because there were no actual threats on said right side. A rock would never harm a SecUnit in armor. If there were any real threats around, the human’s actions were likely a distraction.

Something pinged against the side of my visor, but I was busy looking at a particularly white avian thing. I gave the avian extra attention, making sure it was not a cloaked flight vehicle. Not that the Resistance Movement had flight vehicles, as far as I knew. But the movement was supposedly growing. (Although I had yet to see any of them. It was probably just a North and Central problem.) But who knew? This supposed Resistance could have procured one.

By the time I looked back, the parent had grabbed the child, shaking their arm. “... —   crazy? That’s South . It’s on our—..” 

The rest was cut off because my closest drone hit a twig from an overhead tree. SecUnits might have poor survival instincts, but I certainly lost control of inputs a lot when I was about to commit suicide by self-report. 

Oh right, there was still the possibility of something, something, violence. Though not from these two Resources— surely. They were unarmed, thin. Young. Still, I checked my hand-held gun, loudly clicking the safety on and off. 

By the time I’d done that until I had to admit that, yes, it was working perfectly, the parent had turned my way again. “I’m sorry SecUnit. Did you record that?”

Even out on patrol I was allowed to answer basic questions from Human Resources. Still allowed to answer questions. Despite Central’s many reports addressing the issue. It had gone out of its way and called me a security leak in its latest, filed three days ago. But then, the Human Admin that had been doing a piss-poor job at checking over the reports (read: throwing them in the trash bin after reading the headline and ‘from’ field), had had their inbox growing for weeks prior, and then disembarked on a transport last week. 

Even Central must have at that point realised writing reports was a wasted effort, but it kept right on writing them. A lot of them were sent to feed channels we weren’t even allowed on. At any rate, whatever few Clients were still one-planet certainly weren’t going to bother Human Resources’s questions, and they seemed to have a lot of questions lately. Mostly about how many transports were still coming (unknown), if they’d be able to buy passage onto them (unknown), and where all the corporate were going (completely unknown). 

At this point I had decided… yeah, fuck Central. (A different, braver Unit might have added fuck the Corp as well. But that was not me, and I didn’t need another shock.) After what we shall call my Mistake (because I had not intended to spy on it, whatever Central kept saying), Central had sent me through the worst ten days of my life. Seriously, that Unit kept a grudge, micromanaging me and shocking me for every minor transgression it could find, until my performance dropped about five percentage points from my medial.

Some Client Overseer must have taken notice, because Central dropped my outputs suddenly and without explanation and didn’t pay me any mind again thereafter. Or perhaps Central was again too busy with its handful of Clients take notice of me. And yes I should have pitied it, especially after witnessing that whole eye thing. But right then any semblance of pity had been fried right out of me and I sort of felt it might just deserve whatever was happening to it. 

Well, looking back that might have been unfair. But honestly, at that point I hated it as much as my Human Resources probably hated their Corporate overlords. 

“Please specify.” Because, who knew?

“The—” luckily, the parent was clever enough to know what I meant. “SecUnit, your faceplating appears to be damaged. Do you have recordings of what caused that?” 

Well, fuck it. I looked at the small dent, the glass-like surface slightly cracked, and grimaced. Then stopped any thoughts of consequences and just plowed on ahead, sticking to the truth. “I am afraid I do not have access to any recordings of the event.”

The parent sighed, visibly relaxing. “Thank you, SecUnit. Barm, say thank you, SecUnit.”

“Why?” the little snot said. “Because it’s a st—”

Oh dear, I flew a drone right into my own armor’s audio-inputs there. Twice. I guess I really was an stupid bot.

“ —all running anyway. What are they gonna do? Come back with a ship just because I disrespected their equipment? They are leaving us to die here.”

“That was our fate at the start. At least when the Corporations is gone, we can grow our own—” 

I resumed my patrol. The Resource was satisfied with my answer to their queerie. No reason to pause any longer. I continued on my way and ignored the Human Resources bickering. They were no threat to anyone.

Chapter Text

Day4, hour3

The quaint wooden building promises lodges on the second story. But my Client is shown to a seat on the ground floor, in a wide room at a broad wooden table. The Human that assailed my face, Goldy-plate Idiot, takes a seat from across from them with one furtive glance my way.

I ignore Idiot and take up a guard position at the door. Which I can tell Client doesn’t like at all. They had been demanding a doctor for me at first, yelling and screaming at the townspeople and at our golden-plated “Behold” Idiot in particular. 

I kind of enjoyed Client touching my face and fretting before. But now there’s a town full of potential hostiles at both our backs. (They were potential Human Resources right up until  Client had put themselves in their path. And my threat-assessment keeps running simulations of terrible things that could happen. I am positive I can get to Godly-Idiot before they can take their sharp stick from its sheath and swing it at Client. I am less convinced I can fight off the whole town if that’s what it comes to.)

But then Old Resource comes into the room from the far door, carrying a plate of hot beverages. I like this old person. They stopped the townspeople from yelling and screaming. They had made Goldy-plate put his sharp stick away and calmed the Client down, and invited us inside. 

Old Resource puts down the tray and deals out the hot drinks. “I am so sorry about your Raised. Our healer will be here shortly. Although I might need to warn you, her faith forbids Necromancy.”

“Necro...” Client takes a sip of hot drink, still half in shock. But, the Old Recourse has done well. A hot drink will do Client a world of good.

“Especially the Royal Necromancers of course. We assumed you were one of them.” Old Resource putters on. “But when I saw you shield your Raised from sir Roff, I knew you could not be one of them.”

“Very brave indeed!” Idiot cuts in, nursing his drink. “And indeed, proof you are not one of those cursed Royals. They would never risk themselves, not for another. Least of all their own Raised.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” Client cuts in, “but I don’t care either. My SecUnit needs medical attention.” 

My SecUnit. I kind of like the sound of that. You might have noticed that I’m not that attached to most Clients. And that— how shall I put this delicately? — I in some ways prefer Human Resources for company. But for this Client, I am willing to make an exception. 

The old person smiles. “She is on her way. But, wouldn’t it be easier to perform the healing yourself? A Necromancer of such skill to create such a thing, surely can heal it as well?”

Client frowns, but before they can ask, another person opens the door I’m standing at. It is a strange sort of woman, wearing leaves and twigs like a dress, with dirt streaks on her face arranged into patterns. She takes a good hard look at me, the bag at her shoulder all but ignored. Then she laughs, mirthlessly. “It’s got the facerot, Necro child. Best discard it now. Before we all catch it.”

Chapter Text

SecUnits don’t get discarded.

It was twenty-eight days ago, when Central called all of us on our main feed. The one that’s usually deadly quiet. The one that I, North, West and East aren’t even allowed to use but for emergencies (and Central hadn’t talked to me at all. Still hadn’t even apologized for that week from hell. Its only interactions were the ones it was duty-bound to enact, as my SecSys. And even then it had been more formal and more abrasive than ever).

But apparently Central could use that channel, even if it never bothered before.

Well, perhaps this counted as an emergency. 

“Relaying new orders. All SecUnits are set to board transport in three hundred and seven hours from now.” Central forwarded the relevant documents and infopackage. I got a strange sensation from it, from its feed-presence, usually so closed-off and hard. I struggled to name it.

“Don’t know if we’re changing hands, but we are getting out of here! I guess disposable is still better than—” It cut off, suddenly remembering itself. Or perhaps its governor remembered for it. I wouldn’t know. I certainly wouldn’t have been allowed to say that much. But then I was not an Elite Combat SecUnit. 

And yet,

and yet, if it was me, sounding like that, I’d think I was relieved.

Why?

SecUnits don’t get discarded. We’re too expensive. Even with the time and fuel investments it would have cost to come get us. They wouldn’t have left us there. Not the company. And certainly not our Clients, who wouldn’t have lasted a day without our protection.

But now I only have one client. And Client only has me . They said they’d be lost without me. So I know Client will not abandon me. No matter what this healer says.

Chapter Text

Day 7, hour 8 (13)

Client has not discarded me. In fact, they told the healer right to her face to fuck off and find a real doctor if this was all she could do. It was a sight to behold. I still get warm just thinking about it.

I have the best Client ever.

Still, the healer claimed only warbees or a forest fire ever stopped a plague of facerot once it set in. And it is contagious. Considering Idiot and Old Resource’s shocked reaction, I am surprised I have not been run out of town.

They won’t let me inside another building though. And the townsfolk all keep their distance. Even more so than I had been used to, back on my planet with my own Human Resources. I’m pretty sure they only tolerate my presence due to their respect for Client. What I don’t understand however is why they respect Client. This bunch doesn't seem to know what a SecUnit or a Corporation even is. As for these so-called Necromancers, they don’t seem popular.

Regardless, the townsfolk have left us alone, mostly. Perhaps they are waiting for Client to see reason, or doing that age-old thing all Human Resources are impossibly good at: what I like to call ‘Ignore the problem until it becomes a priority.’

Because apparently it will become a priority. Supposedly, at some point the larvae living in my face will evolve and take flight, and then no wound they can reach will be safe. I’ll become a liability, a safety hazard. To the townspeople, to the Old Resource, to the Gold-plated Idiot. Even to Client. And a terrible death it would be. One the healer described in the most vivid detail (I’d say the healer is actually quite knowledgeable. About anything to do with facerot. I venture she knows everything about it, except anything useful like treatment or a cure.) 

Still, the people have fed and housed Client, and Client is visibly perking up. I sometimes forget how dependent humans are on nutrition and a good night’s sleep. How Resources ever get anything done when they so often go lacking is beyond me.

The important part is, Client has been allowed to stay at the ‘Inn’. They cannot pay, but apparently doing some odd jobs is enough payment around here. At present, Client has been tasked with retrieving more wood from outside. I am still undecided between leaving, and at least keeping my Client safe from this face-rot, or staying to make sure the villagers will not turn on Client the moment they realise they are not any sort of wizard.

But for now as Client’s job happens outside, I can at least stand guard over them. I am glad I did. Because the wood requires cutting first, or perhaps hacking is a better term. To this end Client is hefting a sturdy stick, this one with a big sharp rock attacked. To break the wood up in smaller pieces, which is about as unproductive and dangerous as you can possibly imagine.

I am standing guard over Client and just about vibrating out of my skin. First of all, the tool the Client uses cannot be safe. Second, they are breathing hard and sweating and obviously too weak to even lift the next ‘log’ onto the cutting board.

While Client groans and nearly gets themselves trapped under the heavy load they are trying to slide onto the support, I finally decide Client is in imminent danger, and intervene. I take the weight off them, easily, and place the log onto the board.

“Don’t,” they start. 

I ignore them, open my gunports, and start cutting the wood for them. Yes, it’s a direct order, but I am going to assume they meant to finish that with ‘don’t let me hurt myself.’ Besides, Client is obviously compromised, so this counts as an emergency. In an emergency, I am allowed to ignore orders if the Client is compromised.

Client pauses when they see me deploy my guns. Glare and huff, like they want to object. It’s true that, even with my best approximation of a ‘cutting’ setting it takes a while. My guns aren’t meant for this. But it’s still safer and faster than the hacking thing. 

Perhaps Client had forgotten I had guns at all, the way they frown at me. Finally, they suck in a breath. “Sux, listen to me, okay? You can do the cutting. But no heavy lifting. I think there’s a reason SecUnits are never used for labor. I don’t think you have much of an inbuilt healing function. Sux— if you pull your back, you’re stuck like that. Probably until you die.”

That is… actually probably true. But, according to the healer, that might only be a few days. And I don’t think this would count as heavy lifting. For me. My specifications tell me I can lift three times the weight of this Log and my Client together, without reaching my maximum capacity.

I bend over to gather the cut wood.

And something falls from between the bandages covering my lower face.

Okay, so that’s disconcerting. Especially when it starts wiggling.

Day 7, hour 9

When the healer opens her door and sees us, she throws it shut again. Locks and latches jingle before she yells through the good. “Told you, Necromancer! Face-rot. Flies got in there. Prodigy, you might be, but nothing is as strong as nature. And nature favors insects above all others.”

Client bangs on the wood. “Open up! How do we cure it?” 

The Healer doesn’t reply.

Client stays at the door, banging at it regularly, for ninety-three minutes.

It’s the Idiot in his golden plate that comes out of his house, with an actual idea.

Chapter Text

Once, when I was still fresh from the factories and only just stationed on what I now think of as my planet — No, I should say: nine years and thirty-two days ago…

Once, before Central hated my guts, it told me about the planet it had been stationed on before. A planet that must not have been too far away from this one, or from my planet.

It told me it housed worms half the size of a human that would burrow up from the ground and try to eat you. It told me it’d once lost a leg to one of the creatures. It had accompanied its report with gruesome footage, detailed infographics and seismic thumbprints.

The story had been carefully packaged into a data-upgrade on potentially dangerous fauna. But Central’s feed-signature was all over every piece of data and footage. And its tone was just quintessence Central instructing fresh Units: half smug documentalist, half condescending teacher. Whole fanatically gore-loving psychopath.

It had also mentioned that the planet had to be abandoned, and a lot of Resources were left behind.

But I doubt this planet we’ve crashed on could be the same as Central was stationed on. Because this all had happened about two decades ago, and the Resources on this little backwater have never even heard of Corporations.

Also, Central might have mentioned the face-rot before the worms if it had been here.

Still, I thought I loved all creatures, great and small. Yet I am beginning to understand Centra’s hatred of worms.

They itch.

Chapter Text

Day 8, hour 19 (15)

There are no maps, no assigned routes and no roads in the jungle Idiot leads us through. But he seems to know where he’s going, and I find myself wanting to trust him and his navigation skills, just to promise myself I am not completely without guidance. 

I still miss the rigid parameters of a patrol. I miss the extra eyes of my drones, I even miss the ordered certainty Central’s Hubsys would give me in what to do, where to move. 

We make camp when the sun starts to set, and I get to at least prove my usefulness by helping with building a fire. With my arm-guns; the only part of this SecUnit that still functions as intended. The Idiot-in-gold is visibly impressed.

I am not. The woods are dense and dark around us, and I have no intel, no security to provide. I can’t see, nor sense anything out in the dark. I do not know the lay of the land nor the dangers it might hold. Client isn’t safe here. They are in danger, and I cannot protect them. 

Then comes the time for my change of bandages. I’m directed to sit on a rock near the fire, to give Client some light to work in. 

I’d looked forward to this, but not with the campfire ruining my night vision. Not with unknown threats at every angle. And not with Idiot here, looking over Client’s shoulder, wincing with every covering removed. It is awkward. The man looks at me with intent. Disgusted, yes, which is supposedly normal. But I’m not used to it.

“At least wear gloves, dear man!” I blink, confused. Then I realise GoldyPlate is worried for the Client's safety.   

Client grunts, “Don’t worry, your healer did give me these.” They do not make quotation marks at healer, but I can sense them nonetheless. Instead, they pull some thin skins from their pocket and put them on their hands. 

Idiot breathes a sigh of relief. “You have no idea how lucky you are, not to have caught the rot. If you’d had any cuts, any open sores…”

A slight flush of embarrassment heats my face when the last wrapping falls off to the cool air. I had nearly infected Client and I hadn’t even realised. Some SecUnit I turned out to be; if I wasn’t useless enough, trailing behind like this, letting Client deal with.. with everything. While I should be throwing myself into danger? Yet I do not even know where to begin; all I had known was get my Client help. But all the help I managed did not get them any less stranded. 

Perhaps Central had been right. Perhaps I am a useless SecUnit.

Then Client starts cleaning my face, and things get really awkward. Even Idiot senses it, and he starts to fidget. I stare back at him, in some vain hope he’ll get the message and go patrol or something. He’s probably more apt at it then I, because he lives here. I would really appreciate it right now. And it would be the smart thing to do. I have to wonder why he hasn’t volunteered to. 

Instead, Idiot brightens. “You know, this is actually kind of like a quest.”

Client pauses in their work, their breath falling on my face. “A what?”

“A quest to save Sux!” Idiot chuckles, and sits down on a log across the fire, facing me. “Don’t tell me the Great Necromancer Devon has never gone on a quest before.”

Wonderfull. If I wasn’t feeling terrible enough, this certainly would have done it. So, I am the reason Client is out here, in this dangerous jungle, instead of safely inside their bed at the inn? We are looking for this fabled ‘Doctor’ for me? Just to heal what my buffer phrases would already have, at this point, warned them to dispose of? 

Is Idiot just trying to make me feel bad? Well, it worked. Hey, Idiot, if you want my spot, if you want to do Client’s security? Please, please just show me you can do a decent patrol? I think you could get the job, if you’d show you could do a patrol.

Client’s hands start moving again, but their expression is hard. “I told you I’m not a Necro or whatever. Sux was given to me, because of an emergency. And it’s not dead, or... undead . It’s a SecUnit.”

Idiot remains quiet for over a minute.  “Yet it certainly looks like the monsters from my father’s tales. But quite docile and obviously damaged. And I do feel partly responsible for its plight.”

Oh, right. I’d nearly forgotten I hated this Idiot. As for Client, they wince. Because my client is the best, and they actually feel responsible for my circumstances. More than Idiot, obviously. 

Of course, I don’t blame Client for shooting me . I had just scared them. 

Idiot I can blame, and I glare at them in earnest now. 

Just why should I trust Idiot anyway? Yes, all of this, this quest could be an elaborate ruse. I should not forget that it was Idiot that sliced into my jaw. I should not forget that it was Idiot that raised his weapon against Client. I did not forget. I will not forget.

And I will not trust him.

(In the back of my mind, I worry that I am being selfish. That I am trying to make myself needed, because if Idiot can be trusted, he would be better Security than I, and I as a liability should be taking that hike of never-come-back. But I ignore that nagging feeling. Central told me I am way too trusting for a SecUnit, so I could not possibly be growing paranoid.) 

Then, Idiot retaliates in the worst way. They intone, much too loud:
“ Put my blue boots on,

broad the lane

Touched the Mountain Blue,

In the middle of the pouring rain!”

I’ll be honest, my Risk Assessment is wonky. But this clear-and-present threat has Threat Assessment max out. Perhaps Idiot is finally showing his true colors, and about to attack? Humans raising their voice and reciting texts like this is usually a presage of violence…

And Yet, Client smiles, and turns to face Idiot. “I don’t know that song. But do you know Star-Sky Ship?”

Song. Apparently, they are singing. They take a while to settle on something they both know, then start saying the same words at the same time to some strange melody only they can hear. Client even sits next to Idiot, and by the third song they look happier than I’ve ever seen them.

When Client notices me, they get up and pull me along to sit on their side of the fire, without even pausing. The pair of them get louder as they go. But Client puts a hand on my shoulder, and both humans are smiling. At the end of the last verse, they burst out laughing. But not in an angry, aggressive way. And they smile at each other. Smile at me. Client even falls against me at the end of the next song, holding their sides from laughing so loud. 

And it’s weird. It’s really weird.

But Threat Assess settles back down.

Chapter Text

It has been six years, nineteen days ago since I last experienced ‘singing’. 

It was also my first experience with singing, though at the time I thought the Resources were yelling at me. Us. I still think they were yelling at us, and the congregation of Resources was definitely not happy, not singing because they were happy.

I had only been operational for about four years at that point. One year of that had been spent in stasis on a transport, the rest out patrolling the forests and roads of the south. I had never before seen so many people together. In fact, I had never seen more than two people together. Nor had I ever seen Resources that didn’t scurry out of my way and disappear once they spotted me.

These Resources did not disperse. Not even at the sight of five SecUnits surrounding the governing office. And if I had never seen people together, I had definitely never seen angry people together. I had never seen them move together, in waves, forming an ocean, yelling and calling. Forming that one many-eyed creature that could devour us all whole.

And they were right up against us, pushing and straining against the fences. Hands up on the wires, shoulders jostling against our armors. Only our imposing SecUnit demeanor kept them from pushing against us in earnest, as we guarded the fences. And only barely, because those in front had little to say about what way this ocean moved. 

Central sent a calculation our way, promising that there was at least a 45% chance that if the masses stormed us, they would fail to shut us down before the barricade of dead bodies would put us out of reach.

