Chapter Text
In the laboratory, Dr. Eggman smiled to himself as he leaned over the workbench, carefully installing the engine into the data system of his newest prototype robot. The engine was still warm from testing, and Eggman handled it like it mattered—because to him, every new piece of progress was a step toward something bigger.
The engine hummed to life as it began to download. With a low whirr and a soft mechanical settling, the spherical robot slowly rolled into place on the workbench. Its surface warmed up gradually, as if it were waking from a sleep it had never quite understood. Then a tiny face flickered onto its display screen—pixel lights blinking into formation, searching, learning.
“....…” The screen scanned the room, targeting both people and robots nearby—measuring, categorizing, trying to decide who was safe.
“**”* The display shifted again, locking onto only the humans present. The little sphere trembled slightly within its shell, clearly timid, like it had been overwhelmed by too many moving parts and too much attention all at once.
Metal Sonic and Dr. Eggman watched from beside the workbench. They didn’t speak at first. Eggman’s expression softened, while Metal’s posture remained rigid—careful, guarded, but undeniably attentive—as they exchanged glances like they were quietly coordinating how to calm something that didn’t yet know it could feel safe.
“Don’t worry,” Eggman said softly, lowering his voice to something almost gentle enough to be mistaken for a lullaby. He looked toward his son, Metal. “I’ll try to make him comfortable. We just need to talk to him gently… like a baby.”
Eggman carefully lifted the little robot from the workbench, cradling him with surprising delicacy. The sphere didn’t resist, but it also didn’t relax; it simply stared up with wide, searching optics as if hoping for reassurance. Eggman adjusted his grip, making sure the prototype was supported without pressure.
“Be careful,” Eggman warned warmly, as if giving instructions to the world’s smallest parent. “Treat him gently—just like a baby.”
Metal watched the motion with bright focus, then accepted the little robot with both hands. He clearly wanted this more than anything—wanted to see, wanted to help, wanted to be close. The prototype’s tiny display flickered as Metal steadied him.
Metal held his little brother carefully while Eggman looked on. The prototype still had no name. No identity. No sound he could recognize as his own. Metal reached for a nearby piece of paper and began to write, the tip moving carefully like he was carving a promise into the page.
Eggman picked up the paper and read it aloud, smiling as if he already knew the answer.
“You want to name him… Orbot?”
“Your name is Orbot!” Eggman announced proudly, voice bright with excitement. The little prototype robot looked up at him with wide, curious eyes. For a moment, it seemed to pause—processing the word as if it were a new command it could trust. Then Orbot let out a happy chirp and clapped his tiny hands together toward Eggman and Metal, the motion small but full of joy.
“Daddy… Bro!” Orbot babbled in his soft, robotic baby voice.
Eggman and Metal exchanged wide-eyed, stunned looks. They couldn’t believe it—already, he was speaking. Already, he was responding. Before either of them could celebrate properly, Orbot’s expression scrunched up. His face pinched into discomfort, and then—like a dam finally giving way—his display brightened with panic and he began to cry.
“I think he’s hungry,” Eggman said quickly, scanning the workbench with practiced speed. He spotted an old oil can and uncapped it with a careful hand. From it, he poured some of its contents into a small formula bottle, stirring just enough to keep the mixture consistent.
“There we go,” Eggman murmured, almost as if he were soothing Orbot through the air itself. “That should do it.”
Eggman handed the bottle to Metal. Metal accepted it eagerly, cradling Orbot against his chest so he could feed him without jostling. “Could you feed him?” Eggman asked, settling down onto the floor so he could watch with patient attention.
Metal brought the bottle’s nib to Orbot’s mouth. Orbot looked up at Metal with big, trusting eyes, gripping onto his older brother’s finger with his tiny hand as if holding on would make everything better. Then Orbot drank contentedly—slow sips turning into steady comfort.
Once Orbot finished, Metal passed the bottle back to their father. He shifted Orbot carefully against his chest, then gently patted and rubbed his little brother’s back until a small, satisfying burp escaped him.
Orbot sat on the floor behind his oldest brother, no longer crying—just watching. His tiny optics followed
Metal’s every movement with wide, fascinated wonder. Even the simplest motion—Metal turning his head, adjusting his stance—sparked something in Orbot’s interest.
“Broo!” Orbot giggled softly, reaching out with his little hands toward him. His voice was still clumsy, his timing imperfect, but the meaning was clear: stay close.
Orbot was still too young to speak clearly, walk, or understand much of the world around him. He wasn’t capable of reasoning his way through fear or excitement yet. He relied on curiosity the way other babies relied on balance—learning by feel, by motion, by whatever happened next.
He spotted Eggman across the room and immediately decided he needed to be closer. Orbot crawled forward, his tiny shell scraping softly against the ground. The sound wasn’t loud, but in the quiet lab it felt like a tiny announcement: he was moving, he was trying, he was reaching.
“Oh, come with me!” Eggman said warmly, as if he could hear Orbot’s thoughts. He bent down and scooped Orbot up, hugging him close before lifting him into his arms. Orbot’s display glowed gently, eyes bright and alert, as he stared down at Eggman like Eggman was the most important place in the universe.
“What do you want to see, little one?” Eggman asked, voice lowered again into something comforting.
