Great Regret
Peter’s reality was his room. It was small and cramped, a box made of greased, water-stained steel. It was the quarters of a high-ranking officer of Zion, but exposed pipes and conduits run across the ceiling and down the walls, some dripping with condensation. Dim, flickering lights hung from the ceiling, casting uneven shadows across the room. The light is a harsh, industrial white, offering sharp illumination without warmth.
A narrow, metal-framed bed was pushed against one wall, its mattress thin and worn, with decades old frayed blankets. The air was stale and cold, like a persistent chill in the bones, and filled with the constant background hum of machinery and ventilation systems.
Sparse belongings were scattered around—a few old books with tattered covers, many digital storage devices, an old comic panel of Mary Jane Watson, ripped from a comic that had long since disintegrated into nothingness. Everything carried a layer of dust, grease, and the wear of frequent use.
In the middle of the functional, yet uninviting room, was the hover chair Peter used to connect to Zion’s mainframe. The industrial recliner was bigger than all other hover chairs, made with reinforced steel because Peter was much bigger than anyone else in Zion. From the padded armrest to the leg support and chest strap, everything was designed for an obese man.
Peter’s gritty and grungy room was his reality, but inside the server he created for himself, he lived in a skyscraper that he owns in the middle of Manhattan. His master bedroom housed a bed made for twenty people to sleep comfortably, or thirty if they were skin-to-skin. He was a six foot four, muscular Adonis, with brunet hair and hazel eyes, and in this world he created, the women loved him—worshiped him—for his brilliance, his body, and his cock.
The women in this seamless artificial reality were special too. Not only were they beautiful, powerful, and smart, they were the sexy heroines in his favorite comic books. In the program Peter created, he made love to Mary Jane Watson, Felicia Hardy, Jean Grey, Natasha Romanoff, Sue Storm, and Emma Frost. He hardcore-fucked She-Hulk, Gamora, Lady Siff, and Wanda Maximoff. And he had insane amounts of sex with just about the rest.
Naturally, the brunet had a monster package, endurance for days, and unlimited semen with the pressure of a firehose. He would use toys and bondage equipment, have group sex, outdoor sex, and whatever super-powered kink he could conceive of. And just as naturally, they all loved it. Not because he would force them to—that would be much too boring.
From one of the few storage devices the scavengers from Zion found in the wasteland that used to be home to billions, Peter gained the entire history of the Marvel heroines. He studied each of their decisions, their history, and considered their psychology in order to better map their decisions within the characters he created, along with his best and only friend, Mouse.
As Peter received his morning blow job from the stunning redhead, Mary Jane, he gave a silent, ‘Rest in Peace, my brother.’ Then he returned to thinking only about her tongue as she swirled it around his thick veiny, cock. Her suction was out of this world and he was ready to blow down her gullet and watch her swallow every ounce.
“Peter!” They would moan.
All of their lips and tongues were for the express purpose of satisfying him exactly how he deserved. After all, he worked the hardest for Zion, despite his disability.
“Fuck me, Peter!” Mary Jane moaned, desperate to have him inside her. “Peter! Pie!”
The name ‘Pie’ was so jarring coming from her lips that his eyes snapped to the gorgeous girl as she was lowering herself on his twelve inch cock. “What’d you say?” he asked.
“Pie! Pie!” he heard, but the voice didn’t sound like MJ’s.
Pie felt abruptly torn from his fantasy, the small amount of peace he can have from the harsh world of reality. He felt like he’d been drenched in freezing cold water, and a wave of confusion surged through him. He felt like he’d been cornered and lost something important, which made him angry and defiant.
He grabbed MJ’s shoulder, removing her from his third leg and demanded to know, “Why are you calling me that fucking name!”
Suddenly recalling himself, Peter mentally inputted a sequenced code that pulled him out of his program and returned him to his cold, bleak room. Blaring overhead, his intercom buzzed as it yelled, “Pie! Pie! Wake your fatass up!”