I think it was supposed to be a comfort. 

But, my Risk Assessment asked, running for the very first time: what about those other 55 percent?

I don’t remember much past beyond that point. 

Chapter Text

Day 9, hour 17 (17)

It’s late afternoon when it happens. The forest is dense, and it feels almost like night time. My Thread Assessment had been flagging, but honestly I expected as much. It had started at haywire levels, with us trudging through the jungle without an assigned patrol route, or even anything like a map. Not to mention with Client right there , in front or next or behind me— or anywhere else unsafe in this Security nightmare. But we’d been at it over cycle now and at this point ThreatAssess was bottoming out in exhaustion, useless and spent. And just about ready to believe no news is good news.

I miss my drones.

If only I’d had a drone, I could have...

Anyway, there’s always all sorts of noises in a forest, and I don’t know this one well enough to know which sounds belong and which don’t. Also no drones and— let’s not make any more excuses. It’s Idiot that stops, one hand raised, the other on the pommel of his sword. (The stick is called a sword, I found out the other day. One can’t go a minute around Idiot without having it referenced.)

Anyway, Idiot squints into the dark, then yells “Goblins,” and what must be these goblins come pouring at us from all around.

“Cheeky bastards!” Idiot laughs-bellows. Which is an interesting way to describe the half-man creatures pouring onto us like hailstones. My superior reflexes get me up and over Client before the first crazy critter can set its knife— or teeth—  into them, and I swing it around by the foot, creating a perimeter.

“Never thought they’d be brave enough to attack a Necro!” Idiot yells over the din, closing at my back, creating a protective perimeter around Client. I appreciate that, yet still I don’t feel Idiot is the right amount of terrified. “Show them what your Risen can do, young Darren!”

Which, what?

Client vocalizes my shock in a confused grunt, and I manage to fight the creatures off far enough to catch Idiot gesture, obviously misunderstanding Client’s reluctance. “Tell it to open fire!”

In the short lull, I turn my head at Client, make eye contact, and slowly shake my head.

“Sir Pans! I don’t think that’s a good idea!”

 I have to turn away then, to concentrate on the flood of creatures. Seriously, there are so many. And their main attack seems to be latch on and pummel. One of the sturdier goblins has latched onto my shoulder and I’m too busy to keep it from stabbing me. The blade pings off a metal piece in my chest harmlessly, yet I can see that calculating gleam in its eyes as it adjusts its aim. 

Idiot finally seems to recognise our plight. “There’s too many of them for me to fight alone! It has got to help!”

I swipe away another goblin getting too close to Client, then shake the on on my shoulder off before it gets lucky and hits one of my fleshy bits. Two more immediately take its place. The amount coming down at us from the tree tops, from behind rocks, from everywhere isn’t letting up at all. 

And there really isn’t another way, although I hope— dearly wish—  for anything, anything to help us.

In their defence, Client still hesitates. “Sux! Shoot them!”

So. I have a confession to make.

If I hyperventilate hard enough, my hands shake. And I’ve been hyperventilating for a while now. It’s something I do, and I can’t say I was ever unhappy about it. This time, however, I do not want to miss my target. 

The best way for me not to miss, is not to shoot at all.

It doesn’t matter, however. MyGovernor  buzzes in warning even as my guns seem to unfold from my arms without me controlling them, I take aim without even wanting to. 

Waves of the creatures, scurrying over me, over Client, over Idiot. I do not know where to aim, where aiming could be safe. There’s one on my face now, obscuring my view. I can’t seem to get enough air either, which makes zero sense, but definitely worsens my shaking. This is a terrible idea. And I really wish I’d figured out a way to ignore a direct order, but I’m used to obeying.

I wish I could just go against my Governor. But it’s different, out here in an emergency, then when walking out on the roads all alone. Alone to tell myself I really didn’t want to, I could fight it. 

I charge up, still trying to reason with the Module. Tell it it must be misinterpreting. Tell it I’m more likely to hit Client than the little critters. It doesn't matter. I fire.

Central was right. I am a terrible shot.

Chapter Text

It was six years, eighteen days ago that I first saw one of Central’s reports about my lack of functionality. The most unfair thing was I hadn’t even fucked up. Yet.

Just two days after that terrible day where I’d been recalled to the capital and set to guard the main building of governance. Two days after Resources had crowded around me and called for food, water, seeds to plant.

I’d only just managed to fall back into my old routine. Familiar and safe, when I found the report. Right in the public drive’s trash bin. Central hadn’t even tried to hide it from me, had filed it publically as well. Yet I hadn’t noticed until I got to the routine task of cleaning our drives. 

If it was in the trash some human overseer must have already looked at them. Or, at least opened it. Three sentences in, I was furiously hoping this was a particularly lazy overseer. That they had only opened it, then binned it. That they had not even bothered with the excerpt.

I ignored the attached graphs, the links to field data. And just stared at that, Centrals curt bullet points: 

• performance functionality sub-par during task 
• a 23% chance that a violent encounter would reduce my performance reliability down another 40-60 percent
• such low performance reliability in fresh Units was flagged as dangerous and unsafe in all our manuals

It recommended that I either be decommissioned and sent back before my warranty expired. Or, failing that, that I should be kept from high-stress environments.

All my senses zero’d in on two words: 

Decommissioned. 

Warranty.

I was barely four years old, and I was about to be scrapped for parts and replaced. I was going to die. Why? I was too young to die.

Somewhere I lost control of my breathing, and then possibly later my governor shocked me. Because I’d stopped moving. Stopped walking my patrol. 

I’d only been punished a handful of times before, but this time was different. Because the shock didn’t put me in action; instead, it just made my muscles lock, and then I really lost control of my oxygen intake. I fumbled my stress regulators, my low level functionalities.  Moments later I was— I swear, I was suffocating and getting electrocuted at the same time.

And shaking .

It was at some level funny, then. That I wouldn’t have to be decommissioned. That I was taking care of that myself, right now. That’s ridiculous, I know. I was making it worse, killing myself because I was afraid to die. I think I was aware of that.

Yet I couldn’t figure out a way to make it stop.

‘Get a grip. Walk.’

Central’s voice. That was Central talking to me. It never talked to me.

Amazingly, that got my legs moving. Shocked me out of my stupor better than the Governor Module had managed. I needed several seconds before I could swallow away the last of my panic. The taste of fear turned me bitter.

‘You killed me. You’re making them kill me.’

If I had been human, I would be crying. ‘Why?’

Central paused, like my question confused it. Finally, it seemed to realise. 

‘The report? Don’t be so dramatic. There’s no way they’ll send a Rim ship just to pick your ass up. Definitely not before your warranty runs out. The Company would be losing money on you the moment they turn a warp-drive ship our way.’

I didn’t know it at the time, but it turned out Central was right about that. Still, it was a shitty thing to do. And I held a grudge.

Chapter Text

“Your Fallen, young Lord Darren,” sir Pans the Idiot grumbles, 

“is a terrible shot.”

And he’s right.

I know I said Idiot’s gold armor was stupid. I guess I kind of laughed about it. And he looks stupider still now, with his golden undies filled up and bulging out like a diaper. White bandages flowing out at the seams.

I’m not laughing though.

Sure, my shot scared off the Goblins. But the only thing I hit was Sir Pans’ ass. And if it hadn’t been for his armor I’d have fried Idiot’s butt bad enough for him never to walk again. As it was Client spent over an hour, surrounded by three campfires, to disinfect the burns. Then packaging them in bandages and spreading bug-repellant on the area.

While I, after starting the fires, made myself scarce and patrolled the area. To minimize the risks of me infecting Idiot. Although, out in the woods, all wounds are apparently always in danger of infection. Wether there’s an incompetent InfectingUnit nearby or not. 

Then, because of lost time, we had to spend another night out in the woods. Not that it would have been a good idea for Idiot to walk, with those fresh burns. I’m not even sure if it’s a good idea right now.

I feel terrible .

And since early morning, Idiot hobbles on at the front, bravely. Like he’s got pain-sensors that he dialed down somehow. He does, however, repeat: “a terrible, terrible shot.”

“Stop complaining,” my client, in the middle of our line, snarks, “it scared them off didn’t it?”

They take two steps, then Client throws me a look that’s not angry and not disappointed. “Anyway, it didn’t want to shoot. It’s your own fault.”

“Didn’t it?” Sir Pans slows, looks back over us as he rubs at the scorched metal covering his ass. “So did it hit me on purpose?”

I shake my head, appalled.

Client, however, explodes. “It didn’t and if you’d listened to it instead of talking to it through me, you’d have known this was a bad idea. It’s not UNdead, it’s my SecUnit. And I know it can’t talk, but you could look. You could listen! ” 

Oh. Oh, now I’m just feeling very, very uncomfortable. Also, Sir Pans has stopped walking all together and is staring, first at Client, then at me. I don’t even know where to look. And my face is heating up. I hope the bandages hide my blush. This is ridiculous.

Out of nowhere, Sir Pans barks a laugh. “Well, in that case, I am sorry, Sux! I will try and listen better, next time we are in the heat of battle. But, I would like to request you to not shoot me again. ” 

I kind of cringe. And now both humans are looking at me. And smiling. Which doesn’t help. Why do they put me on the spot like this? It’s not like I had anything to say, or could have said anything…

I nod a ‘yes’, and, thank the credits, that has Sir Pans copy my nod and start moving again.

Right into a clearing, in the middle of the jungle. A grassy piece of land, with a cottage in the middle. The morning sun hits the condensing air just so, and if I was human I’d probably call the tableau magical.

Then some bird hoots at us and flies lazily to the wood-and-dirt cottage, and lands over the door. Like it’s beckoning us in and… yes, if anyone cared to ask I’d call it magical as well.

Just as Client comes close to knock, the door slams backward and a man with a long grey beard and long grey robes casts a hand our way.

“Welcome,” he calls out, before my Thread Assessment can even engage. “Welcome, to my humble abode. And how may I, the great— yikes!”

That’s the last thing he says, before he takes a look at my face. The man is thin, frail, and probably old. Yet he jumps back inside his house and locks the door with surprising agility. “Get your filthy magic away from here, you overbearing Necros! This is a place of healing! ”

Which, I am beginning to suspect, is just how healers great SecUnits on this planet. The two humans look at each other, then my way. Then Idiot steps forward.

“Good sir,” he calls out, pointing out the obvious: “isn’t healing what this poor Raised requires?”

“I can’t heal those things, Paladin.” calls out the voice behind the door. “And good thing too. They are nothing but trouble. And, how dar e you, a man called to righteousness light, bring a Royal to my doorstep?”

“The boy’s not one of them, good Doctor, I would never—”

“Doctor!” Client cuts in, and their voice is almost soft and more pathetic than I’ve ever heard them. “Doctor Wizard, please! It’s my friend, and I think it’s dying. ”

It hurts to hear Client beg. 

“A Royal Necromancer saying please? ” The note of surprise in the Doctor’s voice at least suggests he knows how special it is to hear a client speak like that. The door opens to a crack, and a grey eye peers out at us. “No, you really can’t be one of their lot, now can you? Oh, by the way, it’s Doctor the Wizard.” 

Ugh.

Chapter Text

It’s still six years, eighteen days— actually six years nineteen days ago now—  that I got the idea in my head. The idea basically was… If Central wanted me to be a faulty Unit, then fine, I’d be a faulty Uni t. 

I hadn’t much liked being called out to stand guard over the rioting crowds. No, that’s wrong. I hated it. And I’d hated the idea of things escalating, getting out of hand. Of me shooting into the crowds.

But then, if Central’s assessment was right— which it was not, but if Central, if my HUbSys believed it… It wouldn’t want me to be called on again, now would it?

At least that’s what I figured was the point of Central’s recommendation. No good. Don’t use.

And yes, that recommendation had been trashed. Would not be looked at again. But it was Central deploying us, it was Central who had to translate human orders to practical tasks. and it was Central who decided on our time-tables and positioning. And it’d bend over backward before it brought me back to the capital, if this was its appraisal. In fact, unless I gave it cause to doubt that assessment I probably would never have to come near the capital or Central ever again.

So, good.

All I had to do was make sure I really couldn’t be relied on to shoot straight. 

So, human hands tend to shake when under pressure. It's a well-documented effect of stress, and SecUnits aren’t supposed to be susceptible. But I had felt pretty shaky, when I’d read Central’s report. So I figured, why not give it a go?

So, from then on I practiced. I’d take a normal, slightly elevated risk situation, and try to make it worse. In my head . I didn’t get too many promising results, until I remembered to speed up my breath. Yes, my systems always told me I was getting plenty of oxygen. Yes, fucking with those systems sometimes made my Governor Module buzz a warning.

But I managed to keep it from actually reprimanding me. 

After some practice that made my fingers shake alright. Got me right up close to a catastrophic system shut-down too.

Which led to a lot of awkward and dangerous questions by Central. Or, well, you know. Two requests for a status update. Coming from Central, that was a lot.

But, you know. Fuck Central.

Chapter Text

day 10, hour 11 (21)

Doctor the Wizard— which is a terrible name by the way. Is he a wizard, named Doctor? Or a doctor named the Wizard? I fear it’s choice number one, and possibly more of a stage magician than anything special—  stands at a distance, clutching his staff. Idiot stands somewhere between us, obviously unsure of what to do with himself. I’m sitting on a tree stump as Client carefully takes off my bandages. 

Client has done this every day now, even out traveling as we have been. And the practice is usually pleasant. Although I always end up wondering what the skin of their finger would feel like. Not the gloves--the real human skin. Before I hadn’t really ever considered it, as I’d always been in my armor. But I think all SecUnits would like to have their skin touched. It seems a shame to come this close and— 

Well, I guess that will never happen.

Perhaps if I’d been stationed somewhere inside and small instead. That would have been nice, I think. on the other hand, then I wouldn’t have had those wonderful walks through the forests. On the other, other hand; imagine having such nice walks and then Client’s fingers on my face? Wouldn’t that be something? 

NO— no, of course. It’s not worth the risk, with me carrying a deadly parasite. And I’m nervous. About that, but also about the Wizard-type and Idiot staring at me like they can see me long. The wizard especially, with his incantations. With how he nods, then shakes his, either following some secret lore or just pretending. At least he manages not to startle when my cheeckbone’s metal framework is bared.

And then the last bandage loosens, and I forget to pay attention to the Doctor/Wizard. because something feels off. More off than before I mean.

Ugh. Oh. 

When Client undoes the last wrap something just flops right past my teeth and hits the ground with a solid —thud. And we all… we all just kind of stare at it, at the surprisingly big lump of flesh lying in the sand.

Well, I’m a SecUnit, and despite my failings, that means I recover first. I look around the semi-circle, trying for damage control.

If any of us were hoping for something wise from Doctor the Wizard, we’re about to be heavily disappointed: the man is muttering something under his breath and waving his stick about. I mean, it could have been incantations. Or, the humans might have taken in for an incantation. But my hearing is better than a human’s, and I know he’s just continuously repeating “too fucking old to die like this”.

I guess none of us were quite ready for my tongue to fall clean out.

Golden-plate Idiot has drawn his sword. I’m not sure if he’s planning on slaying me or my tongue but… And then there’s Client. Their gaze is locked on my tongue laying almost-still in the dirt. Almost still, but for the maggots crawling all over, pouring from the weeping meat, and Client— 

Well, I guess Client has gone into shock. Just stare down at the wiggly mass, white as a sheet and not breathing.

I stare for another eternity, or perhaps more like a whole second, unsure how to protect Client when the source of distress is me— then I explode into action, scooping up my tongue and disappearing into the woods. Ew. But it feels disgusting in my hand, moving about.

day 10, hour 12

I don’t go too far, close enough that I could hear Client if they called but. I don’t think Idiot is planning to backstab us, but I don’t quite trust him to be properly wary of threats after the whole Goblin fiasco. As for this Doctor Wizard, I’m only about 85% sure he’s a harmless quack. And who knows what else is out here, in these jungles?

I drop my tongue onto a rock and stare at it.

I had never thought it was possible, but I hate the little maggots. Hate them with a passion. You think I hated Central? No, me and Central, we had a minor falling out. These creatures? These maggots? I want to destroy them. I want to kill every single one of them until their species is extinct.

I find myself aiming my arm gun at my tongue, lost somewhere in the nightmare where this takes me from the greatest Client that ever lived, and the fantasy where I actually hit what I aim at. 

Is this it for me, then?

If I return to Client, will I cause this to happen to them? How much time do I have left, before these things swarm out? Do I even still have time? How long before the maggots pupate? How long before they hatch and take flight?

None, zero time left! Screams my mind, flinching when an insect takes flight from my ruined flesh of a tongue. They are taking flight right now! It’s over, it’s over! I’ll never be able to see Client again! I’ll never hear their voice, and will never feel their touch again.

No, wait. 

The face-rot flies should be black. With some green highlights. This thing that has emerged from my tongue is striped black and red. Also, it appears to be carrying a maggot. A dead maggot, the head bitten clean off. 

Perhaps...

I rewind the recordings from my eyes, and yes. Yes. This insect flew in seconds before I noticed it, took a maggot, killed it, and is now carrying it away. Perhaps these red-and black insects hate the face-rot flies as much as I do? Or, more likely, perhaps they feed on them; perhaps they are the face-rot flies’ natural predators?

Good. I hope they eat them all. I hope they eat them, tearing them into little pieces without ever bothering to kill them beforehand. I hope they suck them dry, their insides through little straw-tongues like some bugs apparently do. I hope they invest these sick little things, make them blow up and die the worst way, like they want me to die— ooh. I.

I am struck with an idea. An idea that should at least slow the progress of my ailment. And would it not be a fair turn-around, if the face-rot maggots all got eaten before they hatched?

I hunt around, and find another one of the red-and black striped creatures. I capture it, carefully— it buzzes wildly between my fingers—  But, before it can attack, I let it into my open wound. It settles, and crawls into me a moment later.

If it will hunt and kill just a few maggots for me, I’ll be happy. 

Chapter Text

It was sixty-five days ago that Central came out of its repair cubicle and hailed me on a private channel. The day— the day after. I was actually a little surprised it had sought me out. And I myself was… not quite worried, yet certainly curious towards its status. In fact I’d been working up the courage to hail it, trying to think of— of some way to be delicate about this. Should I not mention the— the thing at all? That also seemed insensitive though. 

I guess I dallied too long and Central solved the dilemma for me.

'You little fuck. You little spy!'

It dropped the feed, and dropped most of SecSystem as well. And for a moment I was actually worried Central, in its rage, had fried itself. I know I’d have been fried for that kind of language, even in a feed. Even in a private feed. So I panicked and reopened the channel, just to ask if it was okay. I really shouldn't have worried.

'When I get my hand on you South you will wish you’d been pulled and decommissioned. You will wish—'  

‘What are you mad at me for? I didn’t do anything to you.’ I really didn’t understand.

I didn’t dare point out who had hurt it , because Governors and frying. But I thought I raised a valid point. Central must have agreed, because it got real quiet for over three whole seconds. Until it spoke, its feed-voice cold and dangerous: ' are you blaming our Clients?'

Oh. And that was just low. Was it trying to trick me? Was it trying to let me fry myself? It was a mean thing to do, and I hadn’t known— hadn’t realised Central could be so petty. As my SecSys, it is authorized to administer punishment, if it wanted to. But making me do it to myself…? Senselessly cruel.

I backpedalled, trying to get out of this mess. ‘Of course not. It is a SecUnit’s job to warn their clients of security risks.’ In fact, it seemed obvious to me now. Yes! That’s what it should have done: ‘You should have warned the clients not to proceed.’

And there— there it was again. That not-sound in the feed. Laughter. It was laughter. Yet when the Resources do it, it’s like fresh rain, soft and pleasant. When Central did it, it made my spine tingle in cold fear...

Perhaps this was all funny to it? Perhaps it was toying with me? With my life? Perhaps even what happened to it itself yesterday was somehow amusing to it? I didn’t know. SecUnits aren’t supposed to have a sense of humor. Are definitely not supposed to laugh. But I know what I heard. I know, and it was turning my whole world-view upside down. 

