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Chassis stared at the chronometer sitting in the upper right corner of her virtual dashboard and strained to parse its flickering numbers. After tapping the side of her head several times and resolving her optical feed as high as it could go, she finally gave it up as a hopeless case. Her system clock had become fully corrupted and would need to be replaced.
At least it matches everything else in this rusted out 'burb now, she thought sourly.
A resigned sigh rattled from her voice box as she sought out the ancient clock tower that loomed a few blocks away. The automated mechanisms of the giant timepiece were just as worn and useless as the quartz crystal in her own internal clock, but for the past several weeks a kind-cored couple had been living there and manually turning the tower's hands every few minutes as a service to others in the community.
Chassis let out an involuntary gasp when she saw how late it had gotten, startling a few other bots that were walking along the cracked sidewalk. Without sparing them a return glance, she gathered the loose folds of her nylon covering and began to run.
Her destination was only a short way down the street and did not seem the type of place anyone would be in a hurry to enter. Small, dilapidated, and thoroughly unremarkable by all appearances, it was only three stories high and seemed to be little more than a hovel. The floor of each story sagged toward the one below it, all of the windows had long since been smashed open and then boarded up, and filth was strewn across the sidewalk in front of it.
Indeed, the building was completely indistinguishable from every single other building in the massive Robotropolis Sprawl. Only one thing made it special in any way, the sole reason that Chassis was so eager to make it there on time. It was where the Storyteller lived.
Once a week, precisely at 12 00h, neighborhood bots both young and old would gather there to see what was purportedly the oldest bot alive, to hear their tales and be amused, delighted, or even frightened by their contents. Tales of fantastical whimsy or of historical import, tales that hailed from faraway worlds or from the community's very own doorsteps. The Storyteller was as wise as the super-cores and as old as the moons, it was said, and many speculated that they might even be the only bot still surviving that had actually seen the ascension of Master Robotnik.
At the thought of the immortal overlord, Chassis slowed her pace and cast her gaze in the direction of Doctor Ivo Robotnik's grand tower. It wasn't visible from her position of course, being located several thousands of kilometers away on an entirely different continent, but she knew as every bot knew exactly in which direction it sat. A marvelously twisted monument, stretching forever into the sky, where the lord of Robius and many other planets aside sat on his throne and ruled his empire with fists of palladium steel.
Chassis shook her head to clear away the static, then stepped across the threshold and into the home of the Storyteller.
The most notable feature of the first floor was that it had no walls, which had been taken out years before and replaced with a handful of makeshift pillars to bear the load of the second floor. Infrared bulbs recessed into the ceiling provided ample light to see as the last few stragglers entered and closed the door behind them. The only freestanding item in the room was a single piece of furniture, a small metal chair sitting near the far wall.
None of the dozens of bots milling about the room moved to sit in the chair. No matter how much their rusty joints squealed, no matter how drained their batteries, none of those assembled dared even approach it. Nor did they find space to rest on the floor or window sills. To sit before the Storyteller had entered? Disrespectful. Unthinkable.
Instead they stood or walked about, talking in hushed tones. Radio transmitters had all been switched off the moment they had entered the building for fear of disturbing the Storyteller's thoughts by transmitting so near their sanctum. Even the group of small children in attendance were standing still and quiet, deathly afraid that they might get sent home early, not get to hear the day's tale.
Chassis walked among them, her opticams sweeping silently back and forth. She knew that he would have to be there. He, like she, hadn't missed a single story session in nearly sixteen years.
"Gyro!" she called out softly, having finally spotted him leaning against one of the bare walls.
Relief flushed through her as the spindly bot looked up and moved toward her for an embrace. That relief turned into surprise when he picked her up by her framework body and lifted her off the ground.
"Chassis!" he cried joyfully as he spun her around. "I almost thought you weren't gonna make it! What kept you?"
The oil started running warm through her system, and she felt as if her faceplate was going to start glowing red from mingled joy and embarrassment. "You set me down right this second!" she scolded him. "We might get thrown out!"
"I'm sorry!" Gyro apologized, his voice still perfectly cheerful as he returned her gently to the ground. "I just hardly ever get to see you anymore!"
