Post by The Lost Traveler on Jun 10, 2015 11:34:25 GMT -5
First off, before I post any of this, I want to give a disclaimer: this character is going to be closely tied to another that is going to be submitted by Stelpher. That, and the character I'm submitting is very young, twelve, and has a dark past. I am not intending to make him some unrealistic halfpint badass, if anything he's going to avoid fighting when he can. But if there's any problem with the core concept behind this character, please let me know.
Without any further ado:
Character Name: SI-65
Nickname(s): The host, the body, Silas (self-given)
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 16
Birthplace: The Tower, D.C. The Capitol Wasteland.
Height: 4’’9’
Weight: 88
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Light brown
Hair Style: Cropped short with a jagged end, probably by knifepoint. His hair is messy, but generally clean.
Facial Hair: N/A
Skin Color: Since Silas has been underground most of his life, the boy’s skin is very pale.
Build: Scrawny. He hasn’t worked enough to build muscle or eat enough to gain weight, but at least he’s healthy…as any new body of Jotelin should be.
Distinguishing Features: There are three things that make Silas stand out. First, is his age. The Wastes are an unforgiving place – not many children are seen, at least not many outside the confines of some sort of shelter. Second is his manner of speech, which sounds almost robotic or monotone, but, despite this, the third distinction is his attitude or appearance: there’s always a smile on his face, in an age where smiles are hard to come by.
Profession: Silas has no profession – at least not by Wasteland standards.
Perhaps the closest thing he has to a profession is the fact that he’s a holder.
Skills: Silas, given his origins of being a clone, is very interested in science. In particular, he feels a fondness for robots. Due to his Nanny’s allowing him to examine her innerworkings he has a practical knowledge of mechanical parts of Mr. Handys. However, as he was just considered the “host body” for the scientists of the Order he was never taught to read – after all, it was Joseph Tellinger’s brain who would do the reading and thinking later on. Just as well, he considers, since he also knows first-hand the horrors of science.
As such, his skills mainly consist of things he had been taught from his Nanny Susie and then from his charon – Charlotte.
Science (Twelve years of secret tinkering with his robotic caretaker allowed him to learn some things)
Firearms (Though guns scare him a bit though)
Survival (He tends the fire while Charlotte scouts the perimeter (her word) of the campsite)
Training: No formal training.
Other Abilities: He found an old harmonica in some old world ruins and has gotten pretty good with it … does that count?
Apparel: For the first eleven years of his life, Silas or SI-65 as he was known then, wore patient gowns, ones that old world hospitals used to have. He was feed, taught how to speak and walk because it was necessary for the body and skull to grow out to the proper size so the host body could function properly for the brain transplant to succeed. He was given no other possessions. After his escape from the Tower, he was given a couple set of spare clothes – the first he’s ever had. His apparel now consists of handmade brahminn children’s clothes, along with a fur cap he keeps for colder weather. When they leave a safe settlement he wears something that is more … mercenary… in nature – but he’s still not comfortable with it.
He hasn’t asked Charlotte where she got any of it.
Weaponry: Silas has one pistol, strapped onto his belt, but he only recently got used to the weight. Charlotte told him what kind of pistol it was – the make or model, but it didn’t register.
Other Equipment: Silas has on him a week worth of rations, a canteen that hangs from his hip, and a pair of binoculars.
Affiliation: Previously he was associated with the Order of Jotelin – in fact, he was designated to be their leader’s, Joseph Tellinger’s, new body. Now, since his escape, they are hunting him down, not because of his nature of being a clone – they can create dozens, if not hundreds of clones, but for his knowledge of the inner structure of the subterranean bunker underneath the Tower, which holds their clones, Chips and other valuables - no matter how small it may be.
Religious Belief: Silas believes in no gods, in fact, he doesn’t even know that such beliefs exist. He never needed to ask “who he was” or “where he came from” to the scientists of the Order since they always readily gave him their predesigned answers through automated answers from his robotic Nanny ... who promptly refuted it all as being “illogical”.