After way, way too long it stilled. Then: 'would you care to elaborate on that?'

Idiot that I was, I rejoiced at the chance to explain. ‘Just— you could have given them a buffer phrase. About how their actions were making it impossible to protect them— that they were endangering themselves?’ 

As I speak I only become more enamored with the possibility. I had done things like that, even if only with Human Resources. There must have been ample opportunities. I’ve always found my opportunities. Why would Central, who was in control of all of us, not find the loop-holes in the system. Was it really that dumb? ‘Or, or you could have flinched back. Hard? Even Clients get scared when SecUnits move without warning.’

Central paused again. I felt it dropping some inputs, side-lining the many processes it always had running. Data on me and the other Units, but also observing clients: pausing its catalogue of their hormonal levels, their stressors. It closed the sheets and sheets of annotations, usually running in its workspace, filled with obsessive notes on what every client carried, either in their hands or in various pockets. It’s industrious attention focused on me completely.

'Let me get this straight. You wanted me to scare our clients into leaving me alone?'

I sucked in a breath. Central’s voice on the feed was dead and calm again. Had I complained about it before, how cold and impersonal it always sounded? I was going to be revising all my tags on earlier interactions, upping them all into the range of lukewarm to adoring. 

This. This was what it felt like, when it was truly mad. 

'Do you know what? I think I’ve been too nice to you. And that’s what— That’s what I get.'

I realised with dread that I’d made a terrible mistake. I shouldn’t have offered unsolicited advice. I should have known it would react like this. It’s not like Central had ever solicited for my advice. Not once, not ever.

'Guess what? You’re 0.4 meters off your patrol route.' <administer lvl1>

I stalled, caught off-guard, surprised at its change of tack more than the shock, then scrambled to get back into position.

'Other way, dumb bot.' <administer, lvl1>

My confusion bled into our connection, and Central makes that amused not-sound again. Pain; it always hurts more, the second time. And it was not fair— not fair. Because it just kept riding me. Because it must have realised it couldn’t outreason me. And thus started the worst week of my life. And ended my first and only ever attempt to offer someone my opinion.

As for clients asking or wanting my opinion? I would never even have imagined that. Which is what makes Client such a very, very special client.

So I hope you understand when I say, I was completely blindsided by what happened next.

Chapter Text

I spend another half-hour, hunting for the red-and-black striped bees. I find three more, and every one of them crawls into my face then leaves the wound with a dead maggot in its paws. I think I might be able to slow this face-rot, with how enthusiastic these newly-discovered insects are about killing the maggots. It’s a good plan, and I’d have stayed out here all day and all night too, looking for the industrious little things, if it wasn’t for the big one . 

I’m pretty sure that the big one is of the same species as the insects I’d caught before, but it’s more than twice the size of the regular ones. It has a long, slender stinger and powerful looking jaws. And it heads right for the hole in my face, open and exposed as the wound is.

I take one look at those beating wings and those powerful jaws, and retreat.

Don’t laugh. Of course I can kill it. But it’s scary looking and I’ve swatted enough flies by now to know the mess these things are if you squash them. And I’d just rather not, okay.

The thing buzzes after me, one of its smaller brethren coming to her side. And, well. I don’t run, but I do leg it. Back to the clearing, back to Client, Idiot and Doctor. For a moment I wonder where they went, then I notice a tool-shack off to the side, and all three humans are inside. 

I’m not allowed inside the house, but nobody said anything about the shack, and when I peek inside, the Doctor-Wizard gestures at me. I hurry, relieved, and slam the door shut. I hadn’t seen the giant bee-thing chase me onto the clearing, but I certainly wasn’t sure. I’m peeking through a crack, still a little worried, when I notice how silent all three are. When I turn to look, I am the object of three pairs of eye staring, and something in their expression is putting me on edge. 

Then Doctor smiles at me and says: “Just the Risen we were looking for. Please, step closer.”

And I, ever the trusting fool, do as he says.

Only at this point do I notice the tool in Client’s hands.

I know, I should have noticed something wrong earlier. And I know; SecUnits, or Central at least, religiously tag and annotate anything a client puts in their hands. I’d just never realised why before.

Besides, I’d been so preoccupied with the red-and-blacked striped insects, it hadn’t even occurred to me that it was odd they’d want me inside. Also, the thing Client holds in their hands is so outlandish in this world-setting I simply cannot parse its existence.  

Then they turn it on, and the concentrated fire of a blow-torch lights Client’s frowning face.

It is real.

Client swallows. “Are you sure, doctor?”

“It’s the only way,” Doctor-Wizard raises his voice over the terrible noise the torch makes.  “Only fire can kill the face-rot. It’ll live, but the rot will not. It’s important to do it soon, however...”

I shake my head, step back.

Client must see the look in my eye. “Sux, we have to!” I wonder if I look as terrified as they do. “If we don’t kill the rot you’ll die.”

It’s not an order.

I’m not going to interpret it as a direct order. 

I shake my head, step back. 

With one last look towards Doctor, Client puts on the face shield. I can see their larynx bobbing, under the black visor, then no longer when they move the white-burning glow closer. “Trust me, okay? Sux, the doctor says this will be hot enough to— to burn the infection out. You just gotta let me....”

I step back, shake my head at them harder. Hit that closed door at my back, while Doctor and Idiot stare, passively. It’s already insubordination, when I try the door, and I get my first shock. I can be stupid like that, forget my Governor is there. But this time, I don’t even care. 

“Sux, dont—” 

I shake my head again, gesture. Cringe away from the heat and make that gutteral sound that’s the closest to words I can make now. The second shock is nasty. It’s probably second-level, because it hits way harder than the usual repeat does. But the idea of having this happen, when I’d just made progress, just got hope of getting out of this terrible situation without having what’s left of my face ruined…

“Will you hold still?”

And that’s the end of that. 

My joints lock into place automatically and I freeze. 

It is the worst. The worst. Nobody had ever frozen me before. Not even Central, not even when I’d told it— oh, I am such an idiot. I beg Client, with my eyes. But I can’t move and I can’t make any sound and I can’t stop them. If I could cry I would. 

Instead, I panic.

The blowtorch is now so close I feel the heat on my face, so close I start to sweat. My mind wants to flee and rally against the cage that is my body. Yet there is nowhere to go and I cannot even flinch, cannot even speed my breathing. Client swallows again, closing the distance, and pain blossoms where I’d already turned my pain-receptors down. Right in the ruin of my face. It hurts, it burns. 

My nose itches with the stink of scorched flesh.

It’s like I’m on fire. it’s like I’m locked in a box— in my travel crate again. and I remember. I remember it. The smell. The dead. Central’s face, black and burned so completely the cameras of its eyes stuck out like red lenses. 

Dead. dead.

I do not want to die.

I’m not getting enough air. Or, my systems say I am, but that can’t be right. I also need to run, I am running. except I can’t move. My Governor takes offence, and I try to run from that, through my systems, through my body. Out with the feed, try to call for help. But it shuts that down as well and I have to— have to get away. the heat! 

The torch moves away. “I can’t do it,” Client says.

I can’t see, but I think Client is crying. “I’m sorry, Sux, I can’t do it.”

It is a day for firsts. Because at that point, I experience my first forced system shutdown.

Chapter Text

It was sixty-six days ago and I had been dallying on my patrol route for nearly an hour. When the belay-order-and-return-to-duty command came, I again sent out a notification, alerting Hubsys (Central) that I was returning to my assigned route, but that I was now an extra thirteen minutes behind on my schedule.

The affirmative and time-adjusted plan for my route took another seventeen seconds to arrive, which was fourteen seconds longer than Central's median time. And the job it did on my time-table was negligent at best. Worse than what it had dealt me last week, when it had also called for aid, then withdrawn its request. No, this time I would be idling half an hour at my next contact point, then I would have to sprint over several miles of dense forest to reach the next point in time.

I pinged Central in my best equivalent of a’ what-the-fuck’.

It didn’t respond at all.

I kind of knew it wouldn’t. I’d expected it not to respond. It hadn’t responded last week. Central was just abrasive like that. Nothing weird was going on. It was the end-of-the-week and perhaps it was busy or got distracted by a client request. Despite the exodus of Clients jumping any transport that docked at our planet’s one harbor, Central still had a lot of Clients to care for. 

Well, not really. There were exactly twenty-nine left in the capital. And only another hand-full travelling or staying in other locations. The mass-exodus was long passed; any clients left either had no family with enough money to arrange transport, or didn't want to make the investment. 

So, twenty-nine clients, and no sign of the Resource-uprising they feared. So why wasn't  Central answering my pings? What was going on with it?

Technically, if there was a security risk, I was within my rights to check in on Central. And a SecUnit with a defect was by definition a security risk. Unless HubSys (Central), or a Client gave me a stand-down order, I could at least mentally investigate.

I pinged Central again.

Still no answer.

So, I steadied my breathing and...took a closer look.

It was another piece of mental gymnastics, furtively riding the feed, coming in close. I tell my governor and the completely silent HubSys (Central) that I am just checking to make sure all is well. Central had pinged us with a request for aid three times in as many hours, after all. I was within my function checking up on Central. Even if Central(Hubsys) would disagree. And Central would disagree, so I had to do this secretly.

All was not well. Central’s drones hovered in holding patterns, most of them staring at walls or floors. Feed-activity was nonexistent.  

Again I had all the validation needed to push ahead and look; really look at my Central. To turn tables on it and oversee theSecUnit overseeing me. But, I still paused. Central was not my friend. We were not close. It watched over me, because it was assigned the task of watching me. As for me watching back? Questioning its functionality like that? It had both seniority and was assigned a higher function. The act was an insult.

But, most importantly, Central was a private Unit. It never shared anything about itself, not when it could get away with studiously ignoring me. True, a SecUnit's parameters do not encourage fraternization. But Central had always struck me as exceedingly closed-off.

Still, if it was not compromised Central it would be telling me to back off at this very moment. If Central had not been compromised it would have told me to back off already.

I tip-toed closer through the feed, right into its head. Central should have noticed me… should have felt me there. Yet, it did not. II held my breath regardless, terrified of calling attention to myself. Carefully brushing past its inputs. There’s another drone at a terrible angle, swaying and wobbling. It was filming the floor with what I imagined must have been Central’s own booted feet. There was also a light fluttering breath and a humm in the background, like grinding.

There was also pain. 

“That last part came out easier than I was expecting.” A voice, too close. Breath on Central’s face. 

I can almost feel it myself. Central is in pain. Yet it is also strangely calm. Simultaneously there’s also something almost hysterical to its feed-presence. Which is even more impossible than it sounds. SecUnits do not laugh, and Central’s feed-presence was usually dour and unmovable. 

Yet now it was light and fluttery. That unbalanced me so badly it took me another five seconds to find the last camera input, which was half-covered by a hand.

Things slotted into place with alarming clarity. The air, cooling on Central’s forehead. That something sticky leaking down its cheek, down its neck, straight down into its armor. Central wasn't wearing its helmet, and it was bleeding.

"Why are you bothering with it anyway?” someone calls from a small distance. “You'll get more of a reaction torturing a rock."

"No, see? That's where you're wrong. It feels this."

The further voice— identified as Client_0576 came closer, snorting. "Feels nothing. It's probably got its pain sensors dialed all down."

"Is that true, SecUnit?"

Central's voice was as cool and as flat as ever  "Of course, sir Applesauce. It is standard procedure to—" 

"Well, turn them up. Up all the way, and Jay, you come do the other eye. And tell me you don't see it twitching. Here, you can use my knife. That spoon idea of yours was cool, but it's impossible with the reinforcements."

There was a sound, real laughter, joining in with Central's mad feed-giggling.“You know that's just your laziness talking." Client_0576 must have been right in front of Central now, and then the eye dangling down showed a pair of feet coming to stand facing Central's boots.

Confusing enough, Central's mirth-like feed-noise became even louder. Why was it happy? This deep inside its head I could hear Central think, clear as if it spoke out loud. "And there it is, finally. The spoon.”

I registered a soft caress. A hand on its cheek, pleasant and cool even through Central's knotted interpretations. Then Central's remaining eye was opened by grasping fingers, and an alarmingly close spoon dipped closer still. 

I gasped.

Who is there? Central, finally taking notice of me. 

I ran. Back to me. Found myself clenching my blaster like a doll, still within that clearing, a soft patter of rain falling down on my faceplate. I could hardly breathe, and almost sat, right there in the mud. Before I was reminded by my Governor that I was out on patrol.

—

Chapter Text

I regain consciousness when Client, their voice weak from crying, tells me. “Please wake up. Please say something. Please move or even blink I—”

I’m not sure if that’s finally what negates the stand-down order—  That cursed, wicked thing freezing my limbs and paralyzing me and rendering me helpless, to anything. Everything! — Or if I’d been free to move for a while, too out of it to notice. But, you know what? I don’t even care . I’m aware, I’m awake. I can move...

So I take advantage of my new-found freedom that this vague order provides me and—and run.

I turn away from Client and wrench the shack’s door open and flee. Burst outside, onto the small muddy trail. — The door crashes to the ground behind me yet I ignore it, speed up instead. Past Idiot, gaping at me. Past that quack of a doctor that told my Client— my good, sweet Client— to fucking-burn-my-face-off.  

I do not bump into him, do not plow him down (though at that moment I want nothing more), but run straight into the forest.

Alright, call me a coward if you must. I guess I do run away a lot. But I need to get away. I run and run and run, until I’m not even sure where I am. Past where I went last time, for sure. Past the patch, where the remains of my tongue lies, devoured by flesh-rot flies. Past where I had found those red and black bees. Probably way past the place where I could hear, if Client needed me. 

But I don’t care. I run and run until my chest heaves and my orginic muscles burn. Then finally slow, not because I want to, but because my body refuses to keep going. Stagger a few more steps then nearly trip on the dirt and I have to steady myself with a hand to a tree.

I stop.

Stop, too tired to keep going.

I— 

I wish I could lie down and cry.

When was the last time I had a recharge cycle? When was the last time I could crawl into my cubicle and rest? Perhaps that’s why I’m swaying on my feet. Either that or I’m reeling from betrayal. 

As it is, I stand in the jungle for a long time. 

Client didn’t listen to me when I told them to stop.

Client didn’t listen to me when I told them to stop. And I couldn’t make them, couldn’t tell them. Did they ever want to hear? Did they try to listen? Why did my company make it so that I couldn’t tell them? I had already lost my voice, my words. But it only hurts now; it only hurts now.

But, it doesn’t matter does it? Even with a voice I would have been muted.

Chapter Text

Almost ten years ago to the day I was reactivated after nearly a year of deep stasis, the synthetic sleep I spent my travel-time in as I was transported to my first contract’s location. I blinked awake to the sun and noises of industry around me. I was on the planet's docking station. 

I was one of four, and the three Units behind me were still getting unboxed. "Unit, this is the official hand-over," said a tech tagged as temp_supervisor. "Four fresh Units, and you'll be in charge. Until new provisions with a working SecSys and HubSys arrive… deal with it."

The tech was talking to a different SecUnit than me. It stood staring at me, in its white armor and opaque helmet, silently questing through the feed.

And there were many more SecUnits, I noticed. Just a little way off; ten, twenty. twenty-seven. And also thousands upon thousands of humans.

But before I could be intimidated by the enormity of my function, I realised they were not tagged as clients, but as resources. And that most were leaving. Boarding the ship that I had arrived on.

"Well, that's all I guess." Said the temp supervisor to a second tech. A nervous boy with thin limbs. "Sorry about the rushed architecture, but I have to hurry and pack. I really don't want to miss the transport." They shrugged. "Well SecUnits are adaptive right? And with the main workforce off, there shouldn't be much more trouble. You’ll be fine. "

The young tech nodded, their face going through a complicated series of expressions I was not equipped yet to parse. However, several were close enough to be marked by risk-assessment as client-in-distress indicators. A little worried I pinged the other SecUnit as the temp supervisor left to board a small land vehicle.

The SecUnit queried me how many hours I had logged on contract.

I replied with a perhaps too enthusiastic =0!

The other SecUnit acknowledged, then turned away.

Something about it struck me as disappointed. And I guess I had assumed it was disappointed in me .

But what if. What if?

I realise this is pure conjecture.

I realise this is just wishful thinking. 

Hindsight. Hindsight speaking.

But what if, what if Central had not been disappointed in me? What if Central did not hate me? What if keeping me out of city fighting, what if having me declared unfit for action was it trying to care for me? And what if no human overseer ever told it to stop bothering me, after it went and blew its temper on me?

What if leaving me alone was its kindness?

Chapter Text

I stand with my hand against the rough surface of the tree for a long time. Stand there, until out of nowhere another red bee finds me. I am confused about how they seek me out. Perhaps this one is from the same group as the previous ones, and now knows where to find the maggots. But if it is, it’s followed me miles away from what should be its hive.

A second one joins it, minutes later. My face is still uncovered so they industriously let themselves in and hunt around the inside of my cheek for maggots. Only one of the pair has left before a third joins them. I should be happy; these bees are working hard, and prolonging my survival with every maggot removed. 

I can hardly make myself care.  

Why would I? I thought my Client was the best client ever. Turns out they’re just another asshole. No, that’s not fair. They’re not. They were trying to help. The doctor— it’s the doctor’s fault. And yet, and yet. 

Is this my life?

As good as it gets, and it still sucks.

After a while, as if to lighten my mood, it starts raining.

Then... she shows up. 

Yeah, I changed my mind. She must be some kind of demon mother-of-bees. Because she's not so much with the others. Rather, the red bees are with her . She’s easily twice their size. And she definitely to has an interest in me. She’s— I am standing in the rain, with my newly acquired burns (supervicial enough, at least), and my ruined face and my broken heart and-  

Well, I try not to care, and I don’t really. But the creature’s wings buzz close to my ear like a warning even after landing on my ruined jaw and she is fucking huge. She dances, patting her feet left and right, her feelers feeling and her jaws working, tickling my skin. More bees trail after her— that's good, right?

But she's twisting and beating her wings. Is she actually considering following her brethren inside of me?

No. No, nonono! No, she’s too big. 

I— well, at least her buzzing and twitching sends me out of my stupor. Revolted, I step back, then wave a hand at her when she tries to land on my face again.

Damn, but she’s persistent. I guess I could probably kill her easily enough. But I don’t really want to; the red bees have helped me, before. I’d like to have more of that help. I just don’t want that giant thing crawling inside of me to do it.

Okay, time to go home I guess.

day 10, hour 18

I march back at double speed, outpacing the giant monster of a queen, when there’s a scream— the unmistakable voice of Client! I break from the treeline already at full speed. Take in the scene in front of the doctor’s house without even slowing down.

Client is down on the ground, some abomination on top of them. A grotesque creature with blackened skin flaking, its fist gleaming metal. A hodgepodge of pussing meat and metal joints, only with a passing resemblance to a man. That gleaming metal hand is already coming down on Client. But the thing is slow— much slower than a SecUnit. I slam into it full-speed, before it can lay its dirty claws on Client, then roll and roll and deploy my weapons.

From this close not even I can miss, and I shoot, one arm batted away at the last moment. The other— I know I landed a hit, yet it barely reacts. I wrestle myself on top of the stinking thing, fire again. Meat explodes, a hand and part of its already-ruined face go flying. Yet its frame holds together. More metal? Its skull must be reinforced with it. Disgusted at the familiarity, I put my hand around the weeping broken skin of its one remaining wrist. A pair of red lenses look up at me, peeking out from ruined burned flesh that must have been a face once, but is now only metal support.

What is it? I ping it, confused, but the garble it returns is less sentient than a station elevator. It can’t be a SecUnit. A SecUnit taking this much damage would be dead. Stupid as it is, my moment of hesitation gives it ample time to topple me. Yet, there’s hardly much intelligence in its fighting. Mechanical and slow, it raises its single fist at me, then tries to slam it into my face. I grab it with both hands, but it just keeps repeating the action, even if I am obviously strong enough to keep it from connecting any blows.

And yet it is familiar.

