Part 2

The monitor on the floor blinked at her. She reached forward, fingers shaking, to see what had appeared on the screen. The command prompts were back up. But instead of a command, one word had been typed:

PLEASE

Cybil’s hands shook harder. She took a deep breath and typed back: WHAT

Each letter that appeared felt heavy, forced: MY PLANTS

WHAT ABOUT YOUR PLANTS, she replied.

THEYLL DIE IF YOU TAKE ME

Cybil bit at her bottom lip, feeling sweat bead at her forehead.

PLEASE PUT THEM IN THE HALL SO MRS CAROL FINDS THEM I DONT WANT THEM TO DIE

“Oh **** this,” she said, standing up. She began to pace.

PLEASE blinked up at her from the monitor and she thought.

____

The first systems back up were his logic systems. He was still alive. She no longer was hacking him. He was still in danger. Other than that, his knowledge of what was happening was terrifyingly empty. He’d thought when he went under, he’d never come up again. There was some relief in being able to think for himself again.

“Can you hear me yet?”

Yes, he thought, my mic’s back up. But my voice box-

“Shit, you’re old, maybe you’re still booting.”

Old? Had she-?

She’d looked at his model number. Hope sprang in his chest with the whirring of his electric heartbeat.

His voice box was back online. “I can hear you.”

He could also hear her moving things. Heavy things. Back and forth through his apartment. He waited anxiously as his camera systems revved up, meanwhile testing his hands and feet cautiously. His toes wiggled. His fists clenched and unclenched. The alarm bells had stopped, now only hope and awe at his ability to move, to think remained. He was being spared.

When his cameras returned, he opened his eyes to see half his apartment packed into his suitcases in the middle of the living room. He reached back and felt the back of his neck- blissfully closed.

“What are you doing?” he asked.

“You can’t stay here,” she said, throwing one of his suits from the closet into a crumpled heap, “If I found you, others will. I’m one of the best, but I’m only one of.”

“You’re letting me go?”

“No record keeper droid can lie. Or has such a strong will that they can communicate while being hacked. Or,” she waved her hand at the ferns and vines and flowers that adorned his window, “Keeps plants just because they like them.”

“You believe me.”

“Don’t push it, pal,” she said, returning to throwing items into his suitcases, “I’m not exactly a fan of all this.”

He attempted to stand but found his systems confused and fell. She was beside him in an instant, leaning him back against the wall.

“None of that now,” she said, her voice gentle, “I just hacked you. You’re old. It might take you a while to recover.”

“Thank you,” he said, closing his eyes. He listened to her stand and continue packing.

“Now, if you want my advice, you need more mods,” she said from across the apartment, “Your skin is too perfect and you don’t fidget. That’s how I could pick you out of a crowd. You clearly had work done since you escaped so I assume you can figure out how to get those.”

He nodded, silent, and watched her throw his self-repair kit into a suitcase pocket.

“And another thing. Don’t work in accounting. I know you want to use your record keeping skills, but maybe apply them to something else. Like, I don’t know, work at a library or something. Just make sure you make mistakes. And take a sick day or two. Hell, get fired. That makes you look more human.”

He stood, shaking, and helped her finish packing. He was slower, but she didn’t complain. When they were done, he stood at the door.

“I’ll take care of your plants a few days,” she said, looking back, “And keep them off your back for a week or two. Then I’ll take these to Mrs. Carol.”

He nodded, looking at his plants. Henry. Alberta. Susanna. He looked at her, standing in front of them, hands on her waist.

“You’ll be okay?”

Her eyes widened. Then she laughed.

“Yeah. I know how to get out of contracts. Thanks.”

He nodded and turned to leave.

“Oh, hey, real quick?”

He glanced back over his shoulder.

“What do you call yourself?” she asked, “Er, like, what’s your name?”

“Alan,” he said, “Like my model number.”

“Alan.” She nodded, “Be safe for me, Alan. Please.”

Alan smiled and walked down the hall and into the night, free to try living again. Maybe he’d open a flower shop this time.

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