A few days had passed since the trials with 400 had ended. By then, 300 was brought to the back room for repairs after his voyage and searches across the island. 600 was outside, lifting crates of goods from a shed near an old dock, bringing them to the main warehouse. The wind was picking up, but he didn't mind. Generally, he was quite glad that something was happening. His engine was overheating due to the work, so the wind cooling off his exterior was pleasing for him. He began to lift a large wooden crate as a gust of wind flew out, braced against the rocky beach and slammed into 600. Small pieces of sand and stones clinked against him, but for the most part he didn't react.
As he began to carry the crate towards the warehouse, his feet sunk into the ground. The sand disliked his weight, but held him as he compressed it into soft pads. The winds that continued to accelerate pushed sand onto his feet as he continued to trudge on. He made foot steps, though there was several of them. Many different tracks in different areas, all from him and his weight pressing down into the soft soil. His body groaned as he lifted the crate up a small incline, now on hard packed soil, he had a bit more stability to continue on. As he walked he looked to the sides, examining the bushes gently swaying in the wind, and the small birds fluttering between trees. It was all so wholesome and calm for him, this place he was calling home.
He continued up this old path. There was marks of tires from Jeeps long ago etched into the mud and the side of the road. Old tread that probably has been there for years, so much so that the markings have been overgrown if not broken down in most places. He followed them, examining them as he continued up the road. "Every time, it feels like I see something new." he stated, before opening his visor. It lifted with a scree, he would wince if he could, knowing he needed oil and a bit of an air blast to get the sand from out of the connection points on his visor. He began to extend his eye out, taking rapid pictures of the tread markings as he walked along. The heavy thuds and unsmooth movement of his bipedal nature made the photos somewhat blurry, but it wasn't awful.
As he took pictures he stopped to get some smoother ones. His eye curving on its small hydraulics and bearings, turning and examining the situation like a snake looking for prey to bite. Its light shines to get good positions before an extremely fast segment of blinking happened, taking repeated flash based photos for cataloging. He began to shut his visor, as the wind was beating into his had and caused an uncomfortable feeling. The screeching became louder and more substantial, until the visor stopped halfway down. He raised his hand and grabbed it, pulling it down slowly to help it. He balanced the box in the other hand, slowly sidestepping to make sure it didn't fall. He them swung the hand he had used on his visor underneath the box, and caught it. He decided to carry on after that.
He made it to the top of the hill where the warehouse was, and placed the crate underneath the metal pavilion that the trucks where towed too. There was two crates left, and he knew he could carry them both together considering how small they where. He began to head back down to the beach, but as he did the weather began to worsen. The wind picked up and the rain began to fall, though it fell slowly at first. Whenever he began to get near the mid point where he had seen the tracks of the jeep, he could see a small sum of water flowing through them, being caught by the grass and flowers as it headed towards the beach.
He stopped to look as tiny objects such as leaves and wood fragments slowly went down the stream. He was curious, it was like a race! He snatched two up and went slightly up the stream, he held them evenly apart from each other as he looked down the way. "On three... One.... Two... Three!" he stated, just as their creator had for when he and 400 tried to race. He dropped both of them at the exact same time, assisted by the fact that he runs on code not a brain. The leaf and wood fragment hurled down the stream, to what 600 felt was an epic speed. The leaf was light and brisk, and wasn't letting go of its early lead.
The leaf soared down the stream, being bumped up by a small warp in the track where the water had hit a flower and banked upwards. The wood chip slammed through the rapid, going under the water and surfaced below the leaf, pushing it out of the way. 600 followed curiously, every step he took made the water shake. The leaf was struggling with the changes in the tide, but the wood chip was having one hell of a time. It swished back and forth plowing through the water before it had finished where it got stuck last time. 600 grabbed it, scooping up some dirt on accident and raising it upwards. Cheering it on as the victor.
