Chapter Text
May, 1995...
It was a warm summer day outside Dr. Light's laboratory. Dr. Light was away at a work conference, Rock and Roll had taken Rush into the city to go shopping, while Proto had stayed behind to work on the skycycle and be on call if Dr. Wily and Snake Man were to strike.
But the emergency satellite scanner remained quiet. Proto was bored—Dr. Wily hadn't attacked in over a month, and his armor was sitting unused in a heap in his room, collecting dust. He was wondering if he should have gone into the city after all with Rock and Roll—shopping and malls weren't his thing, but playing at the arcade with Rock and teasing Roll over her music tastes could be fun—
The doorbell rang.
Normally, Proto hated answering the door. Though Dr. Light's laboratory was located in the country and didn't receive many visitors, Proto preferred to ignore the few that came, who were mostly salesmen anyway. But today, Proto put down his tools, put on a pair of aviators, and answered the door.
Outside stood a man with short auburn hair. Despite the heat, he was dressed in a formal, tight-collared suit of black wool with orange embroidery and gold buttons. Everything about him looked extremely expensive, as though he were royalty—a strange visitor for Dr. Light's boring, quiet laboratory in the country. He glanced around furtively, checking the lawn, then stared at Proto with familiar piercing pale eyes.
"Are you Proto?" he asked in a low voice, his lips barely moving, as though afraid the welcome doormat might be eavesdropping.
"Uh, yeah," responded Proto without really thinking as he stared back (he was not dressed as 'Break Man', his public-facing hero identity, after all, nor did many know who 'Proto' was).
The man (or android, as Proto had instantly figured out, despite the flawless disguise) nodded curtly. "My name is Mr. Turner. We haven't met—"
"Oh I know who you are," Proto interrupted, grinning broadly at Turner. There was no mistaking the resemblance of those pale eyes. "You're Elec Man's little brother!"
"I—what?" Turner wrinkled his nose. "I'm not—that's not—" He gave a small, annoyed cough, then changed the subject. "…Are you alone?"
"Yes." Proto opened the door wider. "Here, come in."
Turner stepped warily over the threshold into the brightly lit foyer. After glancing around with a still expression, apparently listening to make sure Proto was actually alone, he began to walk around with perfect, straight-backed grace, hands clasped behind his back.
"Checking for bugs," Turner informed Proto in a cold, crisp tone as he inspected the dull knickknacks on the perfectly ordinary accent tables.
"Good idea, always forget to do that," Proto replied, hiding a smirk. He was reminded a little bit of a peacock or a very self-conceited show dog.
Then he noticed Turner's eyes were lingering on the framed pictures, and grimaced slightly inside. He wasn't proud of this collection, especially not around a Syndicate member—most were family photos both dorky and domestic, yet it was a bit difficult to tell what Turner was thinking as he stared at them.
"So uh, what brings ya to this neck of the woods?" Proto prompted.
Turner turned his cold piercing stare on Proto. "I have a mission for you from your former employer. Top secret. I heard you used to do work for us…as some sort of assistant, or something."
"Special asset, in the end—a mission from the Syndicate? Really?" Proto asked keenly, taking a step toward Turner.
A mission from the Syndicate would be dangerous—Syndicate missions were always dangerous. Proto missed the danger—fighting Dr. Wily and his goofy inventions didn't have quite the same thrill as risking his life battling murderous scrappers and powerful mobsters. Yet, he had been placed in a forced retirement from vigilantism a year ago…still a bit of a sore spot.
Turner's eyes fell away from Proto to glance out a window. "Yes, but you must know, I can't pay you for your work."
"No problem. I will do it pro bono."
"Then you accept?"
"Sure."
"If you double cross me, I'll make you regret every day for the rest of your short life."
At this point, Proto was trying very hard not to laugh. The android was clearly trying to act both as impressively tough and coldly professional like Elec Man—a nigh impossible feat. "Of course. But…listen, junior, me and your older brother go way back. There's no way I'd do anything to hurt you guys!"
"My name's not 'junior…' Turner replied, bristling.
"Well, until you tell me your real name," Proto responded with a lazy shrug. "And junior, no offense, while you're earning extra credit in acting lofty and superior, you're only a B in intimidation and a D in lying. Honestly I'm afraid if I even touched you you'd break like a china doll. Nice try, but let's can the gangster talk and cut to the chase."
Turner looked affronted. "What do you mean?"
Lowering his voice, Proto took a step toward Turner, his amusement fading. "Junior…you're supposed to be on a mission in California. You're a long way from California. Call me crazy, but I don't think you're supposed to have any contact with me at all, least of all giving me orders! What the hell is going on? Where's Elec Man?"
