John, what have you gotten me into this time?

It was all Sam could think about. John was a user, an addict, a thief, perhaps somewhere, deep down, lay a caring father who was grieving in a way that only a father could when a child is taken from their embrace. Yet, did one segment of a man’s personality outweigh his very nature?

Ratchet had led Sam from the small room with the darkened corners and the tiny, sagging cot. They left through a steel door tucked inside the shadow of two intersecting walls that once opened spilled into a dimly lit hallway. On either side of him, doors of the same type as the one he just passed through lined the walls. Sam heard noises from behind a couple of them. Scratches, soft moans, and the zip of electricity. Asking Ratchet didn’t yield any answers. He was no longer his talkative self as he was in the other room. Now he only pointed to the end of the hall and yet another steel door.

“Through there,” Ratchet pointed.

All Sam could do was nod and grip the long, thin door handle and pull it clockwise to a six o’clock position and pull. The door released with a gentle whoosh and Sam stepped inside. The door clicked behind him with Ratchet still behind it. Sam was alone, as far as he knew.

“They’re going to kill me, John. Whatever it is they want with you, they’re going to kill me to get it.” Sam could only hope he was wrong but how could he be? The Synthetics that had gone rogue had slaughtered their charges, escaped into the streets and didn’t hesitate to murder and ravage. Sam thought the worst had past, that the police had either rounded up or destroyed all the rogue Synthetics and yet…here he was, who knows where, surrounded by who knows how many and what did they want? His help. What was it that Synthetic had said to him in the alley? A debt that could not be repaid? But who was in debt? John most likely. But this time, the price will be Sam’s life.

A voice in the shadows, soft, feminine and yet metallic and gravelly, caught Sam off guard. “You are Sam Morrison, correct?”

Sam tried to sputter out a response, tried to see who was speaking. Another Synthetic, he was sure of it. “Who are you?” He called out.

A deluge of light suddenly filled the room. Sam blinked, covered his eyes and twisted his back to avoid the glare. Slowly he turned and lowered his hand from his face. What he saw felt like a sudden and brutal punch to the stomach. The wind pushed out of his lungs, his knees went weak and he fell but could not look away. In the shadows, when he thought he was alone, Sam could stomach the fear he felt in his body. He could control the shivers that wanted to wrack his entire being and keep his feet still even though his brain begged him to run as fast and as far as he could from this place. But, in the light, the fear shook him to his core and dropped him to his knees.

Sam was not in a room. Not a room as he knew them.

No longer was he surrounded by four walls of metal with a single, albeit large, Synthetic. In here, the walls were covered in a mass of interwoven wires of all colors, cords ran out from the between the tangle and plugged into sockets on the floor and ceiling. The wires themselves moved and pulsed, in and out, in and out, like a pair of brass and bronze lungs pumping oxygen into a single entity.

Sam stared at the floor, at the cords that ran the length of what he kneeled upon. The ports hummed with a soft buzz and everywhere the same blue light that he found in Ratchet’s eyes and wired beard could be found here as well along every wire, cord and port. Suddenly the floor shifted and a group of wires sprouted from the floor and rolled themselves into a small ball that moved and tucked themselves under Sam’s hands. Slowly they inched upwards, forcing Sam to stand and then stayed there, under his palms to help him steady himself.

“Sam Morrison, correct?” The voice echoed the same question as before.

Sam vomited.

“You are sick? I apologize.” The voice had a tinge of care and remorse as it spoke.

Sam spit and rolled on his feet. If he wanted to run, wanted to hide, wanted to call Michelle and tell her he was sorry and she was right. She would never have to worry about John ever again and that he was done with his brother’s life, it was too late. All he could say, all he could muster was a weakened plea that whatever this was, this monstrosity of metal, to simply kill him quickly.

“I cannot,” the voice replied. “You are Sam Morrison, of this I am now certain. You are of the right age and your appearance approximates the images the Keeper has given us. No, I cannot kill you, Sam Morrison, for you are the brother of the Keeper, he who helped us walk through the door.”

Brother of the Keeper? Sam didn’t know what the hell the machine was talking about. Was John some sort of Synthetic messiah? No, John was an addict and a thief. “Who the hell are you?” Sam shouted with a burst of sudden anger. “What do you want from me!?”

“Sam Morrison,” the voice said. “I am Minerva and you are here to save the Keeper, your brother, John.”

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