. . .

Assimilation
Prologue

It was something of a laugh to Atom how easily he could walk into the building without being detected.

He was sure his off-key energy signature would spark the interest of the spiked, rolling wheelchairs guarding Circuit Twenty-Two's local bar. He was sure that his battered deposition—optics broken, armor chipped, bleeding, and mud-stained with oily grease from the outside air—would arouse suspicion from even the rustic, creaking chairs slumped against the doorway. But all the glassy-eyed, tired-looking drones did was scan him over a few times, declaring ridiculous things such as, "Oh, a Generation 2! how unique, how incredible, how wonderfully rare!" before ushering him through the door in a mad frenzy. No one bothered to check his registered identity online, or noticed that his eyes were a deep, deep blue, more intelligently, and keenly, aware than theirs—that he was more of a machine, a humane yet unemotional machine, than any one of them.

Their mirrors were located in the bathroom.

Navigating around the bar was even easier than entering, and through the exhaust smoke from the hundreds milling around him and the the smog of narcotic, mind-numbing drugs, Atom reached the bartender in a matter of seconds. He found himself surrounded by cool, yet fleshy metal bodies, and he shivered at the synthetic feel of his robotic 'brethrens', at their false display of human mimic. It was disgusting—he didn't understand how any one of them could actually pretend to be something they were not.

"Did ya need anything?" the 'tender, a one-eyed, blue haired robot, asked him carelessly as he leant across the counter. The sound coming from the robot's vocals was distorted from years of asking the same question, and his movements as he rapidly serviced were odd and jerky.

"Yes—no. Well, maybe; could you direct me to the bathroom?" Atom felt a thrill of satisfaction as his usually monotone voice came out as clear and convincing as if he were a programmed Generation Thirty robot.

The one-eyed robot tilted his head slightly, and sparks flew from his slim neck before he nodded and consulted his processor for a mental map, subspaced a sheet of paper and pen from his chest, slowly wrote down the directions—complete with colorful diagrams and figures—and handed it to Atom. There was a stain of dark purple blood on the bottom tip of the paper, and Atom smiled as he gratefully took it, murmured a, "Thank you", and headed towards the back of the building.

But before he left the room, he chanced a glance back at the 'tender and found the poor robot doubled over in pain from his recent mental effort, oil leaking from his lips as his body spasmed and overheated. Atom grimaced in sympathy and annoyance—really, was it so hard to fix defects instead of just keeping them there and throwing them away later? There wasn't a single use to anything Circuit Twenty-Two had, whether it be the clubs, bars, factories, or homes; most were just rejects from larger, more important cities—old generations abandoned the moment they were created because their technology had become obsolete a mere week after it came out.

Atom supposed he was lucky. Lucky that he had been created centuries before machines completely replaced humans as. . . themselves.

As the Generation Two robot made his way around the corners and loops of the once sparkling clean building, he paused as the drone of the lobby's television drifted noisily from the next room. He could make out, through the thin walls, the almost perfect human voice of a female blandly reciting the lines from a prescripted news-board, her tone holding just enough solemnity to be convincing:

". . .We are now approaching another pollution storm around the western middle of Ninety-Six and Ninety-Seven. . . every frontier on dry lands is issued an immediate Level Three Emergency Warning. . . please be cautious of thunderhead clouds and rising acid rain as you go out today. . . for tomorrow's scheduled weather forecast–"

A frown flitted behind Atom's meshed faceplates as the female's voice was abruptly replaced by a harsher, more authoritative bark from a new robot.

"For tomorrow's scheduled weather forecast—" the new cold, male voice spat out mockingly, and the G2 bot had to suppress a disgusted shudder—"we have just recently received news that two very infamous rogues were found loitering near Circuit Twenty a few days ago. . . nothing strange about that, right?; however, they were seen stealing mirrors from every single room of Twenty's bars and hotels. . . how foolish; they were being quite subtle, were they not?"