Sexual Preference: Heterosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Silas is, described in one word, cheerful. A smile is seen ever etched into his face. This was not always the case, though. The harshness of the Order stripped him of all happiness, and, truly, any chance at a childhood deep in that underground bunker. So now, up above, in a new world he excitedly faces all new experiences. He faces them with a, often dangerous, mix of compassion and gullibility, which makes him easy prey for the more manipulative Wastelanders. The knowledge of the people and the dangers in the Wastes is wearing down that eagerness bit by bit.
He grew up in darkness.
Only a dim florescent light hung over his crib, and later pen. Not a play pen, since he was not given toys to occupy himself with, but still a pen to keep him in to be safe.
He was not Silas then. He didn’t really think of a name for himself until years later. He just … was. The adults who came by to see him, never speak to him, spoke about him in terms of “the host”, “his new body” and a string of letters and numbers which was about as close as he ever had to a name: “S1-65”.
S1 would never have even learned to speak if it weren’t for The Nanny – A Mrs. Handy designed and developed to take care of young infants while parents were out – a babysitter and nanny in one. It’s from the Nanny that he learned basic speech, he even called her mommy once until the robot assured him this was not the case. When he asked who his mother was then, he was told that he had none – and this began the process of learning his “purpose”, his “reason” for existing. The scientists, who he was told were the Inner Circle of the Order of Jotelin, had created him as a clone to their leader, Joseph Tellinger and that his purpose was to live until the moment Tellinger would transplant his brain into S1’s skull to live another few decades.
From that moment on began a desperate phase for the boy. He refused to speak, refused to eat, until he managed to speak to one of them, as he put it. Well, his desire was granted.
That was how he met Charles Verdis – the Jackal.
One of the Thirteen, a High Holder within the Tower, he came into the sterilized room flanked on either side by a larger man and a young woman, who he would later find out were his charons, his personal bodyguards.
But, at the time, S1 knew none of this. Instead the boy just threw a fit, screaming and sobbing the moment the man stepped through the automated door, shaking the plastic pen with pudgy fist. He couldn’t quite remember what he said, he was only four or so at the time after all, but S1 remembers what happened next. The Jackal reached over, unlocked the latch and stepped into the pen. The boy … as Silas thinks back on the moment years later he really doesn’t know why he did it – why he suddenly held onto hope … rushed up, grabbed the man’s pants leg and hugged it.
The Jackal kicked him in the stomach.
He went flying, landed and then rolled to the back of the pen. He heard the voice of the Nanny coming through with beeps of static, “Please be advised that harming a minor is against federal code …zzts.” Charles Verdis strode forward, wiped a smudge off his dress pants’ leg, then turned to the young woman to his left. He spoke in a bored manner.
“Char,” He says, “Break his arm.”
That’s how he met Charlotte.
When his screams died down and his sobs turned to quiet whimpers, he heard the sounds of bootsteps. Then Charles Verdis crouched down, his hand reached out and held the boy’s head firmly to the ground. “Understand,” he said, “Understand that you will not pitch a fit any longer. You will not distract us from our work. You will stay in this room quietly until told otherwise. Understood?”
When the boy made no noise he pushed his face further into the ground.
“Understood?”
“Affirmative.”
When they left the child lay on the ground, curled up in a ball. He could not scream anymore, he could not cry, he could not move, he could not think. S1 just stared at the metallic ground; his face pressed against it like that the invisible hand of … that man still held him down.
Then he heard the soft murmur of jets as the Nanny hovered over, wrapped him up in her corded arms and then injected some Med-EX into his neck, a very minor dose of the sedative, which slipped him into sleep as the Mrs. Handy hummed one of her pre-recorded lullabies.
This was the first time he smiled. This was the moment he came to adore his Nanny.