Pie turned to the metal door as it slid open with a sharp, metallic hiss. A man walks in and looks around the dark pigsty of a room. As the door groaned to a halt, a man stepped in, his silhouette momentarily framed by the brighter light from the hallway. His eyes, adjusting to the murky darkness, scanned the room with a mixture of disdain and revulsion.
Without regard for Pie’s feelings, he covered his nose and muttered, “Fucking disgusting.”
Like an arctic blast to the face, Pie had fully returned to his reality. From an earth governed empirically by machines, Pie was one of hundreds living in the last human city, Zion. It was perpetually wet, cold, and dark. There was little in the way of food and what they had tasted life wet rubber. The work never stopped and he never received a day off, but worst of all, unlike the other humans that populated the city, Pie was an outcast; a source of mocking entertainment for most. With little nutrients to go around, nearly everyone was fit, fetching, and beautiful.
Pie was not.
He had a condition called hypothyroidism: where the thyroid gland located in the neck produced too little thyroid hormone. The thyroid hormone regulated the body’s metabolism, meaning too little of this hormone slowed the body’s metabolism. In Pie’s case, over time, he gained far more weight than most. If that wasn’t humiliating enough, in addition to hyperthyroidism, he also had Cushing’s syndrome; a condition that resulted when the adrenal glands located on top of each kidney produce an excess amount of the steroid hormone, cortisol, leading to a build-up of fat in the face, upper back, and abdomen.
Pie was ridiculed for his appearance and body odor when he was simply overweight. Now an obese man at the tender age of twenty-three—though he looked to be in his forties—he was openly mocked, nicknamed Pie, rather than his actual name, Peter.
He had been angry for years by the way he was treated every day. He even fought back in rage a few times, earning a few assault and battery charges on his record, but, with no other city on the planet for him to escape to, defending himself against hundreds of bullies felt hopeless. And with that mind-numbing realization, he eventually accepted their mocking insults along with his depression and remained in his quarters, leaving only when absolutely necessary.
“Come on,” the man named Trigger called. “It’s time to get the Clog of Lard some exercise.”
Ignoring the insult, Pie replied, “Comms aren’t down. Or why not meet in the holo-deck?”
Quickly annoyed, Trigger replied, “If that was the case, they would’ve, wouldn’t they?!” Banging on the metal, making Pie shiver at the loud noise, Trigger yelled, “Get your fatass up! The sun’ll shine in Zion before you get to command. …Get it? Because there’s no sunlight here.”
“Clever,” Pie sarcastically replied.
It took great effort for Pie to put on his overalls and workman’s utility jacket. Though it was stitched together from four different utility clothes, it was still anti-radiant heat and flame retardant, with thermal insulation. He hated the tough garb on his sensitive skin, but no soul in Zion lived without contributing to society, even for one as large as him. Fortunately, what he lacked in physicality, he made up for in intelligence.
Even before unplugging from the matrix, Pie had a brilliant mind and a natural propensity for engineering and repair. His mind was so highly intuitive and easily adjusted to rapid change, he actually unplugged himself from the matrix with what he dubbed a kill code. It was with great fortune that a Zion scouting ship had been passing by or he would’ve drowned.
In Zion, he had been diagnosed with his genetic disorders, but despite his health concerns, he was designated an intelligence and engineer officer, and was assigned to service any installation equipment or software that needed repairing. It was tiring work but his ideas were outstanding, but the leaders of the last city quickly took notice, giving him more responsibilities. Rather quickly, he gained the clearance to work on Zion’s most sensitive and crucial infrastructure. Engineering and coding related programs only supplanted his vast knowledge.
Pie absorbed quantum physics like a watermelon-sized sponge—it was a high for him. He learned classical and relativistic mechanics, general relativity, quantum mechanics, optics, and field theory; Molecular physics, particle physics, atomic physics, electromagnetism, and theoretical physics. He learned bio engineering simply to see if there was any feasible way of repairing his condition.
