The Ranger spins away from a strike on the left, blocks a blow from the right, ducks under a swing from the front.
He jumps back, avoiding the grabbing hands of the fallen bots around his feet.
He stays as far from the group of six as he can while still engaging one or two of the bots on the edges of it.
His staff, now bent into an obtuse angle, moves in a blur, striking bots' torsos, arms, and legs. Merlok's music, annoying though it might be, lets him fall into a rhythm: dodge a blade, deliver a flurry of blows, fall back and wait for the bots to come to him again.
"Pixal," he says, breathing heavily. "You think you could redirect some of that energy to my arm?"
"Already done," says Pixal.
The Ranger flexes his wrist; then, as a bot stabs its blade toward him, he thrusts forward his staff. The bot's hand, blade, and whole arm enter the end of the pipe. The Ranger whips the pipe to one side, detaching the bot's arm and sending the bot flying through the space.
"Huh," he says, dodging another blade and swinging his staff into a bot's shins. "That's more like it."
"I told you the music would help!" Merlok shouts gleefully.
The Ranger forces a bot into retreat, then sweeps its legs out from underneath it. "Hmm . . . yes. . . ." He turns toward the remaining three bots and spins the staff in his hands.
But the bots have stopped moving, and their eyes are flashing again.
"I sense a great disturbance in the Hub," says Pixal.
"That's my line," grumbles Merlok.
The music coming from the box slows down until it turns into a rattling hum that shakes the air.
"Turn that off," says the Ranger, glancing around for any new dangers.
Merlok grumbles some more, ("It was supposed to be ominous. . . .") but switches the music off anyway.
The Ranger spins away from a strike on the left, blocks a blow from the right, ducks under a swing from the front.
He jumps back, avoiding the grabbing hands of the fallen bots around his feet.
He stays as far from the group of six as he can while still engaging one or two of the bots on the edges of it.
His staff, now bent into an obtuse angle, moves in a blur, striking bots' torsos, arms, and legs. Merlok's music, annoying though it might be, lets him fall into a rhythm: dodge a blade, deliver a flurry of blows, fall back and wait for the bots to come to him again.
"Pixal," he says, breathing heavily. "You think you could redirect some of that energy to my arm?"
"Already done," says Pixal.
The Ranger flexes his wrist; then, as a bot stabs its blade toward him, he thrusts forward his staff. The bot's hand, blade, and whole arm enter the end of the pipe. The Ranger whips the pipe to one side, detaching the bot's arm and sending the bot flying through the space.
"Huh," he says, dodging another blade and swinging his staff into a bot's shins. "That's more like it."
"I told you the music would help!" Merlok shouts gleefully.
The Ranger forces a bot into retreat, then sweeps its legs out from underneath it. "Hmm . . . yes. . . ." He turns toward the remaining three bots and spins the staff in his hands.
But the bots have stopped moving, and their eyes are flashing again.
"I sense a great disturbance in the Hub," says Pixal.
"That's my line," grumbles Merlok.
The music coming from the box slows down until it turns into a rattling hum that shakes the air.
"Turn that off," says the Ranger, glancing around for any new dangers.
Merlok grumbles some more, ("It was supposed to be ominous. . . .") but switches the music off anyway.
The silence rings in the Ranger's ears. "What is it, Pixal?" he asks.
"Some . . . new conjuring of the Program," she says. "Something quite large. . . ."
And then the Ranger sees it.
In the distance behind the three immobile bots, five towering, silvery figures approach. "Are they . . . bots?" he asks.
One of them unslings a long-barreled blaster--a bangun.
"I don't know what they are," says Pixal.
"Run," Echo whispers. "Run."
You don't have to tell me twice. . . .
The Ranger turns and runs in the opposite direction. He hears a pounding and clanking from behind, and looks over his shoulder to find the three bots and the five silver giants running after him.
And the eight of them are steadily gaining ground.
"What do I do?" he hisses.
"I could play the music again," Merlok offers.
"Just keep running," Pixal says. "I'll do my best to keep your energy levels stable. Maybe you can lose them among the users."
The Ranger grimaces. "Will the users be able to see them?"
