Chapter Text
Hiram would never harm a soul. That was not his purpose. The very idea of physically hurting someone made him sick, but it seems like this was his life now. Since the sacking of Walter Manor in the early stages of this plague he’d had his work cut out for him, his coffers filled with medical supplies, rations, even weapons, anything to help humanity survive. Along with his brothers, even the faulty ones, they had done their best to provide aid to those who needed it, but it didn’t feel right to kill the ‘zombies’ (as everyone was calling them). They were once people too and perhaps, though doubtful, someone would make a cure and they could go back to their normal lives! Even in this state they had families, relationships, perhaps even a partner who would be devastated if they were gone forever. At least that’s how Hiram justified his non-aggression.
Of course, in a war like this non-aggression doesn’t do anyone much good. He soon found people like him, allies, working towards the destruction of the zombies rather than curing them and he began to lose hope. His convictions, his strict moral code that told him killing in any situation was wrong, was programmed into him more than anything else and so even as old friends fell away to fight the hordes instead of helping them he had to keep doing what he was doing, how could he break something so ingrained into him? Well, he wouldn’t, so it really didn’t matter. It was more than just programming, his mind knew that killing was wrong. So he simply wouldn’t do it.
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“Day 28, 0600 hours. My morning rounds have been uneventful so far. It seems our sanctuary is safe for now, we got far enough from populated areas that those shamblers can’t get here quickly. My brother D-14 has been helping out with making a barricade around here and I believe it’s coming along quite well. Perhaps a scrapyard was a smart place to go after all, I was slightly worried there would be sharp things that could injure people but it provides us with a lot of materials to protect ourselves, and I have some shots in my vaccine kit if anyone happens upon something nasty…”
He’d started making this log on the first day he was assigned to this job to document his progress, daily updates, and to perhaps someday come back to when this was all over to teach others how to deal with stressful situations. It had been a good routine, keeping documentation on things proved to be very helpful when he needed to remember someone’s medicine or allergies, plus he tried to gauge how far away the zombies were every day to see if his little group of survivors were in peril soon.
A yell brought him out of his recollections and he ran over to the source of the noise. Little Kaitlyn Anderson had gotten cut on the rusted bumper of an old car. Her sister, Jessica, was in shock, she probably hadn’t seen this much blood since escaping from the zombies and Hiram was sure it didn’t bring back good memories.
“Oh, oh my. You’ll be alright, don’t worry” he cooed, his words and tone seeming to soothe the girl a little bit. Opening the panel on his chest he pulled out the small washing-kit he had and cleaning the wound thoroughly, the bloody water staining the ground below and prompting another gasp from Jessica. The two’s parents had succumbed to the necroification, Hiram near having to scoop the two from their gaping, tumorous maws. Obviously it hadn’t gone well with Jessica, he’d have to be careful around her to prevent further mental scarring.
“Jess, if you want to go with the group while I work with your sister, I understand.”
“No. I won’t leave her.”
Hiram shrugged, getting back to his task but still watching her reactions out of the corners of his eyes to make sure she wasn’t too disturbed. Now, this cut was from something rusty but he was sure he had a tetanus toxoid somewhere in him, but reaching in he didn’t feel one. Dammit. His supplies had been running out over the past few days but he was sure he had enough to last until now, and so he fumbled around inside himself and came across one that had rolled to the back of the drawer, but it was the last one. He’d have to make a dash to restock later that day, luckily the zombies didn’t seem to be interested in pure mechanicals and he had D-14 to protect the humans for a while.
“Alright, this might sting for a second but I promise it will make it get better.”
The needle was long and glinted against the morning sunlight, the milky liquid inside the barrel seeming to glow. Kaitlyn winced for a second as the needle pierced her skin, squeezing Hiram’s hand tightly to compensate for the pinching pain.
“See? That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Hiram smiled, capping the needle and preparing a bandage.
“I-I guess so…” she responded, gently rubbing the area around the bandage.
“Let me just finish wrapping up your hand here and then I’m going to be heading out for a while, so make sure to not get into too much trouble while I’m gone.” he jested, trying to bring a smile onto the girls’ faces. It didn’t seem to work, the weight of the world seemed to rest on the shoulders of these two and he frowned. Even in times like this children were still supposed to be children, they don’t deserve this stress. Well, one more reason to get those supplies; to help them hold out longer against this brutal siege on sanity.
Leaving D-14 in charge of their camp for the next few days he clicked out the wheels on the bottom of his feet to maximize efficiency on the trip home. As far as he knew his home base hadn’t been destroyed yet, his dads still in their little fortress making repairs on his brothers and restocking them for taking on whatever was out there. He hadn’t gotten an alert that they were in any danger so he counted on them being there. They had to be there, right?