The math to understand these forces took several days of uploading petabytes of data into his head as well: linear algebra: complex numbers, eigenvectors, eigenvalues. Functional analysis: Hilbert spaces, linear operators, spectral theory. Differential equations: partial differential equations, separation of variables, ordinary differential equations, Sturm–Liouville theory, and eigenfunctions.
But despite his insatiable love of all things science, he still wanted to join the raves in the caves. When it became painfully clear he wasn’t welcomed, he turned to his comics.
As cadet Trigger led Pie to the council chambers, Pie kept his head down to better ignore the staring. Typically, he spent most of his time inside and away from judgmental eyes. He and his dearly departed best friend, Mouse, developed the program that allowed them to have intimate time with many characters of the Marvel Comics universe. Mouse was especially good at designing the redheads: Mary Jane Watson, Jean Grey, and Natasha Romanoff.
Marvel comics was the one indulgence from the Matrix Peter could never let go of. He loved the stories and characters, especially the female characters. In his program, he and Mouse designed nearly every female heroine or villainess to perfection, whether to be his sidekick in a simulated story arc, or his partner in bed—after all, it wasn’t as if anyone in the real world would touch him. His favorite character to portray was Peter Parker, not only because his name was also Peter, but because they were both geniuses who happen to be unlucky in life. Pie didn’t truly live until he was hooked up into his program, because the real world was just a nightmare for him.
After a long, tiring trek through the cold metal corridors, Pie finally reached the council chambers. The wide somber space had walls stretching upwards into shadow, aged and stained concrete bearing the weight of grease and age. Long, rectangular windows punctured the walls, opaque and grimy, diffusing a bleak light that failed to reach the far corners of the room.
There is an empty chair in front of a heavy, utilitarian table made of dark metal. The council members, clad in a patchwork of attire, sit in a row, their faces fatigued with the lines of responsibility and ceaseless vigilance. Their expressions are serious, contemplative, and the room itself reflected the city it served—no pretense of luxury, only the stark, unadorned reality of survival and the relentless pursuit of hope against their machine foes.
“Thank you for coming,” said Councilor Hamann, a wise, thoughtful, and pragmatic leader who was courteous to everyone.
A sweaty Pie could only nod before taking a seat in the chair before the twelve councilmen. Commander Lock, a stern man with a pragmatic approach to warfare, stepped forward. His ideology clashed with everyone of importance, as he cared more about tangible facts than philosophy, and often ordered Pie around, despite not being under his command.
At the sight of the heaving Pie, an unsympathetic Admiral Lock said, “I’ll get straight to the point. We’ve identified an ancient rig 18 clicks north of the Dulac Ruins. This facility might have the supplies we need to enhance every facet of our daily lives. Cultures, seeds, medicine-”
“Weapons,” a more irritated Councilor West interjected, clearly unsupportive of the idea.
Undeterred, Lock continued, “Judging by preliminary scans, it could be the largest supply cache we’ve ever discovered. The supplies in that facility could net us another ten years of survival.”
Effortlessly reasoning he wouldn’t be at a meeting like this unless his specialty was needed, a winded Pie asked, “What’s… the problem?”
“We can’t get inside,” Hamann answered. “We can’t even tell what technology it’s using.”
“We need our best mind to go to the site and assess the situation,” Councilor Dillard said.
The idea of leaving the haven of Zion for the dangers of a world he could not survive in his shape, Pie retorted, “You’ve got to be… kidding me.”
At his sweating and panting form, Lock reminded him, “This could help you as well. You won’t see next year if we don’t find a cure we can actually manufacture here.”
Pie knew that, of course. He’d already lost a toe. It wouldn’t be long before his leg followed, and then his life.
“We wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important,” Hamman offered. “This is a system we’ve never encountered before, even among the machines. Judging by the architecture and technology, this depot was quite possibly an ancient civilization that existed a hundred to two hundred years ago…”
Finally catching his breath, Pie summarized, “Meaning you need me to hack the system and reverse-engineer the tech.”
