Chapter Text
Doctor Clark Amherst was officially dead.
Jagged wood pierced his abdomen, impaling him utterly. His worn body shuddered violently and went still, head lolling to the side, unfocused eyes looking at nothing. Hair stuck to his sweat-soaked skin.
The Butcher of Schenectady stared down at the body with something akin to abstained horror. His metal fingers clenched his gun and he turned away. “Damn you, Skate. This shouldn’t have happened,” he said.
Heavy footsteps clomped away, in the distance, a gunshot and the whirring of personal helicopter blades.
Gasping, Clark choked on the blood filling his mouth. He grasped his wound with desperate hands, pressing around the wooden stake impaling him.
He opened his mouth to shout for help, but all that came out was a garbled whimper.
Maybe this was meant to be, he thought miserably. Maybe he was supposed to die here, as reparations for everything he did. Clark is not a good person, he’s accepted that; he thought it okay to experiment on a living, breathing person — a child.
If Christopher was a gift from God, then this was a punishment from Him.
Clark shifted and bit back a scream. His death couldn’t have been quick. Christopher’s suffering wasn’t quick. Christopher spent thirteen long months comatose, having test after test run on him, and being the central drive for the entirety of Scentre’s neurocasters, their number one product. And now, through some semblance of freedom, Christopher was a robot, the very thing he helped destroy, even if unknowingly. Unwillingly.
Maybe he wasn’t a gift from God but a test.
And Clark flunked. Hard.
Blood bubbled out of the corner of his mouth, and dribbled down his chin. There wasn’t anything Clark could do to make up for the monstrosities he’d committed. He supposed he tried when he used himself as a distraction for the children to run, but it wasn’t for them. Guilt led his heavy heart with a steady hand. He was the reason their family was split up, why Michelle jumped from foster home to foster home without anyone to truly rely on, and why Christopher ended up in this situation in the first place. When Clark was dispatched to collect him, he’d had his doubts, but he followed through and he would never forgive himself for that. Michelle and Christopher didn’t deserve anything that happened to them. For what he did to them.
So he laid there, not making a sound, although he wasn’t sure he could if he wanted to.
This is divine retribution.
Give, and it will be given to you: good measure, pressed down, shaken together, and running over will be put into your bosom. For with the same measure that you use, it will be measured back to you. Luke 6:38.
This is God’s way of telling him he’s done his part. He met the Greenes and gave them what they needed, the information they sought. They will be given information in exchange for what Clark had so cruelly kept from them, from Michelle. And now, he will rest, as Christopher was forced to. He hoped PC would choose to go with the Greenes and their friends back to Blue Sky Acres, where he could make a proper family and friends, rather than hanging around an old man who was too stuck in the recesses of the past, chained to a self-imposed debt.
He spluttered, spraying blood into the air. Coughing, he inhaled deeply, a last breath. His last breath.
His arms and legs tingled like they’d been asleep, the blood slowing in tandem with the pulsating hole in his side. Darkness wriggled in the edges of his vision, he could feel the chills seeping in.
The stars weren’t visible by any means, hidden behind the carousel roof and blinding floodlights, but that’s okay, he knew they were there. He’d stared at them so many times out here in the desert, studied them until they ingrained themselves not only into his mind but into his very being.
He only mourned being unable to see them from where he was headed next.
He knew he wasn’t going anywhere good, somewhere he wouldn’t be able to watch over his friend or the others. He knew he wouldn’t be able to change his Fate. So he prayed.
He prayed that the war would end properly and that robots would get to live freely, he prayed for the Greenes to live their lives happily and without fear, that PC would find people who cared about him in a way Clark couldn’t. He prayed for all of them.
Please, he begged God, or anyone else listening, please take care of them.
His vision blurred, the distant sound of screeching metal fuzzed over.
In his last moments, a tall white blob stood over him, like an angel to take him away.
He smiled and let go.
—
He was floating.
He remembered the pain, the darkness, the cold. And then, like God saying “let there be light”, a deep set warmth encompassed him fully. He remembered gentle, calloused hands touching him, guiding him, holding him. His head rested on something radiating heat, something soft, like it was padded.
