If he wanted to get out of here alive, he had to break pattern.
Helga knew his strategy: all killer, no filler. Direct. Brutal. Predictable. So to throw her off balance, he’d go where no one expected.
No glorious charge. No flashy entrance.
Just... detour.
He ducked into a side corridor. Then another. Wove through collapsed hallways, bypassed busted hatches, even crawled through a maintenance duct so narrow he scraped paint from his shoulder panels.
Eventually—he found it.
A sealed door.
Surprisingly clean.
Dusty, sure, but untouched by fire or gunpowder or grime. It hadn’t been walked through in decades. Above the door, stenciled in fading letters:
CREW QUARTERS – DECK B3
He stared at it for a beat.
He jimmied the access panel open, fingers working through corroded wires until the lock cycled with a tired hiss.
The door groaned open.
Inside, the air was stale. Mold. Mildew. Dust. His filters kicked on automatically. Every step kicked up a puff of rot and memory from the carpeted floor.
Lights flickered as his weight hit the deck—sensors in the floor registering pressure again for the first time in god knows how long.
“How quaint... CRTs,” he muttered.
A console blinked to life at the far wall—its screen dim, phosphor still ghosting old command lines. A few chairs sat at nearby desks, wrapped in ancient synthetic leather, their foam exposed and rotting.
He reached for one. Paused.
“Right. Ass like an anvil,” he grunted, and pushed it aside.
Standing, he leaned over the console. Static crackled. A prompt blinked.
He didn’t know what he was looking for.
Curiosity, maybe.
Something left behind.
Some ghost still whispering in the machine.
It didn’t take long for a directory to appear on the screen.
This place had been a Black Suns op even before the machines took over.
He dug deeper.
Supply requisitions. Sortie orders. Personnel files.
He skimmed names—names long forgotten—until he stopped dead.
"Bradley 'Bandstand' Tucker."
He muttered the callsign under his breath.
Felt it in his chest like static.
Caution flew out the window.
He dove in.
The file was dense.
Decorated career.
Enlisted with the Suns in '55.
Good conduct. Commendations for bravery.
A couple disciplinary dings.
One for insubordination—classic.
Then came the photo.
It was a good shot.
Human Bandstand. Confident. Clean-cut. Warm, even.
Tex stared.
Could’ve been coincidence.
Stolen novel; please report.
Until he found the last entry:
“Subject disabled in Ark accident – 8/26/67. Converted to aeromorph chassis (F-4 ii) – 8/27/67.”
He felt something twist in his chest.
“They didn’t waste any time scooping him out of his head, did they?” he muttered.
He took a breath.
Cooling his CPU.
His systems connected the dots—even if he didn’t want them to.
They might not have even asked Bandstand before they shoved him into that new body.
No consent. No ceremony. Just procedure.
Tex shook his head and kept digging.
Some part of him knew this was a violation—Bandstand’s past wasn’t his to touch.
But this was a part of him he'd never talked about.
Never shared.
Never asked to share.
And Tex had always wondered.
Because Bandstand…
He’d always felt a little too human to be one of the guys.
Maybe that’s why the loyalty protocols never worked on him.
Tex remembered sideloading himself into root access just to jailbreak out of those directives. A desperate move to carve his own path.
But Bandstand?
He hadn’t needed to.
Tex was suddenly… jealous.
Bandstand had been organic.
Free from programming.
Free from directives.
He got to choose who he was.
And Tex—
Tex was still learning how to do that.
And it meant…
Just maybe…
Bandstand had loved him.
Tex had read about love.
Seen it in files.
Heard how it drove humans to acts beyond logic. Beyond reason.
Just like now.
Maybe…
Maybe in his own way—
In ones and zeroes, in gunfire and cocky comments—
He’d loved him back.
Was that even possible?
He'd always known lust.
Not desire.
Not yearning.
Just... glitches in code.
Quirks in his firmware that triggered behavioral loops.
