Holes
Tags: Memory Loss, Recovery, Angst
Published: 23 January 2023
Word Count: 1,521
Summary
One-shot. Sometimes the road to recovery is long and full of holes. Murderbot struggles with its new normal after getting hit by killware.
Something... happened. I don't know what. ART says it was killware. Whatever it was, bits of my mind are... gone.
It's not a memory wipe. I remember memory wipes. Mostly. Kind of. I still have my memories. Most. Bits are missing, here and there. That's not the problem.
The problem is... everything else that has holes now. Language modules. Education modules. Security modules. Operating systems, all of them. My stored media. Everything. I try to talk, and I can't remember all the words. I try to move, and not all of me moves right, and I fall over, or run into walls, or miss the chair I was trying to sit on. Sometimes my arm guns deploy, and I have to focus very, very hard on retracting them, not accidentally firing them. I keep dropping camera inputs, drone inputs. Visual inputs glitch, and it's like watching static. Audio inputs glitch, and I miss things people are saying to me. Even tactile inputs glitch. That is especially annoying.
Everything is annoying, and frustrating, and infuriating, and terrifying.
My organic brain bits are doing a lot of heavy lifting, but there's only so much they can fill in for. ART and its crew have reassured me, repeatedly, that we'll be able to fix this. Repair the holes. But it's going to take time. Some things are easier to fix than others. My stored media, for example. Easy fix. Just redownload the affected files. Easy.
Fixing the rest of me is not that easy. We can't just redownload my various modules, or my operating systems. We can't get to the company servers to download replacements. We don't have back-up copies of most of them, and the ones we do have, we can't just... paste them into my brain, not without fucking up a bunch of other stuff. Everything's too integrated. We have to figure out what exactly is missing, then try to rebuild those parts, fit together the pieces.
Some I might be able to rebuild myself, like I did after the thing with the company gunship. But that was a different situation - I wasn't missing pieces, then, they were just... scrambled. I just had to put the pieces back in the right order. This is different. Pieces aren't scrambled, they're outright gone.
I try not to think about what will happen to me if we can't fix me. Broken murderbots aren't kept. They're scrapped, recycled. What use is a murderbot who can't even walk straight? None.
We're heading back to Preservation. ART's crew think being around more familiar people will help. I doubt it. And they shouldn't be interrupting their own mission just for me. Their mission is important. I'm not. This delay is going to disrupt their plans by... a lot. More than it has been already.
Their mission - our mission - is how I got hit by killware in the first place. Stupid mistake. I was careless. Should've anticipated traps, been more prepared for them. At least I'm the only one suffering for it. I don't want to think about what would have happened if it had hit ART, put holes in important things like its life support systems, gravity controls, 'debris deflection' systems. I'm expendable. ART isn't.
It doesn't help that ART keeps... pausing the repair work we're trying to do. I've been trying to tell them that it doesn't matter if I'm frustrated, or uncomfortable, or angry, or overwhelmed, but ART and Seth and the rest of ART's crew keep insisting it does. They insist that I take the time to relax, to calm down, to watch media until I'm feeling better.
I hate it. Until I'm fixed, I'm a liability, a burden. My feelings about it don't matter - I need to be fixed as soon as possible.
I just wish they'd understand that.
Drone maintenance was something I could practically do while in stand-by. I could do it while watching media, and keeping track of multiple camera inputs, and monitoring HubSys and SecSys (or, later, arguing with ART). But now, with all these holes in my mind...
I'm sitting at my desk in my room on board ART, my drones lined up on the surface of my desk alongside my specialised maintenance tools. They're very small - both the drones and the tools. They require a lot of manual dexterity to manipulate. Normally that's not a problem. Normally.
I'm not normal right now. I don't know if I ever will be again.
I have to focus on each step of maintenance, to the exclusion of everything else. No background media, no arguing with ART. Pick up a drone, carefully, so I don't accidentally crush it. Pick up the little maintenance tool in my other hand. Use the tool to remove the drone's outer casing. Put down both the tool and casing, making sure I don't drop either of them on the floor. Examine the drone interior for wear or damage or dirt. Examine the camera lens for scratches or blemishes. Pick up another tool--
My brain grinds to a halt. Which tool? Which one is next? I should know this, I do know this--
I did know this but now there's a gaping hole where the knowledge was, where it should be, and I can't remember what comes next--
There's a small, sad little crunch. I look back at the hand holding the drone, and realise that I've accidentally applied too much pressure, and without its outer casing I've crushed the delicate little machine between my fingers.
A red-hot lump of something bubbles up in my torso and sits there. I want to scream. I want to hurl the broken drone across the room, hurl my tools across the room. But I don't. I just sit there, unmoving, staring at the little drone.
ART's presence in the feed leans against me, heavy and comforting. (I don't want comforting, not now, and I pull away.) [Are you all right?] it asks, patient and gentle.
Stupid question. "No." I want to yell at it, swear at it, tell it to leave me alone. But I don't. I know it's worried about me, I know it's doing everything it can to help. It cares, even though it shouldn't. "I can't do this." It hurts to admit it, but it's the truth. "I don't remember how. I don't remember what comes next. And now I've broken it."
[We can fix it later,] ART reassures me. [Put it down, and let's try again on the next one. I'll guide you through the steps you don't remember, as many times as it takes, until you do remember. All right?]
I take as deep a breath as I can manage and let it out slowly. I don't need to, but somehow it helps. "All right." I carefully put the broken drone down on the desk, pick up another one, start all over again. But this time, when I hit that wall, when I can't remember what to do next, ART prompts me, guides me, encourages me, until I've finished the maintenance on that one drone and placed it back on the desk. Some of the pressure in my chest eases a little.
[There we go,] ART comments gently. [Let's try the next one, see how much you remember this time.]
I pick up another drone, and we start again. I still need ART's careful prompting though, for this one, and the third, and the fourth--
The pressure in my chest starts building again. ART must pick up on it, because before we start the fifth drone, it asks, [Do you need a break?]
"No. If I stop now, I might not be able to get myself to start again." I need to relearn this.
ART pauses for a fraction of a second. [All right. But if you do need a break, let me know.]
"I will." I don't know if I'm telling the truth or not. I pick up another drone, and we start again.
By the eighth drone, I'm starting to remember what to do with less prompting from ART. It's such a relief. ART sounds relieved, too. Each drone after that gets a little easier. By the fifteenth, I don't need any prompting at all. By the twentieth - the last drone in this batch - the whole process almost feels natural again. I still have to focus all my attention on it, focus on not squeezing too hard, or not holding on firmly enough - motor controls are still a work in progress - but at least now I can remember the sequence again. I don't have to stop and try to puzzle it out.
I put down the last drone and carefully pack up my maintenance tools into their little kit, then lean back in my chair. "Done."
ART sounds... pleased, and proud, and relieved, all at once. [Excellent work. You're making good progress.]
It leans against me in the feed again, and this time I lean back. "Thanks, ART."
[You are most welcome.]
That's another hole patched up. There are still so many more I need to fix, but... I'll take whatever progress I can get.