Chassis smoothed out her nylon covering then wagged a finger in the other bot's face. "Just see that it doesn't happen again!" she commanded in dire tones, but the facade of anger cracked immediately.
"I'm sorry I've been away," she said as she pulled him into an embrace. "Working at the factory has been taking up all my time, and they've got another bio-mech update coming down the line-"
"Hey, hey, it's fine, I understand." Gyro wrapped his thin arms around her, himself, and then her again. "Trust me, I'd be out there to see you more often if the parental units weren't running me rusty. Hey, is your chrono working? Mine's on the fritz again."
"Mine too," she replied sadly. "But the Storyteller should be out any second. Let's see if we can get to the front!"
Taking his hand in hers, Chassis began to gently push through the crowd with a nimbleness born of long practice. The area closest to the Storyteller's chair was reserved strictly for the smallest of the children present, but she and Gyro were still able to get just a couple of meters behind them, still an enviable position. Just as they were getting into place, a soft creak came from overhead.
A hush immediately fell over the room. Even those few kids that had managed to slip away from their guardians long enough to cause a ruckus had ceased their play. The infrared lights shut off one row at a time until the only one left was over the empty chair.
Step by step, the creaking coming from the second floor moved slowly toward a trapdoor built into the ceiling just a meter from that final light. The door opened with a click, swiftly followed by the loud rattling of a rust-stained ladder sliding down to the floor. Taking the ladder one rung at a time, each movement betraying the tremendous weight of age and wear that time had laid upon their limbs, the Storyteller emerged from their den.
There wasn't much to look at physically. They were wearing their usual acrylic robe, the hood drawn low to keep their face shrouded and belt pulled tight to conceal their body. No one had ever seen what the Storyteller looked like underneath their garb. None knew their real name or gender, if indeed it possessed either.
Only their hands were visible, protruding from the robe's thick sleeves. Tarnished steel fingers protruded from carbon fiber palms, seeming aged beyond imagining yet still powerful in their own way. Instruments of the Storyteller's craft just as surely as their voice and extensive collection of tales.
Gradually the bot made their way down the ladder, which sprang back up to the second floor as the trapdoor clapped shut behind it. A simple drawstring hung down into the room to allow access to the upper floors. There was no lock, no other security measures. There was no need. No one ever even considered invading their private quarters.
The Storyteller made the short, painful journey to their chair and slowly sat down. On their signal, the entire assembly likewise sat on the floor, their host scanning the crowd from under the robe's dark hood as they all settled in.
"So," the Storyteller said in a voice as ancient as the oil oceans themselves. "I see you have once again come to hear my tales. Excellent. Many of you, I recognize. Others, I do not. Newcomers are, as always, welcome. As are any questions you may wish to ask. It is both expected and encouraged. One never knows how the threads of a narrative may twist and realign from the offering of a new perspective.
"Only those who become disruptive will be asked to leave."
The weight of the warning was not lost on any bot there. Even those who had never attended before were aware of the fate of those few who had dared test it.
The Storyteller settled back into the chair, which squealed in protest but remained upright and in one piece nonetheless. They placed their hands in front of themselves, fingertips touching.
"Well then. What will today's story be?" they asked, tapping their index fingers together. "What dusty tome of history shall we be unearthing? What flight of fancy? A well worn road traveled many times before or something new perhaps? What would you like to hear?"
Hands and various other manipulating appendages shot up into the air, Chassis and Gyro's among them. Under the hood, the Storyteller nodded their head in approval. They slowly extended a gnarled finger, swept it through the air, then brought it to a sudden stop.
"You, I think," they said softly. "Yes, you will do. What story shall I tell this day?"
After checking and double-checking the angle of the Storyteller's finger, there could be no mistake. Chassis hesitated for a moment, shocked that they had chosen her of all bots. In all the years she had been attending the gatherings, they had never picked her before. She hastily tried to collect her thoughts as she began to stutter, "I, uh, I-I-"
Gyro nudged her gently. "Make it a good one," he whispered, winking an opticam at her.
The static rapidly cleared. She nodded, then rapidly scanned through a list of her favorite stories. After a quick microsecond of deliberation, she cleared her voice box and loudly declared her choice.
