The V.I.C.I Diaries - Broken (Part 8)

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The V.I.C.I Diaries - Broken (Part 8)

Post by DukeNukem 2417 » Sun May 29, 2016 1:12 pm

“......well?”

Anton Malvineous stared at the screen showing the readouts of Casey's cessation of function. “It's not Stylo,” he muttered. “And it's not anything I've written before. Whatever it is....it's horrible.” He brushed a few stray hairs away from his eyes; “Whatever this virus is,” he continued, “it's new.”

“All the more reason for you to call in Vicki. It's time we tell her---”

“Tell her that we've been hiding more from her?” Anton tonelessly replied. “That'll go over well, won't it....” He closed the tracker program showing Casey's COF. “Everything that's gone wrong so far has gone wrong for the simple reason that we couldn't tell Victoria Anne-Smith Lawson the truth!” He lashed out with a savage backhand that smashed into the monitor, pushing it to the very precipice of the desk. “Every lie we tell her 'for her own good' is hurting someone,” he hissed. “How long will it take until one of our lies ends with someone's death?!”

“.....Anton, we haven't---”

The doors of Anton's office swung open, nearly knocked off their hinges by a red/white blur.

“......Vicki,” the roboticist breathed, “you....how---”

Rae told me you had a tracker in Casey,” the brunette gynoid replied. “You saw what happened to her, the pain she was feeling...and you didn't deactivate her.” Her monotone was just a bit colder, a bit less friendly than usual. “You could've shut her off, turned off her systems one by one....ANYTHING to keep her from feeling any more pain.....”

Her eyes glowed a brilliant, chilling sapphire. “....so why didn't you?

It didn't take her enhanced aural sensors to tell that Anton was quietly sobbing. “....I couldn't,” he whispered, his hands brushing against the keyboard. “....just like....like last time.....I saw the flames, and I....I could feel the fire on my back......” Even as V.I.C.I approached, the weeping roboticist didn't flinch away. “I'm sorry, Vicki, I....I truly am.....it's....there's no excuse for this, none at all......”

Slowly, the glow in V.I.C.I's eyes faded. “.....Anton....”

A hand rested on her shoulder. “You didn't know,” a female voice quietly informed her.

“Didn't know....what?”

“That the DVS tried to recruit him after he'd left the Great Dirty WorldWide Web....or that they repaid him for his refusal by burning down his newly-built offices and his house, with his wife and child still inside. He tried to break through and save them, but...ever since then, he's suffered from intermittent bouts of pyrophobia----”

“IT'S NOT FEAR OF FIRE!” Anton cried out. “It's fear.....fear of losing them.....”

His stare locked onto Vicki. “.....of losing you....”

The female behind Vicki stepped forward, clad in a hooded duster that obscured her figure from view. “It's okay,” she assured Anton. “You won't lose her....you're not going to lose anyone, Anton. I'm here.”

Even as the mysterious female consoled the professor, Vicki realized that everything---Epsilon's rampage, the impending exile of Oberon, and this new, horrifying virus that had killed off Casey---was casting a wide shadow over everyone in the ALPA. “....I....I'm sorry,” she murmured. “I didn't....he never mentioned them.”

“It's a painful topic for him...but that's not what you're here for.”

The calmness in the cloaked female's voice was somewhat....eerie, yet soothing. “You know why I'm here?”

“You're here because you need help tracking Epsilon, and you wanted to get out of your own house before the grief consumed your every waking thought.” The female led Anton to a chair, removing her duster to drape over him....and revealing a familiar set of pigtails. “And I know that because Anton knew---I've been helping him, helping Ted and generally trying to keep things moving smoothly in the ALPA.”

She turned, confirming the brunette gynoid's suspicions. “....it's not like I'm using this as a vacation to get away from touring with the Starlet Dolls, either,” she added.

“.....I...I don't...” Vicki took a step forward. “You?!”

“Before you ask, I'm not planning on making business cards that say 'Sophia Starlet, Secret Agent'---”

The gynoid pop star didn't back out of Vicki's embrace. “...this....this is what I needed,” the Field Agent quietly admitted. “You're....actually with the ALPA now? Paid duties and all?”

Sophia stepped away from Vicki, chuckling nervously. “My 'paid duties' were....more limited, originally,” she admitted. “Mostly, I was supposed to keep an eye on androids and gynoids in the entertainment industry, make sure none of them were being exploited...standard stuff. The Dolls' tour of Japan was a great way for me to do that....but then all of this stuff with Epsilon happened....” She glanced over her shoulder at Anton. “...and I knew that I could do more. A lot more.”

“And he didn't talk you into it? Give you the 'sales pitch', or anything---”

“She wanted to do this,” Anton croaked. “Wanted to help, to make an impact....” He dried his eyes. “Dennis was hellbent to keep her on the tour, but...she talked him into it.” He gave a weak laugh that faded quickly into a sob. “I tried to talk her out of it....”