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Arriving at the lab he entered, the microchip in his left palm activating the heavy gates surrounding the near impenetrable building. He hadn’t seen many zombies around, likely the insulation around the building somewhat masked the workers' life signs enough to not gather attention, for now.
Once inside the foyer the standard decontamination procedure initiated, misting him with a highly toxic chemical designed to kill near anything that was on him. After this the voice assistant came through the speakers of the room and instructed him to state his business.
“Well, er, I’m in dire need of a resupply. And it would be nice to see you again, Dads.”
With this the elevator in the back of the room opened, immediately knowing which floor to take him to, and he stepped in unaware of what would face him below.
The doors opened and Hiram stepped out. He was hit by a twang of robotic nostalgia for the room he was in as it had been where he trained for most of his ‘childhood’ (if you could even call it that, a lot of it was just downloading data from his previous models). Pavel Anikanov stood at his desk on the right side of the room fumbling through a drawer, seeming not to have noticed Hiram’s arrival.
“Papa?” Hiram called out, trying to get his attention.
Pavel’s head shot up and Hiram noticed that he looked terrible. His hair wasn’t combed, he’d obviously not shaved in days, there were deep bags under his eyes, and the way he stared wide-eyed at Hiram like he’d seen a ghost was unlike anything Hiram had ever seen from him.
“Pizdets, Hiram, I wasn’t expecting to see you today. I apologize for the mess, I have not had much time to clean lately.” he yawned, arms pressed hard into his desk as if his legs couldn’t support his full weight anymore.
“I just need a resupply of a few medical supplies, it was a bit short notice. I probably should have called on the way…”
“No, no, Hiram, it is alright. I have just had a lot on my mind lately.”
Hiram went over to Pavel and helped him up, he certainly wasn’t in a good state now that he could see him up close. It looked like he hadn’t been eating properly either, that likely contributed to his general weakness at the moment. In the past Hiram remembered Pavel subsisting solely on coffee for days at a time if not stopped by his other dad, Walter Worker Sprint. Speaking of, where was Sprint? Usually Pavel and Sprint were creatively intertwined, especially in stressful situations like this.
“Er, Papa, where’s Dad?”
All the color drained from Pavel’s face. Hiram’s fears only grew.
“He… he is gone.”
“Gone? Like, to get more supplies?” Hiram asked, still trying to remain optimistic even in the worst of times.
“No, katyonachyk, dead. He was killed by those… terrible creatures outside these walls.”
It was now Hiram’s turn to go pale, well, if he could. Instead his natural response was a small squeaky sound from the back of his vocal processor, a strangled sort of sound that happened whenever Hiram was especially distressed. Pavel looked up at him, tears forming in the corners of his eyes.
“I know how much he meant to you, Hiram. I am sorry.”
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Hiram wanted revenge. But he couldn’t justify it. Nothing in his convictions stated it was right to murder those changed people out there, even if it was to avenge the death of his dad. But they deserved it! Sprint was the one who gave him a body, Pavel gave him a soul. You can’t have one without the other and the balance was all off now! But killing was always wrong… that was a fact and would always be a fact. From the moment he was switched on he knew the thick bold line between right and wrong and all instances of killing fell on the ‘wrong’ side. But was it justifiable if it was someone he cared about? Was that a lie? Is he a lie? Is everything he ever knew and cared about a complete fabrication?
His head was spinning; he needed to sit down badly but he was still supporting Pavel, so his legs decided to collapse underneath him. He fell on Pavel with a thud, the hollow metal of his torso making a heavily unsatisfying noise against cracking ribs.
“Papa!” Hiram shrieked, the gravity of what had just happened beginning to sink in on him.
Even though the moral centers of Hiram’s head were causing him pain he knew his father was in a worse state. Flicking on his high-frequency electromagnetic wave detection to function somewhat as an x-ray machine he proceeded to inspect the damage to Pavel’s ribcage, his head spinning making it hard to focus on the task at hand. From what he could make out, Pavel had three fractured ribs and Hiram was no surgeon. He knew advanced triage and had nursing skills but he wasn’t meant to be a proper doctor, he was a general assistance robot. God, if only Sprint were here. He’d know what to do, he always did. Resting Pavel’s head on his cardigan, Hiram got up to get the phone before he realized that the authorities were clogged with reports of the shamblers.