The voice laughed, a loud, grating sound of hatred. "For the remainder of this month, and only this month, a glorifying prize will be awarded to the 'bot who intercepts these rogues as they—most indubitably—skip to the Twenty's neighboring cities. . . the prize of one, full-grown adult human."

Atom felt a chill creep up his backstruts as the newscaster's voice became drowned out in a sea of crackling exclamations from the adjacent room. He could just imagine the gears clicking with revelation in the processor of every robot in the building; in the drugged minds of the blood-stained wheelchairs outside, who had instantly recognized him as a Generation Two, and in the fritzing processor of the bartender, who was probably reanalyzing his image again in an attempt to match him up online.

"So, who do you suppose these two are?. . . why, just a decrepit Generation Two and a lowly Generation Three robot, both from the age of rustic organic beings. . ."

At the sound of those last few words, Atom was already running as fast as he could out of the room and away from the enraptured crowd, their optics intently staring at the flickering screen, not realizing that he was in the same building as them. But by the time he made it through the bathroom door, he could hear the crowd's buzz of revelation as the metallic voice uttered their names—

"Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you. . . the notorious Atom and Zeus–"

With mounting panic, Atom slammed the door shut and turned towards the pearly-white, luminescent slabs of glass in front of him. He brought his fist smashing through the mirrors before each stall, the wounds on his knuckles reopening with shredded crystal at each thunderous punch. By the time the wheelchairs remembered him and the 'tender stopped blanking out enough to tell the robots his location, he had already secured all five of the mirrors—

"Go now and capture them. . . there is so much potential out there for all of us. . . and only they are stopping our nation from its rightful rise."

"Rise, rise, rise!" Atom shouted bitterly, recklessly, as he lifted his body up and through the bathroom's window. He was half-way out, arms gripping tight onto the mirrors, when the mob of robots finally rounded the corner and banged uproariously on the door—

"There is no rise for your humanity," he hissed and, with a final heavy thud, dropped down from the building and into the welcoming envelop of polluted air and warm dirt.

Atom could see the searching lights wildly flashing from every crevice of the city, gifting it with a glow that could outmatch any one of the major southern circuits. He pressed himself against the bar's brick wall, listening to the excited, exasperated murmurs only a few feet away from him. His sharp optics caught a brief movement to the right, as a dark, subtle figure quickly sprinted across the road towards him. Zeus' grim face appeared out of the darkness, mirroring his own despondency.

"Someone caught us; offered prize," the G2 robot informed his tall friend as they met halfway, and traded annoyed glances at one another and the flickering green lights. He switched back to his usual monotone, short-clipped voice, having nothing to hide from Zeus. "A human as the reward. . . unbelievable."

"I've seen them do worse," Zeus said emotionlessly. "Did you get the mirrors?"

"Yeah; get his parts?"

"Right here." The black-hued, once champion of boxing, held up a blood-stained bag in his hands. "Charlie really mutilated him back in 2020. . . it's gonna be hard rewiring him together, and he might not even wake up afterwards."

Atom's optics shuttered dully at the mention of Charlie, and Zeus had the decency to look apologetic. "Be fine–" he finally said, "Need everyone we can get."

"You sure he's worth it?"

The G2 bot's expression grew blank as he opened the top of the huge burlap bag. A glimmer of faded, still rich purple armor shone ardently in the dimness.

"Any one of us still left," Atom murmured as the sirens of their pursuers grazed the air with its loud, echoing promise of destruction, "is worth it."

Tbc.

A/N: Geez, I haven't written anything in awhile! 0_0

This was just a spur of the moment kind of thing, and I semi-sorta kind of have an idea where I'm going, but no promises there. This was really fun to write; and even though it's a bit vague and confusing-ish right now, things will be cleared up later on (if I continue). Story mainly revolves around the robots, and not the humans in this fic, plus it's sometime far in the future, so be warned - and yes, they're alive and yes, it shall be -kinda- explained later on. (But here's a hint - remember Atom looking into the mirror in the movie?)

Hope it was enjoyable! (Also, anyone catch the TF and SH references? 8D Also also, will I get murdered if I include -possible- slash?)