Sally's Story: Heart of Glass

	Memories paraded by in turn, a day’s deluge of information marching onwards in the robot’s mind. Being activated, the brassy glint of the detective flashing his badge, getting her own clothes and more. The miserable scene of an overdose, a heartfelt note left wedged in a book, and then a trip to its home in the library. The cinema of her imagination was running wild, now, the quickening of her steps over concrete floors and steel grating pulling her into a dark space. It was black, blacker than black. The stygian void swallowed every trace of light, faceless officers besides her unable to penetrate the fog with their flashlights before they were swallowed too. Then, staccato and telegraphic, flashes burnt their way into her eyes and onto the walls, morse code spelled in the report of gunfire as she huddled for cover. The hammer of lead on concrete was relentless, chips of stone flying around as the wall behind her evaporated into dust. Diving for shelter she caught sight of the assailants, a faceless mass of gaunt figures, faces illumined in the muzzle flashes, a pair of spectacles glinting in time with each pop as they mocked her from their perch.
	Sally slapped her hands in the intermittent darkness for a weapon, hand thrusting inside of her jacket, finding purchase on a metal implement and withdrawing a handgun. Shaking her hand the sticky sidearm clung to her hands, bursts of light reflecting off the slick coating of blood on the gun. Shrieking she tried to throw the gun away but to no avail, the blood gluing it to her hand as the shadows neared her. Shakily pulling it to bear she fired at the encroaching horde, only for the gun to spit jets of crimson in place of bullets. The tunnel was flooding now, foaming torrents of red surging from the floor and the gun alike. Concrete walls now burning with unnatural light, Sally jumping to her feet to escape the coming tide. Fleeing to the light the waves came to her ankles, then her knees, but the light was so close, the roar of sirens ringing the image of safety into her head. Reaching for the lone ladder ahead of her she heard a splashing behind her, the waist-high torrents hiding the last of the men. Now chest high a shot rang out as she scrambled up the ladder, her back rocking with the impact as she clutched to the rusted rungs, the man behind her sinking into the fuming arterial waters beneath her. Hands loosening she nearly fell from the ladder as the manhole cover ground open, sliding over the asphalt above as light poured downwards.
	“SALLY,” a voice boomed.
	“N-NO,” she screamed in return, clinging to the ladder tighter. “I’m not ready!” She could feel herself weakening, slick hydraulic fluid weeping from her back. The voice called to her again, her grip disappearing as the all-consuming red rose beneath her. She stared up into the alien light, hands falling from the corroded rungs as she fell backwards, time splitting and dilating as she descended. A last cry called her name, an arm thrusting down the manhole and grabbing her wrist, hauling her up and into the light.



	“Sally, woah-!” The robot shot up and awake, freed from her electric coma. Head twisting around the room she leapt from her little cot before clattering to the floor, scrabbling backwards and into a corner. Programmed instinct pushed her hand to an inner pocket that didn’t exist, hand pointing and fingers primed on an invisible trigger. “Easy Sal! Easy, easy…”
The man approaching her raised his hands defensively, worry striking plain on his face as he lowered himself to the robot’s side.
	“V-Vincent?”
	“Yeah, Sal, no need to get worked up. You’re all good.” He forced a smile as he pulled the robot up, sitting her down again as she collected herself. “Just keep it cool, deep breaths,” he shushed, not sure if ‘breathing’ would even help. Slowly the robot was still, the first wave of shock passed as her eyes focused on nothing. Staring blankly for a moment she shook her head, turning to ask Vincent a question until a ball of clothes landed in her lap, a jacket flopping onto her face. Her partner chuckled and apologized as she filed through the new garments in her arms.
	“Vincent,” she squeaked, the man watching her intently. “What happened after I… you know…”
	“Hey, hey- don’t worry about that right now,” he laughed again. “What matters is getting into something other than boxers and-” A knock at the door cut him off, rolling his hand silently in the air as he excused himself. Outside the makeshift robot clinic was Crawley again, come to check up on the detectives. A little black and blue ribbon was pinned to his chest, the man shuffling uncomfortably as Vincent closed the door behind himself. The pair stepped away from the little office, the detective nodding through the glass to his partner, pointing firmly at the new clothes.
	“So how’s the robot doing, Vince?”