“You never watched the Starlet Dolls cartoon series, did you?” Sophia teased. “I may not be built Tonka tough, but I can handle myself---”

Vicki gave a light cough that sounded remarkably like the word “batteries”.

“....and the whole 'I need Dennis to change my batteries' problem has, in fact, been corrected,” the pop starlet continued, without missing a beat. “I can change my own power cells out with minimal fuss, and a few Field Agents have been giving me lessons in self-defense, evasive driving and stuff like that.” She grinned. “They all say I'm a quick study---”

“Which is great,” Vicki acquiesced, “but....this Epsilon thing is.....”

“Complicated?” Sophia offered.

“Yes! Inter-agency politics, Epsilon freaking dying even while we're hunting him....and don't get me started on what happened with Oberon.” Vicki sat down next to Anton, shaking her head. “And what happened to K.C...”

Sophia nodded gravely. “I saw. Something redlined her power cells, causing a full system failure and multiple component malfunctions at once....pretty gory stuff. Well, gory for...our kind, I guess....” She sighed. “I know the risks of the job, Vicki. This isn't a game for me, and it's not a publicity stunt....I want to do this. I want to be able to help androids and gynoids like you do, and...I don't know, just do something with my life that means something---”

“Your music means something to a lot of people,” Vicki assured her. “Including me!”

“I know,” Sophia replied, “but....something tells me the 'Feed the World' approach won't help in this case...”

She let her sentence trail off as Anton rose from the chair. “....Casey can be saved, if her backups are found quickly enough,” he stated. “As for us, we've got enough on our plate already---starting with Epsilon.” He gestured to a nearby MSX terminal; “The implants used to create Epsilon give off a unique energy signature,” he explained, “and I've been able to keep tabs on him---well, very faint tabs, but tabs nonetheless---over the past few hours.”

Vicki and Sophia went over the last known locations Epsilon had “visited”, quickly establishing a pattern: “He's been trying to...repair himself, almost.” Vicki leaned in, quickly realizing another fact. “He's hitting all the old SPS chop shops,” she murmured. “Some of those still have ALPA security teams stationed inside---”

“Why isn't he hiting hospitals?” Sophia cut in. “I mean, he is still partially organic....right?”

Anton shook his head. “At the risk of overusing a cliché, I might as well say it: Epsilon is more machine than man, now. Everything about his organic body that was deemed to be a 'weakness' had to be removed, or at least modified. He's effectively been castrated, for example, and all subsequent...organs...were....” He turned away, fighting the urge to retch. “...sorry, I...I read over the notes to Project Epsilon....what they did to him was utterly horrible.” He shook his head. “....anyway....the only thing they weren't able to perfect was the mental conditioning---as evidenced by his repeated attempts to contact Kirsten Sanderson.”

“Which explains why she's been taken into protective custody...” Vicki nodded. “So we don't need to deploy any teams to hospitals. Anything else we need to know?”

“Not about Epsilon, but....” Anton cleared his throat, his fingers flying over the keys of another MSX. “It seems the, ah, virus that...killed...Casey was formerly a product of....” He stopped, blinking rapidly---almost as if he was trying to determine whether or not the text he was reading was actually on the screen in front of him. “Ah, Vicki....you may want to take a look at this.”

The brunette gynoid glanced at the monitor. “Formerly a product of United Robotronics....”

“From this year,” Sophia chimed in. “...doesn't exactly strike me as something that'd be high on the Christmas best-seller lists, though....”

“I have a feeling this wasn't meant for mass-market release,” Vicki muttered. “However this thing got out, it's a secondary priority---and I know we need to find out how Casey got infected in the first place, but...” She turned away.

Anton exchanged a worried glance with Sophia. “....Vicki?”

“Sophia....you should probably help with recovering Casey. I've fought Epsilon before....he knows me, I guess you could say. If you or any other operative tries to stop him, they'll probably get ground into the pavement or worse. I'll do what I can to keep him contained...if I need any help, I'll call HQ. I just don't want anyone else to go through what I went through...” Brief, fleeting memories of her fight with Epsilon and Oberon passed through Vicki's processors.

“....you shouldn't have to go through this alone, Vicki,” Sophia quietly replied. “This is....it's like a---”

“Whatever it's 'like',” Vicki assured her, “what it is usually tends to be a lot more complicated....” She managed a smile. “.....and I can handle it. But if I need any help, you'll be on my speed-dial.”

The gynoid singer grinned. “Good to hear. So....what's your next move?”

“Finding Epsilon. Whatever happens, I have to get to him before....well, before whoever used the Helios virus can find him.” Vicki headed for the door. “Actually....Sophia, I changed my mind.”