"I . . . I don't know. "I'm sorry."
"It's OK. I just hope we don't get anyone banned by accident."
The user space is a massive, open room with the occasional floor-to-ceiling pillar to break up the emptiness. Elevators set into the pillars lead up to the glass-walled and -floored user boxes on the ceiling. Bright lights floats about in the air like multicolored stars, and pastel mists hang around the elevators. Every once in a while clusters of bubbles drift by, too.
Unfortunately, the Ranger can't stop to appreciate any of it. The three smaller bots are right behind him.
He passes groups of users on the ground, talking and laughing, and he recognizes all of them.
The corners of his mouth turn up and his eyes start to blur.
The silence rings in the Ranger's ears. "What is it, Pixal?" he asks.
"Some . . . new conjuring of the Program," she says. "Something quite large. . . ."
And then the Ranger sees it.
In the distance behind the three immobile bots, five towering, silvery figures approach. "Are they . . . bots?" he asks.
One of them unslings a long-barreled blaster--a bangun.
"I don't know what they are," says Pixal.
"Run," Echo whispers. "Run."
You don't have to tell me twice. . . .
The Ranger turns and runs in the opposite direction. He hears a pounding and clanking from behind, and looks over his shoulder to find the three bots and the five silver giants running after him.
And the eight of them are steadily gaining ground.
"What do I do?" he hisses.
"I could play the music again," Merlok offers.
"Just keep running," Pixal says. "I'll do my best to keep your energy levels stable. Maybe you can lose them among the users."
The Ranger grimaces. "Will the users be able to see them?"
"I . . . I don't know. "I'm sorry."
"It's OK. I just hope we don't get anyone banned by accident."
The user space is a massive, open room with the occasional floor-to-ceiling pillar to break up the emptiness. Elevators set into the pillars lead up to the glass-walled and -floored user boxes on the ceiling. Bright lights floats about in the air like multicolored stars, and pastel mists hang around the elevators. Every once in a while clusters of bubbles drift by, too.
Unfortunately, the Ranger can't stop to appreciate any of it. The three smaller bots are right behind him.
He passes groups of users on the ground, talking and laughing, and he recognizes all of them.
The corners of his mouth turn up and his eyes start to blur.
A hand grabs the end of the Ranger's cloak, and his feet fly out from under him.
The lights and colors blur and tilt before his eyes.
He lands on his back, staring up at the glass user boxes through a film of tears.
He clutches the box of drives tightly to his chest.
After so many years . . . he finally gets to see this place. This place where he should have been, Ranger or no.
It doesn't even matter that he's been caught.
He closes his eyes as the bots hold him down. The visual overload vanishes, but even the sound of the users going about their business is overwhelming.
I was a bot. He realizes it at last.
I used to be a bot, but these users . . . these people put some of themselves into the Boards . . .
. . . into me.
His smile widens. I . . . I'm more than just a part of the Program now.
He opens his eyes to find a silver giant standing over him, a bangun aimed at his face.
"It's going to be OK," the Ranger whispers, shoulders shaking with combined laughs and sobs.
The giant pulls the trigger. With a bang the bangun fires.
But the Ranger's body, clothes, staff, box of drives and all, are fuzzing like a hologram. The blast from the bangun passes right through him.
More than just a part of the Program.
I could be a sort of user, if I wanted.
If the Boards weren't ending.
"Hey, bots," he says, as he starts to drift down through the floor. "This statement is false."
All eight bots freeze in place, and the Ranger laughs.
"Actually, it is false," says Merlok.
The Ranger shakes his head, smiling. The users fade away as he sinks further into the grey floor. "Does it really matter?"
"Well . . . Pixal and Echo can be confused by paradoxes, too. . . ."
"We're fine," says Pixal. "We have more intellectual freedom than do bots. All we had to do was ignore him."
"It was easy, really," says Echo quietly. "Easy, really."
"Well, thanks," says the Ranger dryly. He closes his eyes again, thinking about what he's leaving behind.
Thinking about a future that will never be.
I have to let go.
He takes a shuddering breath and starts to drift forward instead of down. "Thanks."
Keep it up! 
