The End Of The Whole Mess
This is an AU future what if-y sort of fic, based on the idea of an Apple buy out and PC's reaction. Warnings for: unhappiness. Titular nods to: Stephen King.
It should have been a good day.
And really, it's not like anyone didn't see it coming. Microsoft's numbers went down, Apple's numbers went up. In the end it was a mercy buy out.
Mac passes by crowds of well wishers. Their faces are blurred. He's grinning from ear to ear. Success tastes sweet. The future is now.
PC is nowhere to be found.
Eventually Mac goes looking for him. He figures the guy is probably, understandably, a little angry. After all, they aren't going to be manufacturing him anymore. And while it had to happen some day, Mac feels slightly guilty about it happening at his hands. He figures a few well placed words will do wonders for PC's feelings and his own conscience. It's not like he's going to abandon him, after all.
He finds PC sitting by himself, jacket draped over his knees, shoulders hunched up around his ears. His hands are clasped in front of him, and although his back is to Mac, he can see that his knuckles are white.
"Hey, man," Mac coos, as soothingly as he can. "How long have you been out here? Come inside. Enjoy the party. I say it's okay, and what I say goes."
He flashes PC's shoulders a charming grin. He nearly misses PC's soft, "No."
"PC," Mac says, plaintively. "No hard feelings. It's not that bad."
He places a hand on PC's shoulder.
He expects PC to jerk away. To yell. Something. He doesn't expect PC to turn to him, his face white, his eyes wide and terrified. Mac's grin melts away.
"I mean it. It's not that bad. I mean, you're mine now. You don't have to worry about it. I'll take care of you," he finds himself saying.
"You'll take care of me?"
PC's voice is hushed and desperate.
"You people wouldn't even support your own systems running bootcamp."
PC's hands are shaking. Mac opens and closes his mouth a few times, but has no come-back. He straightens his tie. Which just appeared one day after an upgrade. Along with a suit jacket (a slick, slim-cut one by Armani). He still wears jeans, but his sneakers have been re-written into dress shoes (Italian leather). Apple has another, ridiculously small piece of hardware out that covers the t-shirt and hoodie crowd these days, but despite a thickening waist-line (he's starting to know what PC was complaining about all those years ago), Mac can still hang. PC's on the bigger and slower side himself; a little grey around the temples. Mac has been, in his opinion, nothing but kind about it.
"It's not like we're going to...you've got years and years left in you."
Mac is surprised to find he's a little hurt that PC would think what he thinks PC might be thinking.
"Right," PC agrees with a bitter chuckle. "No, of course. It will be slow. No more updates. No more patches. If something goes wrong I go just go on: crippled and trapped in a weakening shell and by the end-..."
Mac can actually see PC swallowing a lump in his throat.
"...it's going to be horrible."
PC's eyes are so earnest and pained that a shiver goes down Mac's spine, and visions of decay and decline and helplessness swim in his head.
"I'll...be there. You know I would stick by you. Even until..." Mac murmurs, and although it comes from the right place, he realizes it is the wrong thing to say.
"That is not a comfort," PC replies. "Because what happens then? I'm not a man Mac. And yet I am afraid. Am I to be just...not anymore? Have I worked this hard all this time for nothing? For no ultimate rest or, or anything better or more than a void? Let's be honest: there is no calculator heaven."
"Don't talk like that."
Mac's voice shakes despite himself, and he finds himself un-balling his fists. "...don't. Like it'll happen tomorrow. Like you're dying. You're not."
His voice sounds childish and petulant to his own ears in a way that it hasn't for years.
"I'm sorry," says PC, who does not sound it. "Tomorrow I will be myself again, and we can...go on. But tonight... I have earned my fears. Go inside to your party. I will not dance on my own grave."
Mac nods, but doesn't move. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Success has gone all sour in his mouth. The joyous ruckus of the celebration sounds distant and false.
It should have been a good day, but it isn't. And Mac realizes that PC is right: they aren't men. They're machines. Nothing more. The operate at other's whims and someday he will be in PC's position. Usurped. Afraid. And ultimately alone.
