The Mysterious Traveler was first heard on the Mutual Broadcasting System on December 5, 1943. The program aired stories that were written from various genre...
Summary: ”Magic!Anon time! Crib, you sound like you have a lot of pent up problems with yourself, so for the rest of the day you have a clone of yourself to talk to so you can make amends.”
Warnings(hover): -1- -2- and also feels
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There is a mutual curiosity, though Crib feels a pitted revulsion and envy of her old self rise within her. She remembered being this thing, this oblivious spirit, kind golem. This contemptible and spineless her.
But it’s sweet. Sweet and nostalgic, and perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad, having her around, just for a little while.
“Crib,” says the present, and she gently lifts the past’s hands off the ground, examining them. The past can look forward with nothing but dim confusion, silent and innocent. As Crib moves her hands up to the shoulders of her chassis, across the gleaming surface, recognition dawns on the past, eliciting a rumbling laugh.
“Crib!” chirps the past, balancing on her awkward legs. Trying to match the height of the present, the stature, and failing. No hard feelings. She puts a hand down to keep from falling and touches her future’s thin arm. “Crib, what a strange arm! You delightful thing, you’ve grown.” A small chuckle. “Didn’t know I could do that! You look almost human now!”
No she didn’t. That was a lie. Any hint of a smile that might have lit the present’s stare is now gone.
And the past continues, a spark of knowing in her eyes, though her voice is honest. “And you’re very beautiful, you know. With all those upgrades, I’m glad you kept the furnace, even though it’s always been a little troublesome.”
Crib can feel the indignant self-loathing rise and shakes her head at herself. “‘M not, darling, but I did.” Her hands drift and settle at the intersection of the past’s arms and body, holding her in what could be a friendly, firm grip. But she seems more concerned than that, more intensely focused. “How much do you remember?”
The silence that grows as she lets the question hang becomes uncomfortable, the younger bot averting her eyes. “A lot,” she says quietly, but she knows it’s not the answer she’s looking for. She doesn’t want to give the answer, however true, that she’s asking for. “I remember— maybe not remember, they’re not my memories, they’re yours— I know what happened, what you’ve been doing, and I’m— I’m proud, Crib. That you’ve gotten so far.”
“Haven’t done anything t’be proud of.”
“Sure you have! What about when we did what we were s’posed to and protected Eliza, and you Laurie, an’ that new companion of y—”
“Don’t talk about The Mouse. The others are dead.”
A flinch. “Well what about when you brought food to those guys even though you nearly choked going through the store and got yelled at by the owner? And you did things like that a lot, even though you hardly had anything to give most of the time! And then you’d wait in the cold with them to keep them warm and—”
“The least a piece of shit like myself could do. They needed it more’n I needed the gas money.” Her eyes narrow, and her grip tightens. “Don’t keep going, darlin’, you’re avoiding my question.”
The younger bot shrinks back, though stopped by the hands of the other. She seems so hateful, so vitriolic— why was she acting like this? Sure, she was used to Eliza’s backhanded words, soul-crippling self-doubt she could only smile through and bear strongly, but she was never… She meets the present’s gaze, somberly, soberly. “I… remember up to when mum died, but I don’t remember what happened after that. I— I know what happened, but I guess I felt— I’d hoped maybe I could die too ‘n join her.”
Metal and all, Crib could be sick. And those words, that confirmation that yes, this her had outlived her creator, this is what she’s been waiting for. She doesn’t give herself the split second she’d need to react as she tears one arm from her past and disables the other, slamming her head so hard into the ground her optics shatter. The past emits an awful whine, only to be pinned under her own feet.
“YOU COULD HAVE SAVED HER,” Crib screams, tearing off the other arm. “YOU COWARD, YOU KNEW YOU DIDN’T HAVE ENOUGH GOING OUT THERE, KNEW THAT SHE KNEW, YOU COULD HAVE DONE SOMETHING!”