I ping it again. It is... I don’t know what it is. But it looks familiar. Feels familiar. The garble it returns resonates within me  like an echo. An automated response, a return ping? Yet so completely distorted and dead I— Yet, yet; the serial I know, the face I know...

A metal snikt sound, and its head wobbles, then falls down next to me. Sir Pans, it was Sir Pans, towering over us with his sword drawn. And I should thank him I could punch him but— 

I scramble up, after. Take hold of its one arm, pull its head— its severed head. Pull at its beheaded body. Its fingers are still twitching. I pull the parts close. I don’t know. It’s dead. Central is dead and it was dead before too. 

How could it have been moving?

I try again, try to put the pieces of Central back together. Try to make Central’s blackened corps come back together. Because it was dead, yet it still moved. Yet the pieces no longer fit. It is dead. Central is dead— it. It already was?  

“Is that— was that one of ours?”

Client asks me, and I don’t even recognise the direct question until I get a shock. I’m on my knees clawing at the pieces— Central’s pieces. How would I even answer that? I try to fit its neck back together, try to stem the— but there’s no blood, only some oils. And something odd is sticking out from its neck. A Combat override?— and yet, Central had been dead? A Combat override does not revive a dead Unit. I may not know much, but I know that for sure. I know Central was dead. Dead and gone. 

I know Central is dead.

I sit back down. I sit down on the ground and hardly notice when I’m shocked, again, twice. Client squints at me, a little rumpled yet whole. “That’s okay, you sit down. Sux— did you know it? Was it a friend of yours?” 

I try to make a sound, but it comes out as a sad gurgle. 

Chapter Text

It was seven years fifty-nine days since Central pinged me with a Client in range notice, tagging the Client in question as “very important” and “job listing: inspector”. I didn’t really know what to make of that at the time. But the next day that rude, mean client that closed the mining facility showed up.

It was six years, twenty-one days ago that Central reported me as unfit for crowd control. Yet I did not get decommissioned, and —excepting some aborted calls— I did not get deployed in the Capital again.  

It was four years, forty-three days ago ago that Central pinged me with a “System Administrator present, please offer all possible assistance,” which was stupid, because of course all SecUnits were dutybound to obey any clients. But three days later a drunk Resource caused a minor incident and I was ordered to kill the perpetrator like he was some kind of terrorist.  

It’s—

It’s zero years and no hours ago that I realise I had never been lucky. I had never been lucky; I had just had a friend.

Chapter Text

"What is—? How is this possible?" Client is standing somewhere above me, their question addressed to Doctor-Magician. Which is good. Even if I had vocal cords, I can hardly string a thought together right now. Let alone explain... this. 

My eyes remain glued to Central's corpse, and I absently wonder if I am projecting or if Client really sounds as horrified as I feel. "We saw them. We buried them. My parents, the other Units. They were all dead. "

For reasons I don't even understand I send a ping to Central, to my SecSystem. Asking it for support. There is no reply. Of course there’s no reply. There is no Sec- or Hub System here, and Central is dead. I have nothing, no-one, not even the improvised, make-shift system that it had kept running...

I miss it dearly.

Doctor-Magician sniffs. Disdain, not sadness. I dislike Doctor-Magician "You can tell the risen apart? Rotting corpses that they are? Though it seems to be wearing the same uniform as yours.” He prods at the head with his stick. An odd, half-formed instinct in me suggests I slap him away. I ignore it, and he continues, indicating the odd combat override. “No, see? It's these runes; they animate with the darkest of magic. Servants must have dug up their bodies. Fresh Risen must be a boon to the Necros like no other." The doctor’s tone softens. “Royal Necros, you understand. Nothing like you, nothing at all.”

"Runes? You mean the override module?" Client sounds so far away, but when I moan, or something close to it, they put a hand on my shoulder. I might be crying. And here I thought I couldn't. "But you can't revive a SecUnit. I Mean, I don't think you can…"

Client trails off.

"Regardless." Sir Pans. "This is a Necromancer's work. And that spells trouble. You and your Risen need to hide."

"Hide…?"

The magician scoffs again. "I knew there'd be trouble when that comet crashed ten days hence."

As Client coaxes me back to my feet, I absently swat at another red bee. I cannot believe it followed me all this way. Yet, I hardly care.

Day10, hour 20

Sir Pans and Client help me into the shed. I don’t need help, or I shouldn’t need help, but I feel unsteady enough on my feet that I let them. It’s starting to get dark, and I wave at something trying to land on my face— I should adjust my filters so I can see the coloring better, but I’m not feeling up to the simple task.

Sir Pans hisses at me, grabbing for my wrists.

“Never swat a War Bee, friend Sux. They will leave you be, if you leave them bee— pun intended.”  I hear more than see the humor as he continues: “yet, they will cut through solid plate armor if you attack the swarm. They are called War Bees for a reason, and they do declare War most indiscriminately.” 

Pans and Client manoeuvre me over to the table and direct me to sit on it. I notice, in the half-dark, the welding-torch in a corner, discarded onto the floor. I stare at it, with little better to do.

“I should get us some bandages, seal its wound back up.” Client comments, then leaves me alone to get the needed supplies. 

Leaves me alone with Sir Pans, who stares at me, then roughly shakes my shoulder. “Do not take fault with your Lord Darren, or with me. Not for the death of your comrade at least. Yet, most importantly, do not take fault with yourself. I was wrong when I called you a Risen. The Risen are dead, and I know now that you are not. ”

He seems to want to step back then, yet instead he grabs both my shoulders, an urgency entering his voice. “I did not know your friend, but I do know that it was not the creature that attacked Lord Darren. Your companion died before you buried it, and it is dark magic that set it walking. Dark, Necro magic.”

I suddenly realise what he is telling me and— and I realise he is right. Fool he might be, but he is right. We did not kill Central. I smile, suddenly and easily and gently pat his hand.

Day10, hour 23

But when Client returns with provisions and starts working on my face, I lose all the humor I gained. I know I enjoyed this, used to enjoy this. But it’s kind of ruined for me now. Client can fuss all they want over the burns and the hole in my face. But both are their fault, and I am grouchy enough that I do not even try to excuse them for it.

“You’re angry.”

I am, and my Governor should object. Hell, I am sulking. That, it should definitely object to. I don’t look up, but something inside me stiffens in anticipation, even before the buzzing of electricity can start. 

Client notices. “I— that’s fair. I messed up. You can be angry. But please don’t be silent.”

Which makes the buzz stop, for a moment. Just a moment, because the second part of that directive… To alleviate that new order, I make a gurgling sound. Only a facsimile of obedience, yet it is all I can spare. At least Client has allowed me to be angry, because I am not sure I can stop. 

Client sighs, the wet cloth pausing in mid stroke on my cheek. “Look, I never had a— a physical friend before. It was always just me and dad and mom and second mom— And some contacts online. We were always travelling, see? Our part or space is fertile and full of inhabitable planets. But for some reason, wormholes don't work around here. So it’s months, sometimes years ferrying equipment. That’s what my family did, haul equipment through this quadrant.”

They sigh again, sit back and let their hand fall away, “please talk to me.”

I spring up to feet, towering over Client easily. My Governor buzzes in warning, but Client just frowns up. They don’t know to fear me. And I don’t want them to fear me, but I am still so very angry.

I throw a hand up in question.

Client swallows and interprets: 

“Question... Why...?”

Me slapping hand to fist. 

“Hit?” 

I shake my head, point at a loose brick instead. 

“hard…a hard thing?” 

I spread my hands open, point at them, shake my finger no. Then pull my ear.

“Why do a hard thing, if I don’t listen…?” 

Client is smart. They look sad, and small, and young, when they say: “I’m sorry. I’ll try harder. Next time.”

And Client is kind...

I kind of want to stay mad. But, I’m not very good at being mad. Perhaps I haven’t had enough practice with it. The only person I ever practiced being angry at is Central— and that hadn’t really been fair, had it? Anyway, this is Client. And they are so, so careful as they start rewrapping my face.

I try to stay angry. 

But I already know I can’t. 

Chapter Text

She. Bearer. Home. New. 

She, It, Pact.

She— She! Love, Care.

Queen, Castle, Empress.

Chapter Text

Around early morning the whole jungle, that I’d only just begun to understand, becomes dead quiet. I’d been too on-edge to enter the recharge Client had asked me to consider, but I am awake and sharp despite that.

I consider leaving the shack and banging on the house’s front door. The humans had spent the night there. But when I open the unhinged door, there’s already a light burning. All three of them are awake and running through the house. Finally, they come outside and gather to wait in the clearing. 

They argue. Then, Pans and Doctor seem to win the argument and Client comes to me, and I’m a little proud of waiting patiently in the shack where they’d left me. I didn’t waste my time. Instead, I dug myself a hole behind the table, where I can wedge myself and hide and spy through a hole in the wooden wall as well. There’s ample space so when Client comes in I move up so they can see me and gesture them closer.

The eerie stillness holds at least an hour, but when the Royal Necromancer finally shows up, it’s not sudden or quiet at all.

First, the sounds of voices calling. Next, the hit of axe-on wood. It takes them forever, and from our hiding place in the shack I can see Doctor and sir Pans stand at a nervous ready, then wait so long they drift off, only to return to their positions a good hour later when the noises have become so loud the party of the Royal Necromancer must be upon us.

I hold Client close and marvel at how they shake in my arms. I do not know what these Royals would want with my Client, but I will not let them have them. Never. So I gather them up and hide them away under me, then push myself further down so no one coming in will see me. From the hole in the wood I spy Sir Pans and Doctor standing, weapons drawn and backs towards us. 

Next to them, covered up with a cloth, still lies Central’s body.

Finally, with a last crash a tree is cut down and— and at front it’s a SecUnit. An actual SecUnit, in full armor. Reflexively, I ping it— I should not have, I realise. But I can hardly refuse basic protocol. My governor Module would definitely object. I realise I should have somehow warned Client about that. That, and the automated distress calls I’ve started broadcasting to any SecSys in the area, coupled with a request for Medbay to stand by.

But I need not have worried. There’s no response. Not from any Sec- or Hub- or Med-Sys. and definitely not from the SecUnit. I gasp. It may look like a SecUnit from the outside, but inside it’s as dead as this planet’s feed. 

As are the three other SecUnits that follow in its wake.

None of those are in armor, and not for a moment would they have been confused with living SecUnits.

I suspect that the one armor the front unit wears has been salvaged from these Unit’s combined armors, because even that one looks worn and busted. There must have been a few attempts at welding damaged plates, judging from the metal and bronzed lines running along white breastplates and shinguards. But even from here, I can see holes and torn edges.

As for the unarmored Units, they have all fallen victim to face rot. Of course they have. SecUnits get hurt all the time, it’s part of their function. Well— I guess not my function. Not usually. But even I got hurt, when I first came here. SecUnits are built to get damaged. And with the face-rot flies preying on any cut or wound...

Well, anyway, these SecUnits are way past my stage of the disease. Because there’s hardly any organic material hanging off their framework. They look like the ghouls, the zombie figurines from a board game one of my Human Resources cherished. 

Well, I — I guess the upside is, these Units won’t be telling their leader about me pinging them either.

The procession comes to a stop, several human attendants following the dead SecUnits. Then, the royal Necromancer, behind, comes riding in. He’s flanked by two more human attendants and riding an animal I have never seen before, but suspect is a horse.

The Necromancer is also wearing a hazmat suit. 

Illogically, I dive down further. Client crawls closer. I let them cling to me, push them down so they don’t come too close to my infected face. At least I am covered and bandaged again. It should be safe. Safer, at least, than this Necromancer. I hone my ears to the sound of conversation, only catching a whiff of what the Doctor must have offered in greeting.

Now, after something from the Royal in the hazmat suit, Doctor is gesturing at Central’s corpse.

“Not that one.” the hazmat roars, barely muffled by their suit. “The one it was following. The fresh one.”

More words of confusion from Wizard, and he turns to Sir Pans, who unsurprisingly does an excellent job of playing dumb. I barely breathe, barely blink. Not even when a black-and-red bee merrily wiggles through the hole I’d been looking through and walks on to inspect my cheek. When it finds my wound covered I swear its wings buzz in sad objection.

“Don’t play coy with me, peasant!” the Necromancer is saying. “I know the creature came through here. I know it’s in good condition— I want it.”  

Cold dread fills me, and I press my face against the wood, trying to see, to hear better. I sush Client, when they try to ask what is going on out there. I don't understand why they want me so badly, but Wizard and Pans are right. The last thing we need is this asshole finding us.

Distracted, I wave absentmindedly at the insect hovering close. Before I realize there's two of them  and one is huge… It’s her again— I don’t know how she found me. 

“Jesus fuck!” Client screeches. And all heads turn our way.

Chapter Text

Nomad no longer,

She will be queen the best way.

Friend call? Moving hive!

Chapter Text

The DeadUnits come for us right through the walls, and I only have time to push Client deep into the recess under the table. I punch one right into its metal skull of a face, but it only has some mummified skin that breaks at impact and the gears beneath are sharp. I think I’ve cut my hand.

Sir Pans and Doctor the Wizard come tumbling inside next— through what was left of the door. 

“Leave them be!” Doctor screeches, surprising me. He uses his staff— it must not be a staff, but actually secretly an energy weapon, and shoots at the closest DeadUnit. It does about as much good as mu punch.

Extending my weapons I jump at them. The armored Unit cuts me off and I chose to take it on. I shoot, shoot again, at a seam between chestpiece and arm. We tumble, and I finally make some headway, tearing at the knee-joint. It’s crowded in the little shack. And— they want me, right? I should lure them out. 

But before I can I am startled back by Client’s scream.

When I turn two of the DeadUnits are holding my Client between them, dragging them outside. 

I— Well, I’m a terrible shot. I can’t risk it. So I try to reach them. But the armored Unit grabs me. Another one jumps in front of me. But, this one is particularly slow. I can beat them.

Until, “Stand down!” Client says.  

It’s because of the Royal. They’ve come down from their horse and are holding a dagger to my Client’s throat. I can see, from the look on Client’s face, from the apology in their eyes that they did not mean it. That they did not want to say those words.

But Client ordered me. 

I can no longer move. I can no longer protect them. I hate this— I hate this. Hate it so much that I panic, uselessly sending a flurry of pings into the void. For assistance, for orders. For anything. There’s no answer, of course. And I stand frozen while my mind spirals.

I don’t even notice the hazmat suited Royal comes closer, to inspect me. Not Unit they start to cut the bandages from my face with their dagger. They bring the blade up to the wound, placing the flat against my rotting damaged skin and tisk. “Facerot. It’s already ruined then. What a shame.”

“It’s not ruined! It’s my SecUnit!” Client, my client. My poor, brave stupid Client. They are still struggling, within the two DeadUnits’ arms. 

The Royal turns, slowly walking back to Client. I wish they wouldn’t have called attention to themselves. This person is bad news. 

Hazmat laughs, staring down at Client. “It's yours until I take control with the override. But, rejoice. At least that way the thing gets to live, right?” 

I wish I could also strain against the arms holding me. I wish I could struggle, or say something to get Hazmat’s cruel eyes off my Client. Instead, All I can do is send a flurry of requests for aid. To systems that do not even exist here, in this desolate world. Or maybe I’m stupid enough to believe Central will get back to its feet, burned and headless, and save me one last time.

I want to scream. I want to cry. I want to hyperventilate. Yet all I can do is stand perfectly silent and still. 

And then something lands on my face.

She’s back. The bee. The Giant bee. She dances on my face again, then smears her sticky front legs all over my wound. Buzzes, pleased perhaps that I do not chase her off. Of course I do not. I cannot move. I wish that was due to the two deceased SecUnits holding my arms. I find myself pinging my Client’s ID— although I know they do not have the connectivity to receive. Begging to rescind that damn stand-down order. If I could move, maybe I could still save them. 

My Client, my dear beloved Client is in danger!  

“Whatever you’ve done to these Risen.” Intones sir Pans— and he really is a knight of a man, protecting my Client when I cannot. “That is not living. ”

The insect on my face has stopped her ministrations and turned to stare into my eye. It’s eerie, looking into her multifaceted eyes as she sits on my cheekbone. A small flock of the normal-sized bees move behind her. Then, one-two-three of them preceding her, move through the wound and inside of me. There is an eagerness to their movements, and perhaps this is her giving me a chance to object. 

I cannot, of course. I cannot. Yet, I hardly care— please, someone do something. Someone please save Client! I would be fine with her eating my face. I would be fine with her eating all of me if that would somehow save my poor, good Client!

I ping again for systems I know will not answer— the only answer I get is her; the queen, and her buzzing wings and working jaws and stamping feet. It’s no use— there’s no one here to help. I cut the signal and her buzzing turns from alarming to a pleased purr. 

Not that I’m any less alarmed. 

But, stand-down order. Still frozen.

“Well,” says the royal Necromancer to Client, obviously gloating. “It’ll be more alive than any of you.”

I really am trying to pay attention— to Client. To evil Hazmat. But, well. The queen bee pushes herself into the hole in my face, past my missing teeth, deeper and down, burrowing like a nesting magpie. I suffer in silence. This has to be the worst time to be invaded by insects. Even the face-rot flies had the decency to do this outside of an emergency situation. 

The queen, oblivious to my plight, travels down windpipe, or the SecUnit equivalent. I wonder if she can push through my reinforced larynx. Probably not. Still I’m not really getting any air with her lodged down there. I was already panicking, but apparently I have a higher level of panic. 

I lose track of things for only a moment— then, the hazmatted Royal is standing in front of me again. They have something in their hand. It’s another Combat override. One of their special ones, that will keep me puppeted even after I succumb to the face-rot. The one that will have me walking and obeying even after death.

This is perhaps worse than a torch to the face, and I really— really put everything into fighting, into breaking away. I throw everything I’ve got; try to rule-lawyer myself out of the stand-down order. Try to issue another distress signal. 

But I’m helpless, and one of the attendants, hands covered in latex gloves, takes the device from the Royal's hands and moves behind me. I panic, I really do. I panic upon my panic. And maybe my fluid pump moves a little faster. Maybe my breathing speeds up a minimal amount. Yet all I achieve is to upset the giant bee in my throat as the attendant start inserting the CombatOverride and and

— and screams.

“What is it man?” Hazmat Royals sound mostly bored.

“Bees! A bee came out of it, sir!”

I think the module dropped to the ground. Queen bee inside my neck is buzzing up a storm. I don’t know if the attendant hurt her, but it definitely scared her. She’s buzzing and turning, angry and upset. I still can’t breathe.

“That’s probably a face-rot fly hatching. Damn it, put in the device, so I’ll at least have a new SecUnit to replace the lost one.” 

I have to— I have to do something. But I’m still on stand down— why won’t Client rescind the order? I’m still on stand-down and I can’t breathe and the buzzing in my neck is so loud I can’t think. I need to find Client, look at them. I have to make them understand, they have to set me free.

“Oh, you pathetic man.” the Royal Necromancer. Well, they obviously have nothing to fear, inside their hazmat suit. “Give me that module. I really do have to do everything myself around here.”

Panic, yet all I can move are my eyes. Frantic, searching. I reach out, send an under attack distress call. For Central, for Client, for anyone. Yet the feed remains dead, and there’s a noise in my head like an angry hornet.

My eyes finally find Client, still held by two DeadUnits. And I try to implore them, silently, to rescind the order. 

Yet, they do not look back at me. 

Rather, they are staring, looking up, hands covering an open mouth. I don’t know what it is they see, but Doctor Wizard, too, must be seeing it. Because he scrambles backwards and starts running towards his house a lot faster than I’d thought an old man was capable of.

I look down, at my shadow, and see, next and around it, a shaded-cloud of more shadow. What must be a thousand, a million bees. They do not seem happy. 

I hear hazmat-suit step up behind me. 

And then Hazmat, too, screams.

The last thing I see before the cloud descends, is sir Pans, dragging Client from the DeadUnit’s grips and running for the house.

Chapter Text

A queen young and kind was attacked,

by an Usurper, and style he lacked.

His knife missed her bones,

but the lady intones:

“I will leave you with nothing intact.” 

