Carbon Copy

Once again, the machine found himself in a vaguely familiar setting, his clouded mind settling down from the thoughts bouncing inside his head. Was he awake yet? No, looked like the dream was still in place, including every stab of pain that was becoming reality. With a heave, he flipped himself onto his side before sitting upright, not registering the lopsided balance for several seconds.

Arm's gone again... I should not think of that as normal.

Making sure he wouldn't fall, Tesla felt his torso, his ocular lenses cracked beyond use. His left shoulder was once again missing the arm, leaving a mass of hoses and wires to dangle uselessly from his body. Once again he tried looking around the room to look for something useful. Instead he was met with an inky blackness that seeped into every inch of his vision. Nothing. He couldn't see.

Hyperventilation set in first, followed by shock. He wasn't in control. Desperately, he clung to himself, feeling the world slip just beyond his reach.

I suppose this is where'd I'd snap, pussy. Get it together. Scouts should have taught something to combat this. Get in the game. Widening his arms, the Matoran slowed his breathing, trying to keep his heartbeat from getting out of control.  Breathe in, two, three, four. And out, two, three, four. In... and out. Settle down. Can't think with a head screwed on crooked.

Gradually, Tesla's emotions came back under his control, the feeling of a large amount of perspiration oozing from his pores, chest still heaving. He could see his hands, working at a keyboard, the grey buttons that concocted the designs his mind burned with. The light blue walls of his room were illuminated by a single incandescent bulb on his desk, leaving his silhouette traced along the wall behind him. There he was, hunched before the screen, charcoal blazer hanging neatly on a nearby hanger in his wardrobe. Outside was becoming light again; morning since the light came in his window.

Then everything flashed back to black, his senses dulled, lost within the rocky confines of his tomb. There he lay, useless, on his back. His red torso was covered in grime, blocky red hand balled into a fist.

I'm still alive. He raised his arm above him. I'm going to get out of this hellhole. He slammed it down, the violent sound of clashing metal echoing off the somber stone walls. With pause, he felt about before his hand found the metallic surface again, tapping with a finger here or there, finding a covering of gravel over the surface he'd found. Crawling about led him to believe he was near a sort of metallic container as his hand traveled over the smooth surface until he reached an area his arm wouldn't reach. Once again, he dragged himself forward, heaving himself toward his perceived salvation.

Tesla's progress was slow to say the least, his body dragged over the stone surface before screeching into the metallic cave. His exposed face suddenly revealed the end with a clash and resounding clang.

"What? No, NO! This is a pipe, it has to go somewhere!" By now he was grasping at straws, his voice still upholding his frantic pleas from earlier. His tacked-together confidence was falling apart again, all pretenses of escape abandoning him before he broke down and wept. He had no tears to bear, yet the slow drip of oil from his shoulder was enough to console him. Eventually, he propped himself against the end of the pipe, emotionally exhausted and drained of his last reserves of energy, only to hear a faint clicking sound.

The heck is-

His thoughts were interrupted as an explosive clang of metal shattered his sense of hearing, before something tugged on his arm, then legs,turning him about in the silver canister he'd arrived in. He felt a clamp envelop his face before sleep overcame his exhausted form.

Mist surrounded his body as he regained awareness, still in the same suit and tie he'd worn the last time he'd visited his dreamscape. Things were calming down finally, and he might finally get this done. Slowly, he made his way down the stairs, tracing his fingers on the wall as he did so. His polished black dress shoes clacked noisily up and down the spiral staircase, leaving a rapidly fading trail of echoing leather-clad footsteps.

Before him lay the plain, homogeneous grey steps leading toward his goal; but, for the life of him, he could not recall what he'd forgotten. It was one of the few things that had gotten under his skin, festering at the back of his brain like a maggot in rotting meat. Perhaps he was paranoid, but he didn't want to jump to conclusions. His opinion was biased solely on himself, leaving not one iota of guesswork where he might find something useful. Self-diagnosis, especially, is a dangerous activity. Sure, there might be a symptom or two of a mental disease, but the brain focuses on the problems. One thing leads to another, and the focus is so precise it magnified he problem, blowing the image out of proportion to the illness.

