Rusted Memories

The stars glittered like diamonds that dripped from the cape of a queen. Clockwork recalled an old legend that said if you drank starlight from the heavens you’d remember what you didn’t even know you had forgotten. 

He wanted that more than anything right now. Clockwork shook his head, further disrupting his disheveled, synthetic, ivory hair. His green eyes dilated, swiftly acclimating to the atremental gloom that closed around him as twilight departed and night strolled the streets. He looked at the address written on a scrap of paper. This whole process seemed all too familiar, yet he couldn’t quite understand why. The memories had flown from him like a flock of startled doves. Clockwork had a feeling they were never coming back. 

He turned down the street where the figure stood, leaning against a flashing sign, neon of all things. 

With all the new technology that had developed in the last hundred years, neon had become too dull to allure anyone. That made seeing such a sign quite the special and nostalgic occasion. 

“You’re the one they call Clockwork I assume?” 

 Clockwork nodded observing the man in a matter of seconds. Caucasian, bushy thick black hair and tobacco stains around his lips indicating recent use of a chew or smoke. Though with those tattered clothes, Clockwork assumed that the nicotine was the only comfort this man had. 

“I need you to fetch something for me.” The man reached into his pocket, likely to procure the pecuniary means to convince him.

“I’m not going to steal if that’s what you’re asking.” 

“It’s not stealing if it was stolen from me.”

“And how can you prove that?” Clockwork looked at him, a perturbed attitude displayed in each spoken syllable.

The man thrust out his arm, and Clockwork pulled out a coin-like disc. He used it to scan the bump that was there, pulling up the man’s virtual file. He scrolled through it. 

“Stop! That’s it.” the man said. Clockwork stopped scrolling. 

On the screen was a statuette which, according to the file, had been reported missing to the police but never recovered.

“I’ve found it, but the feds don’t believe me.”

“So you want me to steal it back for you.”

“...To be frank, yes.”

“If I may inquire as to why this item matters to you?” Clockwork raised an eyebrow.

“It’s a family heirloom, I have little else in this and to at least have this would bring me great comfort.”

He was obviously lying, the hitches in his breath, his too-quick words, and nervous ticks. More likely the man wanted it to sell in order to make the rent for a handful of months. But why should he care? It was a legitimate job, even if it was stealing it was stealing something back, not taking something that belonged to someone else rightfully.

“All right, I’ll aid you.” Clockwork pocketed the disc with the image of the statuette and strode forward.

“Wait!” The man scribbled down another address. “The place is behind me, but I can’t be here or he’ll know it was me. I’ll meet you on this street at four tomorrow for your payment in exchange for the heirloom.” 

Clockwork nodded and watched the man scurry away into the dark like a mangy stray.

He turned and faced the rickety building before glancing side to side, crouching down, and leaping into the second story open window. He landed adroitly on the carpeted floors. He froze, listening, waiting… Not a sound ensued to show that there was any sort of alarm or person in the premises. Clockwork stood and crept forward, silence blanketing the room. Which room would a statuette be in? He knew it would be on the second floor. You wouldn’t keep something of value in a bar, which was what lay downstairs. The trick was simply to find which room on the second floor contained the desired item. 

Clockwork slipped into the hallway, praying that his rusting joints wouldn’t make a sound, but the jeans and hoodie he wore seemed to muffle any noise. 

He opened a door or two before finally discovering one was locked. Clockwork peered over his shoulder and surveyed the empty hall before flicking his hoodie sleeve back. A blue light came from his wrist that scanned the lock.

“Mortise lock dating back about twenty years…” He muttered to himself before flicking out his other hand. A compartment opened in his forearm, an assortment of tools nestled within. Clockwork got to work on the lock. 

With a satisfying clunk and a squeak, the lock opened. He slid inside, shutting the door behind him. Clockwork turned his gaze around the room, catching a glimpse of his humanoid face in the dusty window. If he didn’t know better he would have said he was a human entirely rather than his humanity only being skin deep.

On a pedestal sat the statuette. There didn’t appear to be any alarms as he tentatively picked it up. 

“Hello Clockwork.”

Clockwork whirled around to see two gloomy figures in the doorway.

“You look as though you’ve seen a ghost, still having memory troubles are you? Poor glitchy little robot.”

Clockwork snarled, “I’m not some pet!” 

“How cute, it thinks it owns itself. Perhaps our little robot thinks it’s sentient.” The men behind him laughed.

“Get out of my way, Gears.” Clockwork shifted hoping to get into a better place from which he could escape. 

“I’m afraid I can’t do that. You see, you are my property.” He snapped his fingers and the thugs launched forward, crashing into the antiques as Clockwork flipped backward through the window.

Shards flew through the air like javelins on an ancient battlefield. Everything seemed to go in slow motion, the shards falling like shooting stars in the night. The evening sky above him an ebony silver studded cloak. He was so tired of not knowing, of being seen as no more than a drone for someone's disposable use.

Clockwork snapped out his hand, a jet of flame propelling him just enough to alight on his feet and run into the night. 

As long as he could still feel and still run, he would never stop.