Lights came on from all directions, with a series of firm clumping noises, like the lights in a large sports stadium make in movies and commercials, illuminating Gadget's old home, the one she'd shared with her father for so many years.
None of the other Rangers would have recognized it immediately. The floor was immaculate, save for a few simple toys scattered about. No inventions, no work in progress, not even a single salesman trap or defense; a few simple necessities a mouse needs for everyday life. Tables, a human radio- a few of the chairs that would be so conspicuously missing when Gadget lived here alone, even. The cockpit window let bright sunlight stream cheerfully into the room, begg-
"Begging the question of where all this light was a few seconds ago," she mused, pre- empting Gadget's thoughts. "Yes. Now, in... 1983, I believe, we had a lengthy routine explaining the subconscious persona, but fortunately for my sanity you began picking up psychology texts along with the other books you used for your little self-education programs, and we could use your primitive understanding of the topic, no matter how simplified and outdated, to excise it for the much simpler standard we've had since."
She pointed at herself, explaining in patient tones as if talking to someone mentally challenged, "Ms. Hackwrench. Superego. Obedience, control, order, repression. In your particular instance, I also incarnate your technical abilities for somewhat involved reasons not pertinent to the current discussions."
Gadget couldn't argue with this. Hackwrench continued, "Hack- I'd prefer to have the visual aid, but generally you have her so ludicrously repressed she's fortunate to get the one meeting with you- Id. Unrestrained emotion, the things you feel need to be controlled- gratification of selfish desires. This covers in your case a truly astonishing variety of sins besides the obvious sexuality and violence that I won't attempt to list definitively at the moment, as we're on a schedule." She glanced out the window, measuring the angle of the sun precisely by eye, and nodded to herself.
Hackwrench nudged the little girl- now where did she come from?- with her foot. She sat on the floor contentedly, again playing with her doll, singing softly to it. " 'Gadgie'. Ego. Defense mechanisms, our little window to the world. This six year old is what passes for the core of your personality," the scientist squeaked, shaking her head. "SHE was around years before the Event even happened, for heaven's sake. She's older than I am." She looked down dispassionately. "I... if you allowed me to have any more emotional response than a poor Spock parody, I'd say I am very, very close to despising the dear little thing."
The two mice began walking toward the middle of the room as she continued explaining, "Since Hack has no practical effect on day to day activities, with very rare exceptions, Gadgie and I... share driving responsibilities, if you will. If we had the time I'd show you the internal representation you have of your controls. You'd love them, of course, since I built the model." Shading her eyes, she turned and looked out the window again.
"Hackwrench- MS. Hackwrench," Gadget corrected herself, finding herself able to speak again for the first time in ages. (Apparently she didn't have much dialogue in the script. She realized she found this vaguely annoying.) "This isn't... normal, is it?" she squeaked gingerly. "Freudian archetypes- they're not this literal, not this separated." Gadget remembered that much from the books she's last read some eight years ago. "They're just metaphors for a complex psychoanalytic theory-"
Hackwrench was shaking her head. "Alert: someone please apply brakes to the world, Gadget Hackwrench has ascertained she does not have a healthy, normal psyche." She looked at Gadget with something like anger glinting in her eyes. "This is how YOU chose to handle the Event, your... rationalizations, your defense mechanisms. A pawful of mice none of whom can handle what happened adequately. Gadgie can't understand because she's too young; my emotions are all useless to nonexistent- in addition to my only having control when you have a project, and only under supervision from the little girl; Hack can't do ANYTHING coherent." A shadow drifted across the sun outside the cockpit canopy.
Hackwrench suddenly took hold of Gadget by the collar and SHOOK her, once, firmly. "I'm tired of this," she said, her tones bland in contrast to her actions. "You're the only one with the power to choose a different way of handling the matter. My hands are tied." The scientist released her suddenly, and Gadget found herself overbalancing, tumbling onto her rear.
Ms Hackwrench looked down at her, a trace of scorn twisting her upper lip. The dark blotch was growing rapidly larger, crawling across the sun.
She shook her head in resignation, and removed the handset from her belt, speaking into it. 'Take me from the wreckage,' she recited in disinterested tones. 'Save me from the blast.' Subject #4 continues....
Gadgie looked up expectantly, smiling as she watched it grow. "Pick me up, and take me back!" she sang cheerfully as the blotch resolved itself into the... familiar... form of her father's old plane.
Her older self clutched at the floor in sudden terror. "Oh... oh gosh," she said breathlessly. "Oh NO."
"don't let ME kEEp on WALKing," a voice breathed softly. Nearby, a tail curled lazily from under one of the tables. Back and forth, back and forth. "KEEP on WALKing..."
Gadget's eyes widened, glazed. She stared helplessly out the window as the clearly out of control vehicle plummeted rapidly closer.
"Oh gosh oh no I remember no, no, no DON'T, oh GOD," she wailed, voice crawling higher in panic, despair, horror.
The plane practically filled the window, framing Ms. Hackwrench as time slowed to nothing. She scowled down at Gadget.
"Fix. It." she said.
Her father smashed into her home, her place of perfect safety, sending shards of broken glass flying everywhere in the confined space as the window and the plane and her world and her mind shattered into neat, neat pieces.