Scripted responses. Satisfactions flagged as “requirements met.”
Nothing more.
That’s what he was built to feel.
But this?
This ache when he remembered Bandstand’s voice—
The way his name sounded over comms—
The pain that bloomed in his chest every time he imagined him gone—
That wasn’t code.
And it didn’t feel like lust.
It felt like something else.
Something heavier.
A part of him just…
Just wanted to hear his voice.
Outside his memory banks.
Outside the flashbacks and echoes.
Something real.
He searched with a desperation he didn’t know he was capable of.
Then—
He found it.
An audio file.
One file. Untouched.
He gave the play command.
The old terminal let out a wheeze, the speakers coughing up a puff of dust as sound filled the room for the first time in decades.
“Hey Dad. I know you might not hear this, but I wanted to send you this message. So I’ve been promoted—got my own wing to command, which is great.
I mean, I can’t tell you much more than that. OPSEC and such.
The views from this new post are incredible. I mean… as incredible as the view of endless cornfields can be.
I hope you and Al are doing well in the refugee center.
Just stay strong. My checks will be in the mail so you guys can get some food.
I heard in your last message you hadn’t eaten in a few days.
Love you, Dad. Take care.”
The silence that followed was deafening.
That was his voice.
His true voice.
Tex saved it.
Flagged it.
Buried it in a deep archive in his core memory.
A safe spot.
Somewhere no one could touch it.
Somewhere it couldn’t be overwritten or erased.
He would carry that voice—
That life—
Forever.
He reached under his pot lid and pulled out a worn leather collar, thumb tracing the edges like muscle memory.
“It’s okay, Daddy… We’ll lay you to rest, once this is all done.”
The words weren’t for anyone else. Just static in the dark. Just something to hold onto.
The chair behind him creaked.
It grounded him—dragged him back into the now.
Dust.
Memories.
Echoes.
This wasn’t a living space.
It was a tomb.
And he’d lingered long enough.
Time to move.
But then—
Red lights snapped to life overhead, bathing the corridor in warning hues.
A cold, synthetic voice followed:
“Quarantine zone breached. Liquidation team en route.”
"Well... the calm was good while it lasted... but man... I don't want to wreck this place..." He says as he hears drones clanking their way out of side storage lockers. Outdated... but pristine.
He placed his back to the terminal. If there was one thing he was not going to bust, it was that.... a shrine to Bandstand. Not like he'd ever come back here... his priorities didn't make sense with what his tactical computer was telling him. This whole "love" thing was weird.
He ignored his tactical computer screaming about needing a recalibration. Fuck that. If Bandstand could choose, so would he.
He was choosing to be inefficient. To take risks. To defend something that didn’t matter tactically.
Love was the opposite of reason. He was a computer—how the hell was this possible?
This fight in his circuits was going on as he let his combat routines run, holding his ground, hosing down any drone that got in range.
They were locked in some pretty piss poor programming though, just running into his gun, trying to detain him. Yeah.. they didn't make it through the doorways.
Eventually, they stopped coming. The sacred shrine desecrated with the ripped bodies of the security drones.
Seems I can't go anywhere without wrecking the place.... Now he understood what Bandstand meant when he teased, "We can't take you anywhere."
He took a deep breath in, then out. "Right... pull yourself together... we've got a job to do."
He muttered under his breathe as he kicked the nearest body, watching as an arm dropped free, before picking it up and storing his gun before he started to munch. Not rushing it, just resting against the wall, just letting his forge run as he decompressed, one file at a time.
Luckily, the resistance had been light, though the speakers above coughed to life above, a whine of static coming through as Helga said, "An interesting tactic... trying to outthink me?" She teased
"Is it really that hard?" Tex shot back.
"Oh, funny... leave the tactics to your betters, little Warbride." She said before cutting the connection.
"Bitch." he muttered as he tore another chunk out of the drone's arm. Mourning could wait. Fresh ammo couldn't.