The next couple of years passed by quickly after that. He started to talk more to his Nanny, chattering away with a big, uncertain, smile on his face. There because he felt like it should be there when speaking to the robot, but still unfamiliar – especially at nights where he just stared up at the blackness all around. Still he learned a bit more about robots in general, why they were made, and, most importantly, by who.
He learned about the Old World from his Nanny.
He felt unusual when hearing about the Old World, how things used to be. How there used to be all sorts of “machines” (that’s what the Nanny termed them) – “nuclear-fueled transportation devices, colloquially known as cars”, “assembly lines operated by humanoid-structured robots known as Protectrons”, and “Receptors for radio and video waves primarily used for entertainment purposes” (He had to have her clarify what several of those words meant, like “entertainment”).
A hint of … interest … grew from those quiet discussions. He, curled up on the spring mattress, and she hovering over the ground with the noise of the whirl of thrust filling up the pauses in their conversations. He started to ask about the various parts that made up a robot, the pieces, both internal and external, that made them function methodically.
Right when he was confident that he had memorized the different parts of his Nanny, she showed up again.
She didn’t knock. She didn’t need to. She had the cardkey to swipe at the keypad and unlock the door, just striding in. The moment that S1 saw the woman, Charlotte, the blood drained from his face and he darted behind his Nanny.
“I am not here to hurt you.” The young woman said, “It has been decided that you’re physical fitness needs development.”
Why? The question was nearly on his lips, but S1 swallowed it down.
From there, the woman, Charlotte, led him outside – his first steps outside his room in his entire life. S1 half-expected some grand sight, a vision of a world unexplored, but instead he got more metallic, chrome surfaces, only stretched out in a narrow hallway this time. Charlotte walked over to the door on the opposite side then leaned back against it.
“You will run to me,” She said, “run back to the end of the hallway, then back to me and so on. You will do so until I say stop.”
She did not say stop for a while.
Over time he learned a whole routine to do in his mornings. She would come and let him out of the room, lead him through calisthenics, “stretches” the charon called them, ones S1 could never get quite right since he had such shorter and stubbier arms and legs compared to hers’, have him run laps, lift small dumbbells, and brought in his breakfast afterwards – a small tray that had three bland, brown bars on top of it, ones that, supposedly, contained all the necessary nutrients he needed.
Curiosity won over fear during her second visit. While their first session had been riddled with tension, this time around S1 bombarded her with questions, and she found out his name … or lack of name.
“You were not given a name?” She asked.
“I was given an appropriate designation, S1 – 65.”
“I am aware, it’s just … my Holder deemed it suiting to give me the name “Charlotte”, likely due to holding the contracts of multiple charons.”
“Uh …” S1 mumbled, sending a look to the Nanny who hovered over in the corner, “Well, I was not designated with any alternative names.”
“Understood.” She said, and that was that.
Or, it should’ve been.
But after she left, that was the only thing on his mind. It filled his mind, stuck to his skull and would not dislodge. My name…
“Nanny,” he said.
“What is it – “ zzts “DESIGNATED CARETAKEN CHILD?”
“Is it normative to have names?”
“According to my registered database, addressing one another by name is the standard operating procedure among human interactions.”
“Can I just be issued another name?”
“This one was produced and shipped with the issued codename bAQ12, but was designated as “Nanny” upon arrival.”
“Then, what would be a good name?”
“Accessing listed database … access granted. Recorded hypothetical names for designated children to be handled by Caretaker Unit Beta are: SUSIE, THOMAS, RACHEL, SILAS,”
“That one! Right there! It resembles my codename?”
“ERROR. Rhetorical question not listed in database.”
“Situation green, Nanny. It pleases me. I’ll acquire the name for myself.”
The hum of agitated gears died down in the robot.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
When Charlotte arrived the next morning, the young boy greeted her with a bright smile.
He tended to smile sometimes, but to her it had been small, half-smiles, so this was new.
“Silas,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“My name – Silas.”
“I did not mean to suggest that you pick a name for yourself.”
