a/n- Hopefully I'll stick with this story. Set into an alternate future, interpret that how you like. Plot holes abound.
He sits, the lab illuminating his form.
Black hair. Lonely face. Much older then he looks, they say. One of the most revered robot technicians in the world, but almost nobody knows his name.
Quiet. That's the first thing Tuck notices when he walks in the lab, but it's always quiet in here. It shouldn't be quiet. Sheldon is twenty-two, after all. He should be throwing parties, smiling, laughing, being a kid.
But he isn't. Tuck is, though. Fourteen now, and he smiles and laughs and goes to school.
When he is outside of this lab, that is. Every day at six o'clock, though, he comes here and apprentices, mainly just gives Sheldon unwanted company. He's became quite proficient at handing the older boy wrenches.
"Skyway Patrol. Brad, you there?" the voice spills out the intercom.
"Yes," he snapped irritably. "All systems a-go. And, er, patrolling."
The redhead supposed he liked this job. Skyway Patrol had became much more competent since the years passing. Just not competent enough. They always fell short of winning the battle, saving the day. That was XJ-9's job. Until she went berserk, mad. Insane. Immortality does that to a person, you know.
He remembers the day, when Nora screwed the final bolt and sealed Jennifer's- XJ-9's, he reminds himself- life to never end. Recharging was unnecessary. Weapons were extensive. She could never die, Brad thought in horror, even if she wanted to. Nothing short of a nuclear war could destroy her.
So she snapped. Nora Wakeman died. Tuck had alerted them, told them what would happened, but they were too slow.
They were always too slow, he murmured quietly as the controls flickered.
"Jennifer," the girl whispers quietly against the gray sky.
She laughs bitterly.
"We're just alike," she hissed coldly. "You and I."
The ground, soaked with blood, agrees silently.
"And I can save the world?" Melody asks happily of Skyway Patrol, and they nod.
"That's...good!" her cheery voice replies.
"Tiffffffffffff," Brit's whiny voice buzzes over the phone.
Tiffany cringes inwardly. Twenty-two, with an associate's degree and working on her bachelor's, and Brit's a married housewife who thinks of herself only. Some things never change, she thinks quietly.
Brit proceeds to tell her how her day went, how her wonderful life went, while Tiffany feels the slivers of anger and guilt and almost-washed-away feelings of pain down her back, in her spine, the almost-burns she got, and the burns that seared against the very middle of her back.
She forces herself to hold back the bile threatening to rise in her throat. "That's...good, Brit," she almost-whispers, and Brit laughs and continues talking.
The humans are so stupid, and if she could cry she would. The emotions control her, surge up when they see fit. She gave up on the concept of 'self-control' a long time ago. People seemed stupider as she got older. Why did they do such things? Why? Why?
And she realized; did it really matter?
So blue met red, and shock formed in the masses' eyes, and she became a villain and a hero at the same time. She lived on Earth, but had no home.
Anger; one of the dominant emotions, it came in waves and rushes and made her feel words like pretty and special when she indulged in it, but afterward made her feel sick until she felt empty and the cycle repeated.
Right now, she feels the rush that takes away the emptiness, and her fist connects, and it is satisfying, she thinks to herself, a satisfying feeling. And while Jennifer would've cringed, turned away, XJ-9 feels nothing. Nothing except for anger, anger and extreme hate.
So she chants, "hatehatehate," each word sharp and true and oh so justifiable, as she murders what they call 'innocents'. The voice in her mind chides; 'that is wrong, Jennifer! Worse than Vexus," and tries to return pain to her unbreakable body. But her will is stronger then that, her anger stronger still, and so she kills with such unbearable rage that if she had lips she would've bitten them clear off by now.
The screams continue.
They were no longer rejects.
The XJ series, 1-8. Formerly compatible but useless, now weapons of their own. It was amazing what a skilled mechanic could do. Retained their personalities, gained so much in the process. Scarier then ever before, and most likely to be used as tools for Skyway Patrol.
One, with an empty smile, the large bruiser, one whom cleans so much it's absurd. They retain quirks, and some of them wonder, whisper among themselves, could it be true? Are we like Jenny?, but the Cleaner rolls her eyes and cleans with her broom-arm, the sharp fatal metallic blades underneath not exposed.