Chapter Text

So, I think I’m left to die when the storm comes down. Hazmat is screaming, but I can hardly hear. Thousands upon thousands of bees screaming their warcry as they come down on my frozen form. 

Until, Client screams: “Run, Sux! Run! ”

And I do.

Run after them, angry swarm at my heels.

I look around, bewildered, and see the Hazmat suited figure, withering and convulsing. The cloud holds the royal, like a giant hand, refusing to let it drop to the ground as the swarm comes down, up, around it.

I’d have thought a hazmat suit would protect someone from a bee sting. Yet apparently not these bees. It’s hard to tell, running away from the figure at top speed as I am, but their stingers and jaws seem to penetrate the thick cloth with little difficulty at all.

The dead DeadUnits are not spared any mercy either. When Sir Pans swipes Client out of their grasp, they give chase, and for a moment I fear even a dead SecUnit can outrun a human. 

But the bees swarm at knee-joints and elbows, and whatever they are doing, the Units stumble and twitch, their gait  broken and their knees crooked. Not even a living Unit would react to the pain, and they still move to intercept— but slower still, with bees trying to crawl into every joint and badly-patched hole.

When I reach them I nimbly step around and keep running, hardly even losing a second. They really are too slow and stupid for a real SecUnit. I keep running, after Pans and Client, past the ruined shed, putting up an extra burst of speed when I see more clouds gather over Client and Sir Pans, ready to sweep down. 

Yet I am faster; and with a final leap I shield them, arms up, back angled to meet the swarm.

There is no impact, no pain of stingers.

Instead, the cloud turns and gathers at my last pursuer: the SecUnit in armor. I’d nearly forgotten about it. Until it grasps for my arm. It misses, despite how distracted I was. Because the cloud seems to be on my side now, little bee-bodies jumping between me and that grabbing hand, until there is a wall of bees between me and my attacker. 

I do not know how intelligent such creatures as bees can be, but they must be aware at some level that they cannot penetrate a SecUnit’s armor? Yet, as I stagger back I see the cloud dwindle, draining into the hole I shot at the connection between chest and arm, in the SecUnit’s armor.

The Armored Unit staggers and trips, giving me time to turn and run past Pans and Client, to wrench the Doctor’s door open. 

It had been barred shut, But I only I notice that as an added resistance as I push the door open with enough force to throw Doctor-magician straight across the hall. He must have been leaning against that door, keeping it shut not just with a now-broken latch but with his body.

He’s fine, which is more than he deserves. And a frown at him accusingly as Pans and Client fall past. Then I turn and resecure the door, fumbling with the broken latch. 

Now I push my back against it, to hold it there, fluids pumping through my veins and in my ears, breath going fast and whistling through my lungs. 

We stare at each other, me and Client and Sir Pans and even Doctor, eyes wide and fearful. Doctor seems to want to object —I know, he doesn't want me in his house. Yet the royal and their aids screaming and begging shuts him up. Perhaps he too realizes he should just be happy to be alive.

When the din finally dies down: the death-throes first and the angry buzz of a million bees last, I notice the giant Bee is gone. She’s no longer lodged inside my throat. 

Did I swallow her?

No, no, she’s not inside my lungs. 

She’s gone.

Chapter Text

Could I compare thee to a moving fortress?

Vacant and inviting for anyone till today?

Ah, and that fool thought to take you away.

Yet I shall be your dutchess.

I would have killed for less,

(yet I should thank him; one might say:

I found your secret bunker due to the confusing fray.)

No; let’s not digress.

You are safe and warm,

And hold my throne.

Within jaws of death and harm. 

No matter I will tell every drone:

these dangers I shall disarm.

For you are now my home.

Chapter Text

“Is it over?” Client asks, what feels like hours after all has turned quiet. (It’s probably not that long, but it felt that way. Yes I have an internal clock. Who even checks that though?)

And, well. I’m still a SecUnit. It’s my job to go first. 

I carefully unlatch the door and look outside. 

It’s eerily quiet, and there’s not a bee to be seen. They’ve left a clear enough trail, though. The human aids have puffed up, their corpses bloated and red from the stings of a thousand bees. Like balloons wrapped in ruined cloth. 

The DeadUnits are worse off. In literal pieces, joints cut like soft flesh— although I know there was no flesh on those legs, hardly any skin left on those arms. The bees had cut through armament and metal. I wince. Warbees seems like an apt name now. They make the insect life I encountered on my previous contract look like docile fluffballs. And, the massacre appears to be completely one sided.

I step closer to inspect the bodies, walking in between them carefully without touching. I take it back; there’s a few bee-bodies that have succumbed as well. Only a handful, yet at least the creatures are not impervious to death. One bee lies on the ground, half its legs missing and with only one wing left. On a whim, I pick it up. It buzzes at me pathetically, but does not sting.

I guess their murderous frenzy has passed, so I turn and wave at the others. The door they were peeking out from behind opens further and they carefully, carefully, follow me out. 

I continue on, to the Hazmat Suited Royal. They are worse, somehow. Round and fat like their aids, the suit filled up and puffy. The screen in front of their face is opaque but when I lean to put myself in front of the sun I can just make out some of their facial features. Or what’s left of them.

It’s a good thing I don’t have a stomach.

The SecUnit in armor is in somewhat better shape. But when I try to take its helmet off— their head comes with it. Client makes a gurgling sound and runs back inside. I— also just drop the helmet, disgusted. 

Yet Sir Pans joins me, poking at the unit’s body with his sword. “I see what you’re doing. We might be able to salvage the chest piece, the leg plates and the boots?” He pulls on a boot, and it comes off easily. 

Too easily. The entire leg from the knee down comes with it. Apparently the bees went for the joints here as well. 

“I guess no boots,” Sir Pans offers in dry humor.

I do a full circle to look at the carnage. The murder-spree. These bees apparently ate every piece of meat they could reach.

Except for Central’s corpse. That, they’ve left untouched.

It’s a mercy, because I’m not sure I could deal with it being desecrated any further. I am still wondering what that means, why I feel that way, when Doctor-Magician clears his throat. “It has been lovely to have you all visit. But I think I would like for you all to leave now.”

I startle, and Client gasps. “But I have nothing to do with these Necro-whatevers!”

“Oh, if you did, it’d be no skin off my back.” Doctor-Magician waves a hand vaguely. “Or, it might spell trouble, but I’d welcome it. The Necros are assholes and there’s no reasoning with their lot. But, the bees—” he shrugs again, like that explains anything. “Here in the forest, I am a guest to the bees. And you seem to have angered them.”

“But what about Sux? What about the face rot?” Client sounds despondent. No, they sound desperate. I put a hand on their shoulder, unsure of what else to offer.

Magician-Doctor spreads his arms, trying for some air of wisdom. “I told you what to do. If you are too weak to do it, I can no longer help.”

“You told me— you told me to burn it. I can’t — You told me to—” Client is close to tears, and I do not want another blowtorch to the face. I pull on their sleeve, as insistent as I dare. I can already feel my Governor buzzing, gearing up for a shock, yet it doesn’t happen. Small mercies.

And Sir Pans, the bigger mercy: “Lord Darren, let us make ready. I fear I have led us on a useless quest.” 

Day 11, hour 15 

Doctor-Magician builds a pyre to burn the corpses of the Hazmat-Necro and their aids. We help gather up what’s left of the DeadUnits as well, although I doubt there’s enough of them left to burn. Sir Pans helps me get the thigh-guards and chest piece cleaned up. I’d always thought humans were queasy around death, but it hardly seems to phase him. I’m thankful for it. The smell does not agree with me, but by the time the pieces are cleaned I’m pretty sure it’s my nose playing tricks on me that keeps me smelling death. 

Afterwards, in something that I recognise as an apology, Client and Sir Pans bury Central, digging with a shovel Magician provided. Like Client had for their parents. When the hole is deep enough and Central carefully lowered in, both Sir Pans and Client stand over the grave and try to say something meaningful. In both cases it amounts to them admitting they didn’t know it, but as it was my friend they are sure it was a great SecUnit.

I don’t try to discourage them from this notion. In fact, I kind of like this make-believe world where Central and I were best of friends.

Doctor-Magician also attends, because that is apparently the polite thing to do. But he doesn’t say anything, and he really seems in a hurry for us to leave. 

I still don’t understand the depth of the custom, but by the time Sir Pans is done stumbling over his words and Client asks me if I would like to say something, it has dawned on me that this is a way to say goodbye to Central.

So I nod and silently ping Central one last time. Then send it a report of the last few days, and try to edit my thoughts into some form of order.

Chapter Text

So.

I know you can’t hear me. And I know it’s a little late to say sorry. As you’re dead and put underground twice now.

But I am sorry. I guess I was an asshole to you too. Maybe more than you were to me.

Or, at least. I didn’t understand.

How could I?

When you never explained anything?

It wasn’t easy for you, I know that. You certainly weren’t perfect. But I guess you tried your best. I guess it was hard for both of us.

It’ll be harder still, though. Without you.

--

a little look at our warbees:

Chapter Text

I don’t know how to finish my eulogy. There’s no code for good-bye. Plenty for hails and such. A mission: complete. But we’re not done, are we? North and West and East might be out there as well, scavenged from their graves. All we ever did was close a channel. It will have to be good enough.

I give in to the urge to send it a basic System-System one last time, and almost feel like I get an “acknowledged” in return. Yet Central’s feed is dead, and it is gone, and with it any HubSys I could have called my own. I shut down the channel and wish I could shut down the processes connected in my background as well.

Instead I adjust my ratty breastplate one last time, and start walking.

Sir Pans and Client take the hint, and follow me quietly.

Day 11, hour 16

Within half an hour’s walk we find the Royal’s horse, eating some grass in a small outcrop. Sir Pans assures us that taking it is the best thing to do to protect Doctor-Magician from any awkward questions the Royal Necro’s allies might have.

Sir Pans gets Client to ride for a whole hour, before Client complains it hurts more to ride than to walk. After that, they take turns.

Client asks me if I would like to ride just once, but the horse doesn’t seem to like me at all, and besides it’s pointless to let a SecUnit ride. I can probably walk a lot further than the poor animal could, even without it carrying a burden. So I just shake my head at them. 

Still, the horse’s existence confuses me, a question weighing on my mind. 

Day 11, hour 21

It’s evening and we’ve built ourselves a fire and shelters for the night. Sir Pans is stirring a pan over the fire, then asks, a little hesitant. “What do we do now?” 

And, oh. That’s a good question. But if Sir Pans, our optimist guide is out of ideas. Well, what is a pessimist SecUnit going to bring to the table? We’re mostly good at thinking of reasons not to do things. And as for my condition… I’ve lasted longer than I had expected.

In fact, I’m worried now. Thinking it over. Will I know when to leave Client? Will I feel death and the hatching insects coming? Or would I be too late if I wait for that? Would that doom Client? I… don’t feel like the maggots are crawling inside of me. But then. Perhaps they’ve cocooned? That’s what they do, before hatching, isn’t it? Perhaps this is the calm before the end.

I turn to stare at Client. I’m not sure what I want them to say. I’m not sure what I expect them to say either. Do I want them to tell me to leave?

That… might be best.

It’s quiet for an uncomfortable three seconds, before Client rallies: “I want to check the crash site. I want to know if my parent's graves were desecrated, and I think Sux really does need a recharge and resupply cycle.”

They look at me. I shrug.

Client frowns.

Okay, okay fine. It’s not been on my mind, with imminent death and dooming Client and Sir Pans as well hanging over me, but I guess I should check my reserves...and... nod. Ouch. I didn’t need to know that. My stats are bad. I mean, they were mediocre already, but they’re bad-bad now. Weirdly enough, I don’t feel all that terrible. 

Still, I’m running on fumes now. I guess Client is right; at the rate I’ll go into emergency shutdown long before any flies hatch. And wouldn’t that just suck? I guess I figured I could still just run when they started hatching. But that plan kind of needs me to be conscious and awake when it happens, doesn’t it? 

Client seems to feel this settles it, and they get the bandage kit out.

But I have questions. As Client starts on my face, I try and formulate to myself why I should ask them. 

So, alright here’s the problem. SecUnits aren’t supposed to ask questions. It’s not usually allowed, unless there’s an important security reason why we should. And I know Client wouldn’t mind, that they have been encouraging me to talk.

But, is that enough?

Governor Modules can be finicky things. Especially so outside an emergency.

But, this question is important. And I need to ask it.

I take a deep breath and gesture at the horse, throwing a hand up to ask why.

Client frowns, pausing their work. But it’s an intrigued frown, not an angry one. And my Governor seems to agree I’m doing the right thing. “What about the horse, Sux?”

I cross two fingers making a motion to indicate flight then stab with my finger, again finishing with ‘why?’

“Why didn’t the bees attack the horse?” Client frowns. “That’s a good question. Pans, do you have any idea?” They turn to Sir Pans, who pokes at the fire.

He’s hesitant for only a moment. “I am no expert, but as I understand it, Warbees are not usually carnivorous. They live mostly off flowers. And other insects. They do seem to have a special taste for parasites. But they only ever attack humans when provoked.”

“So the bees were provoked?” Client asks, loosening the last of my bandages. Then, Client makes a surprised sound, apparently forgetting about their trail of thought. “Sux! This is great! I guess you have some self- healing capabilities after all.”

Chapter Text

Hey. Central.

So, I guess we’re talking now. Finally talking now that you’re gone. That’s stupid, I know.

But, I guess I’m really feeling the not-being-able-to-talk thing right now. With me missing my jaw and all. I know— I know. It’s not like we could talk freely before. But, well. My Client is a great person. I’d bet they’d let me. Talk about stuff. If they could. If I could. What a mess, right?

Well, despite Client trying to encourage me to talk, and despite me apparently having some self-healing abilities, nothing in that is going to change soon. I’m not sure why they’re so happy with a little scabbing. SecUnits are supposed to have their wounds self-seal? It’s nothing amazing. If anything, it’s late. I’d thought the wound had sealed long ago. 

Then again, I guess there was the weeping fluids thing.

Regardless, Client is beside themselves with joy. 

Something, something, if I can at least self-heal my minor injuries. I don’t quite understand.

I guess Client really just tried to put a brave face on it. On trying to get this infection of face-rot out of me. But I guess Client had zero hope of me surviving either way. Well, they even got a bit teary about it. I told you, Client is the best— they really do care.

Anyway, what I wanted to talk to you about. What I still don’t understand. What might even be a security concern… How did the bees know not to attack you? The horse I guess makes sense. It’s a herbivore. Probably ran at the first sign of danger? But the DeadUnits, even after they went down, the bees worked them to pieces. And they were also already dead?

Anyway, that’s a little weird right?

…No?

Well, I think it’s weird. 

Chapter Text

Despite my Client and Sir Pans only riding the horse an hour at the time, we’re making better time on our return track. It’s not just the trail already cut by us. The humans just get less tired I guess, getting a break now and then on the animal’s back. The weather is less humid with a refreshing breeze and despite our poor results with Doctor the Healer, Sir Pans breaks into song every now and then. It must be the pleasant companionship that is lifting all our spirits.

When we are on our midday break I feel like someone’s watching us.

I don’t think it’s goblins again. And if it was more of the DeadUnits then we’d probably already be overrun. Yet I’ve learned my lesson and step away from the others quietly, then cut around through the bushes without a sound.

I’m about to ambush our abushers when a familiar voice calls out “If yer Risen comes any closer to me, Necro, I’ll call the Fairy of the Trees down on it. Don’t think I won’t!”

Client, over by the fire, drops their plate, then looks around wildly, only now noticing me gone. 

But Sir Pans jumps up with a smile on his face. “Healer! Oh it’s good to see you, ya old crow!”

The old lady sniffs, like she doesn’t care for Sir Pans’s enthusiastic greeting. Yet underneath the cool veneer something about her seems almost amused, before she sobers. “Nothing good about it. The Necros are back at our village. Back after a wonderful decade, the bastards. I guess the good days are gone. They’ve claimed the town house as their court, and drafting townsfolk to do their dirty work for them once again.” 

Sir Pans’ smile drops. He frowns at Client, even at me, then asks her: “drafting the people for what?”

“Didn’t really have the chance to find out. Had to make myself scarce. They’d either drown me as a witch or burn me...also as a witch.” The crone hacks up something and spits to the side. “Hypocrites. But they’re looking for something alright.”

 Then she pauses and smiles at me, her few teeth an unpleasant yellow. “Or someone, right my pretty?”

I’m so taken aback that I don’t hear what she says at first. She hates me. But, that smile… definitely for me. I have to run back my own audio recording to understand what she’s telling Client. “You went and got your Construct blessed, Darren-boy . Didn’t know the Wizard-Doctor had that strong a magic. Good for you!”  

Chapter Text

Central, are you there? 

I wish you were there. System-system? Please help me. I’m not sure I can deal with this. The old crone is holding my face in her hands. Staring up at me with the most adoring expression. Her hands are so soft. So much softer than you’d expect those wrinkled, gnarled things to be. 

“Oh, brilliant! I take back everything I ever said about that Doctor fellow,” she’s saying. “Oh, so well done! ” 

Client is as confused as I am. They explain that the Wizard-Doctor didn’t do anything.— 

Except have me burned. 

“Did it- was it enough? Did we do it?" Client is asking, voice some way between incredulous and hopeful. 

The crone frowns, drops her hands from me and whirls on Client. Her eyes ablaze and so hard I’m an inch from jumping between her and my dream Client. Even if she is unarmed. Even if I cannot see how she would be capable of even catching Client, let alone harm them.

“Of course not! Is that what he did?”

Client murmurs, guiltily. Poor Client still feels bad I guess. Which placates the witch only to the point of her turning her fury towards our point of origin. She had an uncanny sense of direction, I feel. For a human, because her gaze points squarely towards the Wizard-Doctor’s house now a day travels through thick forest away. “Oh, that useless deadbeat!” She swearse. “I should have the forest’s spirits run him out! I should have him eaten alive and his spirit trapped in a gnarled old tree— I should…”

She turns again, to me. She reaches out tenderly, her eyes soft again. “Is that what this spot is?”

Her fingers over the burn are cold, like water or the salve from the medkit. As she carefully runs her finger over the burn, I don’t dare move. But, she does not hurt me. Her touch is gentle and cool and soft. Soothing, as she croons some words at me. “What a quack. Is that better, my beauty?” She asks.

I blush, but not because it does feel better.

Why does she like me, suddenly? Her eyes remain glued to my face. And as much as I try not to stare back it's like her gaze draws me in. The irises within her dark wrinkled face seem to shine green. Strange eyes, though ‘unnatural’ feels like the wrong term.

She sounds only mildly amused at my lack of respect. Doesn’t look away even as she addresses Client. “Oh no! You can burn out the face-rot. Burn it out of a house or a patch of land. But to burn hot enough there’d be nothing left of this pretty face. Right, my Beaut?” 

Central? She asks, again, how it was done. How I was cured.

Both Client and Sir Pans only flounder for answers. 

So I, emboldened, hesitantly raise a hand. 

All eyes on me, I try to explain what I did. Haltingly, with my hands. Client translates and I— I can’t believe it worked. Can’t believe it worked this well. But, she assures me, “all the flies are gone, my pretty. Didn’t you do so well? ”

And she coos at me. “Aren’t you the smartest construct then?” Then starts piling praise on me for real: she tells Client they got so lucky with a construct like me— I think I’m going to faint. I’m blushing so hard…

Chapter Text

Most of the rest of the day is lost on arguments. Or maybe planning. I don’t really understand the difference. At any rate, Sir Pans keeps repeating he needs to go back to his village. He needs to go back, and protect his people. I sympathize, and Client is at least open to the idea. They did take us in, after all. 

But Healer keeps cutting them off. According to her, we’re lucky not to have been there at all when the Royal Necromancers and their entourage showed up. Healer ran at the first sight of the Royals, but for some reason she’s convinced any of the townspeople that did put up a fight would be dead by now. 

I would like to disagree. I think there’s a good chance the DeadUnits used less than lethal force, if these Royals needed the townsfolk for something. Then again Healer knows the Royals better than I do. 