“But I did. So, Charlotte, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, his Nanny’s automatic greeting coming to mind despite himself. Silas outstretched a hand, since that seemed to be the normative thing to do.
Charlotte looked at the hand, paused, then shook it.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
He should have known that she would tell her Holder.
Silas had asked, once, of who that man was, and her answer prompted him to not ask again, but still, Silas had the general idea: she does anything he orders, she answers any questions asked, and he is cruel though she did not use those words, so when Charles Verdis asked her how his situation was, as he always did, she told Charles of Silas’ new name.
And everything changed.
The door opened once again in the middle of the day, at a time it should not open, and Charles Verdis strolled in with Charlotte and the other charon by his side. Just the sight of it caused Silas’ blood to run cold, memories of before, all those years ago, rushed him. Silas scrambled behind his Nanny, staring at the three of them wide-eyed.
“Charlotte has informed me that you have given yourself a new name.”
Though Silas glanced over at her, Charlotte did not meet his gaze.
“And, what does such a fact indicate?” Silas said at last.
“It “indicates” that you are no longer fit to move about freely. The brain transfer would have happened in a few months or so, but Jotelin himself has moved the date up. The transfer will begin immediately. Congratulations.”
He stepped forward, at a slow, deliberate pace.
The Nanny hovered between them.
“Communist intruder! I will not allow you to harm this child! Cease and desist or I will be authorized to use deadly force!”
For a moment, Silas felt a thrill of hope, one thick and heavy and unusual. Then Verdis narrowed his eyes and spoke.
“Ah. The programming, of course. CODE: ALPHA FANTAGO – Deactivate.”
Then her lights died down, and she flumped to the floor on top her curled up arms.
“No. No.” Silas started to say as Charles Verdis walked over to the bed and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “No! Wake up! Please!”
“Susie!”
Then Nanny Susie powered up and jetted out a shower of flame from an arm. The Holder went up in flames in seconds.
The Charlotte acted immediately. She dived at her Holder, tackling him out of the flames and to the ground. Behind them, the other charon started unloading a gun into Nanny Susie, a systematic chink, chink, chink, sounded as each blast dented another part of her plating. But the Nanny’s attention was fully focused on him now, and the last thing Silas saw was them tumbling in a flail of metal and limbs.
Meanwhile, the Holder’s coat had caught aflame and Charlotte had stripped it off of him, flinging it to the ground and stamping out the flame with two boot stomps, then she used it as a blanket, flapping it down on Charles Verdis’ curled up back, as he screamed in pain, to extinguish the fire. In the midst of all this, a piece of paper, thin, worn, folded flopped out of the jacket, landing in front of Silas’ feet.
Numbly he picked it up. To this day, he doesn’t know why.
The sound of struggle behind him died, as both the Nanny and the charon lay there in a pile of metal and fluid; flesh and blood.
“Nanny …” Silas mumbled.
Then he felt hands around his throat.
Thrust against the wall, Silas saw. Before him stood the Jackal, with part of his hair now missing and a fresh burn scar now crisscrossing around his left eye. “Look at me!” He hissed, as his hands tightened around Silas’ neck, “Look at me! You little shits burned my fucking face off!”
Behind him, Charlotte looked, or rather, she looked at the piece of paper that even now slipped out of Silas’ grip, fluttering to the ground.
“Stop.” Silas chocked out.
And he stopped.
Wide-eyed, Silas looked as what remained of Charles Verdis tumbled to the ground, a gaping hole through his head now existed in his skull. He turned his attention away from the body to Charlotte who’s gun still smoked in her hand. She walked past the body, picked up the contract from the ground, refolded it, and tucked it into one of Silas’ pockets.
“You … you killed him.”
“Holder, we cannot stay here.”
“You just shot him.”
“We must find a way to escape.”
“Why …”
“Silas!” She grabbed his shoulders, and Silas looked at her.
“The First and Second Primary states that I must protect your life and ensure my continued existence. I can’t do either if we just stay here. The rest of the Tower will be on us soon.”
