Morto was hit hard by someone racing past him, Morto slid sideways, but was soon pushed back into the current of moving people…but he never said anything about it being…the way it appeared to be. At best, Morto expected a Utopian type of society, a religious monkery if he dared to admit. But he had always known that was wishful thinking. What he didn’t know, was how far he was from the truth.

Suddenly, out of the fray of human bodies, smoke and smog, Morto saw, almost in a heavenly too good to be true state…the sign of Alphus’ Mechanics. That was what made Morto run so fast, made him run so fast that he plowed through everyone else, uncaring whom he hurt, whom he offended.

“Ass!” “Feign!” “I’ll kill you!” rang in Morto’s head long after he was quietly inside the shop, making sure the door closed behind him, wishing he could find some way to lock it.

From behind the barred desk, a man hesitantly raised his head. The man squinted, then shook his head and lowered himself back out of view.

But Morto was determined, he had come this far, and he strode up to the desk, and coolly stated: “My name is Morto. Yes, we met in the war.”

Suddenly Alphus’ head shot back up, a smile of terrible proportions rode on his face that would appear to be able to kill anyone else who wore it. Without saying a word, he pressed a button and a barred door gently slid open. Morto went behind the desk, and gave his friend a hug that nearly suffocated the scrawny man.

A few hours later would find them both drinking expensive alcohol in the back room, dimly lit by an old bulb that hung loosely on a thin cable over a small, rare wood table.

Morto leaned back in his wooden chair and listened to it creak. “How did you get these things?” he asked, holding his alcohol in a jittery palm.

“Are you ok?” asked Alphus.

“Do I not seem ok?”

“No, not really.”

Morto pondered this, or tried to, because he couldn’t really think of anything.

“I’m better than ok,” Morto finally admitted, and for some reason he felt it was the truth.

“Then I’ll cheers to your well-being!” said Alphus, raising his glass and tapping it against Morto’s.

They both took swigs that finished off their contents.

“Gee,” said Alphus putting a hand to his face and holding up his head. “I sure am glad to see you again. Of all people. Since the war.” He started to refill the glasses with more alcohol. “So, why are you here?”

Surprisingly Morto threw his head back and laughed.

Alphus watched his friend who appeared to be in hysterics and scratched his head.

“Somethin funny, Mort?”

By the time Morto drew his head back down to level view to look at Alphus, there were huge streaks of tears across his eyes.

“Damn, I haven’t laughed that hard since I can’t remember.”

Alphus cautiously slid the alcohol farther away from Morto.

“What do you remember?”

“About what?”

“I don’t know, anything.”

Morto stared at Alphus.

Alphus swallowed, turned away, then turned back. “My name, Mort, my name.”

Morto’s smile began to slowly fade. Suddenly he jolted out of his chair; he only stopped moving backwards until his back was up against the back wall. Morto had the look of horror about him.

Alphus: “What is my name?”

Morto had cold sweats running down his body. He was suddenly so cold that he crumpled on the floor and tried to rub his arms together to stay warm. Alphus walked towards Morto slowly, but all Morto could see was a demon coming towards him with red parchment skin engulfed in flames. Morto wanted the flames to warm him, but they were freezing…so cold. The flames froze the whole room, until finally Morto was completely frozen and he crumpled to the floor on his side and prayed for death.

“Whe’s yer human, boy?”

M. Model 73 awoke from auto power save mode to look up at a truly imposing human.

Throughout the night, a harsh wind had tossed off the clone’s garbage disguise. The storm still continued as the stranger was glaring down, rain pattering uselessly against his fiercely glaring eyes. Uncovered, unprotected, and barely functioning, the non-human knew that his termination was close at hand.

“I said whe’s yer human?”

The clone tried to hold his jaw together so that he could reply, but to no avail—it had fallen off it the night too!

Taking the silence as a sign of disrespect, the man revealed a thick metal club with shards of shrapnel molded onto it from his tremendous overcoat.

“I gol ask you one more time afors I knock yer lights out fer good…whe’s yer damn human?!”

Before the clone’s metallic skull was broken, his data spilled across the dirty floor, and his body melted down to create more weapons like the one this human was swinging…the man heaved himself over to the side and collapsed in a deep puddle…the clone looked at the body…blood was filling the puddle. Looking up towards the dark rainy street, a lone figure was emerging, lit only with the soft streetlights that radiated everything in an alien filter.

When the man finally got to M. Model 73, he bent down and stared at the clone. To the M. Model 73’s undying gratitude, he could see that it was Morto! The crazy human returned! Was he going to take him to the mechanic now?

“Where did you come from?” asked Morto.

But M. Model 73 couldn’t speak!

At this silence, Morto looked more closely at the clone.

“Your speech is broken.”

The clone nodded.

“Can you walk, or do you crawl? You’ll crawl won’t you.”

M. Model 73 became a bit confused; he just wanted to go to the mechanic—no more questions please!

Morto leaned in closer to M. Model 73, so that his face was almost touching the clone’s battered fragments. “Crawl,” he said, eyes never changing, tone never changing.

