Chapter Text
CH4PT3R I
For me, it was all a load of hi-tech mumbo gumbo that really had no appeal what so ever for the best part of three years. I’m not exactly tech-savvy, nor did I really ever want to be. You could keep your noses pressed to your iPads if you wanted, but I preferred to see the world beyond the screen. You know, go for long walks and meet people by talking to them.
Which was all fine and dandy – until the fire happened.
It was all pretty sudden – one minute I’m at work with the kids, minding my own business and trying to get PVA glue out of my ear, the next I’ve got my old friend Kristov North on the phone, asking a favour. A small “iddy-biddy kroshechny favour.” And, being the idiot I am, I bought into it.
That’s how I ended up standing in front of a tiny little workshop - smoking at the edges, windows blackened with soot, and the walls charred and crumbling – with Kristov, who was looking at this death trap of a shop like it was the cave of wonders.
“Why are we here?” I asked, taking off my hoodie and wrapping it around my waist.
“Friend owns this shop, he is in hospital.” Kristov (“Friends call me ‘North’, Jack – remember?”) replied. “There are few things that need to be salvaged.”
With that, the giant bearded Russian strode into the chargrilled shop, with its smoking doorframes and ashy sign board, declaring “Gobber’s Gadgets”.
I followed North into the shop, trying very hard not to touch anything. It looked a lot like one of those shops with the robotic yapping dogs that do backflips across the shop floor – in fact, I found myself actually stepping over one of those things as we wandered further into the store. I was pretty confused, because North practically ignored most of the merchandise, heading straight for the till point. Or rather, the door beyond the till point.
North gestured at the door saying “Custom merchandise always kept in back. But we’re looking for particular model. Come.”
When we got through the door, I had to blink for a couple of moments, not sure whether what I was seeing was right. But no matter how much I tried to blink my eyes into focus, the room in front of me did not change.
It was a workshop. Full of humanoid robots.
Technically, it was illegal to have these robots anymore. Too many people disagreed with the human appearance; the bible bashers claimed that the robotics scientists were trying to recreate the work of God. Rights activists started going on about A.I rights – regardless of the fact that most of the drones were just that – drones. They had their programs, and they stuck by them. A lot of people were freaked by the lack of emotion.
I didn’t really get involved. As I said, I’m a technophobe anyway. I’d probably break it by trying to feed it peanut butter or something. So I didn’t really bother with keeping up on the whole robotics argument.
That was until the Sentience Phenomena occurred. It was hard to escape finding out about that – the news and tabloids practically went berserk. All of a sudden, these 'rights' people had a ground to stand on, because a small number of the machines had started to think for themselves.
And then there were the paranoid bunch in government who thought the Sentient Drones would cause an uprising. Pretty much, all humanoid drones – sentient or not – were recalled and destroyed. Ownership of one was illegal. Your robot servants now had to follow a number of regulations – no human-like features: eyes, hair, lips, etc. No human-like voices: they all sound like a tuned-out radio these days. And biggest rule of all – no weapons. If the robot shows any sign of sentience, they are to be reported and destroyed.
And there was me, Jack Frost – the guy who wouldn’t touch an app with a bargepole – standing in the middle of an illegal robotics workshop.
Funny how things work out like that.
North seemed nonplussed. He just started sifting through the makes and models, looking for something. It was pretty macabre actually. Some of the drones had been caught in the fire, and their prosthetic skin had melted from their metal skele-structure. Eyes stared out at us, blank and unseeing, their eye sockets congealed and slumped halfway down their cheek. Some you could see their painted-white teeth through the hollows of their molten faces, like maniacal grins. I shuddered, passing a female drone with exactly the same eye colour as my own.
“What are we looking for, North?” I asked again, starting to feel that much more agitated.
North shrugged, not looking at me but still rifling through the drones. “Special model. Gobber asked me to take care of it should he get in trouble.”
Get in trouble. I cast my eyes around the burnt out room again. Then it finally occurred to me; this fire had not been an accident. Which immediately had me wondering why I was here. What if the place was still being watched? And why on earth did North need me here if he was only picking up one drone?
I asked him, and North tsked, replying “Is special lock.”
Special. Lock. I kid you not, that’s what he said. “So it needs two people to open some kind of lock?” I guessed, watching as he continued to root around the workshop.
“Da, tochno.” North replied distractedly. I sighed, rubbing my temple.
