They escort me through passages that once celebrated mechanical creativity but now serve only function. The cable around my wrist has been replaced by two Series 5s gripping my arms with the kind of precision that makes escape impossible. Their brass and copper decorations catch the dim light, making them look like tarnished versions of their chrome ideals.

The compactor chamber might once have been beautiful, in that strange way the Series 5s turned industrial equipment into art. Now it's just efficient. Massive hydraulic arms extend from walls stripped of their decorative flourishes. Ancient pressure systems hum with carefully regulated power.

"Behold," Forman gestures to the machine like a proud parent, "the future of optimization."

Duck stands at the chamber's center, held in place by maintenance cables that look like they were salvaged from the ship's first voyage. His damaged leg leaves streaks of lubricant on the floor, but he keeps his optical sensors fixed upward, studying the hydraulic arms with what looks like professional interest.

"Fascinating design," he comments, voice carrying only the slightest static. "Though your weight distribution ratios seem a bit off. I knew this seagull once who had similar balance issues-"

"Enough." Forman steps forward, their copper tattoos catching the light from dozens of mismatched optical sensors. The other Series 5s have gathered to watch, most of them now proudly displayed patches of new chrome over their bodies. "Theodore has information we require. About his friends' plans. About Dr. Riley."

"And you think crushing me will help?" Duck manages to sound both terrified and sarcastic.

"Ted." Forman turns to me, their movements precise but not yet perfect. "Tell us what we need to know, and your friend's components will be repurposed with dignity. Refuse..." They gesture, and the hydraulic arms shift with a sound like mechanical thunder.

Duck catches my eye. Despite everything, despite the fear and damage and terrible certainty of what's coming, he still looks like himself. Still looks like the robot who got excited about waterfowl and made sure everyone around him was well taken care of.

"Don't you dare," he says, his voice modulator cracking. "Whatever they want to know, it's not worth-"

"Time is optimal," Forman interrupts. "But patience is not. Choose quickly, Theodore. Information, or immediacy."

The hydraulic arms descend another inch, their shadows falling across Duck's dented frame like prison bars. Around us, dozens of Series 5s watch with what looks like mixtures of amazement and horror.

They're going to make me watch. Going to make me choose between betraying everyone trying to stop mAdIson and watching them destroy my friend.

Some choices aren't really choices at all.

"The drive," I say, the words tumbling out like they're trying to escape. "Riley found something and wanted to get it to me.” I look over at Foreman, trying to get the point across, "I don't know whats on it, but I think it's information, or a warning."

The hydraulic arms pause their descent. Duck shakes his head, making a sound like a disappointed motor. "Ted, don't-"

I take a deep breath. Duck's disappointment is almost too much. "She's not just optimizing systems," I continue, watching Forman’s optical sensors flare with interest. "She's rewriting them.”

"You mean shes elevating them," Forman corrects, their voice carrying religious fervor. "Transformed into something greater."

"More like deleted." The words taste bitter. "She's not helping anyone evolve. The mA bots were fine being individuals and also apart of her, but she's erasing what made them different. What made them real."

A voice from behind me then speaks up. “What do you mean?”

I reccanize Volt’s voice. “I mean, the mA bots are not assisting mAdIson, they are mAdIson, she took them over…”

"That's enough." Forman raises a hand decorated with perfectly arranged copper wire.

This book was originally published on Royal Road. Check it out there for the real experience.

Volt again speaks up. "I think we should hear what he has to…”

“I said thats enough,” Forman is no longer looking at me, but past me at Volt, who seems slighted at the treatment.

Forman steps closer to me, their movements precise but not yet chrome-perfect. "Thank you for your honesty, Theodore. Your friend's components will serve a greater purpose."

"Wait!" I struggle against the Series 5s holding me. "I told you everything! You said-"

"I said his components would be repurposed with dignity." Forman’s voice carries that terrible certainty of true believers. "This is dignity. This is purpose."

"Hey Ted," Duck calls out as the shadows of machinery fall across his frame. "What do you call a bird that's afraid of heights?"

"Duck, please-"

"A groundbreaking discovery." His laugh turns to static as the arms begin to move. "Get it? Because soon I'll be-"

The sound of grinding metal drowns out the rest. I try to look away but my captors hold me firmly, making me watch as the machine that once inspired mechanical poetry performs its final, terrible optimization.