Finally, her words registered, “Then what will we do?”
“Leave the Tower."
.....................................................................................................................
Without any further ado:
Character Name: SI-65
Nickname(s): The host, the body, Silas (self-given)
Race: Human
Sex: Male
Age: 16
Birthplace: The Tower, D.C. The Capitol Wasteland.
Height: 4’’9’
Weight: 88
Eye Color: Brown
Hair Color: Light brown
Hair Style: Cropped short with a jagged end, probably by knifepoint. His hair is messy, but generally clean.
Facial Hair: N/A
Skin Color: Since Silas has been underground most of his life, the boy’s skin is very pale.
Build: Scrawny. He hasn’t worked enough to build muscle or eat enough to gain weight, but at least he’s healthy…as any new body of Jotelin should be.
Distinguishing Features: There are three things that make Silas stand out. First, is his age. The Wastes are an unforgiving place – not many children are seen, at least not many outside the confines of some sort of shelter. Second is his manner of speech, which sounds almost robotic or monotone, but, despite this, the third distinction is his attitude or appearance: there’s always a smile on his face, in an age where smiles are hard to come by.
Profession: Silas has no profession – at least not by Wasteland standards.
Perhaps the closest thing he has to a profession is the fact that he’s a holder.
Skills: Silas, given his origins of being a clone, is very interested in science. In particular, he feels a fondness for robots. Due to his Nanny’s allowing him to examine her innerworkings he has a practical knowledge of mechanical parts of Mr. Handys. However, as he was just considered the “host body” for the scientists of the Order he was never taught to read – after all, it was Joseph Tellinger’s brain who would do the reading and thinking later on. Just as well, he considers, since he also knows first-hand the horrors of science.
As such, his skills mainly consist of things he had been taught from his Nanny Susie and then from his charon – Charlotte.
Science (Twelve years of secret tinkering with his robotic caretaker allowed him to learn some things)
Firearms (Though guns scare him a bit though)
Survival (He tends the fire while Charlotte scouts the perimeter (her word) of the campsite)
Training: No formal training.
Other Abilities: He found an old harmonica in some old world ruins and has gotten pretty good with it … does that count?
Apparel: For the first eleven years of his life, Silas or SI-65 as he was known then, wore patient gowns, ones that old world hospitals used to have. He was feed, taught how to speak and walk because it was necessary for the body and skull to grow out to the proper size so the host body could function properly for the brain transplant to succeed. He was given no other possessions. After his escape from the Tower, he was given a couple set of spare clothes – the first he’s ever had. His apparel now consists of handmade brahminn children’s clothes, along with a fur cap he keeps for colder weather. When they leave a safe settlement he wears something that is more … mercenary… in nature – but he’s still not comfortable with it.
He hasn’t asked Charlotte where she got any of it.
Weaponry: Silas has one pistol, strapped onto his belt, but he only recently got used to the weight. Charlotte told him what kind of pistol it was – the make or model, but it didn’t register.
Other Equipment: Silas has on him a week worth of rations, a canteen that hangs from his hip, and a pair of binoculars.
Affiliation: Previously he was associated with the Order of Jotelin – in fact, he was designated to be their leader’s, Joseph Tellinger’s, new body. Now, since his escape, they are hunting him down, not because of his nature of being a clone – they can create dozens, if not hundreds of clones, but for his knowledge of the inner structure of the subterranean bunker underneath the Tower, which holds their clones, Chips and other valuables - no matter how small it may be.
Religious Belief: Silas believes in no gods, in fact, he doesn’t even know that such beliefs exist. He never needed to ask “who he was” or “where he came from” to the scientists of the Order since they always readily gave him their predesigned answers through automated answers from his robotic Nanny ... who promptly refuted it all as being “illogical”.
