Chapter Text
Calibrating… Calibrating…
Systems online.
The surrounding area is bitingly cold, nipping at its sensors, which freshly whirl and analyze the foreign environment. It sways back and forth, side to side, like a ship rocking through calm waters: someone is carrying it.
Location scanning…
Its locator is off, and it would take a manual override to turn it back on — something it doesn’t have the power to do. Snow falls onto its hair and uniform, sinking and creating wet patches across the fabric, and melding its hair together. The sunlight warms its eyelids, but the chilly breeze prevents the melted ice stains from drying. Not that it matters much; It’s all synthetic, anyway.
The steps go from stumbling, clearly walking through some sort of substance — likely snow — to secure. They stop, shifting it between strong arms, until it's eventually placed on something soft. The surrounding area is toasty. Scanning… its heat sensor picks up thermal rays from beside it. A fireplace?
Audio processing online.
“...should I even ask why you were carrying it?”
The voice it picks up is low, monotone, tired. Maybe ten feet away. Footsteps track the room, up, down, right, left, giving it a good idea of the size.
Hmm, visual input is still offline. Running diagnostic...
“You said it was fine,” Another voice says, higher pitched, male, moving with the pacing footfalls. “And you saw what that place was like, how they were treating him; I couldn’t leave him behind, Tech.”
“Well, now we have to take care of it.”
“Him, Techno.”
“Sure. Him.”
“Jesus, you make him sound like he’s two.”
Error found; left eye destabilized. Replacement needed. Redirecting power to the right eye…
The room smells of spruce. Must be far north to be this cold; nearly 26F. Androids can't freeze, though their biocomponents can have increased malfunction in cold weather: It increases its inner heat anyway. Better safe than sorry, as the humans would say.
“He can help us,'' the higher voice says. It's british, northern. “Come on, Tech: you’ve been saying that we need someone else we can trust, who can work on things neither of us have time for anymore. He literally can’t betray us, anyway, its in his fucking code. ”
The monotone voice — Techno? — huffs. “Have we seriously gotten to the point of needing an Android on our team?”
“We invited him here.”
“I know, but— Phil, we’re supposed to be equal.” There's a silence, and the first voice quickly continues. “Obviously Androids are people, too; I’m not being a bigot here, Phil, I’m being practical. You’re right; it’s coded to listen to us, obey us. But having that assurance also means we have power over him. And that’s…”
“He was deviant, they all were, remember?” The British voice — Phil? — explains. Define deviant: Term Blocked. “We don’t need to worry, Techno, he’s gonna be a great asset to the team. You never had a problem with him, right?”
It opens its eyes.
There’s two men. One against the far wall, wearing victorian-style clothes, with a red cape slung over one shoulder. It goes to scan its face, but is prevented by a mask. Horse skull, dead an unknown amount of time. It’s been sanded down, all age markers gone. His eyes are blue, but when they meet its own, they faintly glimmer red in the light.
“Phil,” The masked man says. Techno, its brain connects.
The other man turns at his name, catching its eyes next. He was the one pacing, and based on the snow still covering his boots, he was also the one who brought it here. Blond hair. Wearing a gray haori over a set of black thermals. Older, maybe early 30s. It scans his face.
Philza Minecraft. Survivalist. Was off-grid in the wilderness for five years before being found. Countless articles flash through its mind, each giving it a vague understanding of its new assignment.
“Hello,” It greets, attempting to be chipper as it sits up. It's sitting on spruce floors, half on top of a worn looking throw pillow. The wallpaper is old, decorated with nearly-invisible outlines of birds. Factory date 1987. There are char marks around it from the still-lit fireplace. A cabin? Possibility increased. Snow hits the windows outside, pushed by a light breeze.
Absently, it activates analysis mode to find more details. Error: Failure to activate. It blinks, reaching up to inspect the eye, only to meet hard plastic. Frowning, it pulls the cover from its eyes, finding cheap, black-out sunglasses. How strange...
“Prime, Ranboo, are you all right?” Phil steps forward, kneeling down to its height. He reaches toward its cheek, but stops short, pulling his hand back to his chest. “What, uh, what happened to your eye?”
“Left eye has been damaged, needs replacement.” It states. Its voice is low, like Techno’s. Monotone.
“Shit,” Phil curses. “Do you know how? What do you remember?”
Running diagnostic...
“Memory recall failed.” It states, face neutral. “Memory storage is blocked. Access key needed.”
“Access key?” Techno mutters, walking forward. It turns its attention to the masked man.
“Access key needed to access memory storage. Please contact CyberLife for further help.” It blinks, attempting to retrieve the number. “Access to CyberLife has been disabled. Please call CyberLife Repairs to enable it.”
“Uh, Phil?” Techno says, unsure.
Phil’s attention doesn't drift from it. “Ranboo, you’re scaring us, mate.”
It tilts its head at the name, smiling absently.
“Name not registered. Would you like to register the name, ‘Ranboo’?”
Phil doesn't answer.
He can’t, as his hand has become a vice around his mouth, and his eyes are wide and watering. Horrified, its mind supplies. Phil is horrified.
“They fucking reset him,” Phil whispers.
It blinks, face neutral.
Phil’s hands reach out, cupping its cheeks. They register as warm. Phil has blue eyes, which are searching for something in its own. It stares back, blinking through the silence. Human’s get uncomfortable when you don’t blink.
“What did they do to you, Ranboo?” Phil whispers. A hand settles on Phil’s shoulder, pulling him back.
“MT900, register your name.” Techno states. Phil sucks in a sharp breath.
“Techno.”
The masked man doesn’t spare him a glance. “Phil, would you rather do this?”
Phil does not answer.
“I got this.” Techno whispers, squeezing the older man's shoulder.
Phil nods, slowly standing and turning around, heading for the porch. He seems reluctant to leave. It turns its attention to Techno, who straightens up, blue eyes cold.
“Stand up, MT900.”
It obeys, lifeless eyes staring at Techno, waiting for further instruction.
“Register name,” Techno pauses, and his voice is slightly choked, “Ranboo.”
“Hello,” Ranboo smiles, eyes cold. “My name is Ranboo, to whom am I registered?”
“Myself and Philza.”
Ranboo nods, cataloguing the names. “What do you require?”
“We don’t—'' Techno takes a breath, and his eyes momentarily close. When they reopen, they’re as dull and lifeless as its own. “We live on a farm. You will help around the house. Refer to us by our names.”
“Understood, Techno.” Ranboo nods, continuing to smile.
“Stop smiling like that.”
Ranboo evens out its face, relaxing any tensed muscles. It looks to Techno for further instruction.
“I mean—” Techno stutters. “Just, no need for politeness. Treat us like friends.”
“Understood, Techno.” Ranboo says, face neutral. Techno grimances.
“You— You can smile again.”
“Of course, Techno.” Ranboo smiles brightly. Techno stares at him, his expression unreadable behind the mask.
“Come on,” He finally says, turning and heading towards the stairs. “I’ll show you around.”