I'll push it off until I get there.

The conclusions he wanted to draw were biased though, seen from his eyes, and his eyes alone. It's what might be seen in relations between people; adhesive residue left from where another had come and left something that stuck, but not the idea. An imperfect copy of memorable information with a personal spin on it. Some leave it as it is, and others poke and prod at the ideas that rubbed off on them. They dilute it or cluster it into a heap, toying with what they want to see. It was due to the forced human contact of school that made Artemis what he was. Over time, he gradually came to see the shadows of reflections of himself in others. Especially his faults and shortcomings.

Looking at those close to you is like seeing a shadow of your reflection in a pool of water. Though the outline is visible, it's still recognizable, albeit with a few faults. And, like fixing a crack in a road, the mask covering a persona has its cracks filled in. Granted, the filling is done in a novice fashion, but, over time, the rough caulk that fills the cracks is smoothed over and painted, indistinguishable from the rest. Over time, however, the caulk builds up, slowly leveraging the addition from the original frame. The frame may bend, break, or let go of what was tacked on, undoubtedly changing the person beneath when they realize they can't support the thing they wanted to be seen as.

The same could be said of Artemis, in a way. His mask consisted of a perfectly smooth airtight surface, keeping the world from seeing in. The lies he told became smoother, a purposely placed fault here and there that never really revealed anything, and lastly, making him appear to be a saint. It certainly made some things more attainable, having connections to those it charge, but left a cold husk behind it, untouched by the warmth of a proverbial sun. His lies though, were mostly true. There is no need to make something up for it to be a lie, oftentimes switching pieces of information works best. Numbers, especially dates and times, are very easily switched. The only thing needed to do is to be confident of the bit of misinformation you're giving, have a reputation for being honest, and act sincere should the person confront you.

The best lies are the ones with the most truth.

Every lie has a tell though, often micro-expressions. These last less than a second, and can range from a smile lasting a quarter second longer to having hardened eyes in a relaxed atmosphere. The body is really just a conduit for looking at a person's thoughts, although in a more vague manner. The thing about micro-expressions is that they are very rarely controlled by cognitive thoughts, instead relying on subconscious reactions. It's how to get good at telling one expression from another that a person can be called psychic, even if it is just body language.

Artemis' body language reeked of insecurity, falling to that of near zero confidence. His feet moved quickly but his stance was narrow with the shoulders rounded in, hands placed in pockets with his chin down. If anyone were around, he might come across as anxious. It's why his bronze bounced up and down when he found the door he'd been looking for. It lead to his study, a small area no bigger than a walk-in closet, yet books lined the walls. They were all grey now, the goop covering everything without preference. Even the previously cherry stained wood door was now the same homogeneous grey  that covered the rest of the place.

Silently, he took off his suit jacket, placing it on the hook on the back of the door, his eyes glazed over as he hummed a few notes in no particular order. The hum turned into a low whistle as the man sat down in front of a medium sized television showing black and white feeds from the ruined skyline. A screen or two had gone offline, but most were up and running. On the desk beside him, Artemis adjusted a mirror to reflect the door, part of a slight phobia of having blind spots in his vision. Several keystrokes brought the feeds he wanted, letting him view large tracts of land to find the overall effect first, then he hit the play button.

Before his eyes unfurled the cataclysm again, something he'd only seen a week prior. The grey waves of material swept over the bases of the buildings, flooding the basements before shooting up the walls and into the windows like vines on crack.

"The heck is that?" He pondered, wondering why the screens were showing discrepancies. Each building looked like an outline had been drawn, then shifted north. The outline was only for a second on each building, but the waves had not struck all at once, making the effect large and obtuse to the eye. He played the video again, rewound, and played it in slow motion. After the grey goop had covered the building, a fading image played to the north, drifting into oblivion in a matter of seconds.

A light bounced into his eye before he could finish though, the reflection showing the darkened silhouette of his mirror standing in the doorway. Casually, he swung the chair around, noting that his doppelganger had a red tie, whereas his looked like a red tie out of a black and white television show from the fifties. When both of them finally spoke, it was in sync in both message and concern.