Sexual Preference: Heterosexual
Relationship Status: Single
Personality: Silas is, described in one word, cheerful. A smile is seen ever etched into his face. This was not always the case, though. The harshness of the Order stripped him of all happiness, and, truly, any chance at a childhood deep in that underground bunker. So now, up above, in a new world he excitedly faces all new experiences. He faces them with a, often dangerous, mix of compassion and gullibility, which makes him easy prey for the more manipulative Wastelanders. The knowledge of the people and the dangers in the Wastes is wearing down that eagerness bit by bit.
He grew up in darkness.
Only a dim florescent light hung over his crib, and later pen. Not a play pen, since he was not given toys to occupy himself with, but still a pen to keep him in to be safe.
He was not Silas then. He didn’t really think of a name for himself until years later. He just … was. The adults who came by to see him, never speak to him, spoke about him in terms of “the host”, “his new body” and a string of letters and numbers which was about as close as he ever had to a name: “S1-65”.
S1 would never have even learned to speak if it weren’t for The Nanny – A Mrs. Handy designed and developed to take care of young infants while parents were out – a babysitter and nanny in one. It’s from the Nanny that he learned basic speech, he even called her mommy once until the robot assured him this was not the case. When he asked who his mother was then, he was told that he had none – and this began the process of learning his “purpose”, his “reason” for existing. The scientists, who he was told were the Inner Circle of the Order of Jotelin, had created him as a clone to their leader, Joseph Tellinger and that his purpose was to live until the moment Tellinger would transplant his brain into S1’s skull to live another few decades.
From that moment on began a desperate phase for the boy. He refused to speak, refused to eat, until he managed to speak to one of them, as he put it. Well, his desire was granted.
That was how he met Charles Verdis – the Jackal.
One of the Thirteen, a High Holder within the Tower, he came into the sterilized room flanked on either side by a larger man and a young woman, who he would later find out were his charons, his personal bodyguards.
But, at the time, S1 knew none of this. Instead the boy just threw a fit, screaming and sobbing the moment the man stepped through the automated door, shaking the plastic pen with pudgy fist. He couldn’t quite remember what he said, he was only four or so at the time after all, but S1 remembers what happened next. The Jackal reached over, unlocked the latch and stepped into the pen. The boy … as Silas thinks back on the moment years later he really doesn’t know why he did it – why he suddenly held onto hope … rushed up, grabbed the man’s pants leg and hugged it.
The Jackal kicked him in the stomach.
He went flying, landed and then rolled to the back of the pen. He heard the voice of the Nanny coming through with beeps of static, “Please be advised that harming a minor is against federal code …zzts.” Charles Verdis strode forward, wiped a smudge off his dress pants’ leg, then turned to the young woman to his left. He spoke in a bored manner.
“Char,” He says, “Break his arm.”
That’s how he met Charlotte.
When his screams died down and his sobs turned to quiet whimpers, he heard the sounds of bootsteps. Then Charles Verdis crouched down, his hand reached out and held the boy’s head firmly to the ground. “Understand,” he said, “Understand that you will not pitch a fit any longer. You will not distract us from our work. You will stay in this room quietly until told otherwise. Understood?”
When the boy made no noise he pushed his face further into the ground.
“Understood?”
“Affirmative.”
When they left the child lay on the ground, curled up in a ball. He could not scream anymore, he could not cry, he could not move, he could not think. S1 just stared at the metallic ground; his face pressed against it like that the invisible hand of … that man still held him down.
Then he heard the soft murmur of jets as the Nanny hovered over, wrapped him up in her corded arms and then injected some Med-EX into his neck, a very minor dose of the sedative, which slipped him into sleep as the Mrs. Handy hummed one of her pre-recorded lullabies.
This was the first time he smiled. This was the moment he came to adore his Nanny.
The next couple of years passed by quickly after that. He started to talk more to his Nanny, chattering away with a big, uncertain, smile on his face. There because he felt like it should be there when speaking to the robot, but still unfamiliar – especially at nights where he just stared up at the blackness all around. Still he learned a bit more about robots in general, why they were made, and, most importantly, by who.