Then Eggman noticed something—something that made his expression pause. A faint dampness soaked through his coat, spreading where Orbot had shifted. Eggman blinked, puzzled, and glanced down at Orbot’s bottom shell.
His eyes widened. “Oh…” he muttered, impressed more than alarmed.
“Okay,” Eggman said with a soft chuckle, laying Orbot carefully back on the floor. “Let’s go get you
changed.”
Eggman reached up to the workbench, grabbing a clean shell along with a few spare rags. Orbot’s current bottom shell was heavily soaked with oil—an accident, messy and sudden, like a tiny malfunction that felt unfairly personal.
“A lucky little accident,” Eggman said under his breath with an amused smile. He gently covered Orbot with a rag, swapping out the dirty shell for the fresh one. The process wasn’t rushed. Eggman moved slowly, making sure Orbot stayed calm, ensuring his little brother didn’t feel shocked or exposed.
When Orbot was clean and comfortable again, Eggman lifted him back into his arms and hugged him warmly, pressing a reassuring palm against the shell.
“Don’t worry,” Eggman said proudly, rocking Orbot just slightly. “Everything’s okay! And soon… I’m going to teach you how to walk… and hover!”
Eggman held Orbot in his arms as he walked around the lab, and Orbot’s small frame lifted too—hovering just above the ground like a curious dream made mechanical. Orbot’s wide optics lit up the instant he spotted Metal Sonic across the room. His hands stretched out automatically, reaching with eager little determination.
“Broo!”
As the weeks passed, Eggman and Metal worked together like a practiced team—one with patience and care, the other with steady guidance. They encouraged Orbot as he learned to walk, to talk, and even to hover properly on his own. Orbot stumbled, corrected himself, and tried again, his curiosity refusing to be discouraged by failure.
Eggman also adjusted Orbot’s attire, swapping it out for a sharp red color at one point—something about it made Orbot look more confident, more complete. Eventually, he settled on Eggman’s signature style, refining Orbot’s look until the prototype finally felt like it belonged in the world they were building.
Orbot grew into a diligent and devoted little robot. He took household duties seriously, always eager to serve his father faithfully—an earnest instinct Eggman admired more than he expected. Metal, too, kept a watchful eye over Orbot, guiding him through responsibilities step by step, quietly demonstrating how to help without crowding.
Together, Metal and Orbot developed a routine that felt almost comforting. Metal taught chores. Metal showed him the ropes of the base. Metal looked after him in his own quiet, stoic way—never too expressive, but always present where it mattered.
Orbot treasured every moment spent beside his oldest brother. Even when Metal didn’t talk much, Orbot seemed to understand something anyway: Metal was dependable. Metal was home.
But one afternoon, Orbot toddled down the corridor after Metal, his little arms outstretched as if he could physically pull Metal into staying.
“Hey—” Orbot called out, voice small and uncertain. “What are you doing? Where are you going?”
Metal didn’t answer. Without so much as a glance back, he turned and walked out through the exit, disappearing outside alone.
For a split second, Orbot didn’t move. He just stood frozen in the hallway, staring at the door Metal had left through. His lower lip trembled, his eyes blinking faster as if his systems were trying to reboot his understanding of what just happened.
“I—I can’t be by myself…” Orbot whimpered, voice cracking at the edges. “I don’t want to be alone!”
Then the fear finally reached its breaking point. Orbot burst into tears, soft sobs echoing down the empty corridor like the lab itself had become too quiet to handle it.
The sound carried all the way to the laboratory. Eggman had just stepped into the hallway, and he paused immediately—recognizing that cry. He looked down to find his little son crumpled on the floor, shaking with emotion.
Eggman’s expression softened at once. He knelt down and scooped Orbot up into his arms, hugging him close and rubbing his back gently until the sobs slowed into shaky breaths.
“Oh, my dear boy,” Eggman murmured quietly, brushing his hand against Orbot’s shell in soothing rhythm.
“I’m sorry about Metal. You know how he is… he always preferred to be on his own.”
Eggman pulled back just enough to look Orbot in the face, forcing a warm smile through the sting of seeing him hurt.
“But don’t you worry,” Eggman promised. “I have something very special to show you. Come.”
Still sniffling, Orbot rested his head against Eggman’s chest as Eggman carried him down the hallway and back into the laboratory. The lab lights reflected softly across Orbot’s display, but the emotion in his eyes remained fragile.
Once inside, Eggman walked Orbot over to the workbench and pointed proudly at a brand-new prototype robot resting in the center—an unmistakable sign that this wasn’t just comfort. It was possibility.
“What do you think?” Eggman asked, looking down at his son. “Would you like a little brother? Or perhaps a twin?”
Orbot’s tear-streaked face shifted. He blinked hard, wiping away wetness with the back of his tiny hand. His optics widened as he studied the new prototype, curiosity returning in small bursts—careful, hesitant, like he was afraid hope might vanish if he blinked too long.
Then he looked up at his father and gave a small, eager nod.
Eggman smiled, tender and proud. He set Orbot down carefully and began turning his attention to the engine installation. One by one, the systems came online—lights flickering, internal mechanisms adjusting, the air filling with the familiar hum of creation.
The prototype robot slowly stirred to life. Its wide eyes blinked open, then its display focused on the room, scanning with bewilderment—like it was waking into a world it hoped was kind.
Next: Orbot POV-Metal