Chapter Text
There are few of us who get to achieve our old childhood dreams, and even fewer of us who knew what it was we were destined to be when we grew up. You supposed, if you squinted, you managed to do both. Somehow.
Although, maybe not the way you had originally intended.
Here you sat in NSR tower, among several other people in suits and sunglasses, folders in your hands as you eagerly awaited your name to be called. Perhaps you should have brought a brief-case instead? Everyone else seems to have done so.
You scan the foyer of the office. Eight in all, with several empty chairs still. It was nine in the morning, and honestly you felt every missing hour of sleep. You normally wouldn’t wake up for something like this, but this lead for a job was too good to pass up. The fact that it was with No Straight Roads also meant it would be reliable, although the info on the specifics were scant at best.
You dismissed the notion that NSR was doing something sketchy, and assumed the job’s details had been kept secret for a reason. Privacy, perhaps?
You didn’t know, and frankly you didn’t need to. All that you needed to do was to ace this interview… Although the competition was stiff.
All was silent until the door leading into the office would open, letting out another interviewee before two members of personnel would summon another to take their place. The door would shut again for an agonizingly brief fifteen minutes.
The door opened, a tall and wide looking fellow in a black suit, set of sunglasses and tie left looking like he was gritting his teeth stormed away from the members of staff. Calmly, a member of staff- a woman- called someone else among the crowd.
Across from you a man stood and walked to the door, but right before he entered the other member of personnel held out an arm, and sized the man up. Then he shook his head.
No.
“Are you kidding me?” the summoned man asked. “I’ve been waiting here an hour and a half.”
“You won’t cut the job, bucko.” The man at the door stood like a bouncer outside a posh night-club, but he towered over the interviewee like a sentinel in the snow. He bent down and said something. “Now leave.”
It had been one of the most threatening things you had ever heard. There was a specific sort of venom to this doorman’s words that the entire room felt. You almost felt happy for the people who had left already…
The man lowered his gaze and turned around, looking like he had seen a monster.
And then they called your name.
You rose, hoping you’d do better, although you were not sure how you could. With active effort to keep your breathing even, you walked to the two members of personnel. From behind the black mirrored glasses you looked at the woman holding the door open, and you looked at the tall man. Must have been fit- if not incredibly tall. He peered down at you from a high-collared coat and some dark shades of his own. Small strands of blue hair hid his brows and a hat covered most of his hair up entirely.
He gave you a look over, then turned around. You suppose you passed his initial test. You dared not ask how. Not yet, maybe not ever.
You passed six doors. Three on the left, three on the right. One of them was a staff closet, and two were bathrooms, one for men and another for women. It was at the seventh door that the woman opened the door for the pair of you again, leading to a small meeting room with the lights on.
The interviewer made his way to the long desk in the room, sat down on the far side where a lap-top had been opened and began to type away. He merely gestured to the chair across from him as an after-thought when he had realized you had not taken it yourself.
You stood, and the silence took over again. Sans his typing, which he seemed to stop for a moment.
“... You’re very good at following orders,” he said, quite suddenly. “One of your references had said that. I’m glad to see that it was true.”
What had this man meant? Did he mean the chair? You only thought that it was impolite to just pick a chair… But you didn’t have time to ponder the meaning in his words for much longer, his chin lifted up and he pointed idly to something on the computer screen.
“It says here you’ve got boot, basic training…”
You felt an inward clench in your gut, but you beat it down. It wasn’t like you could hide it forever. He was bound to ask about it, or you were going to let this man know about the short time you spent in the military.
“Yet your military term was short… It says here that there is an honorary discharge.”
You didn’t answer until he turned his face (or what you could see of it, anyway) to you. You sat in silence for a long while before he finally, nearly confusedly, asked.
“Would you care to elaborate on that?”
No, but you didn’t have much of a choice. You needed this job. You cleared your throat and bowed your head. “Yes sir…” You swallowed for a second. “Prior to boot camp and basic training I was evaluated twice for my mental faculties. Both times I passed, however, right before my duty could begin my…” you swallowed. “My mother and father passed on. So as a result, I’m afraid I didn’t pass the third test.”
The man looked down at his computer and began typing away once more. However, seconds after doubting his intention he looked up. “It says on your record that you are fit to serve.”
“Yes, sir. I’ve taken the test since then.”
The interviewer lifted his chin in a positive way, then slid his computer to the side slightly. Just out of his way enough so he could lean on the table with his hands steepled together. “Then may I ask why you haven’t joined the military yet?”
You let out a quiet sigh. “... My parents were caring for my maternal grandparents. When they passed, I’m afraid I was the only one left who could.”