"I would like to hear the Tale of the Last Mobian!"
A contented sigh circulated through the regular story-goers. The Tale of the Last Mobian was a popular one, considered by many to be the Storyteller's best.
The Storyteller sighed as well, lowered their hand, and began the story.
"Long ago," the ancient bot intoned solemnly, "before the gift of biomechanics was given to us, before we truly lived and breathed and birthed new life, before the great city of Robotropolis covered the entire surface of our planet, before Robotnik ascended and became the grand overlord of all that exists, a different species ruled this world. Fleshy things known as Mobians.
"These creatures had spread everywhere, like a virus, infecting the land, the seas, the very skies above. They brought with them a reverence for a twisted god known as 'nature', a festering eldritch horror that grew and pulsated as if a thing alive, though not like any form of life as we know it.
"Many here know the Tale of Robotnik's Arrival, how he was not of the Mobians though he lived among them. How he came from the stars to the planet then known as Mobius. How he brought form and function to the earliest robotic creations.
"The wonderment of our existence pleased Robotnik, and he wished for us to co-exist with the Mobians as equals. But the Mobians had only fear and hate for our kind in their cores. Fear of the advantages our sophisticated forms gave us. Hatred of our perfection.
"Conflict arose, beginning with words and progressing, inevitably, to violence. It became a constant battle for control of this world. They-"
A voice from the crowd interrupted the story. "What did the Mobians look like?"
"Abominations," the Storyteller replied, their projected voice tinged with disgust, with anger. "Carbon-based life forms composed primarily of water encased in a soft, spongy material called 'flesh'. Most were covered in coarse wires, or 'fur', composed of useless keratin proteins. The average height was 1.3 meters, though some specimens were less than one and others greater than two. Their forms primarily followed an upright, bipedal body plan with bilateral symmetry, not that different from most of us, with the glaring exception of their tails."
The audience murmured softly at this.
"Yes, tails," the Storyteller repeated. "The Mobians were not perfect humanoids like us, like Master Robotnik. They had the superficial appearance of anibots, a testament to the lower caliber of their mental and physical forms. Canines. Rodents. Grunting, rutting beasts. Soft, and slow, and easy to kill, yet tenacious, cunning, and existing in far greater numbers than our own population at the time.
"The most tenacious Mobians were the so-called 'Freedom Fighters', rebellious rust-patches that sprang up after Robotnik began his conquest of the planet. Independent terrorist cells with only one goal, to destroy us and end our dream of a metallic future. The final roadblock to the Great Doctor's ultimate ascension. And it was among their number that the Last Mobian was counted."
"Was it their leader?" someone asked.
The Storyteller scraped the pointed end of one finger lightly across the arm of their chair. "No," they said after a short pause. "Though the two were directly affiliated with each other, both members of the cell known as the Knothole Freedom Fighters.
"Under their command were several bot-hating barbarians. Antoine the Cowardly, a swordsman and pilot of some passing skill, but a useless, quivering ball of grime in all else. Rotor the Corrupter, a pitiful excuse of a mechanic that sought to turn Robotnik's creations against him. Bunnie the Rabbot, who was given the grand gift of robotic limbs by our creator yet fought vainly to return to her putrid purely organic state.
"Their leader was Sally the Monarch, daughter of the Mobians' previous ruler. It was she that incited her people to rage against the machines. She who spread propaganda against us and organized terrorist cells across the planet in order to destroy us.
"But even worse was her foul champion, the one who personally killed thousands of bots with his own hands during his countless rampages. A mutated beast that ruined our creator's plans over and over, a core-less monster that delayed the ascension at every chance, a rusted heap that tried for so long to stop Robotnik from achieving the goal of a unified Robius . . .
"SONIC THE HEDGEHOG!"
The sudden vehemence of the Storyteller's outburst was followed by a chorus of gasps and whispers that rippled through the crowd. Chassis could certainly understand why, as she too felt the name burning through her circuits. A mingled sense of danger, hate, and duty radiated from her core, like a remote procedure call for a security protocol that no longer existed.
As the noise and sensation gradually began to fade, the ancient bot stood up creakily and continued their story from a standing position.