And the voices. Someone speaking, saying something urgently, others loudly discussing something Clark couldn't make out.
The smell of blood filled the air.
That first voice, something deep and rough, shouted something and all went quiet.
Then pain erupted in his side. Clark felt his body buck in response, gasping loudly as hot white shoved its way into his mind, filling every nook and cranny with invisible flames.
He couldn’t tell you how long it was until the pain faded, dulled down to a steady thrum in his side.
A soft yellow permeated his eyelids. He didn’t smell sulphur. Did he make it, he wondered, to Heaven after all?
He’d expected to hear more than the low grumbling and quiet murmurs, some trumpets, maybe? Or perhaps it was because he was to be turned away and cast to Hell, where he belonged.
He peeled an eye open, his eyelids sticky with sleep, blinded by a bright light overhead.
“Mornin’, Sleeping Beauty,” a somewhat familiar voice greeted, the owner grinned down at him, a well-hidden worry shining in his eyes.
“You,” he choked out. It was the man who punched him in the stomach.
Clark almost didn’t recognize him without his long hair. The man was wearing the same thing he was when he last saw him, the black vest over a white shirt and some black jeans. However, as his eyes adjusted, he noticed they weren't completely solid colours. His dark clothes had splatters of something darker, like they’d been stained in the last.. however long it was since he’d been awake.
His eyes trailed upwards.
Dried blood coloured the collar of his t-shirt, starting at the hem.
“I’m… alive, aren’t I.”
“You don’t sound too happy about it,” the man said gruffly, brows furrowing.
Clark pushed himself onto his elbows, dragging his aching body into a semi-sitting position, leaning against the mountain of pillows. Clean mattresses surrounded them on all sides, shelving near the back holding what looked like unopened packages of linen. The white mattress Clark was laying on wasn’t exactly white anymore. Blood crusted the fabric, leaving splotchy red and brown spots. Next to him, behind Michelle’s friend, sat a table covered in medical supplies and… tools. His brow furrowed at the handheld saw . He craned his head to see better but the man stepped in the way, a frown plastered on his face.
He stared up at him with a deep set weariness, “I had already accepted it.”
The man’s face did something odd, contorting before relaxing, an indecipherable glint in his eye. “Right, well, I’m Keats, by the way, and you’re welcome.”
“Keats,” Clark said, testing the name on his tongue. “Doctor Clark Amherst. And, uh, thank you, for saving me, I guess.” He patted the bed around him, feeling for his glasses.
His eyes narrowed but he nodded. “Yeah, well, someone had to, after all, Mrs Scissors is a mean one with those clippers.”
He paused his search. “What?”
He gestured to Clark's hair and then to his own shortly cut blond curls, “you got to keep your hair in exchange for my own. I caught Mrs Scissors trying to cut your hair more than once. So,” he spread his arms in a 'what can you do?’ gesture, “you’re welcome.”
Mrs Scissors… He didn’t know a Mrs Scissors.
“We’re at Blue Sky Acres,” he stated more than asked. Keats inclined his head in a nod. He jolted, and clutched his throbbing side, “Michelle and Christopher! Are they okay?”
“Michelle’s fine, she’s chatting with the Peanut right now,” he jabbed a thumb over his shoulder. “Writing a speech.”
His heart sank, “and… and Christopher?”
A tendon in his temple jumped and he crossed his arms. “They took him,” he said carefully.
“Damn it,” Clark rubbed a hand down his face, finding his glasses perched on the bridge of his nose, where they usually were. “Everything I jeopardized, everything that happened, all for nought. This is my fault, if I’d only helped sooner—”
“Woah, hey,” Keats sat on the edge of the mattress. “He didn’t blame you, Doc, neither of them do. You gave him freedom.”
“I shouldn’t have had to in the first place,” he grunted, carefully sitting all the way up. His eyes narrowed. “You said ‘didn’t’.”
