What was wrong with the human? Why was he so? Some things the machines hadn’t implanted in him, things that at every passing minute aggravated him more and more, in his need to know everything. But he couldn’t help this manner; after all, it was in his nature, er, in his programming.

And so Morto was being dragged on by his robotic clone towards another environment, another life. The travel itself was strenuous on the none-human, but for his good fortune, pain was not in his programming: his duty was to continue, not to consider continuing. He followed his…programming well.

Before nightfall hit the lonely party, everyone was accounted for, whether dragged or dragging, they made it, caked all over in the sticky earthen residue that made up their journey.

The Smoke Hills were actually the last standing, well sort of standing, remains of a city made by man. M. Model 73 knew this, and for some unknown reason he felt a sort of pride for being at the location. For another unknown reason, he felt that it was a little funny and ironic that the last standing human city was surrounded by some of the biggest and most extensive robotic cities and operations (like laboratories). More things he didn’t understand. ‘Oh well,’ he thought, as he plopped Morto into an abandoned office building some three stories high in old building. The building itself was cut in half, leaving a very generous space for a view, yet little protection from the chilling winds or stray laser or bullet. ‘I sure hope no one sees us,’ was M. Model 73’s overall assessment, plopping himself down in his muddy, dirty state on some charred material that had once made up, he guessed, a fairly decent floor.

The moon was shining brighter than ever, at least the brightest M. Model 73 had ever seen. Almost peacefully, pleasantly, a rocket soared in front of the moon, creating a brilliant outline. He had his hands behind his head; he smiled, and closed his eyes.

Leopard gained the high ground. He almost laughingly watched the others try to arise up the hill, hauling all their heavy equipment and gear. After First Squadron Leader Ellis got incinerated by a plutonic ray from an enemy tank, Leopard had found himself slowly get to the top in status in the rebel team, which was known as the Wolverines. Wolverine? He didn’t even know what a wolverine was. He had in mind the to change the name to something like…Killers, or maybe Dominance…something with a ring and a fear that could be behind it. ‘But,’ he thought to himself, smirking while taking his pistol from his holster and aiming it at a robot operating a flying jet bike. ‘They were already feared.’ He shot the robot through its metal skull, destroying the rotating data that served as a brain. The robot fell off the bike and crashed into the mud, while the bike continued to drive forward.

“Somebody catch that bike!”

A motor biker with a passenger shot off to follow the machine.

He deliberately walked slowly up to the robot he shot, watching it with a sort of ecstasy as it wreathed and jolted all over the ground, scattering debris as it did so. Some mud was thrown into Leopard’s face, but he let it drip all the way down his neck. He grabbed the machine’s punctured head in his hands. It tried to pull away from him and lash out with its robotic arms, but Leopard didn’t give in. He pulled the head hard up in front of his face. The lights behind the false eyes flickered, and struggled to stay alive, but Leopard watched as they finally flickered out, signifying the death of the brain. He now held a type of fake corpse, a dummy of what was real.

“They can’t feel,” said Leopard, getting up to his feet. As he turned around, he saw that the rest of the Wolverines were there watching him. Those dispatched to get the robot’s machine were already back, and they too stared on, with a type of un-expression you could find after a temporary brainwashing issued by Dracu to try to stabilize the relationship between man and machine.

“Move on ya lazy bastards, c’mon!” said Leopard waving his arm forward. He himself led them forward, through the muddy, at times desolate, at times combusted lands of the War Zone. The War Zone was a prime spot in America for action, and many eager to carry a weapon, drive or fly a vehicle flocked that way. The land itself was so torn and ravaged that no one could even recognize what providence it was before. But fortunately, the names of things didn’t matter any more, not that much. Numbers dominated regions…after all, machines could understand numbers better. In fact, a number was on its way now to the Smoke Hills, Number 900; its mission: destroy Morto.

Morto awoke the next morning before M. Model 73. H was revived; his emotional blockade was over, and now he was back and ready to work on business, which was survival in this case.

“C’mon you hunk a scrap metal, wake your modem and lets get moving.”

M. Model blinked and slowly shifted onto his elbows. He looked around with wide, assuming eyes. He seemed to be in shock or hesitation about the situation.

“I saw scouts go by this morning and I figure the next time they come around they won’t be alone…let’s go!”

Morto grabbed M. Model 73 by the collar of his turquoise uniform and dragged him to his feet. “No fun in being asleep when they catch us anyway. No chase.”

They started to traverse down the narrow stairway to the bottom floor. A step under Morto collapsed, and as a result a piece of wood slit its way across the front of his leg. He got up quickly and continued downward, continuing as naturally as before, only now he was leaving a blood trail. About mid-way down the flights of stairs, the observing clone thought he might say a word.

“Your status seems to have approved.”

“Yeah?” said Morto, not turning back or slowing his pace. “And yours won’t if you keep jabberin and picking lilies. C’mon, lets just get down these fricken stairs.”