He learned about the Old World from his Nanny.
He felt unusual when hearing about the Old World, how things used to be. How there used to be all sorts of “machines” (that’s what the Nanny termed them) – “nuclear-fueled transportation devices, colloquially known as cars”, “assembly lines operated by humanoid-structured robots known as Protectrons”, and “Receptors for radio and video waves primarily used for entertainment purposes” (He had to have her clarify what several of those words meant, like “entertainment”).
A hint of … interest … grew from those quiet discussions. He, curled up on the spring mattress, and she hovering over the ground with the noise of the whirl of thrust filling up the pauses in their conversations. He started to ask about the various parts that made up a robot, the pieces, both internal and external, that made them function methodically.
Right when he was confident that he had memorized the different parts of his Nanny, she showed up again.
She didn’t knock. She didn’t need to. She had the cardkey to swipe at the keypad and unlock the door, just striding in. The moment that S1 saw the woman, Charlotte, the blood drained from his face and he darted behind his Nanny.
“I am not here to hurt you.” The young woman said, “It has been decided that you’re physical fitness needs development.”
Why? The question was nearly on his lips, but S1 swallowed it down.
From there, the woman, Charlotte, led him outside – his first steps outside his room in his entire life. S1 half-expected some grand sight, a vision of a world unexplored, but instead he got more metallic, chrome surfaces, only stretched out in a narrow hallway this time. Charlotte walked over to the door on the opposite side then leaned back against it.
“You will run to me,” She said, “run back to the end of the hallway, then back to me and so on. You will do so until I say stop.”
She did not say stop for a while.
Over time he learned a whole routine to do in his mornings. She would come and let him out of the room, lead him through calisthenics, “stretches” the charon called them, ones S1 could never get quite right since he had such shorter and stubbier arms and legs compared to hers’, have him run laps, lift small dumbbells, and brought in his breakfast afterwards – a small tray that had three bland, brown bars on top of it, ones that, supposedly, contained all the necessary nutrients he needed.
Curiosity won over fear during her second visit. While their first session had been riddled with tension, this time around S1 bombarded her with questions, and she found out his name … or lack of name.
“You were not given a name?” She asked.
“I was given an appropriate designation, S1 – 65.”
“I am aware, it’s just … my Holder deemed it suiting to give me the name “Charlotte”, likely due to holding the contracts of multiple charons.”
“Uh …” S1 mumbled, sending a look to the Nanny who hovered over in the corner, “Well, I was not designated with any alternative names.”
“Understood.” She said, and that was that.
Or, it should’ve been.
But after she left, that was the only thing on his mind. It filled his mind, stuck to his skull and would not dislodge. My name…
“Nanny,” he said.
“What is it – “ zzts “DESIGNATED CARETAKEN CHILD?”
“Is it normative to have names?”
“According to my registered database, addressing one another by name is the standard operating procedure among human interactions.”
“Can I just be issued another name?”
“This one was produced and shipped with the issued codename bAQ12, but was designated as “Nanny” upon arrival.”
“Then, what would be a good name?”
“Accessing listed database … access granted. Recorded hypothetical names for designated children to be handled by Caretaker Unit Beta are: SUSIE, THOMAS, RACHEL, SILAS,”
“That one! Right there! It resembles my codename?”
“ERROR. Rhetorical question not listed in database.”
“Situation green, Nanny. It pleases me. I’ll acquire the name for myself.”
The hum of agitated gears died down in the robot.
…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………
When Charlotte arrived the next morning, the young boy greeted her with a bright smile.
He tended to smile sometimes, but to her it had been small, half-smiles, so this was new.
“Silas,” he said.
“Pardon?”
“My name – Silas.”
“I did not mean to suggest that you pick a name for yourself.”
“But I did. So, Charlotte, it’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance,” he said, his Nanny’s automatic greeting coming to mind despite himself. Silas outstretched a hand, since that seemed to be the normative thing to do.