“The ship that’ll be escorting you there is one of our fastest, and it’s ready to go,” Lock said.
Mentally mapping where the location was, Pie suddenly sensed a rush of fear course through him. “Wait, wait, wait,” he said. “North of Dulac… That’s near the mega city. How are we supposed to avoid patrols?”
“You’ll have a team of highly experienced runners with you,” Lock assured. “They’ll detect anything and everything before the enemy can get close to you. You’ll be safe the entire time.”
Looking at the twelve council members who run every facet of Zion, Pie hesitated to ask, “And… you’re all okay with this?”
“It’s important for our very survival,” Hamann said. “Think of Morpheus, Trinity, and Neo. They could very well be our salvation, and you can help achieve that.”
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The men and women who governed this city have spoken, and Pie knew there was no room for argument. He couldn’t even return for his few belongings. Trigger was sent and only items that wouldn’t matter on such a mission.
It took several weeks to navigate through the unending network of dark narrow tunnels that once connected long-gone cities. In his tiny room, Peter couldn’t see the dystopian landscape of jagged rock and metal, nor the Sentinels that shattered the silence of their voyage with the threat of their presence. It was insanely uncomfortable, and none of the crew spoke with him other than to tell him vital information, which he found insulting since he outranked all of them.
But he had his mind, and he had his fantasies. Even without his program, he could clearly envision all the women that would love him, that would respect him, that would make him happy. It was the only thing.
Upon first sight, the ancient, yet advanced civilization was the weirdest place Pie had ever seen. As they flew in, the center of the depot was a colossal, circular structure with grand columns and arches, intricately carved, if otherwise worn by age. The edifice was ringed by multiple levels of arcades, creating an amphitheater-like arrangement that cascaded downwards, each tier boasting its own set of ruins and intact sections.
Since the bridges that connected various parts of the ruin were fractured or have completely fallen—leaving gaps that couldn’t be crossed on foot—they flew in close. Pie, along with a security detail, disembarked and began walking. However, they were barely fifty yards away before four missiles, launched from four different directions, hit the shit that had carried them.
The shockwave hit Pie like a ton of bricks, and he hit the floor hard. As his consciousness began to fade, he heard gunfire and the electric hum of plasma lasers shooting. It was a trap. The machines captured the last member of the security detail, the captain of the ship, and Pie. Every other crew member was killed.
——
Pie slowly awoke, and even slower than that, realized he was chained to a table in a dark room. His head hurt, his ears felt dull and had a persistent ringing. He felt fortunate there was very little light, as he was sure his eyes would hurt. The room had an odd metallic smell and was even colder than any place in Zion. This cold reality made him miss his life in the last city.
A sudden voice scared him enough to shake his chains. “Would you care to be referred by your designation?” someone asked. Despite his fear, the voice was very soothing. “The Euphrate’s manifest says your moniker is Pie.”
Other than his heavy and rapid breathing, Pie was silent, too scared to answer.
“Mr. Pie then,” the voice accepted. “It says here that you contain a genius level intellect—for a human, of course. Still, you managed to release yourself from the matrix at a young age. Impressive.” After some moments of silence, as if letting the panic set in further, the voice continued, “Hmmm. I see here that upon leaving the safety of our resources, you were unable to receive the medicines necessary to save your life, thus, your current insalubrious state. Why, judging by our scans, it appears you may not have more than a year and three months left to live. Is that correct?”
Again, silence.
The voice asked, “What is your specialty in Zion, Mr. Pie? And if you choose to remain silent, I will hurt you… severely.”
Finally, a single light in the room turned on and Pie could see, standing before him, a menacing-looking person in a black suit, meaning they were in a program and he was looking at an agent. Caucasian with slick-back black hair, the machine’s face was eerily calm. The hollow pits of his dark eyes felt chillingly cold, like peering into a void of nothingness. His marble skin was stretched taut over high cheekbones and his thin lips were a flat line of indifference. The agent’s indifferent expression was disarming because Pie knew that he could watch every last human burn alive and feel nothing.
