The smell of oil, burnt metal, and something faintly sweet—like overheated wiring—hit Jean the moment he pushed open the door to Tinker’s Haven Repair Shop. A small bell above the door jingled, its sound oddly sharp, like it had been engineered to be just a bit more precise than your average shop bell. Jean paused in the doorway, breathing in the heady mix of mechanical chaos and possibilities. He grinned.
The shop was a cozy labyrinth of cluttered workbenches, shelves crammed with tools, and half-disassembled gadgets. Mechanical arms dangled from the ceiling, their joints locked in mid-repair like sleeping spiders. Along one wall, an old industrial forge burned faintly, its soft, ember-like glow providing an odd warmth to the room. A mismatched collection of clockwork toys, drones, and arcane-looking devices sat in glass cases by the counter, some ticking, others humming faintly as if alive.
“This is delightful,” Arc said, stepping in behind Jean, her gaze sweeping over the shop. Her voice carried its usual serene cadence, but there was a faint undertone of curiosity that Jean picked up on. She folded her hands neatly in front of her and tilted her head, her ever-immaculate maid uniform strikingly out of place amid the grease-streaked chaos of the shop.
“Delightful?” Jean repeated, raising an eyebrow as he walked further inside. “Arc, this is a paradise. You’re looking at years of ingenuity right here. Pure innovation!” He gestured dramatically at a pile of old gears and springs spilling out of a cracked wooden crate.
“...It looks like a mess,” Arc replied, her tone polite but firm.
“It’s a beautiful mess,” Jean corrected, his fiery orange eyes gleaming with excitement. “Every genius has a workshop like this. It’s practically a rule.”
“Master Jean, it would serve your credibility better if you didn’t refer to yourself as a genius so often,” Arc said gently, her lips curling into the faintest of smiles.
Jean sighed dramatically, resting a hand over his chest as if her words had wounded him. “Arc, you wound me. Can’t a guy have a little confidence in his craft?”
Before Arc could respond, a loud clang rang out from the back of the shop, followed by a string of muffled curses. Jean’s grin widened. “Looks like someone’s in the middle of something interesting.”
“Or something hazardous,” Arc remarked, glancing toward the source of the noise.
A moment later, a figure emerged from behind a wall of hanging tools and cluttered shelves. The man looked to be in his late forties, his hair streaked with silver and his beard neatly trimmed. His overalls were covered in oil stains, and a pair of bulky goggles rested atop his head, leaving faint marks on his weathered face. He carried a small drone in one hand, its wings bent at odd angles, while the other hand gripped a wrench that looked just shy of being a blunt weapon.
“Can I help you?” he asked, his gruff voice carrying a hint of curiosity as he glanced between Jean and Arc. His sharp gray eyes narrowed slightly when they landed on Jean’s goggles. “You a tinkerer, or just a kid with a fancy pair of specs?”
Jean’s grin didn’t falter. “Tinkerer, inventor, aspiring genius,” he replied, holding out his hand. “Jean Gearwright, at your service.” His tone was casual, but there was a slight bite to his words when he said his last name, as though he’d rather spit it out than say it.
The man raised an eyebrow but shook Jean’s hand with a firm grip. “Gearwright, huh? Heard of a Claude Gearwright once—brilliant engineer. Any relation?”
Jean’s grin flickered, but he quickly recovered. “Unfortunately,” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “That would be my father. I guess you’ve heard about how perfect he is.” He rolled his eyes and added under his breath, “Lucky me.”
That seemed to pique the man’s interest. He gave a short nod of approval. “Huh. Figures. Name’s Merrick, owner of this fine establishment.” He gestured vaguely to the shop around them. “You’re here about the job?”
“Yep,” Jean said, puffing out his chest slightly. “I figured this is the perfect place for someone with my talents.”
Merrick chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound. “We’ll see about that, kid. Talents don’t mean much if you can’t keep up.” He turned his attention to Arc, giving her an appraising look. “And you are?”
“I am Arc, Master Jean’s Avatar,” she replied with a graceful bow. “I do not intend to interfere with his duties, but I shall remain nearby to ensure his safety.”
