Ten Years Later…
A crisp morning breeze slipped through the cracked window, stirring the finely woven curtains in a small upstairs bedroom. On a narrow bedside table, a mechanical toy clicked to life. The size of a child’s plush bear, it resembled a slender humanoid figure with a spiked headpiece and an eerily featureless face save for a cluster of red, circular lights where eyes might be. Its plating was dark metal, all sharp angles and cool edges—industrial and cold, yet oddly alive. As the gears inside whirred softly, the red lights began to glow, casting thin beams of crimson onto the cluttered but spotless room.
The toy’s beeping intensified, sharp and purposeful, until it drifted closer to the bed’s occupant—Leon. The boy stirred, his brown eyes fluttering open. With a practiced hand, he silenced the device, patting its angular head. The red lights dimmed to green, and the shrill beeping faded into a soft hum.
“I’m awake,” Leon said quietly. He hoisted the small mechanical figure onto his shoulder, where it perched obediently, its servos clicking faintly, as though stretching its limbs for the day.
Leon’s room was a world of meticulous creativity—a chaotic symphony of invention, bound together by precision and care. Shelves overflowed with mechanical gadgets, loose gears, springs, and tools arranged in neat, deliberate patterns. Blueprints covered the walls, their crisp lines drawn with obsessive accuracy. It was a world of ordered chaos, the kind that thrived under tireless hands and a restless mind.
The boy rose and tugged a knotted rope beside his bed. Pulleys and counterweights creaked to life, sliding open the curtains and folding the bedframe into the wall. The movement triggered a spring-loaded compartment on the floor, which burst open too quickly, spilling a small cascade of bolts and screws. Leon frowned. “Adjustment needed,” he muttered.
On his shoulder, the toy tilted its head, its green light pulsing softly as if in agreement.
Leon dressed with quiet efficiency, his movements brisk and deliberate. He favored practical attire—a vest and trousers stitched with numerous pockets, each designed to house the tools of his endless tinkering. Every buckle fastened, every seam adjusted with care. Once satisfied, he stepped to the edge of the floor where a polished brass pole gleamed in the soft morning light. Without hesitation, he gripped it and slid downward, the smooth metal whispering beneath his hands.
He landed softly in the hallway of the small home, its wooden floors creaking underfoot. The narrow space was lined with the modest trappings of a life shaped by necessity rather than luxury. A few framed sketches hung on the walls—simple landscapes his adoptive mother had drawn during quieter years. The air carried the faint aroma of her cooking.
“Leon! Breakfast is ready!” Joyce’s voice rang out from the kitchen, pulling him from his thoughts.
He moved toward the source of her voice, his footsteps measured and deliberate. As he reached the kitchen, sunlight poured through the windows, warming the modest wooden table where a simple but hearty breakfast awaited. Joyce, cheerful as always, busied herself with a loaf of bread, while plates of cheese, fruit, and butter were already set out.
“Good morning, Leon,” she greeted, glancing over her shoulder with a warm smile which faded when she noticed the robot on his shoulder.
“Morning,” he replied, his tone polite but distant.
The sound of heavy footsteps broke the peace, accompanied by the unmistakable shuffle of someone getting out of bed too late. Michael, Leon’s stepbrother, was awake—finally.
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In a room at the other edge of the house, Michael stirred lethargically, his limbs feeling as though they were tethered to unseen anchors. Each morning was the same. Rising from bed was a labor that tested his every reserve, his joints grinding like rusted cogs.
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Michael pressed his face into his pillow. A heavy, aching fatigue weighed down his body—though his mind was clear enough, sharp even. There was an odd, persistent tension in him, as though a cord were drawn taut within his chest, keeping him poised in some invisible standoff.
By sheer will, he dragged himself upright, his arms trembling as though the act of sitting required the strength of giants. His shirt clung to his sweat-dampened back despite the chill.
“Today,” he whispered hoarsely, staring at his pale reflection in the cracked mirror above his desk. “Today, I’ll do it.”
The thought sent a jolt of nervous excitement through him, momentarily lightening the oppressive weight that plagued him. Lily. Her face bloomed in his mind like a bright, impossible flower. He shook his head fiercely and rose, ignoring the stiffness in his legs as he dressed hurriedly.
Michael’s room was a chaotic contrast to Leon’s carefully maintained space. Clothes lay draped over furniture, schoolbooks peeked out from under his bed, and posters of knights and fantastical beasts plastered the walls. It was a disorganized world of imagination and impulsiveness—a mirror to Michael’s own carefree spirit.
“Michael!” Joyce called again, a touch of impatience creeping into her usually warm tone. “Get up! You’ll be late!”
Stumbling from his room, he nearly collided with Leon, who had just ran towards the room to check on him.
“Watch it,” Leon said, raising an eyebrow as though observing a machine that wasn’t working properly.
“Sorry!” Michael grinned sheepishly, his face slightly flushed.
Leon paused, studying Michael with a sharp, analytical gaze that often unnerved people. Leon’s lack of emotion made his stare seem more reptilian than human. He tilted his head slightly. “You seem… unusually energized today.”
Michael froze for a moment before brushing past him. “I’m just… in a hurry!”
Leon didn’t move, his mind already running calculations to determine the cause of Michael’s uncharacteristic enthusiasm. His thoughts ticked through a list of possibilities with the statistical precision of sleazy banker:
An academic test he feels confident about (5%).
A social gathering he anticipates enjoying (10%).
The release of new reading material he is eager to explore (2%).
A physical competition or game he feels prepared for (8%).
A planned personal interaction of significance, likely romantic (60%).
“Hmm,” Leon murmured, his brow furrowing slightly.
“What?” Michael shot him a nervous glance.
“Nothing,” Leon replied, though his expression suggested otherwise. He followed Michael to the kitchen, where Joyce turned to greet her younger son.
“Morning, Michael,” she said, smiling as she set another plate on the table.
“Morning,” Michael replied, sliding into his chair and immediately beginning to tap his foot under the table.
Joyce tilted her head at him, amused. “You’re in a rush today. Something special going on?”
“Nothing special,” Michael said quickly, his voice betraying a touch of nervousness.
Leon, chewing a piece of bread, glanced at him. “Statistically speaking, your behavior suggests you have a personal objective planned for today. Something with a significant emotional component.”
Michael froze mid-bite, shooting Leon a look of pure hatred. Joyce chuckled softly, shaking her head at the pair.
Leon’s mechanical companion, perched on his shoulder, emitted a soft hum, its green lights blinking faintly. Joyce’s gaze softened as it settled on the odd device—a relic of a life that had been reduced to ash. Three years ago, there had been a fire. The blaze consumed everything: the house, the parents, and Leon’s younger brother. His father, a skilled toymaker, was widely believed to have accidentally left a candle burning too close to his delicate creations. When the flames engulfed the house, Robert managed to charge through the inferno, pulling Leon from the wreckage moments before the ceiling collapsed.
He carried no physical scars, but his emotional wounds were ever present: The boy had clung to the only thing that survived the fire with him—a small mechanical toy, charred but functional, forged in his father’s workshop. It had become his constant companion, a silent guardian of memories too painful to touch. Joyce never pressed him about it; whatever comfort it brought was his to keep. Yet, she couldn’t ignore the way Leon spoke to it sometimes, as though it were alive. On rare occasions, she thought it moved—just a subtle twitch or a slight turn of its head. Joyce brushed away the thought as breakfast wrapped up. She glanced at the boys. “Don’t forget to help your father before you head out.”