Without any distractions around him, Monty could focus on the assistant. His stomach turned, and he knotted his hands together, anxious.

To open its box, he had to lift the perforated lid, which was lighter than he had expected, made from some hard material, sturdier than plastic. He traced it with his finger, heart beating in his ears.

Inside was a protective covering of translucent paper stamped with the UServ logo, followed by a secondary covering of cloth, and a thin sheet of the same material the box was made of.

Monty peeled the coverings away and finally gazed down onto the assistant. He started, and held in his breath.

There were some minor differences; physically, it was Smithers- almost his replica. What did that say about Monty himself? What did it mean, that his ideal assistant was so similar to Smithers... ?

He jumped back when the assistant made a pinging noise and opened its eyes. Light brown, like Smithers'. Monty watched it warily. Pseudo Smithers sat up and got out of the box; the motion would be amusing under other circumstances. Was this the usual manner of assistants booting up for the first time?

The assistant now faced Monty, towering over his frame. In a mechanical voice it recited, "Mr Burns, please take the right hand of your A 44 for identity confirmation, and to begin total feature overlay."

Slowly, Monty lifted and grasped the A 44's hand, the uncannily realistic fingers in between his own room temperature. He lifted his head to its face and could almost imagine it was Smithers, almost...

He remembered the glasses still in his bedroom. Before the system could register his hand, Monty let go and ran to retrieve them from upstairs, as well as the GPS communicator. He returned, the glasses in his left hand and GPS in pocket; Monty replaced his right hand to commence the confirmation.

"Identity confirmed. Please remove your hand to begin total feature overlay."

Monty wondered what that meant as the assistant stilled and a whirring noise began, accompanied by faint lights under the synthetic skin where its circuits of wires perhaps were. Would the assistant speak like Smithers too? That idea thrilled and frightened Monty at once.

When it finished 'total feature overlay', the assistant closed its eyes and opened them again. It looked at Monty in recognition, blinking. Monty held the glasses tighter, waiting for it to say something.

"Hello, Mr Burns."

Monty didn't react at first; he resisted the urge to run and embrace the assistant. But it was not Smithers come back from the dead. Just a robot, a machine. A cold shiver ran down his spine. "H-hello."

"It's nice to meet you, sir."
Monty nodded absentmindedly. Perhaps this was too much.

"What would you like to call me?"

"Just... Smithers will suffice." He wanted to remind himself that this was not a replacement for the real Smithers. It was only an assistant, and Waylon Smithers Jr had been much more than his assistant. He decided to refer to his Smithers by Waylon in his head, to keep the two separate.

"I see, and what shall I do first?"

Monty hadn't thought of anything for it to do yet. "Clean up the mess from the box," he decided, "and afterwards... report to me."

Pseudo Smithers nodded and went to the task. Monty watched it before retreating to the parlour. He turned over the glasses, unsure if he should go through with his idea. It seemed odd that a Smithers, even a Smithers emulator, would be without glasses. He was sure a robot wouldn't need to wear them, but that wasn't the point.

When Pseudo Smithers walked into the room, as Monty had requested, he made up his mind.

"What else can I do for you, sir?"

"Put these on." Monty showed it the glasses. He had assumed they would fit.
The assistant took the glasses and lifted them onto its face. "Is this what you meant?"

Monty didn't answer right away. The image was coming together, and he didn't know how he felt. "Yes, that's correct." He's not back, it's not him.

Pseudo Smithers nodded.

"I don't think I need anything else," Monty said.

"Are you sure?"
"Yes."

"Okay. I'll be here when you do need me."

The assistant went into the hall, where Monty had placed the charger port, and went into 'sleep mode'.

Monty sighed. Had it been a good decision to buy the UServ assistant at all? It hadn't improved his mood or his sense of loneliness. But he'd just received it. Over time, he hoped things might be different, if this were his new home, and he were stuck here. Either way, he was devoid of the real Waylon's presence.

Upstairs, Monty sat in his bedroom, staring at the wall, his hands folded. He considered the assistant, reminiscing on Waylon. He would never hear Waylon's voice again, and the assistant's voice wasn't Waylon's; it couldn't be his. Monty's memory could only do so much.

Monty closed his eyes, his head and heart aching. He pursed his lips, curling in on himself. He couldn't fathom the existential horror of how his life had dramatically transformed overnight. Waylon, his long-time friend and confidant, left behind in the world of yesterday, was dead and gone. Monty wouldn't even be able to go to his funeral.

He didn't move, trying to create a blank space in his mind, where he didn't have to think about anyone or anything. The glowering pains in his stomach told him he should eat, but he didn't want to. He hadn't eaten anything since... yesterday afternoon, before they'd gone to the park. No, he couldn't linger on the park...

Monty fraught his brow, sinking his head into the soft pillow, cracking open his eyes. The immediate view was blurred by the edges of the pillow fabric. He sighed, his voice shaking, his finger drawing away a tear.

What was wrong with him, wasting away in bed, crying? He didn't want to live like this. But there was nothing else he wanted to get up and do. Monty didn't move, exhausted, closing his eyes. He drifted in and out of a light sleep, nothing fulfilling.

Awake about an hour later, Monty made a compromise with himself, to act, while still in bed. Perhaps he could learn some more about the world he'd stumbled into, and about himself, who he was here. He turned on his phone, startled by its many extending screens. He went on the internet, browsed the UServ site and read more information about assistants and the various models, some of which was like reading a foreign language. There were photographs of other assistants, too, all of which were just a bit too realistic and uncanny, marking them as androids rather than humans.