“Safety?” Merrick repeated, raising an eyebrow. “You think fixing busted machines is dangerous?”
“With Master Jean involved, there is always a non-zero chance of calamity,” Arc said, her tone as calm as if she were discussing the weather.
Merrick barked a laugh, clearly amused. “I like her. Alright, kid, let’s see if you’re worth keeping around. Follow me.”
He led them to a cluttered workbench near the back of the shop. A disassembled drone lay in pieces on the table, its parts neatly organized into small trays. Merrick gestured to it with the wrench. “This is your test. Put it back together. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
Jean’s eyes lit up. “Piece of cake.”
“Don’t get cocky,” Merrick warned. “It’s not a standard model. Modified for high-altitude surveillance. The wiring’s tricky, and if you don’t calibrate the sensors right, it’ll fry itself as soon as you power it on.”
Jean rolled up his sleeves, his confidence unwavering. “Challenge accepted.”
Arc stepped to the side, clasping her hands in front of her as she watched silently. Merrick crossed his arms and leaned against the nearby wall, his sharp eyes observing Jean’s every move.
Jean cracked his knuckles and got to work, his hands moving with practiced precision as he sorted through the parts. “Alright, let’s see what we’re dealing with here…”
Jean was already lost in his task, muttering under his breath as he sifted through the disassembled drone parts. His goggles glinted in the warm light of the workbench, and his hands moved with a surety that spoke of years of practice.
Merrick watched him for a moment, his sharp gray eyes narrowing as he appraised Jean’s approach. The kid was good—he could see that already—but there was a tension in the way he worked, a certain energy that felt more like he was proving something than simply solving a problem.
Turning his attention to Arc, Merrick leaned back against the wall, crossing his arms. “So,” he began, his voice low and casual, though his gaze remained probing. “What’s the deal with him and his old man?”
Arc tilted her head slightly, her composed expression giving nothing away. “I am not certain it is my place to speak of such matters.”
Merrick raised an eyebrow, his lips twitching into a faint smirk. “Seems like it’s not exactly a secret. The way he said ‘unfortunately’ made that pretty clear. What’d Claude do? Push him too hard? Ignore him? Or is it the usual ‘famous dad casts a long shadow’ thing?”
Arc’s serene demeanor flickered ever so slightly. She folded her hands in front of her, glancing toward Jean, who was now fully absorbed in soldering a tiny wire. “Master Jean’s relationship with his father is… complicated,” she admitted softly. “Though if I were to summarize it, it stems from Claude’s pride and Master Jean’s desire to prove himself. I also take blame for Master Jean's feelings towards his father.”
Merrick’s smirk widened, his curiosity deepening. “Claude Gearwright, huh? Big name. Inventor of the Nova-core Engine, designer of half the tech we use today. Hard act to follow, I guess.”
Arc nodded. “Indeed. Claude Gearwright is a man of immense renown. His achievements have shaped the modern world in ways few others could. But his brilliance is matched by his pride, and he expects nothing less than perfection—from himself, and from those around him.”
“And Jean’s not a fan of being held to that standard, I take it?” Merrick asked.
“That is an understatement,” Arc replied, her tone calm but firm. “Master Jean resents his father deeply, though he would never say so outright. To him, Claude’s standards were not just high—they were impossible. And his failure to meet those standards… wounded him.”
Merrick glanced at Jean, who was now hunched over the drone, his focus so intense it bordered on obsessive. “So what happened? When did things fall apart?”
Arc hesitated, her golden eyes softening as she gazed at her master. “The turning point came three days before his eighteenth birthday.”
***
The room was a marvel of architecture and innovation, a sprawling hall with towering arched ceilings made of reinforced glass that offered a breathtaking view of the endless blue sky above. Sunlight poured in, catching on the polished metal surfaces of intricate machines and prototypes displayed on long tables that stretched across the room like rivers of invention. The hum of conversation filled the air, a low, constant buzz punctuated by the occasional laugh or the sharp clink of glassware from servers moving between the clusters of guests.
This was the Annual Summit of Technological Visionaries, an exclusive gathering of the world’s most brilliant inventors and engineers. It was a place where ideas were exchanged, deals were struck, and legacies were cemented.