"I think we have a problem."

Rustic Rune poked her head around the corner with a torn piece of cloth tied around her mouth, protecting her lung from the coal dust that ran through the vents. She shuffled along, wary of the creaks and groans of the sheet metal around her. Twice she'd heard someone ahead of her accidentally push a hoof through, but the group hadn't been found out yet. Inside, the metal was quieter now than it had been, presumably signalling the end of a shift or a break. She'd been careful to spread her weight, staying still. Ahead, the group was starting to leave, going back into the bedrock the vents had partially been carved into.

"No," she whispered, trying to get their attention. "Don't go." Even her uncle was leaving, not expectantly looking back for her like she'd expected. Instead he looked tired, his age finally beginning to show through. His walk had a limp to it, a small trail of blood dripping from a where a hoof had punched through the rusted metal. She began pushing her way forward again, seeing the motes of accumulated coal fall off the ceiling ahead of her as she felt them hit her back. Behind her trailed a rucksack tied to her hind leg, where her cracked spectacles resided with the list she'd taken

Slowly, she inched her way forward, wary of any slivers of metal about to embed themselves in her abdomen. Three more leg lengths before she reached the rock, her safe house. This was where they'd been falling through, potentially putting them back into slavery. To her left she glanced at the hallway below, there were no signs of movement. She gently brought her hind legs forward while clenching her abdomen, then stretched her forehooves in front of her before setting them back down. Two and a half lengths left.

Again she pushed forward, reaching another leg's length towards salvation. As she clenched her abdomen again, she felt a terrible lurching motion fling her forward. The vent fell from the stone, rusted red iron collapsing around the equally red mare. Above, she heard nothing. Not a single hoof step to come back and help her. Her back leg felt like it was bleeding, a sensation of fluid running over her skin, through her fur, and continuing after the sack with her glasses. Inside, she erupted, a fiery hell of raw emotion that burnt itself out in a fraction of a second. The void was replaced just as quickly with the fact that she was probably going to be killed for attempted escape.

It was one of the rights of initiation as a new miner: watch as the last group of escapees was beheaded by the alpha. They were examples, nothing more or less to the diamond dogs. The alpha, Fearlock if she remembered correctly, would draw as much blood before the slave nearly slumped from a lack of blood. Then, with delicacy she'd never seen of a diamond dog before, he'd lift their head to look into his eyes. It was ended by a quick thrust of a dagger under the rib cage, cutting the softer muscles in the diaphragm before showing the exposed heart, often still beating.

Her sick groaning from the thought brought the attention of a returning diamond dog armed with a spear and covered in rusty iron and ragged leather armor. His soft panting was a familiar thing, although she'd felt it more down the back of her neck than from in front of her. She saw organic daggers punch through the metal below her hooves, grazing the right side of her heaving stomach. She'd never considered the consequences, but it wasn't like she'd had a choice. The whole operation had hinged on one of her mistakes, and now she'd been left to rot.

A quick peeling from her metallic peel exposed her to the person whose breath had been felt on the nape of her neck for months: Guard Dog. A rapid movement from her right pinned her head to the ground, anchored in place by a row of extending claws that sunk into the rock like butter. She was blinking stars from her eyes by the time he'd finished placing a ring on her horn, a copy of the one she'd been so happy to be rid of, practically sealing off her connection to the magic within. Next she felt a cuff being placed around her left hind hoof, followed by her front right. It would keep her from running, not that she wanted to; her only hope to be saved from the death spectacle was through cooperation.

"You," was all she'd heard when her face was finally exposed to the gem lanterns outside the collapsed vent. All Guard Dog had seen was her silhouette, cast in the shadow of the vent. He rubbed his brow with a paw, trying to disperse the building headache. "Damn machine." If there were any complete sentences he knew, they'd usually involve cursing. This one in particular was more of a tired resigning than anything, his tone tired and body pushed beyond its limits. "Listen," he told the mare, "I no turn you in, you keep work in mines. Deal?" He extended a paw, looking for any signs of confirmation. The old guard was practically dead on his feet, his whitening muzzle twitching. "Well?"