"The Last Mobian," the Storyteller growled. "An anomaly even among his own kind, possessing a unnatural speed that seemed to bend the very laws of physics themselves. An ability not worked for, not earned, nor even given through purposeful construction, instead bestowed upon him through mere random chance. An ability that he used to evade capture and death while wreaking havoc on Robotnik's designs. An ability that he was so prideful of that he proclaimed himself to be the 'fastest thing alive'!
"A loathsome speck, yet somehow he and his cohorts managed to achieve victory in even the most unlikely of circumstances. For nearly half a century, he was Dr. Robotnik's sworn enemy, and the hatred between them burned deep, like the very heart of a fusion reactor. It was the kind of hate that could lay waste to entire cities, boil the oceans away to nothing, blot out the sky, crack the planet in half.
The Storyteller leaned forward and held one hand aloft, sharply pointed fingertips curling back on themselves. "You feel it, deep inside of you," they said, quiet but with a searing intensity. "That hatred still smolders in your cores, even now. An echo of the imprint that Robotnik put in all of his creations at the time. Every sapient program in the mainframes, every bot fresh off the assembly line, they came online immediately ready to eradicate the hedgehog in order to pave the way for their creator's perfect world.
"But year after torturous year, the war raged on and the miserable rodent survived." The Storyteller closed their fist and held it close. "Robotnik's armies did everything they could to bring him low. Physically, mentally, emotionally. One by one, his allies fell around him, killed or roboticized. His secret base was found and destroyed, his territory gradually snatched away and rebuilt according to our master's great design . . . "
The bot's voice trailed off as they began to slowly pace back and forth. At first it felt as if the crowd as a whole was frozen, dipped in a preserving gel and sealed away, but as the pause in the tale stretched on, someone finally mustered up the courage to speak.
"What do you mean, 'roboticized'?"
The Storyteller stopped and turned their hood toward the bot that had asked the question. "Mobians," it replied, "were physically very fragile, as I said. Their bodies were brittle and would break at even the slightest application of pressure. Their skin was soft and pliable but incapable of withstanding weapons fire of any kind, even basic high-speed projectiles. Their personal data and primary programming was not stored in durable cores but as weak electrical signals contained within a biochemical soup. If they ever suffered storage corruption or hardware failure, there would be no emergency data transfer, no backup from which to restore their systems.
"A monthly maintenance and annual upgrade schedule would have left them dead. They required daily, almost hourly intake of supplemental substances merely to survive without wasting away. Weak. Pathetic.
"Dr. Robotnik saw these flaws and wished to help the Mobians overcome them. Unselfishly he sought to share the benefits of his own ascension, and to do so he - and he alone - developed the process that eventually came to be known as roboticization. Utilizing a combination of molecule-altering nanotech and energy manipulation fields, his roboticizers could take the organic flesh of a Mobian and transform it into the strong titanium alloy of robotic parts!"
A collective gasp of wonder ran through the room, even from those who had heard the story before.
"Defying all reason and logic," the Storyteller said, throwing their arms wide in incredulity, "the Mobians considered this marvelous technology blasphemous! They were either unwilling or incapable of seeing the creator's grand vision, of realizing what a wonderful gift he was bestowing upon them! They preferred bodies that would inevitably cease to function over a period little more than a century. Minds that became irreversibly clouded with time and disease, organs that could not be easily swapped out or repaired when damaged. For this alone, they deserved the finality of death that they so desperately clung to.
"Sonic refused both the gift of roboticization and an ushering into death. He continued on even as all else was stripped away from him, even his own sanity. By the time the last of his allies had been destroyed, the hedgehog was little more than a mindless beast wandering aimlessly through war-scarred wastelands and attacking anyone or anything that came near him. It was uncertain if he even remembered who he was or why he was fighting anymore.
"It was then that the call went out. Sonic the Hedgehog was the last remnant of the corrupt old world, the final obstacle to Robotnik's full ascension. The doctor's lieutenants ordered a gathering of their forces. The strongest and most elite warriors were chosen. A battalion of SWATbots, ComBots, StealthBots, QUANTUMbots, and Slicers were assembled to find and eliminate the Last Mobian under the leadership of Robotnik's finest creation: Mecha-Sonic.