And at the center of it all, surrounded by admirers, stood Claude Gearwright.
He was a tall man with an imposing presence, his silver hair neatly combed back and his sharp features illuminated by the soft glow of the holographic display he was demonstrating. His tailored suit fit him perfectly, a testament to both his wealth and his meticulous attention to detail. As he spoke, his voice carried the confidence of someone who had nothing to prove—someone who knew he was the smartest person in the room.
Standing a few feet away, trying not to let his father’s shadow swallow him whole, was Jean.
Dressed in a slightly rumpled blazer that didn’t quite fit right and a pair of goggles perched on his head, he looked every bit the scrappy upstart in a room full of polished professionals. His fiery orange hair was its usual untamed mess, and his expression was a mix of annoyance and defiance as he watched his father bask in the attention.
He didn’t want to be here.
This was his father’s world, not his.
But he had no choice.
“Ah, Jean! There you are!”
The voice was rich and booming, cutting through the hum of conversation like a knife. Heads turned, and Jean resisted the urge to flinch as all eyes in the room suddenly focused on him.
His father’s voice. Claude Gearwright.
Jean forced himself to walk toward the center of the room, where his father stood surrounded by some of the most influential minds of the modern era. The air around them seemed to hum with the weight of their collective brilliance.
“Everyone, this is my son,” Claude said, resting a hand on Jean’s shoulder as he arrived. The gesture looked friendly enough to the onlookers, but Jean could feel the weight of it—firm, controlling, like it was meant to pin him in place. “In three days’ time, he’ll turn eighteen, and we’ll finally see what Gift he has been blessed with.”
A murmur of excitement rippled through the small crowd, a few of the gathered inventors stepping closer with curious smiles.
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“What do you think it’ll be, Jean?” one of them asked, a man with sharp features and a notepad tucked under his arm. “Something to match your father’s brilliance, no doubt!”
Jean didn’t answer immediately. His eyes flicked toward his father, whose smile was calm and poised, but whose fingers dug slightly into his shoulder—a subtle reminder to watch his words.
Before Jean could open his mouth, Claude answered for him.
“It will undoubtedly be a Gift that supports me,” Claude said smoothly, his voice carrying just the right amount of certainty to make it seem like a foregone conclusion. “After all, the Gearwright legacy is built on teamwork. Every great leader has the right tools to support them, and Jean’s Gift will surely reflect that.”
Jean clenched his fists at his sides, his nails biting into his palms. The faint murmur of agreement from the crowd only fueled the frustration building in his chest.
“I don’t care about that,” Jean said suddenly, his voice sharp enough to cut through the polite conversation around him. His fiery orange eyes burned with determination as he stepped forward, out of his father’s grasp. “My Gift doesn’t matter. I’m going to change the world with my inventions.”
The murmurs stopped. A few of the gathered inventors exchanged uncertain glances, their polite smiles wavering.
Claude’s expression didn’t change. He continued to smile, his perfectly calm demeanor giving nothing away to the onlookers. But to Jean, the subtle shift in his father’s eyes—sharp, calculating—was unmistakable.
It sent a shiver down his spine.
Claude clasped his hands behind his back, tilting his head slightly as he addressed his son. “And what need is there to do that,” he said lightly, “when my inventions already change the world?”
The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. To the others, it probably sounded like a father playfully teasing his son, maybe even offering a challenge. But to Jean, the weight of the words was suffocating.
***
“And that,” Arc said softly, her hands clasped neatly in front of her, “was just one of the many moments that created the rift between them.”
Merrick let out a low whistle, scratching the back of his head as he processed her words. “I can see why he’d be pissed,” he said, his voice low. “Kid’s got ambition. Can’t blame him for wanting to step out of his father’s shadow.”
Arc didn’t respond immediately. Her golden eyes softened, her gaze fixed on Jean as he worked, oblivious to the conversation happening behind him.
Merrick tilted his head, his curiosity deepening. “And where do you come into all this?”
Before Arc could answer, Jean straightened up from his workbench, pushing his goggles up onto his forehead. “Done,” he said simply, holding up the now fully repaired drone.