“So what do these switches look like? Maybe I can help find them?”
North turned around, looking disgruntled. “I found first – is near door. Second is being harder to find.” He pointed to what looked like a handle that was sticking out the wall, like one of those aid bars for people with a wheelchair. Except that this handle was too high for any wheel chair. I frowned at it, bright blue in colour underneath the sooty grime. Meanwhile, North turned back to the drones, searching behind each of them one by one, muttering “‘Is behind doll’ he said. ‘Cannot miss it’ he said. Bozhe moy…”
I, however, was still looking at the handle. Why would you paint it bright blue? It was completely against any colour scheme the room had (pre-fire, obviously. Not that the black, smudgy colour scheme it had now wasn’t very fetching). There was something familiar about it though… and then it hit me. Like a mallet.
Whilst North was still searching behind drones to the left of the room, I walked back over to the doll with eyes like mine, her painted lips now dissolved into a wide, gaping slit in the face, like a maw. I gulped, trying to hold back the bile in my throat, before looking down and taking hold of the drone’s wrist. Its hand wasn’t in much better shape; the prosthetic had bubbled in the heat, and two fingers had melted away, revealing singed metallic bone. I turned her hand over, and read the designation code stamped onto her wrist: D-0LL.
I looked up, taking in the staring blue eyes again, and understood. With that, I pulled Doll out of the way, gently setting the drone’s body on the workshop floor.
Behind Doll was another handle, but this one was entirely black – and no, not from soot.
“Er, North? I think I found it.”
North nearly banged his head on the nearest rack as it shot up, leaving the rack of tools and disembodied limbs swaying. “That’s wonderful, Jack! Now when I say so, pull the lever.”
“Lever?”
I raised an eyebrow at North. North just chuckled. “There is no wrong lever, Jack.”
Of course, the big guy knew exactly where my mind had gone. “As long as there’s no croc pools, we’re fine, huh?” I grinned.
North snorted. “Gobber would not use croc pool, is not his style. Booby traps with pointy things is more like.”
I rolled my eyes. “Gee, now I feel so much better.”
North waved a hand dismissively as he walked over to the blue lever. Taking it in hand, he nodded towards me. I reached back and gripped the black lever firmly. “On tri, da? Odin.”
My fingers flexed on the handle. The timing had to be perfect, because I got a feeling North wasn’t lying about the booby traps. “Dva. TRI!”
I yanked the black lever down as hard as I could, then felt my heart plummet as I saw North hadn’t pulled his. What was he doing?!
North had waited a beat, then pulled his lever with all his might. I think he nearly broke it.
There was a very tense moment of silence, in which absolutely nothing happened…
Then we heard it – the faint clicking sound of whirring cogs somewhere beneath us. Slowly, in the middle of the room, one of the floor panels began to slide out of sight, revealing a dark stairway, lit only by an ominous blue bulb set into the concrete wall every five steps or so.
I stared at the stairway, then at North, then the stairs, then North again, before pretty much exploding “What was that?!”
North shrugged. “Is saying Gobber liked. ‘If you don’t know what to do, prepare to be beat black and blue.’ You figured out clue with Doll, and I realised whole saying was clue. Doing both levers at same time - that was obvious choice. You had to prepare for beat between black and blue.” He winked at me, and then started down the stairway that really ought to belong in a horror movie set.
I glared at the Russian’s big bulky back. Toymakers. They think they’re so clever.
I followed North down the staircase – if I was a bit cautious, who can blame me? The air was still really hot, like the concrete had soaked up the heat from the fire and was radiating it like a giant incubator. The steps were slippery, but the bulbs didn’t give enough light to know why. I made myself believe it was just moisture, or perhaps some spilt oil. My stomach was still tightened in a coil, heaving at the thought that I could be traipsing through blood right now…
No. That’s stupid. Gobber was a friend of North’s, and last I checked, North doesn’t usually befriend psychopaths with slasher cellars. Macabre workshops, maybe. But then, the whole macabre, ‘face-burnt-off’ look wasn’t exactly Gobber’s fault.
I took a steadying breath, and practically jumped out of my skin when North announced “This is it!”
We had arrived in a tiny, circular room. To one side, there was a safe and a pantry, stocked with non-perishables. On the other side of the room was a chryo-chamber; the type that people used to stick their drones in to recharge overnight. But this one was padded, as if the owner had been concerned about their drone’s comfort or something. Not that it really mattered – the chamber was empty. Finally, at the back of the room was a desk littered with scrap metal, wires, and a whole host of gadgets. I think I recognised an iron solder from back when I did shop. Bad memories. (Technophobe, remember?)