At this point he realized he was going to have to take matters into his own hands. Reaching into his chest cavity he found some thick bandages and began to bind Pavel’s chest, eliciting a few pained moans and contorted faces but Hiram knew this was the best way to go. Reaching in again he grabbed a painkiller patch and began to unwrap it, his hands shaking with the things wracking through his brain. This wasn’t his solution of choice but he was desperate at this point, anything could be better than this. And even with all the risks that could come of this he couldn’t stand to have another parent dead, not with what he knew about Sprint.
“Come on, Papa, you’re going to be alright. I know you will be.”
Hiram tried to stay calm as he stuck the patch on Pavel but his brain was still wracked with guilt over his thoughts of violence. The words came out choked, almost as if he was going to cry.
“I- I can call one of my brothers or one of the employees to come take care of you, is Jerome still working here?”
“I think so...”
Checking the notepad near the phone on Pavel’s desk the numbers of various units in the building were written and Jerome’s number, being a section head, was highlighted and easy to read.
“Hey, Jerome, yes I know I’m not Pavel, no, this is Hiram, you know, MRM-20? Yes, I know this is sudden, yes he knows I’m here, it’s him I’m calling about, he’s suffered an accident and I’m going to have to leave soon so I’m in dire need of some medical assistance- no I can’t just stay and take care of him I have a whole group of survivors a few miles from here that I’m responsible for and we all know the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few and all that- just get someone down here will you?”
Hiram slammed the phone down, his rage getting the better of him. He forgot how frustrating Jerome was to work with and in this already agitated state his attitude got to him very quickly. Anger wasn’t an emotion he was used to feeling, though, technically he wasn’t even supposed to feel it but he supposed he had surpassed his programming in that department.
After what felt like an eternity but was probably more like five minutes a small medical team had come through the elevator, prompting Hiram with more questions about what happened to Pavel and what he’d done to try and help him and he felt just about ready to snap. From the news of Sprint’s death to this new accident with Pavel, from his need for revenge but equal need for nonviolence, from being fed up with all these annoying questions to needing to get back to his little community as fast as possible lest the zombies kill all of them, every one of those people directly under his responsibility, all of it was grating in his brain and it was starting to overwhelm him.
He knew he needed to leave soon by looking at the clock, it had been a lot longer than he thought it had been and he didn’t want the community to worry. Oh right! The community! The reason he had come here in the first place, those damned supplies. He asked the medical team if they had anything to spare but based on his performance with helping Pavel and his current attitude they almost didn’t trust him. They didn’t trust him, a designated first responder who was meant to help those people out there and he couldn’t do those without the supplies that they were purposely and deliberately withholding from him.
This was the final straw. Everything had been accumulating to this point, his inner workings finally boiling over in more ways than just the figurative. He slapped the lead of the medical team straight in the face, demanding to know where the supplies were kept. Now, the slap from a 6’3” robot whose arms are made for lifting literal steel and concrete rubble is not entirely a pleasant experience and the poor man’s right cheekbone and nose were instantly shattered. Not even broken, no, shattered. The other medics in the team were terrified, they wanted to stand up for themselves but how do you stand up to something like that? You don’t, that’s the answer. On fear of death from this metallic man they gave him directions to the restock room and the code to get inside. Hiram stormed off, the once dominant sense of the preservation of others hardly more than a whisper in his mind now. He didn’t even bother to say goodbye to Pavel in case this was the last time he saw him, that was the last thing on his mind right now. His only goal was returning to those who needed him most, those little girls back at the scrap heap who were probably terrified without his comforting presence. He owed it to them to get back on time.
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In the supply room Hiram found everything he could use for both the survivors and for obliterating the zombies. They were the root of this, the Necrobot was the root of all of this. If Hiram ever got the chance he would kill that fucking Necrobot like he killed Sprint. That bastard had caused so much pain and suffering he deserved a taste of his own medicine.
The supplies room didn’t just have rations and medicine, though. There was also a prototype zombie-killing suit that just so happened to fit him perfectly. It was a black fluid-repellent synthetic leather material with the characteristic red H surrounded by white Anikanov logo on the upper arm. In this he felt ready to take down anything in his way, be it bot, zombie, or human. Anyone who opposed his goals, obliterated just as the zombies obliterated his group.
That little nagging voice in the back of his mind, the one that still thought killing wasn’t justifiable even with all Hiram had gone through, it kept egging him on. Peace wasn’t even slightly an option anymore and the mere thought of it disgusted him. These zombies weren’t infected by a plague to be cured of, they were the plague. A blight across the world that needed to be exterminated. Eradicated. Wiped off the face of the universe. And Hiram MRM-20 Anikanov, armed with the best in zombie-killing equipment, was going to be the savior of the world.