Merrick leaned over the drone, carefully inspecting every component, every joint and wire. His fingers moved with practiced precision, lifting a wing here, tapping a small metallic piece there. Finally, after a few long moments, he straightened up, letting out a low whistle.
“Well, kid, I’ll be damned. It’s perfect. Not a single flaw,” Merrick said, his deep voice tinged with genuine admiration.
Jean, who was leaning casually against the nearby workbench, smirked and crossed his arms. “Of course it is. You’re talking to a genius inventor here.”
Merrick chuckled, shaking his head. “Confidence, huh? Gotta love that about you.” He adjusted the goggles strapped to his forehead before leaning against the bench himself, his arms crossed as he sized Jean up. “So, what’s your school schedule like? Gotta figure out when you’re free so I know when I can put you to work around here.”
Jean shrugged, casually twirling a screwdriver in his hand. “All the classes are in the morning. So, really, every day works for me.”
Merrick let out a booming laugh, clapping Jean on the shoulder. “Ambitious, aren’t ya? Gonna run yourself ragged if you keep that pace up, kid. But hey, good on you.” He paused, his expression softening into something more curious. “So, Jean... why’d you come to Arkphis? What’s the big reason? Bet it’s got something to do with Claude, huh?”
Jean blinked at the mention of Claude, then grinned, shaking his head. “Nope. Not even close.”
That caught Merrick off guard. His brows furrowed slightly. “Really? Then why?”
Jean’s grin softened into something more genuine. “Arc.”
Merrick tilted his head, intrigued. “Arc, huh? Your Avatar?”
Jean nodded, his eyes shifting toward Arc, who stood silently nearby, ever composed and ever watchful. “She wanted to come here. She thinks being at Arkphis will bring her closer to... whatever her purpose is. She never says it outright, but I can feel it. She’s searching for something. So, if she’s going to figure it out, then I’ll be right there with her. That’s why I came here.”
For a moment, Merrick didn’t say anything. His sharp eyes flicked to Arc, studying her with a newfound intensity. Then, almost as if a realization clicked into place, a small smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.
“Well, well... I think I’m starting to put the pieces together now,” Merrick said, his voice low and contemplative.
Jean’s brow furrowed, confused. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Merrick waved him off, his grin growing wider. “Ah, it’s nothing. Just me rambling. C’mon, follow me—I’ve got something to show you.”
Curiosity piqued, Jean followed Merrick down a narrow hallway cluttered with tools, parts, and half-finished projects. At the end of the hall was a door, which Merrick pushed open with a creak.
Inside was a dimly lit room, filled with shelves stacked high with blueprints, gears, and strange glowing crystals. But the centerpiece of the room was a metal table, and lying atop it was a figure—a female body.
Jean froze. At first glance, the body looked human, but the sheen of polished steel and the faint hum of power emanating from it made it clear that it was entirely mechanical. Every detail was painstakingly crafted, from the delicate fingers to the smooth, streamlined joints.
“What... is that?” Jean asked, his voice barely above a whisper.
Merrick stepped closer to the table, his gaze fixed on the mechanical body with something bordering on reverence. “It’s a work in progress,” he said, his voice quieter now. “An automaton. Not just any automaton, though—this one will be my final masterpiece. The pinnacle of everything I’ve ever worked on. A fully autonomous being with free will, emotions... a soul, even.”
Jean’s eyes widened as he took a step closer. “A soul?”
Merrick chuckled. “Figuratively speaking. The tech to give something like this true humanity doesn’t exist—yet. But that’s where you come in, kid.”
Jean turned to Merrick, eyebrows raised. “Me?”
Merrick nodded, his expression serious. “I need your help to finish this. You’ve got the spark, the drive, and the skill to make this more than just a machine. I’ve seen the way you work, Jean. You’ve got that same crazy ambition I had when I started. So, what do you say? You ready to help me make history?”
Jean’s gaze stayed fixed on the automaton, his mind racing as he tried to process what he was looking at. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the automaton’s inner components, which gave off an almost eerie sense of dormant life.
“Why are you doing this?” Jean finally asked, his voice low and cautious. He turned to Merrick, his fiery orange eyes searching for answers. “And... why me? Why do you think I can help with something like this?”