Without arguing, the machine diligently followed the human until they were both at the bottom of the building and working their way across uprooted cement streets, through artillery ridden business complexes, and shredded subway systems. Although the clone wasn’t tired, nor was he moody or defiant, he still wondered if there was indeed an objective. “Yes, Copy, there damn right is,” was Morto’s response after M. Model 73 implored about the matter.

“You see that sewer line over there?” said Morto, pointing ahead. “That is our destination.”

M. Model slowly nodded his head. “A sewer?”

“You’re damn right.”

Morto was starving, and at that moment he wished all the food wasn’t pillaged from the Smoke Hills.

“What do you eat? Do you eat?” asked Morto.

M. Model 73 smiled proudly. “I’m solar powered.”

“Then you’re probably going to get a little tired where we’re going.” Morto threw a sewer cap aside, and stared deep into the dark abyss that filled the land underground.

“Very tired.”

“I have a back-up energy source stored away.”

“Good. You’re going to need it.” Morto put his foot onto the slimy ladder below, let his other follow, and began traversing down.

M. Model 73 didn’t much like the claustrophobic atmosphere in the tubular vertical tunnel. The darkness was unnerving; the glow from above was getting dimmer and dimmer. Algae lined the worn cement walls and holes were everywhere, and in the light available the clone was able to see things he had never seen before, beyond knowing of them from Morto’s memory. A large cave spider dropped from above and clasped itself on his face. A leg poked its way into his mouth, and the taste was bitter.

“I don’t like this Morto.”

Although M. Model 73 couldn’t see him, he could sense Morto was humorous.

“Would you prefer to be held prostrated, while a bunch of robotic instruments shredded your insides for meaningless samples, dissecting your organs, melting your bones to goo, then stretching your skin across various diameters while you’re always being pumped with adrenalin the whole time to make sure you’re awake and fully aware… all for the sake of being inhuman?”

M. Model 73 was too stunned to respond, so instead he just continued to climb down the ladder.

It was completely dark by the time Morto laid his feet on horizontal ground. He stepped a little ways back, listening for M. Model 73 to reach the bottom.

“I’m…getting tired Morto.”

“I can tell.”

They stood in the darkness together…a liquid was steadily running, reminding Morto of…

“Did I like to swim?”

“Yes. I’m sure now you’re referring to the stream you and your brother found one day while rummaging through the spoilage of California 8, after it was bombed of course.”

“Of course. I’ve yet to find an un-bombed land to call beautiful.”

“You climbed a mountain once.”

“ A real mountain?”

“Yes. You thought it was beautiful.”

“I wish I could remember it…along with my brother.”

The running liquid filled their minds.

“What do we do now?” asked the clone.

“We can sleep; I believe it’s pretty late right now. In the morning there should be some light shining somewhere…the place is solar too, I think.”

They each felt around for a dry spot, or at least mostly dry. Finally, both were sitting down, backs to an invisible force, trying to get their resistant eyelids closed.

Never look back. Never feel the impulse to desire. Never…Another? Who? Where? Oh, no. Another one was made. His name? …M. Model 74.

M. Model 73 awoke with a start. He looked around himself frantically. He saw it was lighter now: the underground was actually visible. A long cement hall cut across both sides of him, and in the center of the hall was a decline, allowing a light green liquid to flow to who knows where. As he slightly regained himself, he started stepping forward to where Morto was leaning up against the wall with his back turned.

Finally he was beside Morto, and both stared out across at the vast hallway ahead, both never really looking at it.

“I just realized something.”

“What did you realize?”

“There…was another. Another duplication of you. He received all the proper specifications for the entire purpose of creating the others and me…He was the final product.”

Morto looked into M. Model 73’s inorganic eyes. “How is he different?”

“I was the first successful intelligent experiment that shared your mind, well at least, your memories. After they made me, they knew it was time to advance to their much desired goal.”

M. Model 73 turned and looked at Morto. “His resemblance to you is more severe than I to you. Also, he was brainwashed, thoroughly, with a secret agenda. By name he is M. Model 74; his agenda, rather his mission: infiltrate the human lines.”

“Son of a bitch.”

“He will do anything and everything in his ability to bring the humans to ruin: rounding them up, ratting them out, assassinating: he’ll do it all.”

Morto looked at the green moss growing on the side of the walls. He brushed his hands across the fungi and felt its texture. Looking at his hand, he could see he had some residue on it; looking at M. Model 73, he could see he had no other option.

“I was seeking a safe haven, but now there’s going to be a change of plans.” Morto threw residue on the floor with a quick flick.

Number 900 knew that the deep, dark tunnel would at least lead him to something. He knew that, if his calculations were correct, he could at least find someone that could lead him to Morto. He felt nothing for the victims he tortured. If anything, he was curious. He was curious that such a species like the human could want to survive so much, despite the odds against it. Suddenly his finely attuned hearing heard a rattle miles away. He bolted to the noise like a reptile on a rodent, and pierced his prey as such. But Number 900 didn’t use fangs to paralyze his victim; he used a highly sensitive electric charged spiked rod, right under the ribs. The hobo screamed in agony, but Number 900 felt nothing for him.