She glanced back over her shoulder, grinning. “Wanna drive?”
-------------------------------------
Traffic was minimal as Max Mills made his way to the next “appointment” of the day---the “demonstration” of Helios had made a slight change to his intended itenerary. He'd been scheduled to appear at a meeting for any and all parties involved with an ongoing dispute between multiple fast food chains accused of “copying” the now-famous methods of Fazbear Entertainment, but with the Helios thing having gone a bit longer than he'd expected, the meeting was no longer anywhere near the top of his priorities list.

Then again, it had been near the middle-to-low end for a while. He'd met with the proprietors of some of the restaurants (Candy's Burger and Fries, despite being the newest of the bunch, had the most promise) a few days before, but....most of it was the kind of mindless corporate BS he'd come to loathe.

His little cat-and-mouse with the DVS was far more stimulating.

Watching the Helios-stricken gynoid succumbing to the program had ben an enlightening experience. For one, the gynoid herself was more than likely just as advanced as the girl whose “black box” had been recovered from Mills' factory (he'd already had his suspicions before that incident that the world of robotics was far more advanced than animatronics and Actroids), yet Helios had taken her down in...minutes.

Many parties would pay handsomely for that kind of protection against “synthetics”.

Secondly, Octavia Martinet---despite her cool, apparently unphased demeanour---had shown a rather glaring weakness during the “demonstration” by refusing to help the stricken gynoid. Her own employees were, in her eyes, expendable; if that could be proven for humans as well as synthetics, Mills could easily sow discontent among the ranks by way of a few choice e-mails.

Thirdly---

Several sharp, blaring noises cut him off; his Acura had apparently begun to veer into the wrong lane while he was going over what he'd learned. Anyone else in his position would've panicked.

Then again, few in his position had seen---or survived---far worse things than a car crash.

“Driver,” he sighed---most of his employees had accepted the fact that he rarely (if ever) remembered their names, and chose to call them by their titles instead---”if this is some kind of protest about working later shifts than usual and missing sleep, I'll be more than happy to negotiate a new schedule for you...”

Two minutes passed without any comment from the driver's seat of the Acura, now slowly listing to the right side of the road. “....and I have a feeling this is a bit deeper than shift changes,” Mills sighed. “If you're going for the 'slow down, pull over and walk away without saying a word' routine, I would at least appreciate a decent explanation....”

As the Acura slowed to a stop, Max noticed a thin plume of smoke wafting up from the driver's seat.

“.....a smoke break? You pulled over for a smoke.....break....”

The realization hit him mere seconds after he saw the smoke: this wasn't a smoke break, because everyone employed by Max Mills, in any capacity, was forbidden from smoking around him (he'd had asthma during his youth, and lost a favorite uncle to lung cancer). The thought of the Helios-stricken gynoid from Martinet's office slowly crept back into Max's thoughts as he unbuckled his seatbelt and leaned over the arm rest of the Acura, to get a better look at the driver....and nearly fell back in his seat a second later.

Half of the woman's face had, for lack of a better term, melted off---revealing a metallic skull not unlike that of the unfortunate Helios victim. Her left “eye”---a camera assembly of some kind---had collapsed in on itself, more than likely due to the sheer intensity of the heat. Half of her tongue looked like burnt beef jerky.

“....this....this is impossible,” Max breathed. “I hired her myself....checked the drug test results...she's human!”

No other cars were slowing down to check on the scene, despite the Acura's earlier erratic driving. Without any would-be witnesses, Max grabbed his ex-driver's purse and rooted through it, finding...nothing. No wallet (a massive red flag, considering how any passing police officer might ask for the ersatz driver's license in the event of a crash or other infraction), no cash....nothing.

All too quickly, he realized what had happened: his driver, the actual driver, had been....replaced.

With the Acura's engine still idling, Max exited the car as quickly as he dared, moving to the front seat to ease the now-useless driver into the back. What unnerved him about the situation wasn't the fact that his driver had been replaced with this...formerly-perfect facsimile of her. Nor was he disturbed at the possibility that the “switch” could've been made months before. What truly rankled him was the fact that the synthetic facsimile of his driver had, by means unknown, been stricken with Helios---a program that Max himself had only just begun testing on fully-functioning units.

The why wasn't important, nor was the how. All that mattered was the what next.

Why” wasn't too hard to guess---someone had been watching Max, and as soon as he expressed an inkling of interest in the DVS, that someone decided to swap out his real driver with the gynoid, probably to have her “deliver” Max to some unknown fate. “How” was even easier to figure out---give the real driver vacation tickets (only rank amateurs, psychopaths and those who feared nothing flat-out killed people in this line of work) or otherwise remove her from the equation, and in comes the fake.

As for the “what next”.....

