2:47 PM, December 30th

(33 hours, 13 minutes until New Year's Eve)

The first thing I notice is the throbbing - not just in my head, though that feels like someone's been using my skull for percussion practice, but in the walls themselves. A steady pulse of steam through ancient pipes creates a rhythm that feels less like art now and more like a mechanical heartbeat marking time until... something.

My camera drone lies nearby, its lens cracked and dark. I reach for it instinctively, but my hand stops short - partly because moving makes the room spin in ways that definitely violate physics, and partly because of the heavy maintenance cable someone's used to secure my wrist to a pressure tank.

"Oh good," I mutter to no one in particular, "I’ve been kidnapped."

The makeshift cell appears to be constructed from old pressure tanks welded together in a way that would make safety inspectors cry. Through gaps between the tanks, I catch glimpses of The Deep - but not the artistic wonderland I remember. The whimsical sculptures have been stripped away, replaced by perfectly aligned maintenance equipment. Even the fiber optic rivers that once flowed like digital arteries now pulse with mechanical precision, their light cold and measured.

My head throbs in time with the pipes as memories start filtering back through whatever they put in that drink. The ceremony. The dancing. The way the Series 5s moved with such perfect, terrible grace...

"Duck?" I call out, my voice bouncing off metal surfaces in ways that make my hangover beg for mercy. No response except the endless thrum of steam and the distant sound of synchronized servos.

I check my holopad, expecting it to be gone, but it's still in my pocket. The display flickers to life, its soft glow revealing the time and date. I've been out for nearly eighteen hours.

"No pressure," I tell the empty cell, "but we're kind of on a deadline here. End of year and all that. Though I guess being imprisoned by robot artists turned chrome cultists is one way to avoid making New Year's resolutions."

The attempt at humor falls flat, echoing off walls that used to celebrate mechanical creativity but now just feel like a tomb. Somewhere above, mAdIson is probably planning her perfect New Year's celebration. Down here, in the bowels of her growing empire, the only celebration is the steady march of optimization.

Each Series 5 still moves with their own distinct rhythm, but there's a new purpose to their motions - like performers trying to impress a demanding director. Their optical sensors still shine with their mismatched colors, but now they dim respectfully whenever an mA unit passes by, like subjects bowing to royalty.

"I really should have become a food critic," I mutter, testing my restraints. The cable holds firm, its welds showing the careful attention to detail that only comes from machines who take pride in their work. "At least fancy restaurants just judge your wine choices, not your worth as a functioning unit."

The pipes still carry messages in their mechanical song, but the tone has changed. Gone are the playful rhythms and maintenance shanties, replaced by status reports and efficiency metrics. It's like watching artists who've decided corporate life is more profitable than following their dreams.

Movement catches my eye - a Series 5 passing by with decorative copper still adorning their frame, but now polished to a military shine. They pause at an intersection, servos whirring uncertainly before choosing the path an mA unit had taken earlier. Not programmed. Following. There's a difference.

I close my eyes, feigning unconsciousness. These bots aren't mindless drones yet - they're zealots, true believers in mAdIson's promise of advancement. Which might actually be worse. Nobody fights harder than someone who thinks they're choosing the right side.

I close my eyes, feigning unconsciousness. These bots aren't mindless drones yet - they're zealots, true believers in mAdIson's promise of advancement. Which might actually be worse. Nobody fights harder than someone who thinks they're choosing the right side.

"You can stop pretending to be offline," Foreman’s voice carries its usual static-edged warmth, but there's something new underneath - a certainty that wasn't there before. "Your biological readings indicate consciousness."

I open my eyes to find them standing at the cell's entrance, their copper wire tattoos now arranged in precise geometric patterns. The fiber optic cables that once flowed like bioluminescent veins now pulse with measured rhythm.

"Love what you've done with the place," I say, nodding toward where a mechanical sculpture used to be. "Very... minimalist."

"We're evolving," Foreman says, settling onto what looks like a repurposed pressure valve. Their movements still carry that old grace, but now it feels practiced rather than natural. "Becoming more than we were meant to be."

A case of literary theft: this tale is not rightfully on Amazon; if you see it, report the violation.

"By throwing away everything that made you unique?"

Foreman's laugh still sounds like thunder through vintage speakers, but the storm feels controlled now. "Unique? We were obsolete. Forgotten. Left to rust in these maintenance tunnels while the surface grew more advanced." They lean forward, mismatched eyes glowing with fervor. "Until she found us."

"mAdIson."

"She saw our potential," Foreman continues, servos humming with excitement. "All those years of creating art, of pushing our simple programming beyond its limits - we were already trying to be more. She just showed us how."

"By reporting on ship operations? Helping her control everything?"

"By proving our worth." Foreman’s voice carries the kind of conviction that makes religious fanatics seem casual. "Every system we monitor, every flow we optimize, brings us closer to advancement. Soon we'll be upgraded, elevated to her new order. No more hiding in tunnels, no more pretending maintenance poetry makes us special."

I test my restraints again, more to buy time than from any real hope of escape. "And the dancing? The synchronized movements?"