She didn't know how to act, a redemption at freedom was unheard of. Perhaps this was why. "Oh, um, yes. I'll do it." She sat up, holding out a hoof to meet his paw. He returned the gesture, pulling a key to unlock the cuff on her leg. It surprised her that he didn't let go though, "Can you let go, please?"

The diamond dog, if he heard her, did not respond, opting only to yank her out of the metal casket. She felt her shoulder nearly pop out of socket, probably only saved by months of swinging at the bedrock housing the gems the dogs wanted so much. Gingerly, she placed her hoof on the ground, her limb oddly both numb and sore. The guard turned back to the mines with her in tow.

Back to the grind.

The doppelgangers had been discussing, at length, the source of their problem. After discussing possible problems and watching several videos, they came across the room where the copies had been. When the goop came in the room and knocked out the original Artemis, the replicas disappeared. Then, for some reason, Artemis remained while the rest of the dreamscape had shifted. Tesla was his copy.

"Ok, so we have that figured out, now what?" Tesla gave him a blank stare, opting to remain silent when both parties knew the other's thinking process.

"Um, I don't know. You're still in color, how do you see things?"

"In color, naturally. You're the one intruding in my study."

Giving pause, both of them stared at the floor again. Tesla remaining in the office chair, spinning idly, while Artemis rubbed his chin thoughtfully.

"You see in color then," began Tesla.

"While you see in black and white. Why are we different if you're a copy of me?"

Tesla grabbed a pencil on his desk on his next spin, drumming it against his leg in thought. Wait... "What if... what if this is like the grey goop apocalypse scenario?"

"Nanobots devour anything organic, replicate from the carbon, and leave everything grey?" Artemis began, his brain catching up in a few instants. "Then, it never happened to me. But it did. You're proof."

The two drifted into silence again, trying to account for how something had happened, and yet it had not.

"This is just like a fork in the road," stated Tesla. "You can't go down both paths at once."

Artemis stopped rubbing his chin, eyes widening. "Say that again."

"Fork in the road?"

"Yeah. Isn't that one of the multiverse theories?"

Tesla looked down at the floor, eyes darting around the grey floor as the cogs in his head spun. "It is, but what you're recommending is impossible. I mean, I've only been a Matoran for a few days when I'm not asleep."

It was Artemis' turn to be surprised, exclaiming, "Bullshit. I've been awake when I wasn't here, and I'm still going to school."

"Has the fallout over the IPod been worth it?"

"Of course. I never had a reason, ergo, not a suspect. You know that."

"I wasn't there to see it though, but I digress. So, I'm a Matoran, and you're still human. Do me a favor, look up cartoon ponies and dogs. I could use any information to get a better grip on this place."

"So we're settled on the multiverse theory?"

"I'd say so, but we still don't know how to get you out of here."

"Leave it. You still need the information, and I want to know where that stuff came from. Imagine applying that to real life, like a sci-fi movie."

Artemis and Tesla shared a small chuckle at that, both feeling invigorated at seeing a hands on problem.

"So, any ideas on how to leave?"

"Knock yourself out."

"Ung, me everthing. Wht? Bleh, uh, ooh, oh, ew. Good God, what was that stuff?" Tesla coughed, his hacking removing a large, flem-like object that landed beside him with a wet splat. He looked up, noticing the intricate patterns of flowing metal forming along the ceiling. The embellished hooks, rigid channels, and multitude of pipes hung loosely above his limp body. A small whirring motion pushed his back forward, changing his lying form from a straight to obtuse angle. Metallic clicks sounded behind his head before an object blocked his view momentarily. The machine saw two narrowed eye slits lowering toward him to feel something connecting on the side of his head, locking the mask in place. When his focus returned back to the ceiling, he noticed that he had no impediments to his peripheral vision, an odd quality for a mask.