He looked around, seeing the darkening sky as well as the worsening clouds. He understood that this would be a thing that if he continued would take up the rest of the time he had. So he decided to put down the wood chip and clean himself off. He went down towards the dock once more to pick up the rest of the goods that needed to be collected. He muttered to himself as if he was commentating on the race, replaying the scene in his head. He scooped up a small box of tools, and grabbed a bucket of old scrapped or rusty nuts and bolts. As he began to walk back with this load, he noticed that it was becoming a struggle to see. The rain had increased in volume, and it was nearly pitch black from the sunset and the rain clouds overhead.
He raised his shoulder pads, pushing up two small lights to guide his way. He began to charge through the rain, his heavy body pressing his feet into the mud and giving him grip. Smoke chugged out of his back as exhaust rose into the air, he slowly forced himself to continue onward. He soon got to the top of the hill, going towards the old shed, which had the roof shaking from the wind. He dropped off the materials before he headed inside the warehouse, standing still as he drip dried. 400 ran over to him, 300 still in the back room and being repaired at this point so he didn't come to greet 600. "You had me worried sick!" exclaimed 400, she examined 600, and rushed over to a cupboard. She opened it and rummaged through it, much to 600's confusion.
She grabbed a canister of compressed air and walked over, flushing sand and debris out from 600's joints and such. Whenever she finished with the visor she backhanded 600 in the side of the head abruptly, causing sparks to fly between the two of them. He rubbed the back of his head to check for a dent. "What was that for?" 400 pointed at his lights, he gasped and turned them off, retracting them. "You wonder why you have low battery or low fuel all the time. Perhaps stuff like that is why." she stated, as she began to finish cleaning him up. Once she was done she put the air can back and dusted her hands off. "He wants you to go back with him for a paint job by the way." 600 looked confused, but soon realized that she meant their creator. He nodded, but stayed to dry for a bit before he went in.
He was soon dry enough that he felt comfortable going through the warehouse without tracking water. As he entered the back room, he could see 300 hooked up to some cables, since his battery was being remade he had to be on "life support" for lack of a better term. 600 continued to walk in before The Creator exited from a small side room that held a computer. "Ah 600, right. You are a little late you know. Perhaps you shouldn't dilly dally whenever you have a job." he said bluntly before going to the paint room. 600 felt annoyed, he saw what he did was a fine job. Regardless, even in his annoyance he walked towards the paint room. The creator began to wash the mud off of 600 so that he wasn't painting mud. After 600 was cleaned up he was stood up in the middle of the paint room. His visor, hand rails, and certain other smaller parts where taken off to be spray painted in another room.
Without the visor, a giant hole in 600's head would have been opened. So tarp was laid over it to make sure that paint wouldn't get into his head. As the automated system began to paint, it sprayed a royal purple onto 600. He felt weird, but tried not to move. He knew that paint was important, considering it would stop him from deteriorating, and it would make him look better. When the sprayers got near his hips, they did quick sprays over the rods that let his legs move, and made sure to paint every side of the drivers that they could. Overall, he was becoming a beautiful hue. Meanwhile the creator was hand spraying the hand rails, and putting some modifications on the visor. The hand rails where a beautiful chrome, and the visor had a small cut, making it easier to move and less bulky around the connection joint.
Once 600 walked out, it was like an entirely new person. The tarp was taken off and the visor was reapplied. The hand rails on his back were riveted onto him, and the final touches of scraping away some of the paint on the word "elm" on his shoulder, and coating it with a fine layer of chrome. His engine revved up as he slammed the visor down and raised his arms to look at the paint. It glistened in the bright lights, making him look state of the art. He punched his fists together, making sparks shower the ground. The creator walked up to him, patting him on the back, before going back to 300. "The weather is too bothersome to continue work today. So you can have the rest of the day to hang out with your siblings or, do whatever you would do. I'm not a machine, so I don't know." He said this in a joking manner or a sarcastic one, and he topped it off with a shrug.