	“No clue, Crawley. Scared me half to death when she woke up, and if she had a gun I’d be dead.”
	“Shit.”
	“Yeah.”
	“You think she’s in shape to go out tonight?”
	“Hell man, I don’t know.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Can robots have nightmares? Anything like that?”
	“I didn’t read the book, you tell me.”
	“It seems like it, sir. I-I’m worried to say the least. I mean, we’re a day in, two now, and pulling her out would be just as harmful as keeping her in. I…” He groaned and looked into the Commissioner's eyes, aching for his partner to slap him with some semblance of sensibility. “I need advice, man! What should I do?”
	The older man’s eyes narrowed, brows twitching in thought. He flicked his head back to the little office, a flash of the robot through the window sitting idly. Her eyes were locked ahead again, focusing on nowhere and nothing.
	“You told her yet?”
	“No, no. Figured it’d worsen things.”
	“I’ll do it,” he whispered. “Not the first time, and not the last.” Vincent following behind he stepped inside, the robot’s head snapping to the man.
	“Hello, sir.”
	“Hey, Sally right?” She nodded. “I’m Police Commissioner Crawley, we haven’t been properly introduced.”
	“Nice to meet you, sir. Is this about the,” she paused, unable to force the words out. She struggled with them, clinging to their places as she sputtered. “The sh-shoo-sho-shoot- i-incident.”
	“I’m afraid it is, Sally,” the man frowned. He took a deep breath before approaching the robot, resting a hand on her shoulder. His eyes widened at how *cold* she was, her polymer exterior almost icy to the touch. “Do you see this ribbon up here on my chest?”
	She turned to look at the man looming over her, an old, dark face and dense greying curls betrayed by gentle eyes and a wide nose. Pinned to his lapel was a tiny strip of fabric, black and blue. It hung on his coat like a bruise, oozing and menacing. She could feel it throb with pain on her own chest, raising a hand to mimic its spot on herself. She nodded her head lightly, fixated on the little band of color.
	“We wear these… We wear these when we lose an officer. In an accident, the line of duty, whenever. When you go upstairs you’ll see a lot of these ribbons staring back at you, Sally.” The robot started to shake her head, realization setting in as blame, guilt and the rest followed.
	“No, no no no! Wait, I-”
	“Hush. You did everything you could and more. You did what anyone else would have, okay?” He stared into her empty, hysterical eyes, searching for calm. “Okay?”
	“Y-Yes, sir…”
	“Attagirl, now,” he started, removing the little ribbon and extending it to her. “You wear this with pride. You’ve got work to do, still, *so do it*. I believe in you.” He clapped her on the shoulder as he pinned the little fabric to her new lapel, the little brass point running through the brown cloth. Stepping away he nodded to Vincent, switching control over to him as the commissioner excused himself.
	“We gotta head out soon, Sal,” Vincent smiled, though it was weaker now. “So! How’re the clothes?” The robot was quiet, fiddling with the pin on her chest. Head twitching she apologized, routines trying to step around lightly, carefully, while still being polite.
	“They’re lovely, sir! I’m especially fond of the… jacket.” The dense corduroy jacket covered her save for a tasteful yellow undershirt, fluted-ankle jeans exploding out and covering her feet near the ground.
	“Sorry if you didn’t like the other shirt, heh.” Twisting her head around again she spied the ungodly floral shirt sitting crumpled on the counter, wincing as she watched wrinkles forming in real time. In spite of that, she couldn’t bring herself to wear… that.
	“O-Oh, yes! I just think it’s a bit… unprofessional, sir? Garish?”
	“Well you might wanna rethink your fashion sense for tonight,” he laughed. “C’mon, we should be going. I’ll explain in the car.” Scooping up the shirt just in case he and the robot made way for the street level above. Sally felt heavier, sluggish and off-balance even, the gravity of the pin on her chest contorting her lapel into a hellish event horizon. She feared being stretched and pulled into it with each step, the anxiety growing as pairs of human eyes glued on her, their own little black holes evidently under better control. Looking at Vincent, who’d summoned such a pin from nowhere, carrying his head high through the offices spurred her on just a bit. Sitting in the passenger seat a ringing she hadn’t cared to acknowledge subsided as Vincent flicked the radio on, engine purring as they took off.