"I—I—" Turner appeared to be valiantly clinging on to his tough Syndicate facade, but a slight shiver shook his shoulders. "I don't know," he admitted finally.
"…Is he in danger?"
Turner's head almost made a small jerk, as though he were about to nod, but he quickly controlled it and said, sounding genuinely lost, "I don't know. We—I—need Cypher's help."
For a brief moment, Turner had looked imploringly at Proto, but then his gaze had darted away again.
Suddenly, the situation seemed much less fun, though Proto gave Turner a reassuring smile. "Well you got 'im. C'mon. We'll take our air raider."
The air raider droned monotonously as they flew West. For awhile, Turner was quiet as he sat straight-backed in the passenger seat, staring imperiously into the horizon. Proto studied him curiously out of the corner of his eye.
Turner was not quite like Elec Man—certainly, the resemblance was there—they had practically identical faces and eyes. Yet while Elec Man could produce a glare as cold as a serial killer twisting a knife between your ribs while watching the life fade from your eyes, Turner's similarly icy, penetrating glare only held the menace of one who might hold a knife up to a throat, but go no further.
"We can't tell anyone about this," Turner said finally with the curt formality of an executive ordering about an intern.
"Don't worry, I sneak off all the time!" replied Proto, waving a hand airily. "No one will think twice about it. But I gotta ask…how come you came to me for help? Why didn't didn't you go to Pharaoh Man instead?"
There was a small pause. Turner twisted in his seat to look blankly at Proto. "Who?"
"Geese, kid, how secret was this mission you and Elec Man were on? Don't you know your other allies in the Syndicate?"
Turner stared at Proto for a moment, then shook his head. "Only our mutual acquaintance Mr. Smith, and stop calling me diminutives. I am Mr. Turner to you."
"Can you fight?"
Turner angled his chin hastily and gave Proto a superior look. "No, it is not my responsibility to 'fight,' that's the job of lowly combat robots like you."
"…Care to run that by me again, junior?"
With a small jerk, Turner added, "Please."
Smiling, Proto looked out the window. They were flying over Indiana, green fields of corn stretching below them in a checkered grid. Despite all the blatant, uncalled-for rudeness, he was enjoying Turner's company a lot. Elec Man had taught his little brother well in acting the part of Syndicate, and his little brother was a good student—but Proto had a feeling underneath this robot was quite different from Elec Man or Syndicate altogether.
"…So ballet?" he queried, recalling something Elec Man had said about the mission in California.
Turner held himself up proudly (again a bit like a peacock fanning its feathers) "Yes. My alias is Todd Turner, perhaps you've heard of me."
"…I'm afraid not?"
The feathers drooped. "Oh. Well, I'm the best ballet dancer in the world."
"…Okay…?"
Picking up on Proto's tone, Turner drew himself up indigently. "I like it a lot and if you're going to make fun—"
"I wasn't, I wasn't!" said Proto hastily, though he felt his own eyebrows raising more than he intended. So then, Turner was a ballet dancer? That explained the prince-like suit!
As Turner continued to look offended, his pale eyes glaring superiorly ahead, Proto decided to change the subject back to the matter at hand.
"So…how long has Elec Man been missing?"
"I never said Mr. Smith went missing," Turner replied stiffly.
"…No offense kid, but you are a bad liar (which according to my little brother is actually a good thing!). I could tell something was wrong the moment I first saw you."
"No you couldn't—how?"
"Well, for example, I saw you casing our house yesterday, while Rock and I were out walking his robo-dog. You thought you were hidden. I would have trashed you, but I noticed your eyes, which are just like your older brother's, and decided to wait."
At this, Turner's pale eyes darted over to Proto. The high-and-mighty act he had been putting on slipped. He looked small, and scared.
"But listen, you don't have to worry—" Proto put in hastily, then added with a laugh, "I'm not going to hurt you, you know—I'm Break Man!"
…This didn't quite alleviate Turner's apprehension as anticipated. "…Who?" He sounded just as bewildered by this name as he had at Pharaoh Man's.
"Break Man!" Proto repeated, confused. "The red bomber!"
"Never heard of you."
"Well, I'm kinda like a superhero in New York City."
This was met with awkward silence. Turner stared at Proto, scrutinizing him like a complicated jigsaw puzzle. He didn't seem to know what to make of this information. They flew through a few puffy clouds, which briefly blanked the air raider's convex windows in white.
"And you are…living like a human?" Turner sounded doubtful, as though asking if pigs could fly.
"Yeah, I guess," replied Proto, feeling slightly defensive. "…Something funny about that?"
Turner quickly looked away from Proto back out the window. "No, not at all. …Though, you're nothing at all like I pictured."
"What did you picture?"