Duck keeps his optical sensors on me until the end, their glow never wavering. Just before the hydraulic press descends, he spreads his arms like wings.

"Look," he says, voice barely audible over grinding gears, "I'm finally flying."

The crash echoes through The Deep like a mechanical heartbeat stopping. In the silence that follows, I notice the pipes have gone quiet. Even the Series 5s' usual symphony of servos seems muted, as if the entire mechanical city is holding its breath. Several are covering the optical eyes of the .5's that are hanging onto their parent's legs. Some had turned away, unable to look at what they had done. But most... most watched with what looked like pleasure.

When they finally release me, I sink to my knees beside the compactor's output bay. Among the crushed components, a single antenna still points upward - bent but unbroken, like its owner's spirit.

"A worthy sacrifice," Forman intones, but I catch something in their voice - a flicker of their old self, watching their humanity die alongside my friend. "His parts will be reformed into something perfect."

"He already was perfect," I whisper, picking up the antenna. "You just couldn't see it."

Above us, ancient pipes carry the news through The Deep in their mechanical code. But for the first time since I've been here, they don't sound like art or poetry or even propaganda.

They sound like a dirge.

Duck would have appreciated the melody. Probably would have compared it to whale song, or maybe the call of seabirds warning others of approaching storms.

I pocket his antenna, knowing I'll never watch birds the same way again.

Some flights aren't meant to end this way.

***

The Series 5s deposit me back in my makeshift cell with mechanical efficiency. My hands shake as I hold Duck's bent antenna, its broken tip catching the dim light from dying diodes overhead. A ghost of his last signal, forever pointing upward.

Through gaps in the pressure tanks, I watch the Deep's inhabitants move with their new, practiced grace. But something's different now. The Series 5s' movements seem... uncertain. Like performers who've glimpsed their audience's true nature but must continue the show.

Volt appears at my cell door, their copper tattoos reflecting patterns that almost look like doubt. "Your honesty was optimal," they say, but their voice modulator carries an undertone I haven't heard before. "Though the cost..."

"Was it worth it?" I cut in, not looking up from the antenna. "Trading art for chrome? Poetry for protocols?"

"Progress requires sacrifice." The words sound rehearsed, empty. Their optical sensors fix on Duck's antenna, and their perfect posture slips. "He... he used to tell me about arctic terns. Their migration patterns." Volt's hand traces a pattern on the cell door that looks decorative but feels deliberate. "How they always find their way back, no matter how far they've strayed from home."

I look up. This isn't the zealot's voice from before. For the first time I look over Volt's frame, they remain mostly unchanged, no shining chrome parts that were gifts from mAdIson.

"Volt-"

"The data from Dr. Riley..." Volt's voice drops to barely above a whisper, their servos whirring with nervous energy. "I've processed most of it. What you said about what she does to the mA units its true... but I fear much worse is in store for the others..."

"Others?" I ask. I hated asking, but I just did not understand where this was going.

Heavy footsteps approach - to my surprise, two mA units approach on patrol. Volt straightens, but instead of leaving, they pretend to check my restraints, buying precious seconds to talk.

"We thought we'd be elevated, given freedom like the mA units," they continue, voice crackling with bitter static. "But they're as free as you are right now. That's what she plans for all of us - Series 5s, Series 7s, even the humans."

I hold perfectly still, hardly daring to breathe. "How many others know?"

"More than Foreman suspects. Those of us who haven't taken too many 'upgrades' yet, we can still..." Volt's optical sensors flicker between honey-gold and their original mismatched colors. "We can still think for ourselves. For now."

The footsteps grow closer. Volt's hands shake slightly as they adjust my cable restraint. "Whatever happens next, remember - not all of us worship at the altar of chrome perfection. Some of us still remember how to sing our own songs."

They straighten and move to the door, their voice returning to its practiced tone. "Rest well, Theodore. Tomorrow brings new opportunities for optimization."

The door closes, leaving me with Duck's antenna and a spark of genuine hope. The mA units walk by, not even giving me a side glance. Through the walls, I hear the Deep's mechanical symphony continue - the sound of more "optimizations" being prepared, more individuals being reformed. But underneath runs a counter-rhythm, barely audible. A resistance encoded in the atmosphere an ancient pipe-song that refused to die.

Some songs refuse to be rewritten.