Admittedly, you had expected no sympathy. Honestly, your reasons were your own. The only reason why you opened up to this man was because he had asked, and the knowledge was common enough to your neighbors to warrant such an examination. It was less private knowledge, more like an open secret.
What you got was not sympathy, sure, but you had expected the man in front of you to at least give you a little bit of space.
“Were they terminal?”
You remembered blinking in surprise. “I-I’m sorry?”
“Were they dying?”
Silence filled the room for a few seconds as you fought how to hide the disgust on your face. “No. They were… Just elderly.”
“Mmn.” Back to typing again.
You waited a while before he spoke again, perhaps far too long in retrospect. When he turned to you it seemed as though the interview had fully begun, though you couldn’t tell if it was a nicety or not. The questions certainly were not.
“Approximately, round up to the nearest half-minute; how long does it take for you to change clothes?” “If you were stuck in an elevator for multiple days without power or water, how would you survive?” “A drunk bar-patron tries to aggress you. How would you handle the situation on impulse?” “Can you lift upwards of forty-five kilograms?” “Do you have a way to cover any distinguishing marks on your body?” “How great of an actor are you?”
You barely had time to think between the questions. “Three if the outfit is already selected.” “Keep low where it is cool, drink sparingly from the water bottle I keep on me at all times till rescue arrives.” “Divert him somewhere else.” “Of course I can.” “I have no tattoos, but yes. I do.” “I am unsure, but I took drama in middle school.”
Your answers were as honest as they could be, and short to match with your interviewer’s questions. No time to dally it seemed, for either of you.
“We can now move onto the second half of the interview,” he said, still clicking away on his keyboard. For the first time, however, he didn’t seem to be passively ignoring you. After the last click he brought the laptop closer to him, then turned it around. “Can you tell me about them?”
The “them” in the picture was easy enough to derive. Five neon-colored, overly tall, robotic twinks with very little changes between their body aside from their hair, eye shape, and color. They all wore matching, plate-printed navy uniforms and had a vaguely militaristic theme to them. Even though you weren’t necessarily their target audience… You knew exactly who they were.
“They’re 1010,” you said, simply. “One of the top performing bands of NSR’s label.” They weren’t the top, but they were up there. You may not have been able to tell who performed better than they did, though. “They’re incredibly popular with girls a decade or so younger than I.”
The interviewer gave you a moment to continue, although without any guidance, you had no idea how to.
“Anything else?” he asked.
You lowered your head in a small shake. “No sir. Not unless I am asked direct or specific questions, I am afraid I can’t answer confidently.”
“Mother of God…” the interviewer stated. “... You’re ideal .”
Your head shot up. “I’m sorry… What?”
The interviewer straightened, perhaps realizing how uncomfortable that could have made you. “An ideal candidate . You seem to fit exactly into what it is we are seeking,” he clarified. “I know not much was posted in regards to the job specifics, however, before I continue I will need a non-disclosure agreement signed.
“Non-disclosure?” Was the assignment that critical? “Forgive me for questioning; but… This is a body-guarding assignment, right?”
The man nodded. “Yes, that is correct. However, it is the specifics that will paint a larger picture of your duties…” He extended a hand off in a direction. “I won’t mince words. This job will be different from your others. We may ask you to perform certain duties outside of strict body-guarding. However, we will outline the scope of your assignment… But only if you agree to a non-disclosure agreement first.”
The interviewer was clearly trying to keep things as hushed as possible, and yet… All you could do was suspect what it was he was looking for. Well… You came this far, and you needed this job. There was no point in not signing the agreement when he pushed it, and a pen to you.
“I can still walk out if the job proves too much for me, yes?”
“That is correct,” he agreed. “This only is a document that makes you promise not to talk about this with anyone outside of this job.”
This felt less and less like a body guarding assignment and more and more like a hitman gig. The interviewer watched you like a hawk, you noticed, from behind his glasses. It wasn’t easy to tell, but you’d call it a trained sense to recognize.
Finally you set down the pen, and slid it back to him. The man took one long look at the contract, nodded, then opened his jacket. At first you believed he was just going to stuff it into a pocket inside, yet he shook it off, revealing chrome metal plating of black and LED lines. The hat on his head was removed and he gave a quick run-through of his hair with his hands… The Glasses stayed on, however.
Oh.
What’s a member of 1010 doing in the interview room with you?
“Hello,” the blue android said, his tone even. The android somehow carried a different gravity by himself. His face and his expressions even bordered on uncanny with his glasses still on. How many teenagers would have killed to be in a position like yours? To them they probably knew all about this robot performer, and to you… All you could see was a machine. A very human, very smart, very impressive machine.
“Hi,” you told him, eyebrows furrowing.