Charlotte looked at the hand, paused, then shook it.
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….
He should have known that she would tell her Holder.
Silas had asked, once, of who that man was, and her answer prompted him to not ask again, but still, Silas had the general idea: she does anything he orders, she answers any questions asked, and he is cruel though she did not use those words, so when Charles Verdis asked her how his situation was, as he always did, she told Charles of Silas’ new name.
And everything changed.
The door opened once again in the middle of the day, at a time it should not open, and Charles Verdis strolled in with Charlotte and the other charon by his side. Just the sight of it caused Silas’ blood to run cold, memories of before, all those years ago, rushed him. Silas scrambled behind his Nanny, staring at the three of them wide-eyed.
“Charlotte has informed me that you have given yourself a new name.”
Though Silas glanced over at her, Charlotte did not meet his gaze.
“And, what does such a fact indicate?” Silas said at last.
“It “indicates” that you are no longer fit to move about freely. The brain transfer would have happened in a few months or so, but Jotelin himself has moved the date up. The transfer will begin immediately. Congratulations.”
He stepped forward, at a slow, deliberate pace.
The Nanny hovered between them.
“Communist intruder! I will not allow you to harm this child! Cease and desist or I will be authorized to use deadly force!”
For a moment, Silas felt a thrill of hope, one thick and heavy and unusual. Then Verdis narrowed his eyes and spoke.
“Ah. The programming, of course. CODE: ALPHA FANTAGO – Deactivate.”
Then her lights died down, and she flumped to the floor on top her curled up arms.
“No. No.” Silas started to say as Charles Verdis walked over to the bed and grabbed him by the collar of his shirt. “No! Wake up! Please!”
“Susie!”
Then Nanny Susie powered up and jetted out a shower of flame from an arm. The Holder went up in flames in seconds.
The Charlotte acted immediately. She dived at her Holder, tackling him out of the flames and to the ground. Behind them, the other charon started unloading a gun into Nanny Susie, a systematic chink, chink, chink, sounded as each blast dented another part of her plating. But the Nanny’s attention was fully focused on him now, and the last thing Silas saw was them tumbling in a flail of metal and limbs.
Meanwhile, the Holder’s coat had caught aflame and Charlotte had stripped it off of him, flinging it to the ground and stamping out the flame with two boot stomps, then she used it as a blanket, flapping it down on Charles Verdis’ curled up back, as he screamed in pain, to extinguish the fire. In the midst of all this, a piece of paper, thin, worn, folded flopped out of the jacket, landing in front of Silas’ feet.
Numbly he picked it up. To this day, he doesn’t know why.
The sound of struggle behind him died, as both the Nanny and the charon lay there in a pile of metal and fluid; flesh and blood.
“Nanny …” Silas mumbled.
Then he felt hands around his throat.
Thrust against the wall, Silas saw. Before him stood the Jackal, with part of his hair now missing and a fresh burn scar now crisscrossing around his left eye. “Look at me!” He hissed, as his hands tightened around Silas’ neck, “Look at me! You little shits burned my fucking face off!”
Behind him, Charlotte looked, or rather, she looked at the piece of paper that even now slipped out of Silas’ grip, fluttering to the ground.
“Stop.” Silas chocked out.
And he stopped.
Wide-eyed, Silas looked as what remained of Charles Verdis tumbled to the ground, a gaping hole through his head now existed in his skull. He turned his attention away from the body to Charlotte who’s gun still smoked in her hand. She walked past the body, picked up the contract from the ground, refolded it, and tucked it into one of Silas’ pockets.
“You … you killed him.”
“Holder, we cannot stay here.”
“You just shot him.”
“We must find a way to escape.”
“Why …”
“Silas!” She grabbed his shoulders, and Silas looked at her.
“The First and Second Primary states that I must protect your life and ensure my continued existence. I can’t do either if we just stay here. The rest of the Tower will be on us soon.”
Finally, her words registered, “Then what will we do?”
“Leave the Tower."
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