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600 walked out of the room and looked for 400, when he found her he ran over to show off his paint. 400 looked up then gasped, her radiator spun with a harmonic whirring as she began to walk around 600 and examine him. "Dang bro! This ain't half bad!" 600 chuckled. "Fits me don't it?" she nodded, continuing to analyze him. 200 ran over, her light weight body making her nearly silent before she stopped. "Hey, did you guys hear that we were getting a new shipment of parts for us?" 600 and 400 both shook their heads. 400 decided to speak up first. "The last shipment of parts we got that wasn't random scraps from the mainland was in 1938. That was before 500 was even made, and if I can recall, he was made with those parts."
200 looked confused, so she decided to walk away. "Perhaps my memory is looping again... I wish I could be upgraded." 400 and 600 looked to her, 400 felt bad, but 600 was confused. He still didn't understand why they can't be fixed, though he remembered something about "money." 600 then looked outside through the window in the door. "Hey 400, would it be a good idea if I went outside? I want to see the rain." 400 shook her head. "It can damage you." the two looked at each other, one with determination and the other confusion, before 200 spoke up. "But what about 500?" 400 looked back at her. "What about him? Isn't he asleep?" 200 shrugged. "He was awake last I saw." 600 shook his head, before walking away. "I will go check that" he confirmed before either of his sisters could ask him what he is doing.
As he began to walk through a door and into the hangar, he could see the hangar doors slightly open, and the B-17 was slowly breathing in and out. Air going through vents to its engines, a small whirring of a battery similar to 600's was heard. 600 shut the door he walked through and walked to the side of the B-17. "500, what's going on? Have you not been asleep?" In a surprisingly cheery, but also cocky tone the B-17 had a voice protruding from it. "I woke up because I got a distress signal." 600 hadn't gotten anything, so he was extremely worried. "From what?" 500 didn't say, so 600 asked louder. 500 groaned a bit as he decided to respond. "Some ship that was slammed into the beach slightly off the coast in the south. I need to make sure its alright." He stared at the doors, before looking down at 600, though 600 couldn't tell this until 500 spoke once more. "Open the doors for me, chip."
600 was confused. "But what if the crea-" 500 spun one of his props and groaned. "Open the door, chip!" he yelled. His voice echoed through the hangar. 600 felt that this must be something that he hadn't learnt yet. After all, he knew nothing about 500, so perhaps 500 was supposed to be let out during an emergency, even if it was risky. He pushed the doors open, and the B-17 began to slowly inch forwards, and left the hanger. The tail twisted and began to turn the aircraft slowly as he headed for the old airfield. As 600 turned to go back inside, he stopped, remembering the condition of the runway. He looked back to the B-17 that was going through a mostly overgrown path down towards the old runway. 500 got through this path effortlessly though 600 couldn't help from being concerned.
600 began to walk, which soon was quickened into a run. He sprinted towards 500, trying not to get stuck in the mud as 500 lined up on the runway. Without the runway lights, he was only seeing through what little light was piercing through the storm clouds and the rain. He was facing the right way, but he wouldn't have enough time to take off. Not to mention the condition of the runway was much worse than when 500 used to be used normally, because of this if he tried to take off he would have ended up crashing on the runway without much effort. 600 slid down a small incline, of which the aircraft body that 500 had was big enough to just had bounced over. 500 began to move down the runway, 600 could barely see him with his lights due to the amount of rain. "STOP!" yelled 600, but 500 didn't listen.
As 600 began to run down the runway towards his sibling, 500 was getting further and further away. Lightning struck, slamming against a tree and shattering it. It began to fall, crushing a weathered part of the runway, and blocking a good portion of it. 500 noticed just in time from the small amount of light made from the strike. The wheels on the B-17 began to lock up, and the engines cut power, but it wasn't enough. 600 yelled out again. "REVERSE THROTTLE!" no matter what 500 did, that wasn't possible. The B-17 wasn't capable of reversing its engine strength. 600 tripped, and nearly fell, but he stumbled a bit as he ran to continue standing up. He reached out quickly, and yelled as loud as he could. "500!"