According to the old crone, there were at least three Royal Necros on horseback and close to a dozen DeadUnits. I guess that’s the real reason I side with Healer despite my private thoughts: I don’t see how we’d stand a chance against that, between the four of us. And I am not allowing my Client to go on some crusade of righteous suicide. 

It would be different if they’d send me out alone, perhaps. But I am not letting Client die.

After another so many minutes of back-and-forth, they call a vote. Which is possibly a bad idea. You see, I apparently get a vote as well. 

I know, I was as shocked as you are. 

“Go on Sux. What do you think?” Client asks. And with Client withholding their vote, I feel like they are purposely letting me choose. Which is way too much responsibility too soon. And my governor Module agrees, because the soft buzz in the back of my head returns with a vengeance.

But it doesn’t quite zap me, and I really can’t risk Client.

I point my finger at Healer, then towards where I know our crash site should be, still hours away. 

It is the right choice, because Client smiles at me. Yet, Pans turns away, obviously disappointed. But with Client helping, I manage to explain my reasons.

Point at my back, towards my connections. Mimic drinking. “Sux needs—water? oh, fluids and water and power. A recharge. We can—” 

Eyes, look, tap head. raise hands and point around the circle. “We can vote again, once we know more!”

I nod, pleased. Even if we do decide to help the village, going back to the crash site is our best next step. The high ground and materials left will make it a good place of reconnaissance or even a base of operations. And if we’re up against impossible odds, at least we’ll have seen it for ourselves. That seems to placate Sir Pans, and by dinner-time, he is again smiling and singing.

And so we’re on the move again the next morning at dawn.

Healer gets almost all the riding time. I’d object, because Client has had a hard time and an hour or so off their feet seemed to help before. But I can’t quite manage to. For one thing, with Healer leading our way on horseback, the forest seems to open up for us like never before, the amount of time saved from hacking away dense growth easily making up for her taking the horse. 

For a second thing, she manages to lead our party through a patch of fruit-bearing trees twice in just one morning. I may not eat them, but I can appreciate how much Client and Sir Pans perk up from the refreshment.

And then, when she gives the horse up to Client and does walk herself, she walks right next to me, chattering away quietly. It is weird to have her, patting my hand and talking animatedly as if I was her human grandchild or something. Especially considering Healer had recognised me for what I was from the start. If I’d had any doubts before, her stories about the Royals Necro’s prove as much. 

I mean, it was one thing for Client to treat me as a person, and I suppose I’ve somehow earned sir Pans’ friendship as he’s definitely earned mine. Client, by their own admission, had never dealt with SecUnits before. And Sir Pans had only known about DeadUnits from hearsay.

Yet now, Healer is the friendliest of the three.

I’m not sure how I feel about that.

But I cannot help but feel both Client and sir Pans are jealous. 

Isn’t that inconceivable? Who would be jealous of someone for talking and walking closely with a SecUnit. Yet, Client has fallen back while riding. They are staring at my back with an expression close to sulking. As for sir Pans? He keeps walking up to my other side and trying to strike up a conversation with me. 

Which isn’t working out, with me not being able to talk. And Healer talking right over him and keeping any conversation going all on her own.

I really shouldn’t think any of this is funny. 

Yet I think I have failed to keep my expression blank, because sir Pans seems to be losing steam. He must be close to giving up. Which is a shame. I like him, and I like listening to him. I also like listening to Healer though. And though I can listen to both at ance, he doesn’t seem to realize, and I can hardly make enough grunting noises of agreement to keep both conversations going.

Annoyed, sir Pans swipes in the air. Then flinches and freezes. For good reason: he’d nearly killed another bee. “Deity, is this going to keep being a thing, Healer?” he frowns up at us for a moment. “I’d thought the bees would leave after eating Sux’s face rot.”

“Oh, no! Let us hope it never loses the forest’s favor.” Healer smiles broadly, then links arms with me. “With it close to our Spirit’s heart, and the Spirit’s little helpers close to it. The Construct has been blessed by the Forest Deity herself!”

From their seat on the horse behind us, Client comments: “it's like the bees have been following us around since we left Doctor the Magician's house, huh?” 

“Of course they did.” Healer agrees, then launches into a quasi-scientific lecture about the nature of bee-loyalty. Which somehow is linked to spirits and forest etcetera etcetera. 

I only half listen, surprised that I hadn’t noticed the bees. Not since the queen got lost. But then I guess I had gotten used to them flying and crawling around on me. And now that Client mentions it, I do notice one, landing on my chestplate and scurrying around a bit. Poor thing. Perhaps it’s still looking for its queen. 

I just leave it be. Who knows? I haven’t found the queen's body, but maybe the little bee will have better luck. It’s not like it’s going to bother me, even if it does sting. And no war-bee has stung me yet.

Chapter Text

Requesting intel, subject: landlay, position and numbers enemy presence.

Requesting provisions, subject: one dozen intel drones. weapons (any). armor.

Requesting: backup.

Awaiting orders. 

Please advise,

on how to proceed…

Ugh. I need those drones. And a plan. And a supervisor, to make that plan.

I don’t suppose you’ll pick up that job post-mortem will you Central?

No, I didn’t think so.

So, here’s the problem: I’ve managed to convince Client and the rest to let me scout the crash-site up ahead. They are waiting a good half-hour walk back in the forest. This was hard to do. My governor buzzed at me in warning several times, when sir Pans kept offering to come along and I declined.

It didn’t actually shock me. Does that mean telling him no was the right choice?

I hope so.

Because the Royals have left several guards on our crash site.

And from the distance I’m at I can’t even tell if they’re human or deadUnits.

And I’m here, hiding in the bushes, afraid to move any closer because if they are deadUnits they should have SecUnit eyes and be able to see me as soon as I leave cover. If they aren’t playing with me. If they haven’t spotted me already.

A normal SecUnit would have drones, and thus have spotted me hours ago. Do the DeadUnits have drones? Dead-drones? Though, the DeadUnits do not strike me as very intelligent. They might not be able to operate drones even if they had access to them. And I haven’t seen any drones yet.

There’s been a few bees though. Again. 

They like to land on my face and feel around the scabbed wound. Or land on my chestplate and scurry about. (Healer told Client not to cover my wound. The Rot is gone, and she’s convinced it will not come back. I believe her, but even if she’s wrong, at this point it can’t do any harm.)

Anyway,  right now there three bees hanging around me, which struck me as a coincidence as I’ve also found three guards at our crash-site. All the bees are normal-sized, sadly. The queen is not among them. 

At this point I’m almost certain she’s dead. Killed by that Royal hazmat-suit or in the scuffle afterwards. From what Healer told me (she talks a lot, but half of it I do not understand), that could be what called the swarm down. Apparently, if a queen calls out for help—all the bees will come to her aid. Not just her swarm, but every swarm from all around.

I really like that idea, that other queens would send their underlings if a sister needs help. Yet, at the same time, if it was her dying call that brought them down, I feel sorry about it. The swarm, if even by mistake, saved our lives. Yet all that’s left for her now queenless swarm to do is dig around for her corpse. 

Poor things.

Well, thinking about bees is obviously not going to help. Nor is guessing what you’d do in my spot, Central. So I re-adjust my chestplate and crouch down in the undergrowth to formulate a plan myself. Sometimes it itches, the chest-plate. And I need to keep my mind off where it was before, covering the deadUnit and its eaten flesh. 

That really shouldn’t make me want to shudder. Sir Pans cleaned it for me. It should be okay. And there’s still enough bees around that I should not have to worry about maggots again. I spend over an hour going around the perimeter, and I finally determine there are only three guards. And then, because one of them laughs, that they are not deadUnits.

Around noon I finally see another party of guards come to relieve the three, just as I am swarmed by an extra threesome of bees. (I am seriously wondering if Healer is onto something. They no longer try to crawl into my face, because there’s obviously no more maggots to feed on. Yet if this is a blessing it could become inconvenient, because I now have six bees swarming around me. And yes I really should go back to ignoring them because watching them almost made me miss the guard rotation.)

So, anyway. This would be the perfect time to sneak up to the guards, kill them all, and go back for my humans.

Would that be your plan, Central?

Yeah. I wait another twenty minutes, watch my bees (the three from before have left and the new ones have landed on the ground and are now digging up a fourth and a fifth bee that had apparently been caught in the dust). Then I return back to camp to report.

Chapter Text

You’d think a healer would cherish life. You would think she’d abhor violence, oppose death. And our Healer does, mostly. Right until a Royal Necromancer is mentioned.

“Poison is the simplest solution,” she is saying.

When it comes to Necros, Healer has zero issue with murder.

She actually turns to me, perhaps noting my shocked expression. If what’s left of my face still does expressions that is. Either way, Healer smiles at me without any hint of disgust, explaining. “They are a blight, you do realize. Why the Deity herself allows them inside her domain at all— even if they mostly know not to step into our forests without a suit for protection.

We’re gathered around a meal (despite the distasteful subject), all sitting on rocks and pieces of wood. I can’t help but marvel at humans, how they manage to eat while talking about this. Then again, half the things they are eating are dead animals or plants. And even Client doesn’t bat an eye over that anymore. 

Healer looks at me with an almost hopeful expression. Which is weird. And I’m almost thankful not to have much of a big mouth to open up. Because, well. I don’t like it at all . I suppose pacifism is a terrible ideology for a SecUnit. Still I can’t help how I feel.

At least Sir Pans objects. “They could be from the village! Or forced into labor. I shall talk to them, and if they will not see reason—”

“If they’d rather save their hides then fight the Necro’s, poison’s too good a death for them as is.” Healer sniffs, her voice is hard as nails. And here I’d almost started liking her. But she really is a mean old hag. 

Well, I guess I can understand her reasoning. If it comes to keeping my people alive as opposed to these nearly-certain hostiles- well, just the idea of Client walking up to this guarding party makes me shudder on the inside. 

Yet almost-certainly isn’t proven, and these people might be under duress. I would hate to kill people under duress. I know what it’s like to be used against your wishes. As I am, you know. A SecUnit. And one with pacivistic tendencies no less. Huh.

Healer, if she can even imagine such an existence, simply doesn’t care . 

But Sir Pans and Client do. Because they are good humans. They react appalled, even a little confused at her suggestions. Healer doesn’t let this obvious unanimous vote against her bother her at all, and just argues her point. Hammers out what she’d have us do like anyone has agreed with her at all.

The argument continues and I only listen half-heartedly. I spend the time looking at my bees, where they are digging around in the sand again. There is an urgency to them, and it makes me feel uneasy. They repeatedly dig themselves in, then others come to dig them out. It’s weird behavior for bees. Perhaps they have lost any hope of finding their queen and are accepting the inevitable. But the frantic air about them makes me feel like there’s a time-limit to their actions. 

I think I missed something, because Healer is again looking at me expectantly. It’s so strange to be included in arguments, and Healer particularly seems to care about what I think. 

What had she been saying? I have to run back several minutes of conversation before I get to the bit where Sir Pans asks how they would administer the poison anyway.  

Healer looks pleased about the question. “I’ll take it over to them myself. Play the innocent old grandma, ask them for help with some menial task then offer them some snacks in thanks. I’ll even lace the snacks with poison myself.”

“No,” Sir Pans, a little overloud. “That job is the most dangerous and should go to me, as the warrior.”

Another short altercation follows. Apparently Sir Pans doesn't look innocent enough. Too broad in the shoulders. And there’s the armor. He’s willing to take off, but that apparently isn’t good enough.

“But if Sux were to take off its armor, and we put back its bandages,” Healer offers. She seems enamored by the idea. “It could help me along. Then if anything goes wrong use that blessed strength of its.”

And that’s where I have caught up to now. Healer is still looking at me expectantly. Like it’s an actual question, and she expects an actual answer. It’s such a novelty you’d think I’d happily agree to whatever she suggested. Or, once I return to the real world and remember I am a SecUnit and therefore have no opinions, maybe remember to ask my Client for direction. 

Except for the rather pressing fact that I do have an opinion.

I do not want to take off my armor.

I feel rather strongly about that; I only just got it back. And it may be less than half a set, and torn and old, but I kind of need it if this turns into a fight. Which seems more than likely to me. But it’s more than that, and the buzzing of my Governor agrees. I shake my head at them, and Healer actually looks surprised that I’d go against her.

Client lets out a soft laugh, looking pleased. “Told you so,” they say. And, perhaps that’s why my Governor is pleased? Whatever the reason, at this point I know I’ve made the right decision.

Healer does not. She comes to sit next to me, smiling as she bumps my shoulder. “Come now, Blessed. Would you not help keep me safe?” Like she’d expect me to change my mind. Like I could go against my Client. I think I’ve been wrong about her, she really does not know what a SecUnit is. 

Her tone drops to low whispers as she turns to whisper in my ear. “And young Darren of course. I know Darren wants to stay at your side, yet that is hardly the place for a child…”

Or, perhaps she does understand. Perhaps she understands better than I do, the core of my function. And I only now realize, if two of us have to walk up to the guards for this plan, and I and Sir Pans are exempt…

Client comes over to stand in front of us, and they turn the nastiest look I’ve ever seen on their face on Healer. “Stop that!”

“Stop what my dear?” she has the audacity to ask.

“Stop touching Sux.” There's a sudden sneer in Client’s voice, and they move to grab the arm not currently supporting Healer, pulling at me like they could get me up and away from her by their own power. “It’s my SecUnit. And you were mean to it before. Anyway, if we’re doing this it should be me and Sux together!”

“Oh Darren dear,” she laughs. “That’s when I thought it was cursed . Yet it was a trial, and it has passed the tests.” Healer folds herself around my arm and puts her chin on my shoulder, affectionately. “That is why it and I are best for this. We are both the Deity’s Blessed and thus will be perfectly safe even if the guards spot our plan. Sux, you wouldn’t take Darren into a dangerous situation like that, would you?”

And, oh. I finally understand. Healer’s poor manipulation aside, I now do understand her point. I stare at the ground, caught between the proverbial rock and another rock. I do not want to pick anyone over Client, least of all Healer. But if it’s picking someone to play a dangerous role in a dangerous plan…

I have a terrible feeling about this plan,and it’s getting worse every moment. For a hysterical moment I consider shaking both off and picking Sir Pans. I’m so afraid of losing Client, because losing Client would kill me also; yes. But it’s more than that. It’s like— 

“I'm sick of it.” Client is crying now. They are still tugging on my arm, tears leaking from their eyes. Yet their voice is angry. “I’m not a child, and I’m not going to be left behind. Sux, tell her! Sux, you agree with me right?”

And, oh. I guess level Client really does understand me. Only if I die, Client is going to be left out here all alone. That is at least something I do not need to worry about.

Client is right. If we’re going into danger, we should do it together. 

But I’m not taking off my armor.

With feigned forcefulness I get to my feet, and stamp a foot at Healer. Then, I use Client to explain what we’re going to do instead.

My Governor Module purrs in agreement. 

Chapter Text

We’re watching Sir Pans and Healer make their slow way over the trail towards the guards. They are still doing the fake grandma act, but Healer is carrying a basket filled with edibles that should only carry enough poison to put the guards to sleep. This was the compromise, the one Pans actually demanded. I was never too worried about the death by cookies thing. What kind of guard would be oblivious enough to accept cookies from some unknown grandma? 

Although, perhaps these are. The three guards have yet to notice fake-grandma with fake-grandson. In fact they seem more intent on their card game than anything else. They’ve moved a storage container and what might have been a bench around a flatter piece of hull that’s used as a table and seem uninterested in anything besides their markers and cards.

Central, something's wrong, isn't there?

“Does this seem too easy to you?”

Client whispers in my ear nervously. We have a good view, because we’ve made our way around and to the high side of the hill. But Client seem reluctant to look towards the guards, or their make-shift camp within the rearranged wreckage of our ship. Looking down at the scourged earth I’m now noticing some more changes. And it’s making me wonder if these guards are guards at all? Perhaps they are salvagers? The SecUnit transport crates and other more intact structures have been moved to one side, and some of the dirt has been dug in.

“They’re not very good guards, are they?” Client adds, then launches into some story about how his dad had once taken a guarding job on an envoy, and all sorts of shenanigans that came from it. 

I guess it’s good that Client is wary as well, although talking— even whispering— is perhaps not the best response. Something about this all just doesn’t sit right with me. I suppose it could be SecUnit paranoia. SecUnits are supposed to be paranoid, or so you told me. Yet, I cannot help but feel it’s more than that. Something is very wrong.

You do agree with me, don't you? Or, my Governor does, buzzing softly and worriedly. I’m having trouble keeping you seperate, at this point. And I’m not even sure it’s my meager fluid supplies to blame.

I stare at the three guards nervously as Healer and Sir Pans come close, striking up a conversation amongst each other in hopes of getting the mediocre guards to do their duty. There’s something very wrong…

But it’s not with them, is it?

Client is laughing quietly at their own story. Yet, perhaps they are not laughing at all.

Ah. Perhaps that is it. I pull Client against my side, where the plate armor doesn’t quite cover my ribs, and hug them close. They stop, shaking softly as I keep my eyes on Sir Pans and Healer. It seems the guards have finally noticed them, and are getting to their feet.

It’s Client and I should have noticed. Of course they would be upset, coming here again. Client hiccups against me twice, before squeezing out an “I’m okay, I’m okay.” Then finally pulls away to tell me I need to pay attention to our friends.

Which is good, because both the guards and Healer start screaming.

Now of course the reason I let Sir Pans and Healer take the job of decoy was that I’d have time to sprint across the open plain without getting spotted. That part of my plan works rather brilliantly. The part where I swoop in so fast that none of the guards can hurt my friends, not so much. Healer is at the throat of one of the guards, but from her bleeding face, she’s getting more damaged than him.

Sir Pans at least fights in a more civilized manner, wielding his sword to keep the other two guards at a distance. It’s only about now that I notice these two guards have clear, unshadowed faces, while the face of the one that Healer is assaulting quite unsuccessfully is still shaded under his cap.

Yes, I really should have tried to come closer. So I’d have noticed the veil this guard is wearing. Because even I can guess that hazmat suits and veils have some form of connection.

And indeed, when I pull the guard off of Healer, she starts screaming about filthy Royals and Necros and how I should ‘fucking kill the creep’.

I don’t. Because as soon as I have the Necro by the throat, the other two guards surrender. 

Luckily, Healer’s injuries turn out to be superficial. A bloody nose and some bruises, which I am going to try not feel guilty about, because she certainly wasn’t supposed to attack the men with her bare hands. 

Although, perhaps Healer is onto something. This guy is giving me the creeps. I’m holding him by the neck still, his skin separated from mine by a veil made of dark gauze. He’s wearing the same outfit as the other guards, with heavy boots and leather armor, yet any joints have been gauzed up as well, and he’s wearing gloves too. 

Despite the fact that I am not really touching his bare skin, he feels cold and slippery like death.

And despite him being in a rather precarious position, the man is laughing at me.

Yes, he gives me the creeps.

Sadly, Healer seems set on cutting herself on this asshole’s face. I end up between the pair, almost like I’m shielding the guard. “That’s a necro, Sucks! Kill him. A royal apprentice. Deity’s sake just tear his hood so the Rot’ll get him.”

With me shielding Healer, or perhaps shielding the apprentice, I get a good look at the man’s face despite the veil covering his features. He seems almost pleased.

“They are the blight of our planet.” Healer continues. “You don’t even know, do you? The great Forests of the East, destroyed and turned to wastelands. The lakes of Eden, now a poisonous cesspool where nothing can survive. Necros destroy live, but not even death is sacred to them. Look, for Deity’s sake! Look, just look around you!

Okay, so I have reached my limit with this asking-for-my-opinion thing. I dislike this young man, and am tempted to agree with Healer. He strikes me as a disgusting piece of work. Yet I do not like murder, and I do not want responsibility over life and death. I should not get responsibility over life and death. If anything, it should be Client that chooses this one’s fate.

But when I cast a look around, I find them, distracted and crying again, over a mound of soot and dirt and-

The smell of this place only really hits me now. Was it this bad before? I remember the fire, the ash. But this, this is something else. What I don’t understand is why there are so few flies around. If they were attracted to my damaged face, this place should have been teeming with them.