The space between his eyebrows creased, “the kid is… He’s dead.” His voice softened, “Michelle had to let him go to save the world.”
“Fuck,” he scrubbed viciously at his cheeks. Lifting his knitted sweater to see bandages, meticulously wrapped, red blotting marred the picture perfect image. His jaw clenched and he leveraged himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
He stumbled to the table, ignoring the hands grasping at his sweater. Grabbing the bottle of painkillers — a strong type you can only find behind the counter, if prescribed — and held it up to Keats. “When did I last have one?”
“Uh, I dunno, four hours ago?”
He nodded and dumped a couple in his mouth, tossing the empty bottle over his shoulder. “Let’s go,” he shuffled towards the door, “I’ve got to help Miche—” he cut himself off with a yelp, slamming into the itchy brown carpet. He gasped silently, back arching as tendrils of pain raced through every limb. A roll in the rug stared at him innocently.
“Yeahhh,” Keats looked down at him, arms crossed and an eyebrow raised judgmentally, “good luck with that.”
Clark clicked his tongue in irritation, unsteadily climbing to his feet. He breathed shallowly, afraid too deep of an inhale would further shock the pain receptors in his stomach. “And what have you done besides almost getting her killed?” Getting him killed? He didn’t say, but that would be unfair. Christopher’s death was on Clark, and Clark alone.
He who is without sin among you, let him throw a stone at her first. John 8:7.
But no one claimed Clark was a Saint.
“Watch it, dickhead,” Keats snapped without any real heat, exhaustion coating his voice. His shoulders sloped, grief heavier than any anger he might’ve felt at Clark’s provoking.
“He was supposed to be safe here,” Clark grumbled, leaning his body weight against the doorframe. The mattress store was stationed in the corner of the central pavilion, just far enough to not be noticed amongst the rubble piled high, everything covered in a thin layer of dusty plaster, a far cry from the last time he’d been there. He remembered the noise, the excited chattering of robots to each other, others bustling about, doing errands for themselves and each other. He remembered robots painting for the first time, listening to the radio someone had hooked up to the PA system, and generally just living.
Humans did this, God’s creations.
He squeezed his eyes shut, an arm wrapped tightly around his throbbing abdomen. “He should’ve been far away there, from them.”
A warm palm grasped his shoulder. Keats opened his mouth to say something and—
“Good to see you up, Doc!” Herm grinned, announcing his presence. “Hey, beefcake, we’re rolling in about twenty minutes. You should clean up.”
Keats nodded. He patted his shoulder once, twice, and let his hand drop to his side. “Get some rest, Doctor.”
They passed him, picking their way across the obstacle course that was the plaza.
A dusty handprint on his shoulder was the only evidence he was there to begin with.
Through trial and error, Clark discovered he could walk but very, very slowly. Every step sent pins and needles shooting through his muscles, a dull ache starting at the hip upwards. The good news is that the medication seemed to be kicking in.
He knew, logically, he should’ve stayed in bed. His injury could’ve killed him, and still could if he wasn’t careful, but this was more important. He had to tell her. She had to know how regretful, how sorry he was.
He found her in a tech shop, the big block letters long since torn away, a large ‘C’, the only letter remaining, hung miserably by itself.
It was a sign, Clark thought bemusedly. The C left by itself, destined to be alone.
Michelle stood near the back, her purple plaid button up and overalls exchanged for a long sleeved shirt and black cargo pants, a black and grey flannel tied around her waist. She rolled her bottom lip between her teeth.
Several televisions lined the wall, but Michelle’s attention was solely on the one playing the news. An elegant brunette smiled indulgently at the camera, discussing a big, robot on drone fight at Scentre Headquarters.
‘Human casualties are estimated at zero, as are injuries.’ She said, reading off an invisible teleprompter. ‘Robot casualties are thought to be over forty, with the clean up crew still on site. We’ll update you as we receive more information. We’re going to pass you over to Max Hardy, at the scene. Over to you, Max.’
