PR-451's memory was a bitch. No, [I]really[/I]. 'Memory' was a whore who, seemingly, had been used and battered to the extent that she lay there, limp, twitching, never again able to properly function. The first explanation that emerged was that he had, somehow, sustained a type of blunt force trauma - but then there'd be an enormous, evidential crack in his skull. And he'd be dead. Or was he? Technology was amazing in this day and age - it [I]could be[/I] capable of some magick-y shit. [I]But[/I], the mental image he received from [I]imagining[/I] Memory as a svelte female admirer did give him a kind of sick satisfaction, the same kind of satisfaction the generous slathering of blood and rust outside his personal shithole so [I]very[/I] kindly bequeathed. [I]Oh yeah.[/I] He dragged one foot in front of the other very deliberately, the legs of his unflattering jumpsuit far too long, oversized and brushing irritatingly at his heels. His thoughts having drifted momentarily, his ever-present companion eventually convinced him to return to the objective at hand. [I]Medbay, jackass.[/I] "I'm goin', I'm goin'. Don't get your panties in a bunch." muttered Craig, dirt-caked nails scratching at a spot behind his ear. [I]Nervous tic?[/I] Nervous tic. [I]The machine-eyes, man. Watch for the machine-eyes.[/I] Right. The machine-eyes. [I]Them.[/I] All of them tiny watchers, making up his own personal fan club. Yeah, [I]they[/I] wanted to take him out, stick needles and things into [I]places[/I]. Bright lights and immaculate, sterilized walls and floors. It made him nauseous, stomach churning with violent abandon. Now then, the medbay. The image in his head appeared like someone had deliberately planted it there. Someone, or some[I]thing[/I]. But it was there, and it was helpful, and he reminded himself he could shiv the responsible party later. There was a time and place for everything. Elevator, vents, ladder. [I]Elevator, vents, ladder.[/I] [I]Elevator, vents lad[/I] - would he just pick one and get it done with? That was what Jim wanted to know. Elevator didn't seem like an entirely safe bet. Who knew - the doors could close and the lights would pop and flicker and then [I]bzzt[/I] - gone. He'd violently jab all the buttons in a garbled panic as the oxygen slowly drained out, poisoning himself with his own desperate expulsions of carbon dioxide. Oh, that was certainly [I]not[/I] a good way to kick the proverbial bucket, no-siree. It was an obvious trap; one those [I]spy-monkeys[/I] hoped he was stupid enough to waltz merrily into. He wasn't going to do it and give them an excuse to recline in their big swivel chairs, giggling maniacally at their towering mosaic of screens. Vents. That sounded somewhat better. [I]Somewhat.[/I] But then again they could've rigged the vents. Or put [I]things[/I] inside the vents. Or maybe he'd crawl and crawl and end up on the wrong end, where all that awaited him was a steep and direct plummet into the waiting, whirring blades of an environmental control fan and end up chunks of Craig-Jim mix sprayed every-fucking-where. Then the air would smell like gore and that would be a mighty huge inconvenience to anyone else who inhabited this place. No one liked eau de eviscerated corpse. That left ladder - hell, ladder seemed plausible enough and - wait. Hang on [I]juuust[/I] a sec. A message. Glancing toward his friendly techpad, he scanned the words briefly and felt his brows arch in intrigue. Font. Yeah, way to pick an alias, buddy. There was some mention of contraband; he didn't know what for or what the heck it even looked like. But he liked the word 'contraband' - it was a word dear and close to his heart. He didn't trust this 'Font'. He didn't trust anyone save for himself and handy-dandy Jim. But if there was one thing he was sure of over not trusting people, it was that he really, [I]really[/I] wanted to know what the fuck was going on - and if 'Font' said he could help, then maybe he should pay him a visit - visit his drop-box or whatever crap he meant. Reaching the medbay meant a trip through the mazeworks after all. And if 'Font' turned out to be anything less than a happy fluke, he could always kill him. [I]But make sure he ain't one of 'em bots first.[/I] Ah, the dangers of barreling headfirst into the unknown. --- He'd used the ladder. Getting downstairs was easier than he thought, though Font's mention of 'patrol' and 'one of you' didn't sound like good news. Even though PR-451 couldn't remember shit, he at least knew that his mind reacted adversely to even the slightest mention of law enforcement. Additionally, he didn't like he'd abandoned his rat's nest of a room up there. But what the hell, right? He noted a collapsed roof panel some paces off, slipping past it and being greeted by what appeared to be a mind-boggling array of paths leading to various sectors. Security hub, or medbay first? He flipped a coin in his head, then turned to Jim for confirmation. [I]Medbay. Don't be fickle.[/I] And so Craig headed northward. The medbay neared, and so did the strange person he'd seen on his techpad - a woman, by the looks of it. Well now, he liked girls and he liked to think girls liked him too. And that, to him, was taking significantly less risk than crashing the security hub first. He trusted no one, but that didn't mean he couldn't attempt to manipulate. In his approach he heard the distinct droning of a mechanical voice, but couldn't make out the words. Pressing his spine up against an adjacent wall, he gripped his gun with renewed purpose and attempted to peek over the side, catching only spindly robotic spider-legs and flailing crab-pincers. [I]Watch them machines.[/I] He waited.