"Reasoning that the best way to defeat his enemy would be to not only match but surpass that enemy's power, our master created Mecha-Sonic to be Sonic's superior in every way. Just as fast, just as cunning, but far more durable, intelligent, strategic. His twin, his mirror image, and excepting Dr. Robotnik himself, the deadliest of his enemies.
"Mecha-Sonic and his army swept the continents in their search, destroying the last few remaining edifices of the old world along the way. Days, weeks, months passed as they traced every lead, followed every trail, ever on the lookout for their quarry."
"But they found 'im, right?" one of the smaller children asked.
The Storyteller stopped pacing and sat back down into their creaking chair. "Yesss," they hissed. "Oh yes, they did find him. They found him wandering the Great Unknown, hunting down what few organic creatures he could find and ingesting them raw, unprocessed. But though the squadron that located him had taken him by surprise, he was still able to use his accursed speed to decimate them, force them to regroup.
"A full tenth of their number," they said, each word distorting painfully. "Brutally killed, murdered, by that monstrous beast. Then, before the survivors could formulate a retaliatory strategy, he retreated further into the Unknown.
"Mecha-Sonic arrived upon the scene soon after and rallied the troops to begin a pursuit. They tracked the Last Mobian, chased him across the war-torn planet, until they arrived at what little was left of what was once known as the Great Forest. There, they found the hedgehog sitting at the foot of the statue commemorating the destruction of Knothole Village, the original base of his terrorist organization. His former home. A fitting place for his inevitable end."
Chassis snuggled in closer to Gyro. "What was he doing there?" she asked.
"Crying," the Storyteller replied, their hands now turned upward and rising toward the ceiling. "His fluids leaked and smeared across his face in a primal display of terror. He knew that he could run no longer. Knew that he could not escape the righteous wrath of Dr. Ivo Robotnik, our overlord and creator!"
The Storyteller settled back into their chair and lowered their shrouded face. Menace radiated from their presence, a cold hatred that swept the room and sent a shiver through the circuits of all gathered.
"Sonic the Hedgehog stood, spat on the ground, and pointed directly at Mecha-Sonic, ignoring the rest of the assembled forces. 'If I am going to die,' he said, 'then I'm taking you with me.'"
A single finger tapped slowly on the arm of the chair, metal on metal.
"They were the first words he had spoken in nearly twenty years. They were destined to be his last. Accepting the challenge put forth, Mecha-Sonic ordered his troops to stand down. The hatred between Sonic and Mecha-Sonic ran just as deeply as that between Sonic and Robotnik, and came just as naturally. It was not pre-programmed. He was not assembled with thoughts of Sonic's destruction already implanted. No, that hate Robotnik had allowed to fester on its own, for Mecha-Sonic understood the creator's vision, believed it with every microchip, with every wire, with every molecule of his alloyed steel body!
"They surged forward, toward each other, toward the only future that either could possibly see. The battle raged for hours, tearing deep furrows into land that was already scarred from decades of war. The air was filled with the thunder of clashing forms tearing through it again and again, from blows launched and landed at speeds that few even now could achieve. It was . . . glorious.
"Neither combatant remained unscathed. The hedgehog was bleeding from various wounds, from his mouth, his ears. Bones were broken, muscles torn. The mecha was in little better condition. Oil and grease leaked from his joints. Torn wires protruded from his ruptured hull.
"He had been sure that his organic foe would soon wear down, tire from the constant exertion and ever-growing damage, but despaired to find Sonic still standing, still defiant, even as Mecha-Sonic's own reserves were starting to falter. But then . . . ah, then . . . "
No one dared ask a question. No one dared interrupt. They waited in silence so deep and profound, it seemed as if the entire world had gone quiet. Everyone stared intently at the Storyteller. Waiting.
Waiting.
"Just as it seemed that the worst had happened, just as Sonic stepped forward to strike a truly devastating blow to our champion, the Last Mobian faltered and dropped to one knee."
The Storyteller's hood drooped forward, their obscured gaze seeming to focus on their own upturned hands.