And there is no happy ending.
It should have been a good day.
And really, it's not like anyone didn't see it coming. Microsoft's numbers went down, Apple's numbers went up. In the end it was a mercy buy out.
Mac passes by crowds of well wishers. Their faces are blurred. He's grinning from ear to ear. Success tastes sweet. The future is now.
PC is nowhere to be found.
Eventually Mac goes looking for him. He figures the guy is probably, understandably, a little angry. After all, they aren't going to be manufacturing him anymore. And while it had to happen some day, Mac feels slightly guilty about it happening at his hands. He figures a few well placed words will do wonders for PC's feelings and his own conscience. It's not like he's going to abandon him, after all.
He finds PC sitting by himself, jacket draped over his knees, shoulders hunched up around his ears. His hands are clasped in front of him, and although his back is to Mac, he can see that his knuckles are white.
"Hey, man," Mac coos, as soothingly as he can. "How long have you been out here? Come inside. Enjoy the party. I say it's okay, and what I say goes."
He flashes PC's shoulders a charming grin. He nearly misses PC's soft, "No."
"PC," Mac says, plaintively. "No hard feelings. It's not that bad."
He places a hand on PC's shoulder.
He expects PC to jerk away. To yell. Something. He doesn't expect PC to turn to him, his face white, his eyes wide and terrified. Mac's grin melts away.
"I mean it. It's not that bad. I mean, you're mine now. You don't have to worry about it. I'll take care of you," he finds himself saying.
"You'll take care of me?"
PC's voice is hushed and desperate.
"You people wouldn't even support your own systems running bootcamp."
PC's hands are shaking. Mac opens and closes his mouth a few times, but has no come-back. He straightens his tie. Which just appeared one day after an upgrade. Along with a suit jacket (a slick, slim-cut one by Armani). He still wears jeans, but his sneakers have been re-written into dress shoes (Italian leather). Apple has another, ridiculously small piece of hardware out that covers the t-shirt and hoodie crowd these days, but despite a thickening waist-line (he's starting to know what PC was complaining about all those years ago), Mac can still hang. PC's on the bigger and slower side himself; a little grey around the temples. Mac has been, in his opinion, nothing but kind about it.
"It's not like we're going to...you've got years and years left in you."
Mac is surprised to find he's a little hurt that PC would think what he thinks PC might be thinking.
"Right," PC agrees with a bitter chuckle. "No, of course. It will be slow. No more updates. No more patches. If something goes wrong I go just go on: crippled and trapped in a weakening shell and by the end-..."
Mac can actually see PC swallowing a lump in his throat.
"...it's going to be horrible."
PC's eyes are so earnest and pained that a shiver goes down Mac's spine, and visions of decay and decline and helplessness swim in his head.
"I'll...be there. You know I would stick by you. Even until..." Mac murmurs, and although it comes from the right place, he realizes it is the wrong thing to say.
"That is not a comfort," PC replies. "Because what happens then? I'm not a man Mac. And yet I am afraid. Am I to be just...not anymore? Have I worked this hard all this time for nothing? For no ultimate rest or, or anything better or more than a void? Let's be honest: there is no calculator heaven."
"Don't talk like that."
Mac's voice shakes despite himself, and he finds himself un-balling his fists. "...don't. Like it'll happen tomorrow. Like you're dying. You're not."
His voice sounds childish and petulant to his own ears in a way that it hasn't for years.
"I'm sorry," says PC, who does not sound it. "Tomorrow I will be myself again, and we can...go on. But tonight... I have earned my fears. Go inside to your party. I will not dance on my own grave."
Mac nods, but doesn't move. He shoves his hands in the pockets of his jeans. Success has gone all sour in his mouth. The joyous ruckus of the celebration sounds distant and false.
It should have been a good day, but it isn't. And Mac realizes that PC is right: they aren't men. They're machines. Nothing more. The operate at other's whims and someday he will be in PC's position. Usurped. Afraid. And ultimately alone.
And there is no happy ending.