Having had enough of that, Monty decided to poke around in the phone applications besides the internet. He found one with a schedule. According to margin notes scattered over a calendar in his handwriting, he gathered that he oversaw an administrative/corporate department at Serum. They gave reports for production of the drug at factories, as well as those for finances and for general company/technical performance. As to the apparent meetings, he attended virtually from his house each month. He would go in person if he felt it were necessary or if there was some unforeseen emergency.

Since he did own the company- Serum- Monty wondered where it was located, and if he were supposed to be there now, unless his role as the owner was passive. Though that would be boring. Still, perhaps he wouldn't have to worry about it, and could focus on other things...

If this were his new home, Monty would miss the power plant, too. Being the owner of a reverse-ageing drug company didn't have the same ring to it, even if Waylon Sr had been involved. At the plant, Monty had enjoyed being in the centre of nuclear power, scrutinising the employees, bribing the NRC, cutting costs...

Monty had headed many board meetings at the plant, like he apparently did here, with Serum. The activity hadn't appealed to him like being in the throngs of the power plant did, watching the employees scuttle by... He wondered if they existed here, working for him, at the factory, unless they had robots, more assistants; he liked the idea of having workers he didn't have to pay.

Overall, he wasn't enthusiastic about the change of occupation, but he had to do something besides lay in bed and grieve, didn't he? Instead of finding and going to Serum right away, though, he wanted to invest time in finding the other Waylon, the son of this... world's Waylon Sr. He figured the name might be the same. Even if the other Waylon were completely different, Monty still wanted to find him. He wondered if the other Waylon would know who he was.

The issue remained that he had little information to go by. How would Monty track him down, assuming Waylon was still in Springfield? He could be anywhere.

Monty used the phone to search for anything relevant on Waylon Sr's son that would help him find him. In Waylon Sr's information page, the phrase he'd read before, saying he had a son, was connected to two citations, both from articles dated some years. The first one from thirty-seven years ago announced Waylon Sr, biochemist, was expecting a child. It gave him no information.

The second article, which was dated five years, was from the Springfield Journal. It promoted an event where one could meet various celebrated authors. A photograph displayed below the title, pictures of the authors. Smithers was not among them, nor was his name listed in the annotation.

The article detailed a few authors Monty didn't care about. He skimmed it for the name 'Smithers', wondering why else this article would have been used for a citation.
Then, the attribution below: by Waylon Smithers, Jr. Monty blinked. But he scolded himself for not having seen that first; why hadn't they put his name before the article?

An 'about the author' section accompanied the attribution. He read:

'Waylon Smithers, a Springfield local, is a contributor, though his prestige extends to that of writing for national and international publications such as the Wall Street-Forbes Journal, Le Monde, and the Chicago Tribune. Waylon enjoys virtual and traditional theatre, as well as the vintage Malibu Stacy doll franchise. He is the son of the late Waylon Smithers Sr, co-founder of Serum Corp, the leading reverse-ageing formula'.

So Waylon was a journalist, or had been at the time of the article. Monty went to the current page of the journal and looked for a list of contributors, or any other articles written by him. Otherwise, he would have to outsource his research.

The last article Waylon had written for the journal had been just two years ago, and his 'about the author' was the same. I don't suppose the current staff will know where he went...

Monty found the contact for the journal, which was somewhere downtown, and called it.

"Springfield Journal, general inquiries, how can I help you?"

He wondered if the person who had answered was an assistant. "This is CM Burns. I'd like to ask about a former contributor to your journal. Is there someone familiar with these matters I could speak to?"

"Mr Burns? Of Serum? Yes, sir, hold on, please, I will connect you to the appropriate office."

"Very well."

He waited until a new voice spoke: "Mr Burns?"
"Yes..."
"I'm Miranda Richter, the editor in chief of the journal. You had a question about a former contributor?"
"Yes, Waylon Smithers Jr. He last wrote an article for you two years ago, I understand. Do you have an idea of where he is?"

Fortunately, Miranda Richter didn't pry into his reasons for asking. "Waylon Smithers... oh, of course, yes, he left us two years ago. I believe he was going to spend some time in France, to continue writing for Le Monde, to be 'closer to the action'. I don't know if he's still there or if he came back." There was a shuffle. "If you'd want, I could have someone else speak to you, who I think knew Waylon better than myself."

"I'll speak to him, then."

"One moment."

This time, he had to wait longer, by about a minute. "Hello?"
"Yes, is this... that woman never did give me your name."
"It's Rhine."

"And do you know what happened to Waylon?"

All I know about him is that at the last minute he didn't go to France, they just had him write stuff from home, anyway. He was an interesting person. You are Mr Burns, right?"

Monty scowled. "Yes, and what happened afterwards?"

"I don't know. Six months ago I got a new phone system, and my old contacts were lost, so I don't have his anymore. We were friendly, but we drifted apart after he left the journal. I called him a few times to catch up, though, but nothing came from that."

"And he was here, in Springfield?"
"Last I knew."
"Anything else?"

"I saw him in the trad theatre downtown last month. If you're looking for him, you could try that. I think he was working there. I don't know anything else."

"Fine. I will try the, er... trad theatre." He added, "Where is it?"

Rhine listed the address and after thanking him, Monty could disconnect the call, having gotten some of what he wanted. Now he had to find the theatre, and then Waylon.