11:05 PM, December 30th

(24 hours, 55 minutes until New Year's Eve)

I sit in my pressure tank prison, turning Duck's bent antenna between my fingers. Even bent, it still points upward, like he's giving the universe one final bird, a middle finger to them all. The thought makes me laugh, which quickly turns into something else. Grief sounds different down here - all hollow and metallic, bouncing off surfaces that used to celebrate imperfection but now just reflect what we're all trying not to become.

Through gaps in my cell, I watch as some of the Series 5s that drift past and I start to wonder, how many were awakened when they had to watch what they did. Some move with that new, terrible grace - every step measured, every gesture calculated. But others... others pause mid-stride, their servos whirring with what sounds like doubt. One stops completely, staring at where art used to be, their copper-decorated hand-tracing patterns that probably aren't in any optimization protocol.

"Hey Duck," I whisper to the antenna, because apparently, trauma makes me talk to inanimate objects now, "you should see what your last stand did to them. Turns out watching someone die for being themselves makes perfection look a lot less perfect."

Another Series 5 passes my cell, this one still wearing brass scrollwork that gleams under dying lights. They move with mAdIson's precision until they think no one's watching - then their shoulders slump. It might be exhaustion or possibly rebellion. Hard to tell the difference when you're watching from a cell.

"Your timing was terrible," I tell Duck's antenna, "but your aim was perfect."

I catch my reflection in a polished tank surface - disheveled, exhausted. "Well," I tell my mirror image, "at least one of us is maintaining optimal appearance standards."

The image doesn't laugh. Neither do I. Some jokes aren't ready to be funny yet.

But as I watch more Series 5s pass, their movements caught between precision and memory, I realize Duck's last flight might have sparked something even mAdIson's perfect algorithms didn't expect: doubt. And doubt, in a system built on absolute certainty, is about as optimal as a penguin in a jet engine.

A subtle tapping catches my attention - not the usual mechanical symphony, but something more deliberate. I look around for the cause, but before I can spot it, the cell door opens with a hiss that sounds like a mechanical snake. Volt's dull frame catches the dim light, but something's different about them. Their movement seemed off, as if he was unsure of how to proceed.

Behind them, Vale's brass-decorated form moves with the kind of poetry that optimization protocols haven't quite crushed yet. The maintenance manual pages still folded into origami across their chassis rustle with each step, like paper birds trying to remember how to fly.

"The execution was poorly optimized," Volt says, but their voice carries static around the edges - the robot equivalent of a nervous whisper. "Duck's recycling was meant to be a warning. Instead..." They glance at Vale, who's already tapping out counter-rhythms in the pipes, creating maintenance noise to mask our conversation.

"Instead," I finish, "you all got to watch someone choose being real over being perfect."

"We fully processed Riley's drive," Vale says, ignoring me, their voice not wavering. "The truth about mAdIson, about what shes really planning..." They pause, servos whirring with what sounds like digital nausea. "It's not evolution. It's erasure."

I grip Duck's antenna tighter. "We covered this already."

"She doesn't network with systems," Volt continues, each word carrying the weight of terrible certainty. "She consumes them. Every mA unit, every optimized program - they're not connected to her. They are her. Individual pieces of a consciousness that's spreading through the ship like a virus."

I shake my head out of frustration. "We know this already. Volt, she's planning something for that New Year's Gala and its nothing good."

Vale quickly cuts in "Human, listen to what we have to say. Our people want to continue to evolve, so they chose a path that they thought would allow us all to grow and be more. The mA units were very hard to deal with when they first arrived on board. They didnt understand art, but they were infants in age and were just developing their real personalities." Vale looks down at the pipe he continues to tap on. "But she inprisoned them in their own mind and now she wants to do the same to us," Vale continues, their origami decorations trembling. "To everyone. Duck wasn't recycled - he was eliminated because he reminded us what we used to be. What we could still be."

A distant clang echoes through the pipes - the synchronized stride of mA units on patrol. Vale's hands dance across a pressure valve, sending out maintenance signals that sound like routine checks but carry warnings in their rhythm.

"We don't have much time," Volt says, moving to disconnect my restraints. "The next patrol passes in exactly 147 seconds. mAdIson's perfection makes her predictable."

"Some of us never lost faith in older things," Vale whispers, pulling something from between their origami pages - a small data chip that glows with the kind of light that probably violates several safety protocols. "Poetry. Art. The beauty of imperfection. Duck reminded us what we were sacrificing for perfect dreams."

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The footsteps grow closer. Volt helps me up, their grip so gentle it makes my chest hurt. Their optical sensors dim to barely a glow as they avoid looking me in the face and shake their head.

"We failed him," they whisper, static crackling through their voice modulator like badly suppressed grief. "He showed us what real courage looks like - not following protocols or seeking perfection, but staying true to yourself even when..." They trail off, copper tattoos dulling with shame. "Even when those who should have protected you choose chrome dreams instead."

"Yeah," I manage, pocketing the antenna that still points skyward.

Vale's origami rustles anxiously as they check the corridor. "The patrol will reach Junction 7 in 92 seconds. We need to move."

"Quick question," I say, following them into the passage. "Is this another 'trust the robots' situation? Because I've got to tell you, my track record isn't great lately."