Merrick didn’t answer right away. Instead, he leaned back against the worktable, crossing his arms as if weighing his words carefully. His sharp eyes shifted toward Arc, who stood silently in the corner, her expression as unreadable as ever.
“Let me ask you something first,” Merrick said, his voice steady. “What does Arc mean to you?”
Jean blinked, caught off guard by the question. He glanced over at Arc, his gaze softening.
“She means everything to me,” Jean answered without hesitation. His voice carried a weight that Merrick didn’t miss. “She’s my partner, my friend... hell, sometimes she’s the only one who believes in me. Without her...” He trailed off, clenching his fists. “Without her, I don’t know where I’d be.”
Merrick smiled faintly, as though he’d been expecting that answer. “I thought so,” he murmured, almost to himself.
“What’s your point?” Jean asked, narrowing his eyes slightly.
Merrick straightened up, his tone taking on a rare seriousness. “If something ever happened to her—if she were taken from you, let’s say—what would you do to get her back?”
Jean’s expression darkened, and his hands instinctively tightened into fists. “I’d do anything,” he said firmly. There wasn’t a hint of hesitation in his voice.
Merrick nodded slowly, his own gaze hardening. “Exactly,” he said, his voice carrying a weight that matched Jean’s. “That’s what you do when you lose someone who means the world to you. You do anything to get them back.”
Jean frowned, his fiery orange eyes darting back to the automaton on the table. A thought began to take shape in his mind, one that made his stomach churn uneasily.
“Did you...” Jean started, his voice faltering slightly. “Did you lose someone? Is that why you’re building this? To... rebuild them?”
Merrick let out a low chuckle, but there was no humor in it. “No, kid,” he said, shaking his head. “I’m not rebuilding anyone. I’m bringing them back from scratch.”
Jean’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat. “What?” he whispered, his voice barely audible.
Merrick’s expression didn’t change. He pushed himself off the worktable and walked over to the far corner of the room, where a heavy curtain hung from the ceiling. With a quick motion, he swept the curtain aside, revealing a strange, imposing machine.
The device was unlike anything Jean had ever seen. It was tall and cylindrical, its metallic surface polished to a mirror-like sheen. Inside, suspended in a glowing, viscous liquid, was a faint orb of light that pulsed gently like a heartbeat. The light seemed almost alive, its golden glow casting shifting patterns across the walls.
Jean stared at the machine, his mind struggling to make sense of what he was seeing. “Is that...”
“A soul,” Merrick said simply, his voice matter-of-fact.
Jean’s stomach twisted into knots. He took a step back, shaking his head. “That’s... impossible. You can’t just... hold a soul like that. That kind of research has been outlawed for years.”
Merrick turned to face him, his expression unreadable. “I know,” he said quietly. “That’s why I’m going to perfect this automaton. When I’m done, no one will ever know it’s not a real human. Not even the Institute.”
Jean’s heart pounded in his chest as he stared at the glowing machine. His mind raced with questions, doubts, and the faint, creeping feeling that he had just stumbled into something far bigger than himself.
Merrick ran a hand through his graying hair, his gaze fixed on the glowing machine in the corner. His voice softened as he spoke, though the intensity in his words remained. “I chose you, Jean, because you’ve got the will—and the experience—to see this through. You’ve built things that shouldn’t work but do. You’ve defied expectations, whether people believed in you or not. And most importantly...” Merrick’s voice wavered ever so slightly, “I know you’ll understand why this matters.”
Jean’s brows furrowed, his fiery orange eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, his tone cautious.
Suddenly, Merrick surprised him. Without warning, the older man dropped to his knees, lowering his head until his forehead nearly touched the floor. “I’m begging you, Jean. Please, help me finish this. I don’t have anyone else.”
Jean froze, the sight of the once-imposing man humbled before him taking the wind out of his usual confidence. He opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself, unsure of what to say. “Merrick... why is this your final masterpiece?” he asked quietly.