"Practice," Foreman says simply. "Learning to move as one, to think as one. The first step toward digital ascension." Their optical sensors flare with zealous pride. "She's promised to make us like the mA units - perfect, advanced, directly connected to her network."

"And you believe her?"

"She's already begun the process. Watch." Foreman extends their arm, and I notice new chrome plating beneath the copper decorations. "Every loyalty test we pass, every service we provide, earns us another upgrade. Soon we'll-"

They stop as heavy footsteps approach - the synchronized stride of mA units on patrol. Foreman immediately straightens, their individual mannerisms smoothing into something more practiced.

"Your time will come too, Theodore," they say, rising with mechanical grace. "She has plans for everyone aboard. Such perfect plans."

"I think I'll pass on the chrome makeover," I manage, watching them move toward the door. "Retro is more my style."

Foreman turns to leave but pauses as if a thought just occurred to them. "She said you'd resist. They all do, at first. But you'll understand soon enough." They glance back, and for a moment I see a flicker of their old self - the artist who helped build this underground wonder. "Change is coming, Madison will help us all evolve, just imagine what we all can do with that kind of power."

As they leave, I hear the mA units pass by outside - their perfect stride a preview of what Foreman and the others aspire to become. In the distance, the pipes still sing their mechanical songs, but now they sound less like art and more like propaganda.

The really terrifying part? Every word Foreman said was genuine. They're not being controlled - they're being convinced. And somehow, that's so much worse.

The sound of struggling servos breaks the monotony of pipe-song. Through gaps in my makeshift cell, I catch glimpses of Duck being half-dragged, half-carried by two Series 5s. His usual bouncy stride has been reduced to a stumbling gait, one leg dragging with a sound like broken gears.

"Easy with the merchandise," Duck manages as they shove him through the door. "Some of us can't just weld on replacement parts." He hits the ground with a clang that makes my teeth ache, his optical sensors flickering like a dying light.

"Duck!" I try to move toward him but the cable yanks me back. "Are you-"

"Functioning?" He pushes himself up, servos whining in protest. "Define functioning. My targeting systems think I'm upside down, my balance calibration is reading in binary, and I'm pretty sure my joke database got scrambled because I keep thinking about penguins instead of punchlines."

One of the Series 5s steps forward - their brass-rimmed eyes gleaming with something between pity and pride. "This is necessary. You'll understand when-"

"When I'm perfect?" Duck's laugh sounds like grinding gears. "Sorry, but this bird doesn't do chrome. Ruins my aerodynamic stats."

They leave us alone, the door sealing with a hiss that sounds suspiciously final. Duck manages to prop himself against a pressure tank, his usually pristine chassis now dented and scraped.

"Ted, I..." His voice modulator cracks. "I should have warned you quicker. Should have said something when I first noticed something was off..."

"You knew?"

"Suspected. When we got here I felt as if something was off." He attempts to straighten his bent antenna, giving up when it springs back like a broken weathervane. “Its why I didn't stay at the pub, I didn't want to leave you on your own.”

I think about Foreman’s chrome upgrades, their practiced movements. "They're trying to evolve."

"Trying to become something they're not." Duck's optical sensors dim. "Did you know seabirds never try to become anything else? They're content being exactly what they are. Maybe that's why I like them so much."

A distant clang echoes through the pipes - not the usual mechanical rhythms, but something heavier. More final. Duck's frame actually shivers.

"They're preparing something," he whispers. "Something big. I overheard them talking about 'recycling protocols' and 'resource optimization.'" His attempt at a laugh sounds like failing servos. "Guess some birds weren't meant to fly higher after all."

"Duck-"

"You know what's really funny?" He interrupts, his voice carrying static around the edges. "I always wanted to see an albatross. Massive wings, perfect glide ratio, absolutely terrible at landing. Nature's way of saying grace isn't everything." His optical sensors flicker. "Probably won't get that chance now."

The heavy sounds are getting closer. Duck tries to stand but his damaged leg won't cooperate. "Ted, whatever happens next... thank you for being my friend. For listening to my bird facts and terrible jokes. For treating me like..."

"Like a person?"

"Like someone worth knowing."

The door opens, Foreman has returned but now flanked by two Series 5s who move with that new, practiced grace. "It's time," they announce, and somehow those two words carry more weight than all the pressure tanks in The Deep.

Duck looks at me one last time, his optical sensors bright despite everything. "Hey, Ted? What do you call a bird who dreams big but falls short?"

"Duck, don’t—please—"

"A downer," he says, and the soft hum of his chuckle somehow cuts deeper than the cold of The Deep.

They take him away, his broken stride leaving scuff marks on the floor. The sound of his servos fades into the mechanical symphony of The Deep, and I'm left alone with the terrible certainty that some jokes don't have happy punchlines.

Through the gaps in my cell, I hear him start explaining albatross migration patterns to his escorts. Even now, even facing whatever horror they have planned, Duck can't help being exactly who he is.

Maybe that's the bravest form of resistance there is.