In his struggle, he began to change his parts around his arm, the wrist unlocked and his hand became loose. Air was drawn into the forearm and condensed before being released into the wrist. The hand opened with what little power was capable of going through the disconnection. The points that let go of the wrist became incased in copper, and slammed against the wires that had connected the wrist to the arm. Sparks fly as 600 continued to walk forwards. All of this happened within a few seconds, so the sparks was a surprise to him. He slid to a stop, before the air was released and his hand shot forward similar to 100's whenever 600 grabbed him. Sparks flew through the air as the pickups on the old connection point give energy to the hand.
As it flew through the air, the lights he had from his shoulders twisted and followed it. As his hand got nearer, the back of the hand formed an electric current from the pickups, and was thrown downwards. Due to the force of the sudden direction change and the magnetic nature, it began to wrap around the tail of the B-17, before slamming to the side. Due to 500's power, even with engines cut, 600 was being pulled. "I won't let you go!" he called out, as he tried to walk backwards while pulling on 500. Still not sure what he did, but he was going to take it. 500 began to pull up to try to dodge the tree, though he hit it briefly with his landing gear, propping himself higher into the air but also ripping the gear off. 600 tried to pull 500 down, which by the tail would force turbulence.
500 tried to course correct, but he ended up doing a half corkscrew, being slammed into the ground by 600's struggles. The B-17 slid forwards, the bombers compartment being slammed into the ground and shattering. The wing buckled and slammed into the ground nearby, crushing itself and causing it to detach, forcing the B-17 onto its side. As it dragged across the runway, it pulled 600 with it effortlessly, nearly throwing him up overtop of it. As 600's feet hit the tree he ended up being tossed up and being thrown over the B-17 crash as it was continuing to move. He got slammed against the ground hard enough that he even bounced, making a massive crack in what was left of the runway. His arm tried to retract for efficiency, but because of the forces working on each other he had ripped the tail off the B-17 and tossed it to the side before his arm had gotten to him. He landed again and rolled quite a few times, before falling onto his back.
It was morning before 600 finally got up, his code had shut him down to readjust things, not only the parts but his location. He groaned as he slowly stood, and shook the water off. He looked across the runway, seeing the wreckage and scrapes in the asphalt and concrete. The parts being out of commission by a long shot, much too damaged to be able to be repaired. Salvage is all that was left, but he tried to call out 500's name hopefully. "Hey... 500?" He continued to walk around, before going to the relatively fine cockpit of the B-17. He grabbed one of the window segments, and crushed it, pulling the debris backwards. He punched the hole wider, and looked in to see if he could find 500... Alas, there was nobody there.
He seemed to be distraught He tried to save his sibling but what seemed to have happened is that he brought his brother to an early end. As he was about to leave, a tiny little orb began to shake and make a broken shock type of sound. As 600 looked into the cockpit, he saw what seemed to be half of an orb attached to the dashboard of the B-17, twitching, sparks coming out of it each time it had moved. It began to move some stuff on the dash, and was conforming more into a true circle. The veins of red that had been across the dashboard to be able to have this orb control the B-17 where now all condensed into the back of this orb, of which rolled onto the floor of the B-17 with a brutal clank and show of sparks.
600 didn't know what it was, but all he knew was it was part of 500. He presumed it was his engine, and scooped it up into his hands. The broken glass scraped against his new paint, luckily it had set long enough that it had some tolerance, all be it not a lot. Some paint specs fluttered into the B-17 as 600 picked up the small orb and held it close to him. It twitched and shot sparks, not the sparks that happened whenever 600 was working or playing with 400, these sparks were much more electrical based compared to metal on metal. They were white and blueish in color, and showered out in a brutal, lengthy fashion. He began to walk towards the warehouse with the broken orb in his hand. He couldn't help but feel in some weird way... He couldn't even understand why he felt this way, he was a machine, he shouldn't have emotions outside of a simulated experience. But he didn't let that stop him. Even when sliding backwards, he trudged up the hill and to the warehouse, hoping to help his brother.