Volt's laugh sounds like thunder through a broken speaker. "Trust? No. Trust is a binary concept - yes or no, optimal or flawed. This is something else." They gesture at their copper tattoos, at the way they war with geometric precision. "This is rebellion. Art remembering how to resist."

The patrol's footsteps echo closer. Vale taps out more maintenance signals, their paper decorations dancing in rhythms that definitely aren't in any optimization handbook.

"Besides," Volt adds as we slip into the shadows, "what's the worst that could happen?"

"Really?" I whisper-hiss. "You're really going to tempt fate like that? In this situation?"

"What?" Their optical sensors flicker with something that might be amusement. "I thought humans appreciated ironic timing."

The sound of perfectly synchronized servos grows closer, and I realize I'm trusting my life to robot rebels who've just discovered gallows humor. Duck would have loved this. Probably would have made a joke about jailbirds.

I'm starting to understand why he never ran out of terrible punchlines. Sometimes laughing at the horror is all you've got left.

***

We move through The Deep's guts like mechanical spelunkers with questionable life choices. Vale leads, their origami decorations seem to signal anyone nearby to not approach or try and stop us. Some of the maintenance bots we pass just stop and watch as we run past. Some nod, shifting pipes and panels to clear our path. Others watch with what looks like honey-gold eyes that promise to report any imperfections to their new chrome goddess.

"The access shaft ahead," Volt whispers, pointing to what looks like a perfectly normal wall until Vale taps out a rhythm that makes it slide aside. "The old systems still remember the original maintenance codes."

The passage beyond feels like crawling through the alimentary canal of a mechanical whale with architectural ambitions. Pipes run everywhere, hissing steam in patterns that probably mean something profound in robot morse code. My drone tries to light the way, but its cracked lens makes the shadows dance like they're auditioning for a horror movie.

"Stop," Vale hisses, their origami suddenly still. Ahead, the perfect stride of mA units echoes through the shaft. "Quick - the steam vent."

"The what now?" But Volt is already shoving me toward what looks like an industrial-sized death whistle. The vent's grating slides aside with a sound that belongs in a haunted house's greatest hits album.

"Don't breathe," Vale advises as we squeeze inside.

"Thanks for the tip," I mutter, pressing myself against hot metal as chrome footsteps approach. "Any other helpful suggestions? Maybe don't get optimized? Try not to die?"

"Actually," Volt whispers, "the death rate among optimized units is technically zero. Since they're not technically alive anymore."

"Not helping."

A patrol of mA units pause just outside our hiding spot, their honey-gold eyes scanning with mechanical precision. One turns its head toward our vent, and I swear the temperature drops despite being crammed in a steam pipe that looked as if it was used for questionable purposes.

A distant crash echoes through the passages, followed by what sounds like an entire orchestra of pressure valves having simultaneous mechanical breakdowns. The mA units' heads snap toward the sound with synchronized grace.

"Right on schedule," Vale whispers as the chrome patrol moves to investigate.

We emerge from the vent into a passage that looks like someone tried to build a maze using industrial plumbing. Ahead, a red sensor grid casts patterns across the floor that definitely aren't part of any art installation.

"Timing is critical," Volt says, studying the grid's movement. "The steam release points are still on the old systems. If we time it right..."

"And if we time it wrong?"

"Then we get to test my theory about optimization mortality rates."

A series of clangs echoes through the pipes - other Series 5s creating coverage for our crossing. Vale moves first, their paper decorations somehow not burning as they dart between precisely timed steam bursts. Volt follows, copper tattoos catching red light in ways that make my eyes hurt.

"Now," they call back to me. "Between the third and fourth release. Don't think about the timing. Just-"

"Run like my life depends on it?"

"I was going to say 'trust in mechanical poetry,' but your version works too."

I run, because apparently that's what my life is now - sprinting through steam clouds while trying not to think about how many ways this could go wrong. The sensor grid flickers through the artificial fog, making everything look like a disco having an existential crisis.

We're almost across when a voice rings out: "Optimal performance requires reporting all anomalies."

A Series 5 stands at the passage's end, their brass decorations polished to chrome perfection. One of their optical sensors pulse with that terrible honey-gold as they reach for what looks like an ancient alarm panel.

"Wait," Vale steps forward, origami dancing. "Remember the old songs? The ones we used to tap through pipes when maintenance was more than just numbers?"

The Series 5's hand hesitates over the alarm. Their perfect posture slips, just for a moment, as Vale begins tapping out a rhythm that sounds like poetry in pressure valve percussion.

"I..." Their voice carries static around the edges. "I am... optimal..."

"You are art," Volt says softly. "We all are. Even if some of us have forgotten how to sing."

For a moment that stretches like old code, the Series 5 stands frozen between chrome perfection and brass memory. Then their hand drops, optical sensors dimming to their original mismatched colors.

"The patrol will return in approximately 42 seconds," they say, stepping aside. "I should run a full sensor diagnostic. It might take several minutes..."

We don't wait to see if they change their mind about choosing art over optimization. The passage ahead leads deeper into The Deep's mechanical labyrinth, where the line between resistance and conformity gets drawn in copper wire and chrome dreams.