"He put a hand to his chest and gasped, his face twisted in tortured pain. His own body had turned against him, as if deep down even it knew that even if he had won that single fight, it would still be futile to continue on.
"Mecha-Sonic rose to his feet, towering over his opponent, taking in the weakness on display. The final blow would be his, and he raised his fists and voice to the sky in exultation of his impending victory. The ultimate victory and glory of Dr. Ivo Robotnik."
A weary sigh rattled deep within the Storyteller's voicebox, a sharp contrast to the seemingly joyous events that they were conveying.
"His victory cry was cut short by the sound of a laser blast," they intoned mournfully. "Mecha-Sonic looked down to find Sonic dead, a cauterized hole drilled straight through his defective heart. The mecha, enraged, turned and scanned his troops to find that a SWATbot, designation Gamma-Gamma 21B, had fired the shot. Without hesitation, Mecha-Sonic seized 21B, tore its head from its neck with his bare hands, and ordered that the body be left to rust where it fell.
"With the head of the order-defying traitor in one hand and the corpse of his fallen enemy in the other, Mecha-Sonic led his forces back to Robotropolis. And from that day forward, there were no more Mobians on this planet."
Warm contentment radiated deep within the power cores of the assembled bots. The Storyteller, without another word, stood and reached for the pull string hanging from the trap door in the ceiling. The ladder slid down into place and they placed a hand on one rusted rung.
"Storyteller!" Gyro called out.
Chassis' frame vibrated with surprise and excitement. Amazing as it was that she had been allowed to choose the tale, Gyro was about to begin the final tradition to close it out. She closed all of her background processes and waited anxiously.
The ancient bot stopped and silently turned toward Gyro.
"Storyteller," Gyro repeated, reverently. "We come to listen to your tales. We have heard so many of them. We know them, but we don't know you. Who are you, Storyteller? Who are you really?"
A pause, laden heavy with expectation. The traditional answer, I am the Storyteller. I always have been, and always will be, the Storyteller. Never anything else.
But the pause continued, and confusion began to grow. Then, just as some were beginning to dare thinking about speaking up, the Storyteller moved. With slow deliberation, they took hold of the belt tied at their waist and pulled it loose. They reached up, gripped their hood, and pulled it back as they unhooked the clasp at their neck. Acrylic fabric fell to the floor, leaving the Storyteller completely bare.
Their body was impossibly old, beyond the reckoning of even the eldest among the audience. They stood fully erect, arms held wide, proudly displaying all of that age, all of the damage that marred its obviously once-strong body.
Tall, with a sleek design still evident despite the warped exterior. A bot built for combat. Carbon fiber joints and undercoat worn smooth by time, alloy armor tarnished by the elements. Here and there, a speck of the original blue enamel surfacing, faded.
Severed wires, exposed and corroded, were hanging from small tears in their hull. One large tear ran across the upper left side of their head, but one burning red eye and the molded spikes protruding from the back of their cranium were still intact. They turned their head so that the tear faced directly toward Gyro and Chassis. Visible through the gap were two memory cores, impossibly ancient models but still recognizable as the seat of robotic thought and consciousness.
One of the cores was settled neatly into its socket. A soft light pulsed regularly from within, and along its identification band it read MS-32. The second core was in poor condition, soldered and wired in next to the first haphazardly, as if the one who had installed it couldn't quite see what they were doing. GG21B was stenciled deeply into the metal of its ID band.
And as it fully came into view, Chassis could swear she was picking up static from a long unused radio frequency, static that sounded almost like an anguished scream.
"For the past five hundred years, I have been the Storyteller. I will continue to be the Storyteller for the next two thousand. I will not die until my final tale is told."
Without another word, they picked up their cloak, slowly ascended the ladder to the upper floor, and shut the trapdoor with a clang that forced everyone out of their mesmerized stupor.
Gyro gently placed a hand on Chassis' shoulder. "C'mon. I'll walk you home."
She nodded her thanks, her opticams still locked on the ceiling door. "Next week?"
Gyro looked around the room slowly, taking in the crowd that was gradually beginning to stir.
"Yeah," he finally said. "It's a date."
END
Original: December 14, 2002
Rewrite: September 29, 2024