It was a cleansing. Not a single human injury, yet tens of robots, of artificial life, were killed and even more hurt. Was this an act of God, purging the life humans created in an attempt at being God? Or was this simply an act of Free Will? A cruel, devastating act of Free Will?
Clark shook his head to clear it. “Michelle?”
She glanced over, eyes widening. “Doctor?”
“How long have I been out?”
“Uh, about three days, what are.. what are you doing up? You’re injured.”
“I had to—“ he glanced at the footage recovered from Scentre drones, scenes of robots being ruthlessly executed burned themselves into his retinas. He had to find PC after this. “I had to make sure you were okay, I heard that they.. that Christopher…”
Her face shuttered and he winced. Bad subject.
“I’m sorry.”
She sighed, “don’t be. You gave him a chance, and I’m grateful for that.” She stared at him for a moment, and turned back to the screen, throat bobbing.
He tapped the pads of his fingers to his thumb, one at a time. “Can I ask—?”
“He told me to,” she interrupted. “He wanted me to .. to unplug him. His real body, anyway,” she took a deep, shuddering breath.
“His real—” Clark blinked in surprise. He adjusted his glasses. “He was still hooked up to his robot body when he died?”
Her chin wobbled and she nodded. “Yeah, but they locked him out of it. He’s gone,” she rubbed at her eyes with sleeved palms.
God was testing him.
Compassion or safety? To help or to stay?
If he left… there’s the chance he could be discovered and apprehended by authorities, his face was plastered all over the lab videos released to the public, as the former lead scientist. He was, publicly, a dead man.
Christopher was a genius. But he was also a child. He was a child and, on the off chance he was still alive, that he had some semblance of consciousness left in that bot, that he had not died but rather forced the rest of his consciousness to seep past the firewalls and into the bot, he was alone. No one knew to look for him. Except for Clark, the very person who gave him his means of escape, the sole reason he is where he is now.
It was unlikely but Christopher was his responsibility, regardless of what God wanted him to do.
“I’m sorry, Michelle,” he mumbled, wringing an end of his scarf in his hands.
She smiled tiredly at him and excused herself to prepare for her speech, head ducked as she left the room.
Max Hardy was still talking on screen, an easy, newsworthy smile plastered on his face as he stood in front of the carcass of the giant blue cat robot.
The majority of the population didn’t care about robots, they mourned the loss of their slaves, but otherwise couldn’t care less. Robots don’t decay the same way humans do, but they’re sentient with their own wants and needs.
Most people are stuck in their ways but not everyone. Maybe…
He tapped his right index finger to his thumb, and then his middle to his thumb, so on and so forth. The niggling of an idea began to form at the edges of his mind.
—
Clark made it outside just in time to hear the ending of her rousing speech, he was sure he’d catch the beginning of it on the news later. He scanned the gathered crowd of bots, searching for— there, Keats, the one person who might be able to help him.
He stood out of frame of the camera, thankfully having changed clothes, now sporting clean jeans, a light grey shirt, and a leather jacket.
Keats, as if feeling Clark’s eyes in him, glanced around, pausing when he made eye contact.
Clark waved at him to come closer.
Grinning proudly at Michelle, more fatherly than Keats would probably admit, he said something to which she smiled and nodded. Shoving his hands in his pockets, he made his way over.
“Aren’t you supposed to be resting?”
Clark looked around to make sure nobody was watching and leaned in. “I need your help.”
Keats blinked, taken aback. He huffed a haughty laugh, “what, something you can’t do yourself? Because if it’s,” he waved a hand flippantly, gesturing to the dried sweat and blood clinging to his clothes, “like, shower-related—“
“No.” Pushing down an irritated frown, his eyes narrowed, “nothing like that. I need you to drive me to Scentre Headquarters.”
Keats jolted and in a singular moment, grabbed him and pulled him off to the side. “Why would you want to go there?” He hissed under his breath, strong hands clamped around his biceps.
“I…” He hesitated, “I think Christopher might still be alive.”
He inhaled sharply, his eyes widening. “What?”
“It’s only a hunch! I just need a ride. And if I’m wrong, then it won’t change anything because you’re not going to tell Michelle, understand?”