But the thing was… the desk wasn’t unoccupied. Sat at the desk, there seemed to be a figurewho’d tucked their chin down to their chest, their arms wrapped around something that was being pressed to their chest. The figure hadn’t moved the whole time we’d been there.
North strode forward to the desk, ignoring the figure and instead shuffling around with the few papers that were scattered over the desk. I let him get on with it – he knew what he was doing, even if I didn’t – instead I started toward the unmoving figure, sat curled in upon themselves on the desk’s stool.
You couldn’t see much of them, the way they’d wrapped themselves in a little protective ball. But as I circled the figure, I was able to make a few educated guesses. The arms wrapped around something out of sight, but the arms themselves were pretty lithe and muscular. The figure’s hair was shaggy, just brushing the nape of their neck. I could just make out an adam’s apple through the crook of their neck. Male – despite the two small plaits beneath the guy’s right ear. (Was this guy a hippy or something?)
Still he hadn’t moved. And I had practically been breathing in his ear. Something was off.
I moved slowly around him, catching a few more details – like how the light reflected off something on his left leg. Upon closer inspection, I realised there was a metal kneecap shining through the holes in the guy’s left jeans leg. On his arms, there were places where the prosthetic had melted away again, little patches of bright silver appearing on his skin. It was a shame – you could see how beautifully detailed the prosthetic was, dotted with freckles to make even the most suspicious of people never notice.
The t-shirt he was wearing was a khaki green, and covered in engine grease. It looked like the guy helped Gobber in the workshop. I smiled at the idea – the guy… drone had a nice build. It’d probably be pretty cute, cover in oil like a grease-monkey.
Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts. Bad thoughts.
I turned to North, who was now slipping a carefully folded piece of paper into his back pocket. I cleared my throat purposefully, and he turned to face me, looking pretty sober for such a jolly guy. I furrowed my brow in question, but he waved me off, turning his attention to the drone at the desk.
I slowly walked over to North’s side, asking “Did you find what you were looking for?”
North nodded his head slowly. “Da. Only situation is worse than I feared.” He clapped his hands. “First thing is to get young chelovek out of cellar.”
I stared at North, not quite sure I heard him right. “Chlevik? Is that it's name? Seriously?!”
North snorted. “Niet. Is Russian word for young man.”
“But it’s a drone.” I stated, looking pointedly at the shiny kneecap and spots of silver on the figure’s arms. North shrugged. “Is still man.”
I must have looked pretty confused, but North just chuckled and started circling the drone like I had. But unlike me, he stopped every now and again to feel the drone – checking joints, he said – until finally he stood up straight, planted his hands on his hips and sighed.
“Motorised ligament have seized. Control chip is overheated. It looks like few of the wires fried…” he scowled. “I need to get him to my workshop. Soon.”
I watched him rattle the diagnosis off like a qualified surgeon, and realised that in this case he might as well have been. “Ligament seized? What does that mean?”
North said nothing, only came over and lightly tugged at one of the drone’s arms. It barely moved. “The skele-structure is stuck in place. He still needs to be moved.”
Suddenly I was trying to picture getting the drone – frozen in a sitting position with arms wrapped around some mystery teddy bear – out of the burnt out shop and into my beat up Chevrolet without raising too much suspicion. Somehow, I did not see it happening.
“Isn’t there something we can do to… I don’t know, thaw it out?”
North tapped his lips a couple of times, before replying “There is reset systems override, but he will not thank us for that…”
I rolled my eyes. “And if we get caught trying to fit an awkwardly shaped humanoid drone in my car, I doubt it’ll thank us for that either.”
North nodded. “Harashaw.” And with that, he leaned forward and brushed the hair away from behind the drone’s left ear, revealing a tiny switch button. With a twitch of his finger, North flicked the switch. The change was instant.
The drone went entirely limp, slumping sideways off the seat and falling onto its side, fingers loosely keeping what appeared to be a black orb tucked to its abdomen. The eyes were closed, like the drone was merely sleeping. Just like it's arms, the prosthetic skin on it's face was delicately flecked with freckles with artesian precision. You’d think it was completely real. It was even still entirely intact – unlike poor Doll upstairs.