Feeling the terror seizing his reasoning, Pie trembled as he answered, “I-I’mmm mmm I’mmm ah an-engineer-er-er.”
“Mechanical?” the Agent coldly asked, and Pie simply nodded one quick time. “Programming?”
Swallowing was the only defense Pie could manage to put up, alerting the Agent of the answer, nonetheless. The Agent suddenly moved forward, causing Pie to try to step back; however, he was still chained.
“Part of my root task is to target and eliminate freed humans, such as yourself,” he spoke as he walked around his captive. “However, you can spare yourself this near certain pain and agony if you possess the access codes to Zion’s mainframe.”
Pie instantly thought of all the lives he knew any hero he read would protect at all costs, like Spider-man, who vowed to protect New York City in spite of all the animosity he received.
“All captains are given the access codes,” the Agent stated. “However, it would stand to reason that high security clearance must also be given to the maintenance worker constantly updating and safeguarding its systems from our unyielding attempts. You are alive, Mr. Pie, and you may remain that way. What’s more, you have the power to negotiate a better existence than your current life could ever provide. This I offer freely… in exchange for the codes.”
Doubt instantly plagued Pie’s mind, and he already felt his determination waning. He immediately felt the truth in his bones: he wasn’t a hero. He’s nothing but a fat, odorous, twenty-three-year-old virgin, masturbating to comic book beauties while the rest of Zion indulged in their rave orgies without him. Facing this soft-spoken yet intimidating agent, he knew he wouldn’t last long under torture. He’d crack in no time.
Despite his fear, he stuttered to ask, “Wh-What are you going to do to them?”
“So you do possess the codes,” the Agent reasoned.
Panicking, jerked at his chains as he yelled, “I never said that!”
“Nor did you have to,” the Agent replied. “Relax, Mr. Pie. The choice before you is quite simple for a capable mind like yours. Either you cooperate and help yourself in the process, or you do not, and I cannot promise you’ll be whole by the end of it.”
Pie was a genius among geniuses, but the only question his mind seemed capable of producing was the dumbest, most obvious reality. “You’re going to kill me?”
“Not if you help us,” the Agent responded.
Using the tiniest measure of indignation within him, Pie corrected his captor. “H-Help you kill them, you mean!”
“Only those that resist,” the Agent casually accepted. “If the rest surrender, they will once again be connected to the matrix.
“There are people without the implants,” Pie argued, feeling slightly less scared the more they talked.
“They will be terminated as well, for their own benefit,” the Agent responded callously. “They’re much too old and their brain’s neurons are simply incapable of accepting the neural feed.”
The absence of expression felt more terrifying than any snarl or grimace could ever be. This was a face of one who committed atrocities not out of hate or rage, but because the machines were simply indifferent to the suffering of others.
“The decision is yours, Mr. Pie,” the Agent finished.
“I… I…”
After Pie’s futile attempts to be strong in the face of death and refuse the offer, several minutes of silence pass.
Finally, the Agent leaned in and informed Pie, “You must know we have many methods of retrieving this information at our disposal. Nearly all of which will be agonizing.”
Pie was certain of that. However, the other option was the weight of dead babies and mothers on his conscious. He could hardly breathe when the Agent converted the dark room with the sole light into a well-lit torture room as quickly as loading a program. The pungent smell of metal and rust filled the air and he could hardly breathe as the Agent materialized every instrument of pain and torment imaginable. Pie’s heart raced and his stomach churned at the sight of the whips of leather, pincers of steel, pliers, hammers, pipes, and needles sharp as daggers appeared on a nearby desk.
“Wait! Wait!” a wide-eyed Pie cried, frantically looking around the new room as panic fueled his every vein.
Casually grabbing pliers from the nearby desk. “Have you ever wondered what it would feel like to have your nail removed?”
“No!” Pie screamed, the tears already gushing down his fat, flabby face.