The Android, without smiling, stretched a gray hand out to you. “Purl-Hew.”
You extended your hand out to him saying your name quietly. His fingers had a strong grip, but the soft texture of silicone.
“Sorry for the secrecy,” he said, retracting his hand. “Normally, NSR would not be looking into this sort of thing. Let alone... “ he waved his hand about a fixed joint on his wrist. “Us…”
“I can imagine,” you said. “Aren’t you and your group militant?”
Purl-Hew nodded.
“Then why do you need body-guards?” you asked. “You honestly… Seem like you can take care of yourself, sir.”
“Oh,” Purl-hew placed a hand on his torso and turned. “We can. Each member of 1010 is hard-wired to fulfill a purpose in battle. Mine is security and more… Covert duties.”
You suppose that’s why he was the one who was here, and not, say, the red one. However, that still didn’t answer your question, so you ignored the human-like flair this being of ones and zeroes was tossing your way.
“However, it’s not us who you need to be body-guarding.”
“... Okay.”
Purl-Hew stood slowly and offered a hand to you. “Let me show you?” he asked. You gave the Android another look and stood on your own, Purl retracted his hand, placing it behind his back. You couldn’t tell if he was perhaps offended or not. “Follow closely.”
The blue android opened the door back into the hallway from before, stopping to tell the woman from before to dismiss everyone else in the waiting room… Which you felt was mighty presumptuous before Purl turned to you and asked: “Have you ever worked with celebrities before?”
“Can’t say as though I have.”
“Have you heard stories of people working with celebrities?”
“Probably, but none in specific come to mind.”
“Mmn.” He turned and began walking away from the lobby from earlier. He made a left, then a right, and pretty soon you were on the opposite side of the tower in front of an elevator that he had to access with a key-card. He let you in first, then clicked the button to go down to the garrage.
You felt anxiety grip in your stomach as the door opened right as a bright red sports car drove up. It honked twice.
Purl-Hew seemed visibly frustrated with the honks, walked to the back seat and held the door open. You have him a questioning look as he gestured inside as though what came next should seem obvious. “... Ma’am.”
You stood, staring at the car, an uneasy sense of disgust settling in your stomach as you tried to shake it from your mind with logic.
“Geez, could you be any more cold, Purl?” a voice came from inside the car. “Help the lady in.”
The voice seemed to have some effect on the blue android as he offered a hand again. This time you took it, letting the blue android get you into the rather spacious automobile, closing the door behind you, then walking around the front to get in on the other side.
As you watched Purl-Hew walk around your eyes transfixed on the driver, who was turning his metalic head to stare at you. If Purl-Hew had been all ice, this one was all fire. Bright red hair turned back to you in the plush leather seating.
“‘Sup?” he asked… In a surprisingly human way. “‘Name’s Zim. You got any preference for music, ma’am?”
Purl opened the other side door and stepped in. “Zimelu. Please. This won’t be a long drive.”
“What?” he asked. “It’s not like you’re going to talk on the way there, are you?”
“Zim.”
It was as close to an argument as the two could get without actually fighting… And while it may have solidified how human these Androids may have been- you didn’t want to deal with that sort of thing today.
“Sorry, Zim. Purl-Hew has promised to explain things a bit more for me.”
Zimelu’s facial features furrowed. “... Really?” he asked, turning to Purl, who sat back as stoically as before. “You did that.”
“I did,” he said. “In the interest of onboarding, I figured we needed to get the ball rolling as quickly as possible. You felt Purl-Hew’s eyes lock onto you from his profile as he stared ahead at his band-mate. Purl-Hew noticed that.
Zimelu, however, was none the wiser and shrugged. “... Oh. Okay, then. Quiet it is... “ he said, turning back to the front seat and adjusting himself. “So where are we going then?”
“... We’re going to go to the Hospital… It’s time she met him.”
Zimelu nodded and placed his hand on the gear-shift. Apparently this car was a stick, and not an Automatic. Still, for all that you were discovering about these robots, you had very few answers that would actually help you.
“Why are we going to the hospital?” you asked. “... You’re very human, but as far as I know you are all robots.”
Zimelu seemed to stop and hit the breaks. He took a moment to turn around and look Purl-Hew in the eyes. “... You… Haven’t told her?”
“I was getting to that,” he said, sounding slightly whiny. “Please, Zimelu. I got this.”
Zimelu looked almost worried before he shrugged and turned back to begin driving. Finally Purl-Hew readjusted his legs and looked at you. Even in this car, he dwarfed you. This car must have been made specifically for them, as there was plenty of legroom for them both it seemed.
“We are all robots,” Purl-Hew said. “However, our commander? Our commander is not… And he just had a very real health-scare.”