With the ruined gynoid now slumped in the back seat, her head turned to hide the damage to her face as best as possible, Max took her place in the front seat and eased the Acura back onto the road. Already, his line of thinking turned to the process of making phone calls to “the right people” regarding this...

….which left him completely unaware that the defunct gynoid in the back seat was far from his only worry.

The gynoid's purse was, in fact, not empty. Experimental, nano-thin layers of flexible circuitry---a primitive sort of audio transmitter/recorder, based on older technology used during the Cold War---were sewn between the innermost and outer-most layers, thus detecting and “storing” sounds made near the purse, and sending them after a certain period of time. Max had no idea that the purse would capture sounds, nor did he know what impact they would have on his life and career.

All he knew was that he had to ditch the gynoid who'd been posing as his driver.

Any old dumping ground would've sufficed---Max would've dropped the 'bot into the nearest sewer if he knew he could get away with it---but there was the small matter of would-be Good Samaritans possibly stumbling upon the scene. Anyone he called would ask questions, as well---none of which he could answer easily. Thus, his course of action was pretty much already decided by circumstance: it would be an in-house job.

Quite literally, in this case---the gynoid would have to be dismantled and disposed of at Mills' house. Privacy wouldn't be an issue, he could easily bring the 'body' in however he chose without getting stopped by any of his neighbors or a random police officer, and he had the tools to take the ersatz driver apart, figure out who had built her, and then make the appropriate calls to find out more.

Traffic thinned out as Max found the necessary exit to leave the highway and get back to his own residence; he made a mental note to call his secretary (hoping she hadn't been replaced as well) and reschedule the meeting he was ditching.

Five minutes after the “smoke break”, Max reached his penthouse, guiding the Acura into the parking garage.

No attendants greeted him on his way to the lift---all the better, considering who (and what) he was hauling.

Seven floors up, in the refitted bedroom that served as a workshop to test out various anti-bot software (and, occasionally, hardware) on “volunteers”, Max set to work removing the defunct gynoid's clothing. It was...odd, stripping her to her unmentionables without any remark or even movement in response; part of him felt utterly repelled by it, as if he was undressing a corpse.

And yet...

A brief smirk crossed Max's face; whoever had designed the gynoid duplicate of his driver had, by means as yet unknown to Max, created a facsimile that was more than likely 94% accurate to the real person. He knew his chauffeur had been a model, at one point, and the 'bot's figure was a perfect match. Even the birthmark on the left shin (accidentally revealed during a drunken Christmas party two years prior) was there. All too soon, Max found himself wondering just how....intimate....the anatomical fidelity of this ersatz driver was....

….and just as quickly, the thought was pushed out of his mind. Work now, fun later.

The toolkit in the drawer allowed him to peel back what was left of the gynoid's face---the only part of her that ruined the illusion of her humanity. It felt...disturbingly close to real skin, instead of the cheep, latex-rubber feel Max was somehow expecting. The chrome “skull” beneath, with its exposed motors and wiring, didn't help.

Frowning, Max turned the motionless figure on her side, glancing at her flawless back. He had no idea what he was looking for, in all honesty---a tattoo that doubled as a maker's mark, perhaps, or an opened port...any clue as to who thought it would be a good idea to replace his real driver with....this. And maybe even a hint as to why, other than dipping his toes in waters that were better left undisturbed.

He stared at the nearly-naked figure, his thoughts stuck somewhere between arousal and logical analysis.

“What,” he muttered, “am I going to do with you?”

His smartphone, resting on a table with a random assortment of tools, rang just as he asked the question out loud, giving him a perfect excuse to not delve too far into it. He crossed the room in a few quick steps to grab the phone, not looking back at the gynoid. The lone word he spoke wasn't anywhere near as polite as most people at least tried to be in these cases: “What?”

Mr. Mills, sir, we just got a call from your driver.

Max glanced back over his shoulder, scowling. “And where is she?”

The Poconos, sir. Apparently, she received an all-expenses paid vacation, with your name on the note that was delivered with the plane tickets---”

“Then someone's managed to forge my signature for the sixth time this year. I never gave her those tickets.”

Well, sir, she's under the impression that she can stay there for....the rest of the month. Should we tell her to come back, or---

“No. Tell her....” Max closed his eyes, trying not to think of all the ways he was going to make Octavia Martinet pay dearly for this. “....tell her to enjoy herself. She's earned a break.” He managed a smile. “I appreciate the thought, and all, but....next time, only call if it's an emergency. Life or death.”

Understood, Mr. Mills.”

The phone clicked off, allowing Max to return his attention to the gynoid on the table. “She earns a break,” he mused, “and you.....” He sighed, picking up a power screwdriver.

“....you should be glad you can't feel anything. I sure as hell know I'd hate being...taken apart...if I felt it....”
-------------------------------------
"No one steals our chicks.....and lives!"

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