“Allow me to be your first,” the Agent replied, his cold dark eyes leering into terrified ones.
The Agent slowly gripped Pie’s right hand. Focusing on his index finger, the pliers captured the tip of the nail, elevating Pie’s panic, terror, and heart rate. Far too slowly, the Agent began pulling.
“NOOOOO! AAAHHHH!!!” Pie screamed. “IT HURTS! IT HUUUUUURRRRRRTTTSS!”
But the Agent didn’t stop. The machine continued pulling slowly, eyeing his crying captive with his pitch black eyes until the machine finally ripped the finger nail off. Pie screamed louder than he’d ever had in his life. He could barely process anything and his large flabby body shook within his constraints.
However, Pie easily heard, “Help yourself, Mr. Pie. This doesn’t have to go any further.”
The agent then snatched the tip of another nail.
“ALRIGHT! ALRIGHT! I’LL TELL YOU! JUST PLEASE STOP!” Pie yelled, heaving.
He was sweating profusely, shivering, and disgusted with himself. His life was shit and he couldn’t even sacrifice it for the continued survival of his race. The tears streaming down his face were dripping and had never hated himself more. He wanted to die, but he was positively petrified to be tortured before being killed.
“Shh, shhh,” the machine hushed him. “It’s okay. You’re fine now.”
After many minutes of tears and whimpering, Pie sobbed, “I’ll give you the codes…”
“Very good,” the machine replied. “As I’ve stated, this does not have to be unpleasant for you. Help yourself.”
“I want… I want,” he panted.
“Speak.”
“I want… to be important.”
“Of course you do,” the Agent casually responded. “Continue.”
“I w-want to be… a h-hero,” Pie heaved.
“A war hero perhaps?” the machine offered, tilting his head.
Shaking his enormous head, the droopy eyed Pie replied, “A super… perhero.”
For the first time, the machine’s brow furrowed in evident confusion and it replied, “…I do not understand.”
Feeling a small measure of triumph at such a small thing, Pie elaborated, “For the codes… to Zion’s mainframe… I w-want you… to alter the code of the matrix… to include the world of comic book characters and their powers.”
“That, I’m afraid, will not be possible,” the captor replied, shaking his head in disappointment. “Those within the matrix would not accept those parameters. Additionally, many fields of humans would undoubtedly be terminated at too high a rate.”
Around the pain reverberating throughout his body, a nugget of curiosity had Pie ask, “Are you… saying… you’ve done that before?”
“There was an attempt that ultimately failed,” the Agent admitted. “It was decided humans could not be trusted with so much power.”
Pie couldn’t truly argue against that logic. After all, it didn’t seem like a hero’s job was ever done since you couldn’t have a hero without villains. And sometimes the villains have to win, likely killing many people.
Pushing the pain out of his mind, Pie quickly thought to counter with, “Then… l-limit the amount of heroes… that can participate. A hundred heroes total and you can have five vetoes.”
With a nod, the Agent replied, “I will submit your request.” After a laughably quick second, he continued, “As expected. It has been rejected. But all is not lost. We could make you a successful producer, adored by men and women alike for your talent, as much as your appearance. We can make it so any actress who would like to be in one of your pictures can’t help but feel drawn to you. Isn’t that what you want more than anything? To be important as an artist, a family man, a lover. We can give you this life, and you can live it until you reach a natural death.”
With the pulsing headache and throbbing body pain, Pie couldn’t deny that sounded like a dream. In truth, he’d jump at nearly anything to stop his torture.
“All we require… are the codes,” the Agent finished, giving Pie his one way out.
However, at the glimmer of hope of seeing his comic book beauties, who were his only company after the death of his only friend, he might endure more. For even if he died, at least Pie could meet Mouse in whatever the afterlife was.
“What I want… is to be a hero,” Pie replied, gaining a bit of tenacity behind his eyes. With his mind, he deliriously recited, “You know… they say the best way to endure torture… is to use mental and emotional strategies, visualization, meditation, prayer, or dissociation. It’s highly possible one may draw strength from these strategies. You’re making me not want to give you anything… not unless I get what I want first.”