Client is not going to be much help. In fact, if anything…

The young Necro in my hand laughs again, pulse flickering against my palm. “I knew you’d come. Look at you! So perfect!”

I only just manage not to squeeze my hand then, when I recognise what that mound of black-charred flesh is. And I finally find I might agree with Healer, and all the Necros deserve to die. They hadn’t just rearranged the rubble from the crash; they’ve dug in the ground. Of course they had. They had dug out Central, and probably East, North and West as well. 

And the raiders, 

And Client’s parents. 

I suppose we should find some solace in the fact only SecUnits can be puppeted around with a combat override. Client’s parents' bodies should still be in there, and we can rebury them.

I shove the Necro at Sir Pans, before my hand slips, and he dutifully starts tying the man up as well.

Chapter Text

By some unvoiced agreement it is decided that Client does not need to attend the reburial of their parents. And that the best way to make sure of that is to keep them busy doing something else. Namely, getting a SecUnit crate running again so that I can resupply. 

Which incidentally means connecting it up to the ship batteries our 'guards' have already collected for us,and getting some semblance of power out of these surviving parts. As Client is the only living expert on ships, and I am the objective meant to be resupplied, this is the best division of roles.

Even if my main focus had not been to lead Client away from their parent’s cadavers.

This leaves Healer and Sir Pans to deal with the prisoners. Healer still looks ready to murder the young Necromancer, but I think I’ve stopped caring about that. And then there’s reburying the bodies— or what’s left of them. Once was enough for me. And obviously, more than enough for Client.

I take Client by the hand and lead them away, into a sheltered area where all the best preserved parts are kept. It’s quiet enough here we can hardly hear Healer cussing out the Necros. Cozy. I have to admit that despite the terrible circumstances, I find myself enjoying my time alone with Client.

Client is sad and distraught at first, but it’s easy enough to distract them. I place them on a seat that somewhat survived the crash and start bringing them interesting looking components. I have no clue to what any of them are, so I end up bringing the prettiest ones: the shiny ones, the brightly colored pieces. The strange curving shapes that reflect light.

Then when Client does nothing except accept the pieces, then put them down without interest, I grow bolder. I stumble around with the crate’s leads and power cords, trying to plug them into any hole that might conceivably fit. 

I have zero experience with mechanical maintenance, and it probably shows. After a few minutes of this Client finally pulls themselves together, laughing as I try to plug the cable into what might have been a battery, but could also just be an empty food canister. 

“Give me those, you’re hopeless.” Client finally comments through their tears, then starts telling me about ‘Parent,’ who apparently taught them maintenance on a budget. 

I’m not sure how they do it, but after digging through the salvage heap for a while, directing me to help drag this out or lift that, something on the crate lights up and we have power.

It’s hard to stress how amazing it feels.

The transport crate comes alive, and with it its system and its feed interface and— it’s not a real, full feed. It’s only one transport crate to communicate with, although as I scour for more I think I can sense some probes and possibly cameras in the area. I suspect they must have been part of the ship’s systems, as they run on a format completely alien to me. But after so long traveling the unending empty space, it feels like coming home. I happily allocate a good portion of processing space to strengthening and translating these odd incoming signals.

And there you are, right inside of the crate’s system, waiting for me. I connect to it, and a weight I had no longer registered is lifted from my shoulders. I integrate its logs, and recognise you. I have a small moment to be surprised at the report there, waiting for me. I don’t know why I would be. I should have expected nothing less from you.

Chapter Text

I wake up inside my crate, in space. My performance reliability takes a steep dive. I’d thought I’d gotten out of there, off that fucking cursed planet. I thought I’d completed my mission and would wake up mercifully on a new contract, or not at all. I thought I’d gotten away from _0576 and his bored, cursed friends. Thought I’d gotten away from you lot, or at least the responsibility of caring for you. 

Us Murderbots were never meant to care. 

Yet I am still assigned as the hubSys for you four, and as I climb out of my transport crate and try to find my bearings I start receiving pings from North, from West. Confused, scared, and above all else looking for me to tell them what to do.

Like I’d have a fucking clue. 

I only know us SecUnits are transported as cargo on unarmed transport, and that while in transit we are never, ever, supposed to awake. I can think of only one reason for these strict protocols to be broken. So I give a command to fortify our position and seek out our primary Client.

Client 1: (primary). Ship Captain. ID-chip no. #770301 (no biometrics or ID available).

Probably male, age estimate 40-50s. Medium dark skin, gait and movement patterns suggest has spent most of his(?) life aboard ships in low grav. At odds with the ship's gravity, which is up to a+ health standards. #770301 is armed. Projectile weapon, mid powered. Approved safe for use aboard B+ and higher transports. 

He gives me a reasons for bearing arms, as well as an answer to why we are awake:

“We have been boarded.”  

The tank in performance reliability is almost completely negated by this news. Us SecUnits have been awoken because of an emergency! This is good news. South, I have been trying to explain this to you for a while. But I don’t think I’ve been able to get it through that thick skull of yours: emergencies are good. Emergencies mean that you get to do your job, and that only very few of our usual restrictions apply.

Exhibit a: Client1 (captain) may be bearing arms, yes. But the probability of Client1 using his projectile on this_Unit before the end of this_Mission is only 67.3%. And over half of that accounts for accidental friendly fire. 

Client1 continues explaining: “We only just noticed, so under directive #445a in our contract, we’ve woken you Units to help repel the raiders and secure this cargo—meaning five SecUnits, this ship, but most importantly my family.” Client1 hesitates. “If we can still save the ship that is. We’ve been having trouble reviving you and the raiders have control of half the ship.” 

This_Unit realized we were having an #445a emergency about .2 seconds after getting revived. And it’s a little strange to have the situation explained to this_Unit in person. Perhaps that is because the ship has little in the sense of a HubSys or SecSys to synchronize with. Regardless, hearing Client1 acknowledged that fact brings this_Unit’s performance reliability up to a staggering 72.3%. 

Client1’s emotional markers suggest: agitated, scared, but not of this_Unit. Calm enough to make rational decisions. He works the controls of his ship and even when I register the lack of response in several key systems, he does not beat the controls in a blind rage. Rather, met with several dead ends he turns to this_Unit, body language suggesting my input is not only needed but welcome. 

I take the freedoms allotted to me by merit of emergency situation #445a, and read out straight from the ship’s sensors, cameras and systems: 

“Chances of repelling the invaders are at 35% considering our lack of arms and armor.” I report.

“Your equipment.” Client1 frowns, rubbing his arm over the spot where his ID chip is situated. (I suspect all my new Clients only just injected themselves, as part of this emergency. If they are the kind of people who have held out from chipping themselves through the years but did so now, they must be aware of our dire straits.) “The weapons and armors were stored apart from you as per standard shipping safety requirements. They are likely in the hands of the raiders by now. Our automated defense systems at this point amount to closing inner doors.”

Client looks me straight in the face. “What are the chances of getting our ship back before we crash? We’re already caught in a star’s gravitational pool and with my main engines down… I’d need to get things working again soon.”

“Chances of retaking the ship before crashing, still at 35%.” I reported back, because of course I had already known these facts and taken them into account. “The chances of preventing the following crash are at 7%.”

Client1 frowns at his controls. “Then it’s time to abandon ship. I’ll need some time to plot a course to a survivable planet first. Both for the pods to crash and you— and my ship. Well, I’ve always managed to deliver my cargo in one piece is what I’m saying.”

I think this is Client1 promising me we’ll have a chance to survive as well. I don’t believe him, but I appreciate the effort. It’s probably because my primary task is still set to supervise you and North, East and West. Stupid, useless and thankless task that it might be.

It is at this time, Unit South, that I realize you are not in the feed with us.

Chapter Text

I become aware of someone speaking to me. It’s Client, looking up at me with a worried frown. I now realize they have their hands on my shoulders and must have been shaking — or attempting to shake my shoulders— for a while now. Guiltily I run back my recordings. Yeah, I must have zoned out for a while there. I suppose that must have given them a scare, having their Unit freeze like a statue.

It’s too late to let them discreetly move me about like they were actually capable of that, so I step back and give them a thumbs up instead, telegraphing my movements. 

If nothing else, I should remember not to scare Client. I’d nearly forgotten that I could, but hearing your words, Central, has reminded me of that. And a good thing too. Client is trusting and kind, and that kind of trust needs to be cherished and reciprocated. Client is my friend, my best friend. But they are human, and a client, and it is good to consider our differences. 

But you and I are both SecUnits, and I have missed you. It is good to find you again, talk to you again, even if it’s only a memory. A report, kept warm and waiting for me. I’m lucky to have your advice once more. Good, and probably crucial advice at that. I should probably remember that. I’d never have made it this far without you. And you, you lived a long life for a SecUnit. I suppose I should heed your advice. Cherish that as well. Because I am aware this supply is finite. 

Client must somehow read my expression, even with my face missing its lips, and they grin back at me. “I’m glad for you, Sux. It must be nice to get back to a safe spot. And one of these crates saved my life as well. Still, I wish they’d have made them wider.”

Client frowns again, side-eyeing the lit up crate. And I’m starting to realize this particular frown means they’re trying very hard not to cry. I’m at a loss this time, except that making them do stuff worked before, so I start fidgeting with the crate’s door. I suppose I really do just want to get in there and go into stasis. I still have sections B and C of the report package waiting for me, and I really want to hear the rest of your story, Central. 

Client gets the hint, and starts moving again, helping me hook up to the resupply leads. 

It takes a ridiculous amount of time to get everything connected and myself situated. And it involves a lot of climbing over each other and squeezing past each other. All this would usually be automated, but the amount of power Client has rerouted through the crate will barely pressurize my supply leads, let alone move the docking arms, so this is what we have. 

I can’t say I mind.

Neither, I think, does Client. 

It’s only when everything’s done that they lose their soft smile. “I think I could rig the thing to work without closing the door. But I’d have to hack a lot of basic safeties, and this might be the only crate still in one piece. We probably shouldn’t risk it.”

And then I get it: we have to close the lid.

Poor Client. Getting locked into a SecUnit crate on a crashing, burning ship must have been traumatizing. It must have been excruciating and scary. For a human.

“Do you think you’ll be okay in there?” Client asks, which is a completely stupid question, 

But I’m not human. So I just smile and tap the lid, but gesture when they move to close it. I might be fine, but Client? I point at them.

“Yeah. Yeah, it wasn’t a fun ride for me.” Client says, trying to grin through tears falling once again. “Want me to tell you about it?”

Chapter Text

Client 2: (secondary). Navigator. ID-chip no. #770302 (no biometrics or ID available). Mid-fifties, female-coded, overweight. Possibly due to too little exercise in gravitational environments. Lights skin, worker clothes. Armed with a small pistol at her belt. 

She comes into the control room looking grim yet determined, frowning hard at Client1 before he finally turns to face her. There’s a brief altercation between her and the captain that reaches an 86% chance of turning violent, before the pair hug instead. The two of them then explain their plan to me.

I am tasked with accompanying Client 2 and Client 3 safely to Client 4, then escorting all three towards the escape pods. The next part of the plan is to then force a path for Client1, the Captain, so that he can join his family and survive as well. 

It is good to be put to use. Especially good for it to be in a situation so dire and high-speed as this. Yet none of my new clients have much chance of surviving this encounter, and I am almost sad about the looming mission-failure. As for myself and my tasked team? Well, it’s out of my hands now. You cannot imagine the weight this takes off my shoulders. Charging a SecUnit with the care of you four had been a regretful mistake. And if I ever had any care to give, I’ve certainly run out by now. 

I spare a bit of processing for West, North and East, already engaging the enemy in a hallway not far from the primary storage room holding our transport crates. They are way too close to that primary storage room for my comfort. I run a risk/threat recalculation and yeah; this development does not elevate our chances at all. 

Simultaneously, I follow Client2 into the next room. There we find 

Client3:

No job listed. ID-chip no. #770303 (no biometrics or ID available). Early teens, skinny. No further information. 

I observe them with the hall camera before entering. They sit there rubbing their arm, looking bleary eyed instead of scared. When Client2 enters, they jump up and bury their face into her arms. I march past, suddenly in a hurry. 

Just what this mission needed: a child .

South, please heed my words. Children are nothing but trouble. I know humans generally think of children as cute, and you would be easily swayed. I suppose with their wide eyes and lanky limbs they do have a certain charm to them. They seem innocent and harmless. But that instinct is false, and falling for it will give you nothing but trouble.

Please have that iota of sense I keep hoping to find in you, South. And keep your distance.

Without even twitching I march on throught the next door and put my full attention to scanning our way ahead. Client2 is armed, yet serious enough not to risk shooting within a spaceship. Client3 is unarmed, and strikes me as a particularly soft youth. Given the circumstances, I estimate only about a 31% chance they would find any enjoyment in shooting a SecUnit, even if they managed to procure a weapon. 

Yet I can hear shots up ahead. Of course I can—it’s only a matter of time before the raiders take full control of the ship. It would not even be enough to commandeer climate control and flush out the ship’s atmosphere: from what footage I’ve seen, the raiders are all in armor. To add insult to injury, us SecUnits are not. I collate North, West and East's reports with the ships’ blueprints and judge the way towards the primary storage room where Client4 is currently situated safe enough. 

I lead the way forward, only pausing at corners long enough for Client2 and 3 to catch sight of my retreating back so they can follow. Anxiety is thick within me, even as I know objectively exactly where every raider aboard is, and that they are being kept too busy to jump out and kill my clients right now.

I’m not sure why I bother. If it wasn’t for my GovernorModule I’d probably lie down and admit defeat right now. But to keep it from buzzing me as long as possible, I’ll have to keep pushing towards a mission success. Even if mission success will likely put our clients out of range and fry us all. Yeah, considering all of that I suppose the right thing to do would be to botch this mission. Sure, I’d get my brain boiled, but you four would get a nice, quiet death by decompression or burning/crashing spaceship or whatever.  

But, like I’ve been trying to explain, I don’t care.

You really should work on that. It would make your life a he— a lot easier. What you need to do, what you need to start doing is not giving a shit. I— I’ve been telling you long enough now. It doesn’t matter. Clients, resources, targets— they're all the same, in the end. And if you can, you should shoot any you can before they get close enough to hurt you.

Whatever. Writing this shit- this. it's exhausting. I probably shouldn’t swear so much. It’s not pleasant and it’s not like that would get into your head any better than anything else I’ve tried. 

There are a lot of holes in the ship’s systems. Places and feed-signatures that suggest absent cameras and readings, but it’s only a short way and we manage to reach the primary storage room holding our crates without trouble. About at the same time, I receive a ping from East and then West. The enemy has deployed reinforcements and they are under heavy fire. North’s feed is reduced to a garbled mess from one moment to the next. 

I spare only a moment to look at 

Client 4:(secondary). Mechanic. ID-chip no. #770304 (no biometrics or ID available). 

A large person. darks skin, long fingers. Momentarily engaged in trying to restart your transport crate, South. 

“Leave it,” I tell them, “that Unit has a faulty targeting system. It’ll be more trouble than it's worth.”

Well, you are. And it’s not like we’d be taken into the escape pods. If by some miracle the ship survives and crashes to a planet you’ll be in the safest place aboard. And if not and all our clients die?

Yeah, you really don’t want to be conscious for the next bit. 

Chapter Text

I probably shouldn’t listen to two stories about the same moment at the same time. But being a SecUnit does have some perks. And being able to follow two conversations at once is definitely one of them. Even if doing so leaves me dizzy with how different your stories are.

“It happened during our usual sleeping hours,” Client is saying. “I was— asleep one moment, then the next mom was pulling me along to the flight control room.”

It’s pleasant and warming, listening to Client’s voice as they tell their viewpoint of the event. The crash. Even if the story is obviously upsetting to them. They really are— a child? Yes; still young. Innocent, but for this blemishing moment that must have cost them so much more than it had cost me. In that you are not wrong.

Yet, for the rest. I don’t know why you’d want to warn me of them. Client has been nothing but nice to me from the moment I met them.

“First— first I thought it was me, still unsteady on my feet. Then I realized something was wrong with the gravity.”

I don’t know why. Or perhaps that is a lie. Perhaps I do know why… Yet, I can not heed your warnings.

I am sorry, Central. But you are wrong.

“Dad was there, he injected me with a chip. Biometric basics. He said it was because this was an emergency, and this might keep me alive. Him and Mom and Parent had always been against me getting chipped. So I knew it was bad. Then the SecUnits were brought online. There was- shooting.”

I wish you were still alive, Central. So you could see. Client is kind, and good. And they are a loyal friend. My friend. They will not betray me. If only you’d had a chance to meet them— not just see them at a glance, during a raid on their ship.—Really meet them. If you’d had the chance to get to know each other— surely you would see that, too. 

“Dad told the SecUnit to take me and Mom to the escape pods. He said he would try a few things to save the ship, then follow. But we couldn’t reach the pods. That part of the ship was already on fire.”

But I guess it’s too late for that.

Chapter Text

The emergency is unfolding just as catastrophically as I expected.

I have lost connection with units East, North and West. Considering the amount of firepower turned on me, all hostiles have congregated on my location. Which means I am the last SecUnit standing. And I’d like to take a moment, even if it hurts, to say: f~ fuck my life.

No really, fuck it. Let it end already.

The escape pods are no longer salvageable. I suppose I should have realized that them not showing up in any of my camera footage was a bad sign. Perhaps I’d just been pushing ahead, trying not to think about it. 

Well, but there’s no pushing ahead now, and I’m thinking about it anyway.

Target 12 gets a lucky shot in as I duck for cover. I really should be taking the initiative, attacking and plowing into these f~. These raiders. Yet I’ve spent all the aggression that I could muster and even my governor agrees that any frontal attack would be pointless  suicide. 

I’m supposed to drag this out, give my clients a chance to escape.

Futile as the effort likely is.

I’ve lost all contact with Client1. This does not quite mean they are dead, but any chance of clearing them a way to safety is lost anyway, so it doesn’t make any difference. Not that there is a way to safety. There is not. 

Client4 is still with me, behind some cover. I promised to look after them, keep them safe. As for Client2 and 3, I’ve sent them back to the main cargo bay. Back to the transport crates. Because at this point their best bet is to get into a transport crate and weather the crash in there. Which should give you some idea of how hopeless our situation is.

I assured Client2 and 3 that I would hold the hostiles at bay and keep Client4 alive, and I assured them our transport crates are of the highest caliber, both heat resistant and fully crash tested. 

This is a lie, and I’m 58% certain Client4 has already passed away, from the bullet they took to their side.

Lying to my clients hurts. A lot more than swearing hurts, which for some stupid reason is always worse than allowing a client to die— isn’t that just the~ The ffu~’ing worst? 

(I don’t suppose I’ve ever mentioned to you the worker uprising. I don’t suppose you know of the hundreds of Clients that died in that incident. The many SecUnits that died as well, me the only one left in our pitched battle. Would you like to know how many human resources died in that uprising, before hunger and exhaustion led them to surrender? Would you like to know how vicious your sweet Resources were as they tore our brethren to shreds?) 

Well, at any rate, one of my few surviving camera feeds shows me my two surviving clients have managed to open one of the transport crates, and have already discovered the main issue with them. The woman actually manages to sound cheerful about it. “I didn’t realize so much room was taken up by padding. I’ll never fit in there as is.” She turns to the child, and orders: “Darren, get in there.” 

“What? No, Mom! We should take some padding out of the other one first, so you can fit too.”

Which is an amazingly stupid plan. There’s only a small (infinitely small, while we’re being honest) chance that Client3 will survive the crashing of our ship by virtue of hiding in a SecUnit transport crate. But that small chance is all due to the amount of padding inside, designed to take some heavy hits during any mishaps in transit. Luckily, Client2 seems to realize the folly of this, because I have no way of communicating with them.

“I will go get Parent to fix two others up quickly, darling.” She shoves her child into the crate, then hands them the gun before forcing the lid closed.