M. Model 73 wondered what was going on, and wished that his vision would become better. He wished he could wipe his one eye and clear some of the rain and muck…

But Morto wasn’t in that alley with his fellow clone. He never shot anyone, not since escaping from Laboratory 09…he was lying asleep in one of Alphus’ extra little beds…so, what?

“What!” yelled Morto, suddenly awake and fully aware how painful his head was throbbing.

Alphus quickly came over and slapped a hand on Morto’s forhead.

“It ain’t fever, what the hell have you been getting yourself into Mort?”

Memories flooded Morto.

“Formula 405—and it wasn’t my I don’t want to talk about that right now! I need your help!”

“Sure, anything. What’da need?”

Morto was already out of the bed looking for his jacket. “My clone, he’s in trouble!”

Morto and Alphus raced through the night streets, thick drops of rain smacked them in the face. The wind too thrashed violently against their vulnerable bodies. Aphus’ frail body demanded shelter, and he began to wonder whether his life was actually in danger of being carried into the dark sky to be dropped kilometers away.

“I don’t like this, Mort!”

“I know,” said Morto, rain quickly filling his mouth with every word. He spit. “Just hold on a little longer…we’re almost to him!”

“Your clone, you said?” Alphus tripped, but Morto caught him.

“I’ll tell you later!”

The shrieking of the storm drove their minds to focus on one thing: hurry.

M. Model 74 laughed out loud. “I love this weather, don’t you? It makes you feel the power from your creation!” He turned to M. Model 73, whom he had resorted to dragging with his strong robotic arm. The other looked up hopelessly with his one good eye. M. Model 74 smiled an odd smile. “I mean to cure you, you know: to rid the filth from your metallic bone structure. Soon you will speak, which is why I will first work on fixing that jaw.”

The weather made it noisy, and M. Model 73’s internal microphones on the side of his head were damaged. He now couldn’t hear what Morto’s actions were. He had no clue why he was dragging him so fiercely, so mercilessly through all the debris and dirty water in back alley upon back alley. Did he know where he was going?

“Talk, talk, talk!” howled M. Model 74 arching his head up at the dark sky above. Outlined in the only available light above, rain only swerving and curving crashed down onto his glass eyes. “Mercy, mercy, mercy!” He felt an imitation of joy for once after his whole process of being brought into the reality of the world. The feeling felt good to him. But he couldn’t feel, so what was actually going on? His data didn’t supply him with answers…but somehow he knew more than his data, more than his creators and what they had in store for him. Truly, he was an ultimate being, far greater than any human and…he dragged his baggage over a large bump, the baggage tried to flail out its fake limbs to support it, but to no avail: it didn’t know it was broken…M. Model 74 assumed also that he was a superior machine. Everything about him was…God-like. He was God-like. God: that thing which his human had…worshipped? Did he worship God? What was worshipping, what did that have in it, what did it do? How do you learn how to worship?

Confused and questioning as he was, the machine dragged M. Model 73 yet farther and farther from his master.

The rain pour killed Aphus. He lay crawling in the mud, dirt, and debris, trying to continue forward. He legs were completely underwater, and he felt that soon the water would reach to his neck. He was claustrophobic with all the rain, with the wind ripping out the air from his lungs, tearing and yanking on his clothes. Finally he collapsed, face forward in the water. His body floated and was being carried away by a current headed down through the city. As Morto desperately cranked his neck backwards to glance at his friend, he saw Alphus floating away.

“Alphus!” Morto tried to yell out, but the sound never reached far from his mouth. The rain was taking everything. Soon Morto knew he wasn’t going to be able to see. Slapping his face hard to spatter some of the watery contents away, he began to wade forward to his friend. He tried to go as fast as he could, but the travel was slow, despite his strength, his will. “Alphus!”

A small girl watched as great floods of water green, brown, and blue passed through the streets. She watched from her little home. Her father seemed to always know best, and in this case he was right: the rain wasn’t getting into the house. Father had done well with the support beams, with his fillers, and blockers…The passing water reminded her of sadness. It seemed that the farther the water went with its tenacity, its flow…she was always going to stay where she was. Her father had told her as much. She was going to stay…whether she like it or not.

She was about to turn away from the window, head down, towards her bed, passed her drunken father, passed her critical mother…but she never turned. She stared, this time with more attention drawn. She wouldn’t turn her head now, not for any reason: there was a man floating in the river…yes, it was a river…but it was also her life.

Alphus coughed and sputtered. He should’ve died, face down and ready to turn cold in only seconds, but a little girl saved him. As he looked at her, he could see that she was rolling up a rope that was attached to a crank. She must have used that, he thought. Brilliant girl. Brilliant little girl. He felt a gentle tug on his ankle. The girl gestured towards the rope. Alphus tried to lean forward and gather enough strength to take the rope off. In the end though, she took the rope off; Alphus’ cold white hands couldn’t even grasp...it was going to be a while surely.

