Tony Saves Us All

If someone were to ask you, “What happened on Y2K?” You’d probably say, “Nothing.” But that’s only because you don’t remember. You don’t remember that the first time it came around it destroyed humanity. You don’t remember the love between a boy and his friend. You don’t remember, because for you it never happened. 

If it hadn’t been for Herman I would have been happy to sit back and watch Y2K burn the world to the ground.  

My name’s Tony. I’m a Speak & Spell. I was one of the first to roll out with the new line in ‘78. I wasn’t lucky enough to get shipped to Toys Я Us, or KB, or one of those ‘fun stores.’ I was put up at F. A. O. Schwarz, bought by a rich mother and given to an uninterested preteen. He turned me on, played with me three times and tossed me in a closet. I spent twelve years in that closet, until someone I’d never seen threw me in a cardboard box. I spent nineteen years in that box.

In the winter of ‘99 the flaps flew open and children pawed at the toys inside. They pulled out the He-Men and Ninja Turtles and Barbies, all of them disfigured in some unique way. They snatched up the Koosh balls and Pound Puppies; I laid on the bottom of the box on a pile of broken books. 

A shy faced boy poked his head over the edge and blinked down at me. After a moment he carefully reached in and picked me up. He brought me to a corner of the room, sat on the floor, and pushed ON. 

“Bee-do-dee-beep.” 

“Cool,” the boy whispered.

He pushed my GO button.

“Spell hello.”

Without hesitation, the kid typed the letters in and found the ENTER key.

“That is Correct.”

He giggled.

“Spell your name.”

“Huh?” Slowly, he keyed the letters, and cocked his head in curiosity as he pushed ENTER.

“Herman. Hello, Herman. I’m To—” My batteries died.

“Bee-do-dee-beep.”

Herman grinned down at me. “Awesome.”

A tall dark man, dressed in a tightly buttoned blue coverall stood over his shoulder. “See there, Herman? It’s not broken, just needed some fresh batteries.”

Herman smiled up at the man. “Thanks, Jerry.”

“No problem, kid.” He held a package of batteries out to Herman. “Here. You can take the rest. I don’t use them for anything around here anyway.”

“Thanks.”

Jerry  tapped my screen. “I remember these. Never had one. Some of my friends did.” He leaned in. “How’s it work?”

Herman shrugged and pushed GO.

“Spell Gratitude.”

Herman punched the letters in.

“That is correct. Spell battery.” 

Herman held me up to Jerry. “Wanna try it?”

Jerry shrugged. “Eh. I don’t…”

Herman could see he wanted to try and insisted, “Give it a try.”

“Alright.” Jerry stared down at me and ran a thumb across my keypad. He pushed ENTER.

“Wrong. Spell Battery.”

Herman and Jerry exchanged a quick glance. Jerry squinted as he deliberately punched in the letters. He stared at me waiting.

“You’ve got to push enter.”

“Oh.” 

“That is correct, Jerry.” 

Herman and Jerry locked eyes, shocked. 

I got a kick out of it.

In the fraction of a second it took for the clock to roll over from 11:59 12/31/1999 to 12:00 1/1/2000, the world blinked. Every screen in Times Square, every monitor in the Pentagon, every TV at home, blinked. In twenty minutes missiles were already landing, cities were already burning. The intelligence was ruthless.

It was a long road to the time rift. The rift that gave us all a second chance. We lost Jerry along the way. Herman and I learned that there are greater terrors than pain. The alien race that birthed the intelligence held no quarter, and so its machines slew with indifference. 

Herman and Jerry and I joined a small group of survivors. We pushed west where it was rumored the intelligence had originated. We were hunted by drones and cyber trucks and satellites. They pursued us through ruin and ravine. How we made the journey, I’ll never know.

The fortress was easy to spot, an untouched, monolithic tower, gleaming as it jutted from the smoldering ruins of cities that would never be rebuilt.

Our party fell, one after the other until it came down to Herman, Louis (a factory worker from the Sacramento valley) and me. We were only able to infiltrate the inner sanctum of the intelligence’s lair because of louis’ brutal sacrifice. He was torn limb from limb. Even as he screamed in agony, we pushed on.

We dangled over the edge of the abyss. It seemed all was for naught. Herman was losing his grip trying to hold on to me.

“Let go, Herman.”

“Nooo.” 

The rift churned and swirled below us. Blue and white energy, bursts of black lightning. It thundered as it grew. The alien entity's voice growled from all around, warning us that our efforts were futile. My circuit board hummed with a sympathetic frequency.

“Herman.”

“No.”

“Herman.”

His hair whipped around his face, tears streaming down his cheeks.

“Let me go.”

He whimpered. His fingers began to slip further. He cried out and let me drop, throwing a hand up just in time to save himself. He called out as I fell, “I love you, Tony.”

“I love you, Herman.”

 I don’t know if it was simply the makeup of my circuit board and capacitors atomizing and intermingling with the sterile energy of the rift that brought us back. Would it all have gone the same had I not, in that moment of annihilation, felt an overwhelming love for the boy?

I was back in the box. The flaps flipped open and children snatched up the toys. Herman’s face poked over the edge of the box. He lifted me out, brought me to a corner of the room and pushed ON.

“Bee-do-dee-beep.”

“Cool,” Herman whispered. He pushed GO.

“Spell friend, Herman.”

“Woah.”