Number 900: “Morto.”

The man just continued to scream, so Number 900 let a high voltage of electricity run through his body. The man stopped all noise, and simply began to shudder and convulse, with eyes flaring out of his skull.

Number 900: “Morto.”

He let the electricity stop for a moment; the man gagged and tried desperately to get his lungs working. The man raised a trembling hand towards the forward end of the tunnel.

“Where’s he going.”

The man shook his head, so the cyborg ran the spike charger the rest of the way through him. The curiosity came over Number 900 again, but he had no time to ponder the rotting flesh. He bolted down the ways of the tunnel.

“You’re going to track down M. Model 74 and kill him?” said M. Model 73, trailing closely behind Morto.

They were both running through the deep chasms and works of the underground world of the Smoke Hills.

“No, clone,” said Morto, grasping a damp side of a ladder and hoisting himself up. “We’re going to get the bastard.”

M. Model 73 began to follow Morto up the ladder. “Why do you need me?”

“Because I don’t want you impostering me either. You’re a product of me and I plan to put you to good use besides lookin perdy.”

“They didn’t program any military skills into me, they only did that for M. Model 74.”

“Relax, I’m sure that when the time is right, you’ll let instincts take over.”

“Instincts? I’m a simulation of a human, not an actual human remember?”

“Sorry,” said Morto, climbing, climbing the ladder through the narrow passage, with cold dew from above dripping on his face. “I forgot.”

The whole thing seemed like it was a mess. Leopard gazed at the beastly robot that just shredded one of his co-pilots, Harry, who was in fact very needed for Leopard’s future plans.

The robot lunged at Leopard with lightning speed hydraulics. It caught Leopard below the rib with a metallic death grip, and Leopard realized the thing was going to try to rip it out. But Leopard for some reason still unknown to him never froze in a fight. Never. This was the case here, and as he pressed a finely sharpened metal blade deep into the chasms of the beast’s breastplate, he actually felt humorous. He pressed, deeper and deeper, until he reached its heart—that is, the master controls for its limbs.

But as he did that, the robot ripped out Leopard’s rib. By this time no humor passed through Leopard’s thoughts. He underestimated the intelligence of this model…this model of robot that now held his bleeding rib over his bleeding body. He was fading fast into feeling nothingness, to not thinking of anything anymore—ever.

But Hans the German medic had other plans for Leopard, as he, with one single movement of his finger, blew that robot away, not even giving it a chance to register his presence. Hans quickly ran over to the sparking piece of hardware and pried Leopard’s rib out of its clutches. He speedily came over to Leopard lying on the ground, who was tuning out the rest of the world with the sound of his slowing heartbeat.

Hans: “Don’t try to move.” Hans ejected something into the bottom of Leopard’s neck.

Finally, Leopard had complete peace.

“And guess who the new Adam of Eve is?” Parker, an expert sniper, held Leopard’s arm up in triumph to the crowd of rebels who now celebrated in the newly commandeered shuttle ship.

In truth, the cost of commandeering the vessel had claimed the lives of fourteen members of the organization, a large amount considering the total size of the unit, which was just over forty. But the was Leopard’s, and since he was the new leader no one was going to argue with him, especially with his violent, planning tendencies.

Leopard didn’t bother smiling to the crowd before him, because frankly he was really pissed off at Parker, who was holding up his arm. Later Leopard had a mind to give Parker something to celebrate, and it wouldn’t be that he himself was alive, but rather that he would celebrate that he was alive.

“Put my damn arm down, you bastard,” growled Leopard, addressing Parker, who was beginning to have his large smile fade.

“It’s just so good that you’re alive…”

“Sure it is,” Leopard patted Parker on the shoulder. “Get me a damn good drink.”

As Parker frustratingly marched his way through the other rebels, who were talking and laughing wildly at being alive, Parker wondered how many times he would have to get Leopard a ‘damn good drink.’

Banister Mann wasn’t much of a pilot. As it turned out, he wasn’t much of a ladies’ man either. Melanie Sides, his co-pilot, had thoroughly exhausted herself trying conversation with him, so now she just stared ahead, tensely patrolling the ship above the earth and through the murky clouds.

“I’m sorry about before, Melanie,” said Banister as he also stared ahead, keeping the ship level and on course.

“You see, I’m very business.”

“Sure, Banister,” snuffed Melanie rather hotly.

That’s the thing that Banister didn’t understand, a nice looking girl can be nice one moment and quite kind, but as soon as they realize you’re not much of a ‘player’…it’s like they’re mad at you.

In this case, Melanie was mad at him. It wasn’t that he wasn’t a ‘player’ as he may have been thinking, but it was because really, she was just bored with him. She found many interesting guys who knew how to keep a vibe going, but Banister let the vibe go flat much too soon. Now, she just wanted to be left alone; without the newbie trying out his new swings, trying to make an impression, trying to impress himself with the possibility he could get a girl like her. She couldn’t wait until they could get to Alpha Base 7: there she could meet some guys…after all, it was a meeting and supply zone for hundreds of rebels.