“Tell me what?”
They flinched, heads turning in synchronization. Michelle crossed her arms, one eyebrow raised.
Clark’s mouth opened and closed— “Michelle! Nothing! Nothing at all! What are, what are you doing here?”
She smiled awkwardly, brows furrowed. “Just finished up my speech…? I came to see what you two were whispering about.” She squinted at them, at their point of contact, “what are you doing?”
Keats wrapped a muscled arm around Clark’s shoulders, dragging him uncomfortably close, a silent order to shut up. “The Doc was just telling me he was thinking of, uh, leaving the EX, y’know, since Scentre’s all taken care of and… stuff…”
“Oookay?”
“I’m coming back,” Clark cut in, “I just—“
His arm tightened. “He didn’t want to worry you or anything,” Keats interrupted, despite her obviously growing skepticism. Clark nodded vigorously. “You already have so much on your plate—“
Michelle stared at them for a moment and sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. She grumbled something to herself. “I don’t really care what you two are doing. If you want to take off for a week together, you don’t have to make an excuse,” she conceded, eyeing their proximity, and the arm holding him close. “Just… don’t be too long, we have other priorities at the moment.”
Keats spun him around, pushing him away from Michelle. “No promises!” Keats called over his shoulder.
They walked past robots and shrubbery, Keats nearly draped over his shoulders, his body heat seeping through multiple layers of wool and leather, until they were safely out of earshot.
“Well, that was cryptic. What was she talking about?” Clark frowned over his shoulder. “What did she mean?”
Keats let him go and coughed into his fist. His face seemed redder than before, Clark directed him to a patch of shade just in case. The coolness of the shadows burrowed into him, sending a shiver down his back despite the desert heat. He readjusted his scarf.
“Doesn’t matter, I was just agreeing to get out of there…”
He pursed his lips, “right.” Shaking his head, he brushed his vest off. “Listen, it’s my fault Christopher’s a robot, that he.. died. I just want to know for sure on..on the off chance he isn’t.” He peered up at him anxiously, fingers fiddling with the black buttons of his coat. “So? Will you help me?”
Keats’ gaze drifted past him, chewing thoughtfully on the corner of his lip. He shifted his weight fully to his left leg. “Yeah,” he said, eyes snapping to Clark’s, something uncomfortably sincere. “Yeah, I’m in. When are we leaving?”
“First light, preferably. I have something I need to do first.”
“Cool, cool. Then I’ll see you then,” Keats nodded, shoving his hands in his pockets as he sauntered away, an odd limp to his gait.
Clark tore his eyes away. He had to find PC.
Thankfully, he wasn’t hard to find. Tucked away in an enclave back inside the mall, just watching bots bustle around, cleaning debris and carting robot carcasses away, PC sat by himself.
“You’re leaving, aren’t you?” PC didn’t give him a chance to speak.
“Yes.”
He turned, a frown projected on his screen. “You’re going alone.”
“I have a ride.”
“But not a friend.”
Clark edged between a fallen shelf and approached a toppled stone garbage can next to PC, lowering himself onto it carefully. He sighed, brushing a lock of hair out of his face, “I have something I need to do, and… I need to do it alone.”
He needed to do it alone. He wanted to do it alone. He had to.
PC stared at him, his pixelated microexpressions twitching every so slightly. He’d always been one of the most humanoid robots he’d ever met. Suddenly, his face flipped like a switch, relaxed and certain, “you’ll come back.” He didn’t ask.
Clark smiled, “always.”
“Good,” PC nodded, “because you're my best friend and I’ll use my freshly procured axe if you think about running.” His eyebrows dipped down, mouth falling into a small frown, “I know how your brain works against itself, Clark.”
“Okay, okay,” Clark splayed his hands in front of him. When’s the last time he washed his hands? He’d have to wash them after this. “I swear I’ll come back.”
PC lit up, one of his claws swivelling in a 360 degree angle.
Clark’s smile dropped, “hold on, what do you mean by ‘axe’?”