Without much ceremony, North pulled the drone into his arms, its head resting against North’s broad shoulder. North nodded to the discarded orb. “Bring that. Is obviously important to chelovek.”
I picked up the pitch black orb where it lay, and realised it wasn’t actually a whole sphere, but just a ball shape made out of many intricate panels – like scales. I was about to ask North what it was supposed to be, but he was already halfway up the stairs.
-:-
Being back at North’s shop was nothing short of the biggest relief I could ask for. The looks we got from the people outside Gobber’s… I was terrified, okay? I mean, someone only had to notice drone-boy’s knee, and we’d be goners.
North had told me not to cover him in a blanket, because it would only keep the overheated system warm. So we’d driven through town with drone-boy on full view. I’d tried to make it look like it was a sleeping dude when I arranged him, but that would only work so far. I just hoped no-one had really noticed when his head slammed the glass on a sharp turn, and he didn’t even stir.
Now it was lying on the work bench, unmoving still, with the control panel hidden on the side of his left shoulder pulled open. North muttered in Russian as he fumbled with various wires, stripping the plastic covering and replacing the burnt out copper in the wires.
I watch with detached interest. I thought my job was done with the whole “get the drone back to North’s place all sneaky like” bit, but no. North had told me to stick around. He even blackmailed me, saying he’d tell Aster what happened to his expensive acrylics set. (The kids at pre-school had run out of paints! Surely Bunny understood?) So, I was stuck there, pouting like a kid. And I was bored out of my mind.
I’d already wandered around North’s shop – Moyyeti’s – about three or four times now. Again, Toymakers must think they are so clever. When the shop started, it was North making the toys, along with his best friend Phil – both of which being big, hairy men. Which is why, when Thiana jokingly called them the ‘Yetis’ at a get-together a few years ago, the name stuck. Moyyeti’s. Literally ‘My Yeti’s’ in Russian.
Give North a gold star. At least his toys were a little more imaginative.
After I’d done the circuit for the fourth time I called it quits, which I how I ended up sitting next to what looked like an unconscious guy who looked at least nineteen, if not older, with his sleeve rolled up on one side like he was getting a shot. North had started humming at one point. It sounded like the Beatles.
My eyes ran over the little spots of silver that littered the arm closest to me, and finally fell on something I had not noticed before. What with clutching that orb like it had been, the drone hadn’t allowed anyone to see the stamped designation on its wrist. But now, there it was, clear as day: H-1CP.
Hicpee. Was that seriously the drone’s name? And I thought Chlevik was bad enough. Which name would you rather have, the one that sounded like public urination or a bad case of phlegm in the throat? I suppose you could swap the letters around a bit… Chip? Nah, too Disney. Pich? Somehow I thought not. I know a guy named Pitch – I could do without the association.
“What have you found?” asked North, peering over at me from where he was tampering with the control panel. His eyes looked comically huge in his magnified lenses. I shrugged.
“Looks like its designation.”
North read the stamp on the drone’s wrist, and then beamed, going back to his work. “This explains much. I wondered why Gobber chose such odd name for boy – but it fits with his designation.”
I raised an eyebrow. “So you’re really telling me its name is Hicpee?”
North blinked once, twice, then literally fell to the floor laughing. I’m talking belly laughs here. It was loud. “W-where” he spluttered “did you get idea like that?!”
“Well, it says Hicpee on his wrist!” I replied, gesturing to the limp drone’s arm indignantly.
“HA!” North yelled, jumping to his feet and pointing at me with a look of glee on his face. From where we were a second ago, this was a big ‘Ha’ out of nowhere, so forgive me for being a little taken aback.
“What?” I asked, once my heart rate was back to normal. North looked smug.
“You said ‘his’. You said his wrist.”
I shrugged, glancing over at the drone – still undergoing repairs, wires dangling from the shoulder. “Slip of the tongue. It has got a humanoid body, after all. It’s confusing.”
North gave me a piercing look, before shrugging his own shoulders. “Harashaw, if you say so.” He sat back at the drones shoulder and adjusted his lenses. “By the way, his name is Hiccup.”
I ignored the hollow feeling in my stomach that told me I’d just disappointed North big style, and instead focus on the new information I had. I looked again at the drone lying peacefully on the bench. For a machine, it was pretty handsome, I had to admit.
…Well, sure it was a weird name. But anything has gotta be better than Hicpee, right?