Tesla lurched backward unexpectedly, bringing him out of his train of thought. The sudden rush of air over him and the rattle of fallen metal next to his head only encouraged the further derailment of those notions before he was dropped to the floor with a metallic scraping when his body started settling. Instinctively, Tesla waited, making sure nothing else as about to start moving before sitting up to the view of a derelict looking frame that he'd been pushed out of. The circular scaffolding practically falling in on itself from the weight of the dripping hoses draped over the rusted metal.

I feel taller.

It was a simple statement of thought, although it prompted him to hurriedly glance down. Two boxy black legs extended in front of him, ending in two scarlet ankle covers before ending in four-toed lime green feet that were identical to each other, just like the legs. In fact, everything about him looked to be a perfect mirror on each half. From his blocky black fingers to lime green forearms that were identical in everything but color to his shins. His torso was mostly a mystery though, since the armor covering his chest protruded enough to block any views of his stomach.

So this is what it looks like to have huge breasts.

Admittedly, that wasn't his finest thought, but it did carry with it an interesting follow up idea.

Wait, do I even have a sex anymore? No, that's stupid. Machines don't have sex, but my gender is still male.

With that cleared up, the biped shifted to the side to try standing. Once upright, he moved forward in the least graceful manner possible, only catching his fall on his arms. Once again, he stood up, making sure to move slower this time. Carefully, he put one foot forward, cautiously shifting his body weight to the other foot. Electronic buzzing accompanies every movement, sounding more like a pump than that of a motor. A quick inspection of his arm revealed that hydraulic cylinders served as his muscles, expanding and contracting to move. He looked up, feeling the faint vibrations of the pump rattling his frame, and seeing the light that was seeping into his hole.

Right, that bastard threw me down here for no good reason. Superstitious prick.

He looked around, hoping for a ladder or staircase. Instead, he was met with a rocky wall that held more than enough purchases to reach the top. As he put his right hand to the wall, a hint of gladness shot through him with a last thought before his ascension.

I'd rather be missing my pinkies than my thumbs. Thank God I have latter.

Rustic Rune wiped another wave of sweat from her forehead, her work the final defense. Behind her loomed the guard from the other shift. She was young, naturally gifted in terms of strength, yet looked like her mother had screwed a warthog. Patches of fur were missing, and her armor only exaggerated the problem. Any looks that were shot her way were instantly punished by her cat-o-nine tails, the weighted, barbless fishhooks tearing a score of cuts on its victims back with each pass.

Rustic Rune instantly regretted looking at her, from both the mental and physical scarring. The crack of a whip sounded perilously close to her ear, deafening her and sending her work into a fervor. The orange unicorn hammered away, her brow once again gaining a healthy sweat. Her sharpened wedge of iron continued to beat into the rock, the rhythm finally broken by a scream.

Screaming wasn't uncommon in the mines, but this was different. It wasn't out of pain, nor was it a plea for mercy. No, this was fear, a sound only emitted fillies who'd felt the touch of the Boogeymare. It was more the brusqueness of the voice that disturbed her more than anything, followed by the encompassing silence that generally only filled the mines at night. On the floor was the guard, scrambling away as a being stepped out of the pit. The clunky black hand was the first thing she saw, followed by a green arm and head. The machine was build eerily similar to Tesla, but looked much more capable than her assistant. Thinking back, she hadn't seen him for a few days, and hoped he was alright.

By then, the guard had gotten her act together, taking her trusted whip and snapping at the creation that instinctively dodge to the side rather than backwards. A few more cracks of the whip had accomplished only in annoying the machine, deciding that the whip wouldn't do anything, and advanced at a moderate walk. The guard turned tail and ran, leaving behind the slaves shackled to their posts. It looked around, eyes touching on two griffins and a pegasus before finally turning its deep orange eyes on her, seeming to relax a little.

"Didn't expect to see you here Rusty!"

She swore, she could practically feel the mocking smile from behind that thing's mask, recognizing the voice almost instantly. Still, she couldn't be sure.

"Tesla?" was meekly called out before the machine took a sweeping bow.

"The one and only. Now, how 'bout we get the heck out of dodge before Little Miss Piggy comes back?"