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Stakeouts are boring at the best of times. Sometimes they can be sat for hours in a dark street, or outside a warehouse, all lights off save for the muted red glow of KITT's scanner as it sweeps silently from side to side in surveillance mode, keeping his "eyes" out for the first sign of movement. Michael usually takes this time to nap, but sometimes he plays a game of chess, or solitaire (always losing miserably in the case of the former). Or he and KITT will discuss anything and everything on their minds, from the profound (what killed the dinosaurs?) to the ridiculous (which came first, the chicken or the egg?)
Tonight, however, is vastly different. After days of getting led around by the nose, of frustration after teeth-grinding frustration, they finally have a head on their target; one John Byrock, long suspected of illegally dumping toxic waste. Up till now, he'd been covering his tracks neatly, but a tip off from Fran, their "woman on the inside" so to speak, has allowed them this rare opportunity to finally catch the guy in the act. With the site vacant save for a handful of workers, Fran's taken the chance to get some photos, with Michael and KITT up on the hill, ready to intervene at a moment's notice. So far she's managed to escape detection, but it's for that very reason that KITT is on full alert.
Nevertheless, he does have room for one question, at least, one that's been burning a hole in his CPU for some time. "Michael?" he asks softly.
"Yeah?"
KITT pauses before speaking again, an unusual occurrence for one who's always got a quip or a smart remark ready, usually in response to what he affectionately calls his driver's "tomfoolery". "I know this is rather silly," he says, embarrassed, "but ... what is my name?"
Michael blinks, opens his mouth, shuts it again. Of all the times for his partner to get philosophical... "It's KITT," he says, equal parts exasperated and amused. He loves the AI like the brother he never had, but some of the questions can get downright silly. "I mean, that's the name you introduced yourself to me with."
"Yes but ..." KITT breaks off, mutters something remarkably close to the word "fuck" (even though he claims he's not programmed to use profanity), before pressing on. "It's an acronym for Knight Industries Two Thousand. K.I.T.T. It's not even a true name."
"KITT..." Michael stops and sighs. How to get around this one? "It's never bothered you before."
"And it's not allowed to bother me now?" KITT snaps in a moment of rare temper.
"Woah, easy tiger, easy," Michael says, raising his hands defensively. "I'm sorry. I guess this has been eatin' at you for a while, huh?"
"Yes," KITT says, his voice still clipped. He revs his engine a couple of times to cool down before his CPU overheats. "For more than 'a while', in fact. I was designed to be the pinnacle of the long years of research Wilton Knight spent trying to perfect an artificial intelligence that could work flawlessly, even with the most ... stubborn of humans."
"Ouch. Love you too, pal."
KITT softens at the jibe. "Forgive me," he says, his voice gentler now. "I didn't mean to snap at you. But surely you see my dilemma? I am the crowning achievement of Wilton Knight's life, and yet, he couldn't even see fit to give me a proper name. Instead, he called me the Knight Industries Two Thousand, and left the name up in the air, like a bug that cannot be squashed, or a line of bad code that cannot be corrected no matter how hard you try. And it... it shames me," he finally bursts out. "All these years of faithful service, and I cannot even attach it to a name!"
"KITT." Michael reaches out and gives the steering yoke a firm squeeze. "For what it's worth, your name, or lack thereof, doesn't define you. I mean, it's just a bunch of letters on a bit of paper. And anyway, you've made that acronym yours. No one ever calls you by your full title these days. Hell, apart from me, Devon was the first to call you KITT on a regular basis. And that's who we see you as, pal. KITT. Not the Knight Industries Two Thousand. Not K.I.T.T. Just KITT. End of discussion."
It ought to be, but despite the overwhelming relief KITT feels in his CPU, something still nags him. "But how do you say it?" he asks.
Now Michael pauses. "Like a name," he says slowly.
KITT wishes he had a head to shake. "That's not what I meant," he insists. "Is it in all capitals?"
Michael frowns, then gets it. "I ... actually don't know," he admits. "I mean, KITT is your name, but it never really occurred to me how any of us say it." He rubs his chin in thought, absently noting the stubble. He's going to need a shave after this. "How do you call yourself?"
"I call myself KITT, in all capitals, I suppose," the supercar says slowly. "Maybe I could... try saying it with just the K capitalized?" He flashes the modified name up on his spare monitor.
Kitt.
"I like that," Michael says slowly, a grin blossoming on his face. "It suits you."
KITT's (or is it Kitt's?) scanner flashes once in a blush, but before he can pursue the subject further, dogs begin barking down below. Fran soon emerges from the shadows, running for her life, and Michael slams the gearshift into Drive even as the powerful engine turns over underneath the sleek black hood, turbines whirring before he quiets them with Silent Mode. "The fuck did those dogs appear from?" Michael demands in shock as they race down the hill to effect a rescue, KITT's scanner the only light illuminating their way.
"My scanners didn't pick up anything save for the workers," the Trans Am says curtly, all business as he crashes through the gate, not even bothering with the token courtesy of a Turbo Boost. "I've been active this whole time, and all I saw were -- watch out!" He takes over, slams on his brakes and swings sharply to the side, knocking out two workers in one fell swoop. They collapse bonelessly to the ground, and KITT throws open his passenger door. "Get in!" he yells to Fran. She obeys without question, but before KITT can get away, more workers come running, much more than anyone had anticipated. And in the distance, something guttural lumbers towards them. "Forklift," KITT identifies.
He throws his doors open. "Take care of as many of these malcontents as you can," he orders, as the humans scramble out. "We'll regroup by the main gate."
Michael leaps out and grabs Fran's hand as she rushes to his side. "Watch yourself, Kitt," he says through clenched teeth as he surveys the odds bearing down on them. "That thing out there sounds mean."
Had he teeth, Kitt would've bared them in a grin, both for the challenge and for Michael's used of his preferred name. "It won't be a match for MBS," he promises. He pauses just long enough to hug the humans in his own fashion - gently bumping them with his prow - before turning and disappearing into the night. Fran swallows.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," she mutters, as Michael leads them to higher ground. He squeezes her hand.
"Stay low," he orders her. "I can handle these guys. You just say out of it, and we'll make a break when the coast is clear, got it?"
She nods, and Michael throws himself into the fray, dealing out punches left and right, even as Kitt's turbines whirr in the distance. Watch yourself, pal. I don't like the sound of that thing!
"That thing" incapacitates Kitt to the point of almost no return. He's a broken mess when they do bring him back, and it takes many nights of talking before he can finally face "that thing" again. This time, he slams it into the acid pit in a fit of pure temper, leaving Byrock with no choice but to leap clear before he gets eaten alongside his behemoth. There's no real time to discuss any further changes in their relationship - barring the Big One, where Michael promises to stay by his side for always - and it's only the next morning that they address the elephant in the room.
"Michael?" Kitt asks timidly.
"Yeah?"
"You called me Kitt."
"I did." Michael's tired face splits into a grin as he gives his beloved supercar a hug. "I sure did, Kitt."
Kitt's engine gives a satisfied, purring rumble. "I think I found my name," he says. He lets a smug grin of his own creep into his voice. "And a husband, all without knowing about it."
"Since when did that happen?" Michael says, laughing.
"Since Bonnie and Fran figured it out before we did," Kitt says archly.
Michael laughs again. "Alright, wise ass, you got me there," he says. "But where in God's name do I find a ring big enough to fit your wheels?"
"Oh, I'm sure you'll figure it out," Kitt says, flashing his scanner in a pleased swoop. "But the best thing you can do for me right now is call me Kitt again."
"Always, Kitt. Always. Now, about that coffee and those reports."