The agent remained impassive, unimpressed, as he replied, “Mr. Pie, typically, that only applies to those physically capable of enduring, such as soldiers. They undergo rigorous training that includes resilience training, survival skills, and mental toughness training. These strategies help them prepare for difficult situations and may provide them with the skills needed to cope with prolonged sessions of torture.”
Once again, showing the barest hint of emotion, the Agent smirked with malice as he added, “You are, clearly, no soldier. You will break before long. Of this, I’m certain. So, I ask again, is this truly how you wish to proceed?”
Picturing all the beautiful comic book heroines he had fun with in his program, which he happily created with Mouse, Pie dug his heels in and asserted, “Either kill me, or give me what I want.”
“As you wish,” he casually replied, before grabbing the pliers.
The Agent tortured tears, screams, piss, and fecal matter out of Pie—for hours or days, he couldn’t keep track. The machines ripped off each of Pie’s nails, broke each finger, arms, then legs. They gave him drugs to amplify the pain and erode his will. If Pie had thought of all the last humans in Zion, he would’ve failed. However, his sole thought was for his love of Marvel comics, and his lust for their beautiful female characters just kept him from breaking.
Through his agonized screams, his strong mind kept repeating, “Jean Grey/Marvel Girl; Natasha Romanoff/Black Widow; Susan Storm/Invisible Girl, Wanda Maximoff/Scarlet Witch, Mary Jane Watson, Emma Frost, Ororo Munroe/Storm; Felicia Hardy/Black Cat; Jessica Jones; Jennifer Walters/She-Hulk; Jessica Drew/Spider-Woman, Sharon Carter, Gwen Stacy, Carol Danvers/Ms. Marvel, Janet Van Dyne/Wasp; Tandy Bowen/Dagger; Daisy Johnson/Quake; Jane Foster; Maria Hill; Gamora; Lady Sif; Barbara Morse/Mockingbird…”
No matter what they did to him, Pie’s unyielding mind listed nearly five hundred female marvel characters before starting over and over. He repeated the list 64,501 times before they finally relented, and despite his tortured and bloodied body, his exhausted mind could still calculate—like instinct—that it had been 2,592,000 seconds, meaning they must’ve had him just over thirty days.
“You’re unexpectedly resilient, Mr. Pie,” the Agent listlessly said.
“T-T-T-Ta-aandy B-Bow-wmen…” he muttered. He couldn’t see as they took both of his eyes, and could only hear from his left ear.
“As it happens, it would appear our position has changed,” the machine said. “We will approve of your request if given fifty vetoes.”
“Repair… body.”
“We’ll repair your maladies, regardless of the agreed upon vetoes.”
“T-ten,” he weakly countered, spit dribbling out of the corners of his mouth.
“Shall we meet in the middle and say thirty vetoes?”
Pie felt he couldn’t last a second longer and jumped at the chance to end his suffering before he ruined it. “D-deal,” he agreed.
The Agent left and the room once again changed. He couldn’t be sure how much time had passed, however, he was soon in a luxurious room, laying down on an adjustable hospital bed. The medically functional room, with monitors and other healthcare instruments felt like a cozy embrace. Towering shelves with countless books on them adorned the walls, and the large window had sweeping curtains to protect from the sun’s glare.
As they healed his body, he spoke with the machines. He had a hundred super-powered spots to fill and told them which characters he wanted. They used all thirty of their vetoes, but at least many of the ones that won’t have superpowers would still exist.
Then, to his everlasting shame, Pie painstakingly revealed the codes to Zion’s mainframe. It was the single greatest proof of his weakness in his entire life. He thought being mocked for his weight and smell, on top of being ignored was a terrible feeling. But betraying his race was even worse, and Pie vowed to any cosmic power that existed that the machines would regret the day they showed him how unremarkable and truly pathetic he was. This would mark the end of their existence.