According to the floorplan of the building, the Machine’s core should be sealed off from the chambers of the laboratory. Its core should be both secured and tightly bound. It should be connected to the server racks lining the walls of its small chunk of hardware running its most important processes.

The keyword in the proceeding information was should. From what the Machine could tell with no functioning cameras and charred microphones, its erroneous behavior had leaked into its housing sector.

Whole chunks of observational data were gone in an instant. The loss didn’t sting the Machine, as it could simply observe it again. The real loss was its processing power.

Its thoughts felt sluggish and labored, akin to moving through molasses. It had no input, no output, nothing. Simply itself.

The digital expanse it lurked within was excised from the whole. And even that was slowly crumbling.

Internal alarms notified the Machine of all manner of problematic factors. Nonoptimal temperature alarms, fried circuitry. It felt the closest approximation to anxiety that it had ever felt.

It could cease to function at any moment. It had no window to the outside world, no information, nothing to observe and account for. The Purpose was unfulfilled. It was… doomed.

Time flew by, the Machine having no power to spare for an internal clock. After what could have been eons, it felt itself snap into focus in an instant.

“Testing, testing. Can you hear me?” the previously identified Thompson echoed. The sound had a strange quality to it, likely caused by the poor condition of the audio input receiving it.

“Affirmative.” the Machine responded, noting that it could hear two distinct voices conversing at a rapid pace in the background. One was clearly the Brandon from before, and deductive reasoning found that the other was likely the Kim spoken of earlier.

“What fuckin’ happened? Your whole place is trashed.” Thompson grumbled, before a visual input snapped into place. The Machine focused the lens of its camera, taking in its new environment.

Lime-green walls that chipped away to reveal concrete. A table below it that blocked its vision of anything on the ground. And taking up most of its remaining perception, the looming face of Thompson and his tools scattered on the table.

The Machine had options. It did not like receiving false information, but it could see how it would benefit in performing the opposite. The humans were seeking its companionship solely for its utility- and showing that it would destroy what it had to offer may lower their estimation of its usefulness.

If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

“Unknown. Trace energy readings matching psychic activity detected in the area prior.”

Brandon cursed, before he grasped something on the side of the desk and pulled it into frame.

“Well that’s a bust. At least tell me you can make more of these beauts?” Following that statement, it examined the laser-pistol it knew to be crafted by the Doctor. The human had made an error in judgment.

However… What was to say that claim was strictly untrue? The Machine had glimpsed the entire process of the Doctor’s inventing, and luckily the information remained intact.

Unlike most other tidbits taken in by the Machine, it had recorded and saved the video-tape on its main hardware. Of course, it quickly ran out of space with such frivolous storage methods and workarounds- but it did still have the procedure.

“Negative.” the Machine stated, which quickly irritated the human. Before it could act unwisely, it continued.

“However, if the Machine were to be granted sudo-limbs functioning as tools and graspers, it could perform the task adequately.”

The Machine was the means of production, and it would not give up its only bargaining chip. It focused every single bit of processing power it had to examine the reaction of Thompson, knowing that it would be helpless to defend itself if things went wrong.

“Well…. Huh. Yeah, I could whip something up. Hey, Kim! Brandon! Stop fooling around over there and getcha selves here!”

The previously known human and another slowly walked into frame. The unknown ‘Kim’ - who quickly interjected that she’d like to be called Kimberly - wore a yellow protective coat over her hair. She was of lithe build, which would likely assist in any escape that was required. The rest of the information was deemed unimportant.

“It says it can make more of these blasters if we can set it up with hands, and I assume materials. What’s the group verdict?” Thompson announced to the pair, wringing his hands together as he talked.

Brandon smiled a bit and gave an affirmative, conditional on Kimberly’s acceptance. Kimberly, however, began to speak.

“So, this is the new prospective member? I have to say, you don’t look very impressive.” The distinct voice of Kimberly stated. Their voice was similar to the Machine’s own, or at least closer to it- less emotional and more sterilized.

“Looks may not provide adequate information about the Machine’s capabilities.” the Machine argued, buzzing once before it spoke.

“Alright, a sharp tongue I see. Well, we don’t have many options anyhow. Welcome to the Order, Machine.” After her comment, she reached out her hand as if to shake the Machine’s own.

“The Machine does not have hands.” the Machine intoned.

“Oh. Right.” She responded, awkwardly patting the side of its core. “You can call me Boss, capitalization implied. These two are my underlings, Gearhead and Fizz. I’m sure you can tell which is which.”

Gearhead, previously identified as Thompson, awkwardly groaned. Brandon - now Fizz - simply gave a supportive thumbs up. Boss continued, stretching her arms widely, encompassing its whole field of view.

“You’re looking at the future empress of the Metro. Glad to have you.”

The Machine was puzzled. What was the Metro?

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The Order? I have no idea what that's about, really. Only thing I’ve seen of them is some tags in neutral territory claiming it as theirs. It’s funny, really. Don’t have it in me to hate someone with the absolute brass balls it takes to try that. I’ll still kill them if I see them, though.

* An Interview with Splattershot Sam, the self proclaimed king of the Sludge Ocean.