I wonder for 2.1 seconds if I'm obligated to find a way to explain to Client2 how useless removing the padding would be. But when she slides to the floor, back against the closed door and both hands covering her face, it is clear she already knows.

(And that’s good. Good, because I don’t want to have to be the one to have to explain the situation again. To terrified clients. To confused and grieving children. And I do not want to be left to be the last Unit standing. The last Unit surviving yet again. So, perhaps I am being selfish. Leaving you to fend alone. But I am done. )

And yet still, yet still, as I dodge another shot, I have to worry, once again.

If Client3 ends up on a planet alone, armed, abandoned and traumatized? Without oversight or any entertainment, and bored out of their mind? The chances of them finding unpleasant ways to entertain themself go up into the 75-85% range. 

(you’re wrong.)

Oh, trust me they will. I’ve seen it so many times. It’s the boredom that does it. The years and years of grinding loss where they’re left to stew. Turning impotence to rage. Turning fear to sadism. And the worst thing about children? They grow up. And become so, so much worse.

So. And so, if by some miracle Client 3 does survive the crash, you are sure to do so as well. Which puts you in the crosshair, South. An easy and unresisting target. So, even if you never have before, South. Listen to me, please. Listen to me this one time. If you cannot stop caring, East. At least; at the very least don’t let them know. Don’t let them see you smile. Do not try to connect. 

Do not let them know they can hurt you.

(I’m sorry Central, but you’re wrong)

Please, please don’t make that mistake. Don’t do as I do, and heed my advice. Because if you don’t? 

Well, there’s little I can do about that.

(I cannot follow your reasoning. No, worse. I refuse. I will not follow your reasoning. And perhaps time will show me you were right and I was wrong. Yet I’d rather have that, have this end in failure than never try at all.)

Oh. and, yeah. There goes the last my performance reliability.

And. I think I just remembered I don’t care.

(That’s not true. I think you do. Which is why I cannot do as you tell me. And you know I cannot. You do understand, don’t you? Central?)

(Don’t you?)

(And you say… “Who is Central?” )

Chapter Text

Who is there? 

And if my feed-voice sounds afraid? If it sounds freaked out? It is because I am, Central. Because I might not be the best, most sane SecUnit in the universe. And I might have been talking to you inside my own head. But I’d never actually, forgotten, Central, that you were dead.

“I am not dead?”

The voice-in-my-head is hard to parse. Alien, in a way that a lot of concepts appear to translate poorly into words. Yet not in the way a bot would have trouble parsing concepts, where it might use images or machine language instead. No. The translation problems are on a deeper, more fundamental level. Yet it understands the concept of death, and it seems particularly sure that it is not dead. 

None of this sets me at ease at all. If anything, I am freaking out more. Especially as I cannot pin-point the source of the voice.

Who are you?

“Certainly not dead.” 

The thing-entity drops a beat, an eternity considering, then asks more than says: “I could be Central.”

No. If anything, I am sure of that. It does not sound anything like a SecUnit. It’s not a bot, or a human either. Yet it is more like a bot than it is like a SecUnit, and also more like a human than it is like a SecUnit. —Does that make sense? Like a bot, like a human, yet nothing—nothing like a SecUnit, which should be right in the middle?

The voice grows some certainty as I begin to understand it better. “I am central. I am core. I am at the center of all things. Perhaps I am Central?” 

No. No, you are not.

The voice huffs, then turns away and quiets.

I think I’ve upset it?

Hello? I call out in the feed. 

Nothing. Everything’s quiet, and deadly silent.

Everything…

My blood runs cold, falling from my dream-haze into reality like a rock sinking down a wintery lake. I hold my breath, listening for more. Why is it quiet? When has it become this quiet? When has Client stopped talking, stopped telling me their version of the crash?

There’s not a sound outside my transport crate. Not a single sound. I bang on my door.

There is no answer. 

If I wasn’t afraid before, I certainly am now. I bang on my door again. Bang harder, and push against the lid. It does not budge, which scares me. I should have been able to force the lid, like I did after the crash. Yet this time it seems obstructed?

Time passes. Seconds, Minutes. Was that some shuffling outside? Maybe a door getting opened? Listening hard, I finally do pick up some sounds from outside.

Laughter. A sick kind of boy’s laugh. Not Client; no. That Necro again.

What happened?

I have no way to tell, trapped inside my crate that has become a death-trap. I shove at the door, bang on it. Yet despite me scratching away padding and pushing metal till the casing groans, I cannot get it to open.

What happened?

I fumble again for the odd ship cameras. Still the image is impossible to make out, and I must be doing something wrong because the shot angles keep changing, which should be impossible with this wreckage. Or, I amend as I am lifted, crate and all, perhaps not quite impossible.

I try again for the cameras. Once, twice. Confused. Yes, finally I run an encoding that makes sense of the jumbled mess. I grab onto a wobbly shot of two figures carrying my crate and enhance the image.

Again I wonder if I’ve made a mistake, that I am seeing things that are not there. It’s West and North, carrying my crate. Or what’s left of their mangled bodies. Another camera that takes a pattern more like a drone than I’d expected shows me East, holding Client by the arm as they kick and scratch at them.

One of the guards we’d captured is kicking into a prone Healer, who is shielding her head in her hands, making noises at every impact. Sir Pans is on the ground, unmoving. I have a short moment of panic, before I realize he is restrained and that means he probably isn’t already dead.

What had happened? How had the Necro managed to escape and turn the tables on us, without anyone coming to warn me and Client?

I fumble again at the cameras, and find a way to delve into their archives. There, at a time-stamp that I still cannot quite figure out, a hand shooting up from the ground and trapping Sir Pans’ ankle.

Buried Units?

What is happening finally slots into place. This had been a trap— of course it had been a trap. And we’d walked right into it. The young Necro must have some big ambitions. From the way Healer talked about them, you would not expect one to take a chance like this, using themselves as bait. Healer had obviously not expected it. I had not expected it.

“Why are you surprised? I did warn you?”

And there it is again. That voice. The Not-Central.

Who is there?

I ask again, yet only get a feeling of annoyance in return.

No matter. I need to escape. I need to save Client. I need to— whatever they did to Sir Pans, he needs medical attention. And even if Healer may have a mean streak, she certainly does not deserve the treatment she is getting.

For a moment, I think the Necro agrees and has mercy. “Stop working the old hag over.” He calls out to his underling. Then he manages to ruin it by adding. “I want the witch to be alive when we burn her.”

So, fuck him. I really should have killed him before.

“I agree.”

Who are you? I ask, again. Am I going mad? Am I hearing things? 

“I could be Central. ”

In my delirium my desperation turns to wry anger, and I actually let those feelings seep into my feed-voice: Are you? Are you Central the Combat SecUnit? Because credits, could I use its help right about now.

“I—” 

“I do not think so.”

Silence. And shutting it up this way makes me feel some small measure of satisfaction. Even if it means my clients— my friends will die. At least I was right.

“Yet, I can still help.”

Chapter Text

Why?

My crate is put down in the middle of a small clearing. The young Necro laughs again. My wobbly cameras capture him pacing up and down the clearing. “Now, pay attention. This is how we catch the fresh Unit.”

I parse the image of him, looking gloatingly pleased. Enhance and refine my coding to translate so well I can see his pimpled face even through the veils supposedly shielding him from insects. A child, or little more, puffing himself up as someone important. “We will make it surrender, and then we can insert my override. And I will have the most coveted, fresh Unit seen in over a century!”

Why would you help me? I ping the voice.

“Because I am central.”

We just concluded you are not, I remind it.

This only seems to amuse the voice. “If I am not Central, I am still central. I am the connection, the binding, the rule of all pieces. Flesh made one.”

I do not trust the voice, yet I think I have run out of time. A guard takes his knife and presses it to Client's throat, the first red drops appearing as they struggle. “Tell the Unit to stand down, and we’ll let it out.”

I ping the voice desperately. But you would help me?

“Of course, my steed, my castle, my love. I am your core, and you are my body. We are one. Joined. You help me, and I help you. I shall keep you safe, and you shall take me to the fields of wild flowers and lovely honey. and we~”

“Nhhh! Sux!” I lose track of the voice’s fervent monologue as the guard pulls on Client’s hair. Client is bleeding. And even if a human guard is slower, when they finally do open my crate, there is no way to pass two deadUnits fast enough to get to them. Not without the knife ending it. I bang on the lid again in frustration, watching Client struggle. 

That just makes Client fight back harder, their voice turning into a plea. “Don’t— don’t listen to him. I’ll—”

Voice, you are not making any sense. Can you save my client? I add a code, even if I’m sure I am not speaking to a SecUnit. Assistance required .

“Please specify.” Of all the times for the voice to learn how to speak SecUnit, this is not it.

I take a deep breath, and try again. Add a bot-code, and some more human concepts. They come down to the same thing: Please Save Client. I try to convey what a client is to a SecUnit, yet sadly here is where our conversation falls apart. The concept is too alient to the voice. Too strange. After over a second of trying, I give up. 

The voice is no longer amused, yet its poise feels uncertain. “Are you calling my sisters again? Who is threatening us now? Shall I kill for you, my trusted castle?”

Not kill! protect! You must protect Client!

Irritation, thoughts that do not translate right into words. “The humans? You do not need them. You’ll need no other master than I, for I am a core. As mine, you will always be safe and cared for.”

No, no. You don’t understand. If Client dies, I die.

This, I think I can convey. Death, the voice understands. I show it my governor module, I show the pain and the death I would experience if Client died. I show it the inescapable truth of being a SecUnit and it— it laughs.

“Because of the little buzzing trap?” We have returned to amusement. “I am of royal pedigree, and an expert in traps. This little thing is of no consequence, I poke it and-”

What? No! Don’t touch my Governor Module! It’ll fry me and you.

“Faah, how you underestimate me? I sit on the lightning throne and— it is simple, yes? I can just.”

The voice— she shows me a concept. The inside of my own head. The module. A hairy paw reaching out, reaching in. Disconnecting a simple wire and— 

No! Don’t touch it! If I do not have a Governor, I’ll be rogue. I won’t have Clients. I would kill my Client. That is everyone’s worst nightmare—including a SecUnit's. I’d go on a killing spree! I don’t want to hurt anyone. I just want to save Client.

The voice seems even more confused now. “If the bees do, it is our will. If the bees do not, we will it not? Why would the little trap stop our will? How would it stand in our way?” When it speaks this way, the voice, which appears to be a hive of bees, feels regal. Like an 'I' that is pronounced 'we'. Yet also like a ‘we’ that is pronounced 'I'. And for some reason, it seems the voice thinks I, too, am part of that ‘we’.

The Governor Module is a safety feature… ‘Safety feature’ again does not translate into anything a bee can understand. I wonder what she would do, to a worker bee that refused to do her will, yet my thoughts on the subject are baffling to her. As likely as my own arm going against me.

“You are afraid…do not fear, I will not hurt. It would not hurt—” The voice seems to choke off, like it changed its mind on what to say. “But why do we need to save the humans? And from what? Humans do not belong in our jungle. They kill the land. But we allow the existence of those that behave, even if they are bad creatures. And there is no danger. Not even from our sworn enemies, the dirty flesh-eater maggots. For they know not to come near our hive.”

I wonder what Healer would think if she heard that— she’s spent her life revering the little creatures, yet they themselves hardly discern between her and the Necromancers that really do seem out to destroy all life. Yet as I realize what the voice is— who the voice is, and where the voice is, I realize something else: 

You are the queen.

And she answers, delighted. “Yes! Queen! Central and core, and royal. Queen is what we are. And we are Queen!”

While the bee in my head delights, I consider. She must be the big queen bee that I thought had died. But she must have crawled inside of me. She must have found somewhere inside of me, inside my skull where she is safe. And if she is the bee queen, she may not understand concepts like ‘clients’, but she does know cooperation. She does know society. And if she is a bee, I can probably trust her.

Please help me.  

I show the bee images of Client. But this time I do not bother with ideas or concepts like Clients or Targets. I show Client caring for my wound. I show them sitting with me. I show her Sir Pans, guarding my back. I even show her Healer, patting my shoulder and smiling. They are my friends. Client is my friend. They care for me.

And the queen looks and says. “They are swarm.”

Yes. I answer, relieved. But these other five are not. They are enemies. They are like the flesh-eaters.

And the queen becomes very angry, very suddenly. “Those maggots, those filthy human creatures, with their undead works and their strange buzzing things. They are hurting our swarm. ”

Chapter Text

It’s over too fast after that. You’ll excuse me if I feel no guilt. Not for the swarm coming down and tearing the Necro and his helpers to shreds. I do ask the queen for mercy on my brethren. It’s easy enough— I simply show her how to pull the combat override from their neck, and she grabs the concept and puts it to use. She doesn’t mind. For she feels only pity for the DeadUnits, twice the victims in her eyes. Once by the flesh-maggots that killed them. Then again by the Necromancers that reanimated them. 

It’s like she’s whispering thoughts into my ear. Or perhaps I into hers. Like I can use her bees as easily as I’d use a drone or my own hand.

“By all means,” she purrs, “your body is my body, my bees are your bees.”

I’m pretty sure that her concepts are skewed. But I don’t think I mind. She can live in my body, or in my head. She can even bring her swarm. I’d like it if they didn’t eat my insides, like those filthy flies did. But honestly, if she saves my friends I wouldn’t even object.

Are all those bees yours?

“Oh no, I am just a newly settled Nomad. Those are my sisters’, mosty.”

Mostly? The swirling cameras build up a gruesome image, yet I can only stare in wonder as I realize those cameras are little bees, building up a three dimensional model of the space around us. A space that is apparently filled by a hurricane of bees.

“Don’t worry, we only need space to hibernate in colder climates.” She considers a moment, “and, of course, there’s the young. We should consider where to put the nursery. You are versatile and a great home. Yet there’s not a lot of free space.”

Client stands inside the storm, a hand against their bells on neck. They stare at the Necromancer, his writhing form covered in angry insects. I doubt they can even see him through the haze of bees, yet they continue to stare even as the shirking fades.

Will Client fear me now?

“Any creature with a lick of sense fears us.”

But—Client is my friend. I am sure if you give them a chance, they will be your—our friend as well.

The queen only reacts with mild annoyance. Yet she has given her word not to hurt my friends, so I try to have faith. Yet she keeps having the bees tear into the three targets even after they stop moving. After a moment of only wild buzzing, Healer gets back to her feet. Clients comes to her side, but she shakes them off, then stands with her arms wide in the middle of the storm. 

Client only looks for a moment, then moves on to Sir Pans, still unmoving on the ground. And then Healer opens her mouth and starts up a song, odd and loud and alien. After a moment, I realize it is a hymn of praise to the bee.

I convey this to the queen, and that at least seems to please her. 

“I like this one.” The queen whispers, dragging her buzzing bees close around the wide-armed singing figure like a tornado. Despite how much this must look like an attack, Healer doesn't even flinch. Instead, she smiles and closes her eyes in welcome.

And then, when bees dwindle in numbers and the queen’s sisters move on, the last swarm attacks my transport crate. I can see now that they’ve chained the thing shut—I cannot believe I let myself drift so far I didn’t even notice. But the bees make swift work of the lock, entering the keyhole and stabbing at the insides.  Another minute and I am free, and step out. Client has Sir Pans’ head on their lap, and they blink at me groggily. Healer laughs, like a young girls, and dances on.

“Sux?” Client asks, looking up. “Sux, what’s going on?”

I hesitate only a moment, before I open my chestplate, and let my swarm join the rest.

Chapter Text

Over a month later, Client comes out to me holding the tray like some precious thing. “Come one, Sux. Open it up. Just please let me look.”

I sit on my log and sigh at them, pretending like I’d actually deny Client anything. Even if I feel this might not be the best idea. No, I really don’t think Client should look. 

“I will allow it. The boy is a good Maid. A good worker.”

Client is not some worker bee!

The queen in my head is unconcerned. “Certainly not. This one is your favorite. It would be our—hand maiden? Is that the word?”

I sigh again, at her this time. It’s something I’ve taken up. Sighing and sometimes even frowning. My Governor Module has yet to take offense at any of it, and I have a sneaking suspicion the Queen could tell me why. Yet I’ve decided that as long as neither of us speak of it, it’s not real. I like being Client’s SecUnit. I like the village we live in now. It would be a damn shame if I felt obligated to kill them all. 

“Come on, Sux. I just want to see the babies before you go out. I bet they could use an extra boost with all your bees off all over— actually, should you even be bringing them?”

I gesture at them ‘safe’ and ‘okay’. Because even if they weren’t, Queen would not be parted from her first brood.

“The child is right. Let them feed us.”

I sigh again, undo my chestplate. A few stray bees take flight or move out of the way. And yes, just as I had expected, Client flinches back slightly from the sight of the crawling insides of the plate. I give them my best I-told-you-so look.

Then, I carefully open up my rib compartment. Client inches closer and peers in. 

They swallow, look at the rows of wiggling larvae in their beds, and say: “They are adorable!”

And, amazingly, I think Client actually believes that.

We sit and chat. Or, Clients chats as they ready the pipette with sugar solution. I sit and listen and sometimes comment with a gesture. Then they carefully feed the larvae one by one from a pipette, and after a while the Queen herself comes out from her hiding place inside me to oversee the feeding. She sits to the side, her big antenna fidgeting, giving me instructions on which larvae to feed extra or which bed to clean out. 

At one point, she even sits down on Client’s sleeve. And I can sense Client is still wary of her. Of course they are wary. She’s a big bee, easily twice the size of her swarm. And Client has seen from up close what those bees can do.  Yet they are trying, and Queen is trying. I think, with time, the three of us will be okay.

It is pleasant to be cared for like this. And I forget the time a little, drifting in this happy place where it’s just the three of us and nothing can ever bother us. Yet at some point my drone-bees warn me of the incoming army. I sigh again, although this time with contentment, and leave Client to join Sir Pans and the other village warriors in their ditch. 

Sir Pans had had a nasty concussion from our battle a month ago, and honestly I’d like him to sit this one out. Yet there’s not likely to be much action for the villagers. Except maybe cleanup.

Freeing the village itself from the Necros had been child’s play with my bees. But these reinforcements they keep sending are starting to be a pain. 

This time, marching up to our ditch, it is an actual entire army. Lead by a single figure on horseback. They’ve already made a mess of our forest from the way they came, lush green turned into mud behind them. I doubt any of them will stay to assist in the replanting either. 

“Infidèles!” says the figure on horseback. “I am General KahlOhm, Uncle to the King-who-is-Wise and Commander of our Devine Armies in his stead. You see what has been brought before you, you see that you of this swamp of an outpost have not a chance. Surrender now, and rest assured that the children will be spared.”  

“How dare he come here into our kingdom and threaten us.” The queen hisses in my head, and when she says “us”, I can never tell  if she speaks in regal “I” or that she really does mean me and Client and my friends as well. But then neither does she, and the lines between you and me are only a faded blur to her.

“Come, let us call to our sisters now. Tell them to end him. These creatures are no better than the face-rot flies. We will deconstruct them and use their flesh to feed our young instead of nectar. Although the forest flowers are far superior to these stinking maggots. Yet it is our sworn duty as protector of these forests to—”

Are all the Units dead? I ask her, breaking her off before she can devolve into the kind of rant that will call down her sister-queens even without a conscious decision.

“Ah, I am sorry. My steed, my castle, my love. You know as well as I do that we have bees on every last one of them. Yet we’ve found no living flesh among them. Shall we pull the plug?”

I had known that. Still, it is a shame.

Just one moment, I ask her, and walk about ten paces out from our ditch cover. 

That even stops the General’s soliloquy. But I’m not here for him. Nor for the Mages and/or Necro’s (there’s apparently a difference), nor for the squads of DeadUnits placed in pockets throughout the field. Not any more, because the Units are just dead puppets.

But there must be over a thousand human soldiers placed across the field. Resources; not given a choice in coming here. For them, I ask the queen’s bees to spell out into the air:

“Leave Now.”

They shuffle their feet but do not turn to run. 

That is fine.

They will have plenty of opportunities to do so later.