The past cries out in terror, though the pain is only emotional. She can’t get the leverage to push herself up again, to run, to fight back, and she’s not even sure she wants to. “No, no, I tried, I— she said she had fuel, I—”
“YOU KNEW SHE WAS LYING, SHE WAS LYING LIKE SHE ALWAYS DID, SHE LIED AND YOU DID NOTHING!” She picks up the younger body and lifts her up, only to smash her back down again.
“I—”
“YOU STUPID USELESS PIECE OF SCRAP,” she shrieks, punctuating her words with slams into the ground. “SHE GAVE YOU ONE GODDAMN PURPOSE, SHE MADE YOU TO PROTECT HER, TO KEEP HER FROM LONELINESS AND COLD AND BODILY HARM AND YOU STILL MANAGED TO FUCK UP EVERYTHING!”
The younger bot’s legs are convulsing, words catching and stammering as the insults and blows wrack her, ram her. “I-I I n-n—n-n- st—st-st—t-top—” And another whine, another awful wrenching sound as she’s dropped and her legs come off, wires snapping and sparking. “I-I-I—-I——”
“YOU WHAT?” she snaps, bringing down her fist on the limbless torso beneath her. Oh, that was a familiar motion. “THERE IS NOTHING YOU CAN SAY TO REDEEM YOURSELF, NOTHING THAT WILL EVER MAKE IT BETTER.” She strikes, and strikes again, caving in the chassis, scattering coals and sparks as the furnace door pops open.
“Wh-wh-hhwhhh-wh-aa-t a-a-a—a-a—b-b-b-bout yyyyour f-f-fr-frie—eh-en-n-nd,” the injured bot stutters out through the attacks.
The present stops its relentless beating of the past, crouching down to look her in the still-functioning rear optics. Her voice is low, venemous. Dangerous. Eyes bright. “What about her?”
“I-it doesn’t m-make i-i-i-i-i-it any b-b-b-b-better,” she scrapes out, stammering less that the beating’s stopped, “b-b-b—b-bbuut if M-m-mum lived y-y—yyou wouldn’t h-h—h-ave th-the f-ff-f-friends you d-do nnnnow, a-a-and TM never w-w-would have b-e-e-een c-cc-c-cr-made.”
Crib makes a horrified, angry noise, freezing up. No. Don’t go down that road. Don’t you dare.
“W-w—w-w-would you give her up? Sh-sh-she treats you be—e-e-e-tter than E-E-Eli—Mom ever d-d-did.”
“Shut up.”
So she struck a nerve. Might as well go for it. She was going to die anyway. “S-so to have yo-oo-our a-a-a-abusive mother b-aa-a-ck you’d kill your b-e-e-est fr—”
“SHUT UP!” she screams, lashing out, thrashing her arm against herself, slamming her down, again and again and again. She falls into catastrophic rhythm, mind flashing back to when Lady repaired her, when she beat her hands so long and relentlessly the metal dented and split, the first time she nearly tore herself to pieces.
She doesn’t let up, and in the unforgiving pounding the younger bot’s vocal unit breaks, the rear eyes shatter, her neck seizes up. No sense but hearing, but screaming thought, but the scraping and pounding of metal ringing throughout what’s left of her broken body.
Minutes pass before Crib stops, gripped by a burning anger and revulsion. She stares down at the wrecked body in her hand and drops it, the metal plates in her fingers clattering loosely. Oh.
She’d forgotten what that was like. What disgusting things she could do.
She tears off her old self’s access hatch, flipping the switch to shut her off. Notices, for the first time, The Mouse peering out of the barn. TM, who’d been watching the whole thing, the whole time.
Crib looks numbly down, the accusations of a corpse ringing in her mind.
She turns back to TM, holding her hand out to be examined. Swallowing any words that might try to escape. And really, what is there to say?
They drag the body into the barn and spend the rest of the day repairing Crib's hand and reading in silence outside.