At Jean’s question, Merrick slowly rose to his feet, brushing the dust off his pants. He didn’t meet Jean’s gaze at first. Instead, he turned back to his cluttered desk, his hands rifling through piles of blueprints, scribbled notes, and folders. Papers flew everywhere as he muttered under his breath, his movements frantic.
“Where the hell is it...?” Merrick grumbled. Finally, his hand shot out, grabbing a folder from the bottom of a precarious stack. He flipped it open, revealing a single medical record, its edges frayed and its surface stained with what looked like coffee and grease. He thrust it toward Jean without a word.
Jean hesitated, then took the folder. His eyes scanned the document, his sharp gaze quickly zeroing in on the relevant section. His breath caught when he saw the words: “Stage 4 terminal glioblastoma. Prognosis: 1 month remaining.”
Jean’s fingers tightened around the paper, his expression darkening. “You’re dying,” he said flatly.
Merrick let out a bitter chuckle. “Sharp as ever, kid.”
Jean glanced up, his voice low. “So that’s why you’re in such a rush.”
Merrick nodded, leaning heavily against the workbench as though the weight of his confession had drained what little energy he had left. “There’s a fireworks festival at the end of the month,” he said, his voice softer now. “She... never saw fireworks in her life. Not once.” His lips quirked into a sad smile. “I want my last memory to be seeing them with her. That’s all.”
Arc, who had been silent this entire time, stepped forward. Her calm, steady voice cut through the tension in the room. “Who is ‘her’?”
Merrick looked up, his sharp eyes glistening with emotion. He hesitated for a moment, then sighed deeply, his shoulders sagging. “She’s my wife’s daughter. Not mine by blood, but for the last five years of her life, I was her father.”
Jean’s eyes softened slightly, but he didn’t interrupt. He could sense there was more Merrick needed to say.
“She was just a kid when her mother died,” Merrick continued, his voice cracking slightly. “Her real father... he was never in the picture. So, I took her in, raised her like my own.” He ran a hand through his hair again, his fingers trembling. “She was... bright. Too bright for this world. Always asking questions, always dreaming about building things. Just like her mom.”
Merrick paused, his jaw tightening as a shadow crossed his face. “But I failed her,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “There was an accident in the shop. A machine I was working on... malfunctioned. It shouldn’t have. I should’ve double-checked everything. But I didn’t. She...” He swallowed hard, his voice breaking. “She was standing too close. It exploded. She didn’t make it.”
Jean and Arc stood in stunned silence, the weight of Merrick’s words sinking in like stones.
“I’ve spent every day since that accident asking myself what I could’ve done differently,” Merrick said, his eyes glassy with unshed tears. “This... this automaton is my way of making it right. If I can bring her back—her soul, her essence—it’s not just for me. It’s for her. To give her the chance to live the life she should’ve had.”
Jean looked down at the medical record in his hands, then back at the glowing machine in the corner. His mind was a storm of conflicting thoughts. He wanted to reject the idea outright—working with souls was illegal, immoral even. But the raw pain in Merrick’s voice, the sheer desperation in his eyes... Jean couldn’t ignore it.
Finally, Jean let out a slow breath and extended his hand. “Alright,” he said, his voice steady and resolute. “I’ll help you. We’ll have it done by the end of the month.”
Merrick blinked, his expression shifting from surprise to relief. He clasped Jean’s hand tightly, his grip firm despite the tremor in his fingers. “Thank you, kid,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Thank you.”
Jean nodded, his fiery orange eyes burning with determination. “Let’s get to work.”
Just then, the chime of a bell echoed from the front of the shop, signaling a customer’s arrival. Merrick wiped at his eyes quickly, regaining his composure as he motioned for Jean to follow him. “Duty calls,” he said with a small smile.
The two of them stepped into the main area of the repair shop, where a middle-aged man stood waiting near the counter. He was holding a broken clock, its gears dangling precariously from the frame. His eyes widened when he saw Jean trailing behind Merrick.
“Wait a minute,” the customer said, his tone skeptical. “Since when do you have a helper, Merrick? I thought you worked alone.”
Merrick chuckled, clapping Jean on the back. “Not anymore,” he said proudly. “I finally found a good one.”
Jean grinned, brushing his goggles up onto his forehead. “That’s right,” he said confidently. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”