The stellar student observed everything that was to be noted about the man. His skinny form…his shaky corpse…well, he looked like a corpse, anyway. All in all, there was a mess on her little dock before her door. Father would be angry, mother…mother would be critical. But she would take their insults, their bashes; right now she was going to take the man inside and warm him with soup and blankets.

“Calmly,” said the boy. “Calmly.”

“Did you, or didn’t you?!”

“Calmly.”

“Was there a damn body floating this way?!” Morto never hit a kid, but now he was tempted.

The boy took his time in wiping his big glasses. Morto grabbed the glasses, and held them hostage. The kid finally said no.

“Dammit!”

Morto threw the glasses back at the kid, hopped off the little dock, and started to continue swimming down alleys and streets. The more he swam, the more he found his life fading. Things bashed him, things cut, and bruised him...But he would find Alphus. Dead or alive.

A writer sat up in his newly acquired apartment building and looked out the window at the peculiar weather. Surely, he thought to himself, he would write about this: the wind, rain, bleeding flood…roaring. He was an unusual writer by trade, rejected by too many businesses to count—too many to attempt to count. He was a loner of vast degrees, but if he could help it he would be more social. But as he found in this city, with it’s many languages, dirty streets, and deceitful merchants, it wasn’t easy unless you were willing to be taken of something, which at times could easily be your life. He remembered one junky that approached him on the street. The junky had asked where the writer was from, he told him, then the other told him they were from the same place.

“Please, you’re from California 6 too. Couldn’t you just lend me some money, so that I could afford a ticket to go back there to my family? Maybe you know my family?”

Being a writer, sympathy was inevitable, especially since he was an epithetic type of writer. When he had implored whom his family was, the junky, with wiry hair and stained teeth, with red rimmed and crazy eyes suggested that they get off the main street so that they could hear each other better. Just as he was going to ascend into an alley with the junky, he was grabbed from behind and thrown back into the current of traveling people on the main street. As he turned back, he could see the junky gnashing his teeth and trying to reach the writer with a knife drawn.

As the writer waited in subdued social silence as the weather thrashed at the top roof, as shadows cast this way and that across his aged features, he hoped, more he prayed, that one day he could get out of the city alive one day. A month seemed like too many years that the writer felt he couldn’t expunge. Death was inevitable no matter what he knew…but he didn’t want to die in a place such as this…where no one would notice unless his watch sparkled in the sunshine that—when it came out—was simply ruthless…at least to the writer. A knock on a door to another room stirred his thoughts even further: who was that person that threw him back into the crowd that saved him from the junky? Was it the hand of God? Was God, then, investing in the writer’s life…was there a reason, a master plan after all, intended for the writer still to accomplish?

The writer had come to look out the window for inspiration, but now he felt more lost than he had before. Page number: one. Page number two. He had two pages, and two in which were very none interesting, very uninspired. His pencil twitched in his hand and he accidentally scribbled something onto page number three. His nerves weren’t good, his joints were worse. Soon he would have to do as that ancient painter did…whoever he was…and strap his pencil onto his wrist. He wanted to write until he died, that was fact, but he hated the pain. Perhaps that’s why he preferred to write about heavier topics, because he could take the emotional pain…but that physical pain was a killer. Killer? Could he write about a killer? A self-conscious, emotionally detached yet intuitively active tormented soul that one day searched for redemption, even though the odds of the purification of his soul were as numerous as his foes whom he had crossed and angered in his old life in the past? No, he decided, that was just debris in the wind…but maybe.

“Help!”

Yes, thought the writer, he needed help too.

“Help!”

The writer realized suddenly that it wasn’t his soul screaming at him, but a man who was looking at him trying to stay above the raging waters of the flood that passed under his apartment building.

“Sir!” cried the writer. “Are you in need of assistance?” He knew it was a stupid question and before he waited for a response, he was already looking for his bungee cords that he had attempted to use the night before for inspiration at the base of the city mountain. As it were, he cast out those bungee cords to the rapidly passing man. In a sudden motion like something read in old novels that described things called fish, the man leaped up and caught the bungee cords. But the writer quickly realized that the only thing that the other end of the cords was attached to was his wrists, that in his haste he had fastened to himself.

“No more moaning for a dead man,” was all that the writer uttered before he was yanked to the flood below to follow the fate of the man who held the other end of the bungee cords.

No, no! thought Morto, as he saw the old man fly out of the apartment window straight for the water. The old man was the only thing that tried to hold him from going further downriver? Damn! Sayonara life! So long future!

The little girl looked at Alphus, and Alphus looked at the little girl. Finally the little girl spoke:

“You need to be quiet, mother and father might hear.”

Alphus nodded slowly, still questioning the past two hours. Who met him in his shop earlier today? Why did he leave the shop? Why did he go out in such terrible weather, even after he knew what the weather was like and what it could do? Why was he still living in this place? Suddenly he realized he was being watched…oh, right, that little girl that saved him. Nice girl, probably neglected by her parents. Poor k