Turner's brows drew together. He still looked nervous. "They call Cypher the 'Devil of the Underground'—that Cypher could take down an army of scrappers faster than fire in a paper warehouse, that he leaves no enemy alive," he whispered.
"Stop! You're making me blush," laughed Proto, pleased. "I'm not half as scary as your brother."
"Yeah, you're not like that at all," agreed Turner. "Really you're just a dork from the suburbs."
…Proto's self-pleased feeling crashed.
"You don't even dress well," Turner added, almost accusingly, eying the old T-shirt and baggy jeans Proto was wearing beneath his bomber jacket.
"Well, this is just my lab clothes—shut up," Proto muttered, fully aware he was wearing something that leaned more on the 'comfort' scale than the 'cool' scale, an unfortunate fashion trend that had snuck up on him when he had moved back to Dr. Light's laboratory. Stuck up little brat, he thought, then smiled. He supposed Turner's statement was a product of Elec Man's influence—if anything, he should be annoyed at Elec Man.
"So…what did Elec Man tell you about me?" Proto asked casually as he checked the flight instruments and adjusted the altitude slightly.
"Not much."
"…Oh."
Proto's shoulder's slumped a little. He himself still sometimes thought of Elec Man—usually when he was busting amateurish heist that Elec Man would have found funny. He remembered how they used to challenge each other by doing something reckless. Instead, Proto was now making sure Roll didn't do the same reckless shit he used to do while fighting Dr. Wily. Of course, it made sense that Elec Man had put all of that behind himself; Elec Man had always tried to act so mature…
Turner was eyeing Proto in a strange, almost jealous way, then clarified with significance, "Mr. Smith complains about everyone—the delivery men being late, the seamstresses mishandling my costumes, the director slacking off, when someone in the audience coughs too much, if one of the violins in the orchestra is off-key—but not you."
Proto perked up again. "Really?"
Turner had gone back to watching Proto with a guarded expression. "I can trust you, right?"
"Yes, though you obviously don't. You're that desperate, huh junior?"
Turner sniffed. "Well…Mr. Smith trusted you."
"Yeah. I mean, I was programmed to obey the Syndicate for most of the time we knew each other, but I think he did even outside of that." Proto checked the flight course—an hour until they reached Los Angeles. "Alright, now that we have that settled, I'll ask you again…how long has Elec Man been missing?"
At first, Proto thought Turner would continue to be aggravatingly stubborn, but Turner responded in the smallest of voices, "…Three days."
Three days. Shit. "Kid, you better tell me everything. I got a real bad feeling about this. Your secrets are safe with me, honest—just tell me."
For a moment, Turner continued to waver, then finally told Proto about his mission at the ballet—about having a target, an unknown person of whom he had been tasked to assassinate on a certain night. Then, reluctantly, he explained that he had told Elec Man that he couldn't do it, and that Turner's mission had been called off.
"…Elec Man said our creator said I didn't have to do it anymore, and I could just perform as usual, which is what I did," Turner continued somberly. His eyes had been on his knees the entire time. "But then, that night…Elec Man wasn't backstage like he usually is. He wasn't at our apartment either. He wasn't anywhere."
Proto had been frowning all throughout Turner's story. "This person you were targeting…were they dangerous?"
"I dunno." Turner looked helplessly down at his hands, which had been balling up the fabric of his suit's pant legs in a way Elec Man most certainly would not have approved of. "I think…I think something definitely went wrong. Elec Man wouldn't just leave like that. If I had just done my part of the plan, then Elec Man would still be around, he—"
"Whatever happened wasn't your fault," Proto told Turner sternly. "I'm sure Elec Man would say the same if he were here."
For the first time, Turner's perfect posture crumpled. He sat slumped in the passenger chair, his eyes downcast on the creases he had just made in his suit's pant legs.
"Hey, you did the right thing coming to me for help!" Proto reassured him quickly. "We'll find your brother, don't worry."
Turner was silent for a while. Proto wasn't sure if he'd speak again, but finally— "I don't know what you mean by calling Elec Man my 'brother.' He's just my prototype."
"Does he care for you? And you him?"
"…Yes?"
"Well then, junior, he's your brother."
Turner mulled this over. Proto could see a flicker of excited revelation cross his face, like a momentary sunbeam. Again, Turner's behavior thoroughly reminded Proto of Rock. Rock could be obnoxiously lawful like this, especially when he was enforcing Dr. Light's rules with a dog-like level of obedience far beyond what even Dr. Light considered necessary. From then on, Proto decided to make it his mission to get Turner to laugh.
But first things first. "We're almost to L.A.," Proto announced. "Let's check this apartment of yours out first, okay? Perhaps we can get a clue to where Elec Man is."