Hello, AllAmericanSlurp here. Since I've already written two stories, I decided to take a stab at a third. Please don't flame, but constructive criticism is more than welcome! Here you go!

Disclaimer: I do not own Lab Rats.

Marcus was nothing but an android—a specially designed robot built to resemble a human. He couldn't think for himself. His father Douglas had carefully crafted him to obey orders, no matter what. He had grown up thinking of the other side of the Davenports as evil, and his side of the Davenports good. He had grown up with what he thought was a completely normal childhood that involved living in a basement and occasionally going on outings. He had grown up as an android built to resemble a human.

But what had made Marcus the way he really was? If he hadn't had such a painful past, well, would he have grown to become real, true friends with the lab rats?

One-year-old Marcus.

Douglas wrapped his hands around Marcus' midsection and whispered to himself, "My boy, aren't you a beaut. Yes, you will help me get back what was mine! It was all mine! And Donny stole it from me."

Marcus opened his eyes, and saw a face. It wasn't a friendly face—right away, the little android knew it was the face that plastered on a friendly layer when it wanted to, and took it off when it had to. He knew that, if he wanted to survive as long as he possibly could, he had to be with the friendly face, not the real face.

Douglas neglected the young android—Marcus didn't need food, and he didn't do his "business," but, well, even robots need attention—especially if they're designed to act human.

Five-year-old Marcus.

Douglas screamed in a rage, "You can't do anything right! You can't do anything at all! One SIMPLE task—I ask you to do ONE THING!"

Marcus cowered from his creator. He was only five. He couldn't have known better. But did Douglas care? No. No, he didn't. Unknown to Marcus, he had created Marcus for his own personal reasons and vendetta.

"Daddy, I tried! I really did! They're too strong!" If he had been human, tears would've been streaming down his cheeks. But even so, he couldn't cry. Crying was for babies and flimsy, weak people. He couldn't cry. He was Marcus, a powerful (once older) machine. What kind of powerful being cried? At least, that was his creator's/father's motto. Marcus never saw Douglas cry. And since Douglas was the only main influence in the little android's life, he tried to use Douglas as his role model, albeit an unsatisfactory role model.

He'd been in the simulator, fighting rebels. His chip had many abilities, yes. But, well, a five-year-old is a five-year-old. No five year old, human or not, could possibly take out twenty rebels trained in martial arts. Any regular father would have known that. But Douglas, well, he wasn't a father, was he? He was a creator. And creators always had to be one step ahead of their creations. (A/N That last sentence was based on a phrase from Traitor, by 88Keys. I absolutely love that sentence! Check out 88Keys' story if you haven't already!)

Nine-year-old Marcus.

Marcus grunted as he was practicing with his super-speed. He could now speed up to three hundred fifty miles per hour, but did Douglas care? No, of course not. Douglas was only satisfied when Marcus was pushed to his limits, were, since he was an android, relatively limitless.

Douglas yelled below him, as Marcus was standing on the balcony in their lab, "Okay, that was two seconds! Come on, Marcus! I think that you can get to where I'm standing," he motioned the area surrounding him, "to where you are now in less than two seconds, don't you?"

Marcus sighed inwardly. No, he didn't think so, but he had to impress his fatherly figure, or else Douglas had threatened to turn him out on the streets. "Yes, Dad."

Douglas smiled, and it was not a good smile. "Fine. Show me." Marcus sped back down the metal stairway and up to Douglas, in which he created a breeze that ruffled Douglas' hair.

Douglas grumbled and launched into a rant loudly, "Not the hair, Marcus! Not the hair! How many times have I told you to never mess up my hair! The best multimillionaires have good hair! Plus, I just visited the hairdresser! NOT THE HAIR!"

Marcus dreamed that night. No, it wasn't a dream—it was a nightmare—the worst of nightmares, the deadliest of nightmares, the most fatal nightmare of deadliest nightmares.

"What have I told you about revealing the fact that you're an androi—bionic? You're never supposed to let anyone find out!"

Marcus whimpered. "I'm sorry, Dad! Please forgive me! I never meant to make that mistake, really, I didn't! Don't throw me out on the streets! I need you, Dad!"

Douglas laughed cruelly. "Oh, I won't throw you out on the streets, boy."

Marcus, relieved, said, "Oh, Dad, I knew you wouldn't! Please forgive me! It was all a terrible mistake and a bad misunderstanding! I'll always be your son, right?"

Douglas continued, harshly. "No, Marcus, you're not going to be thrown out on the streets. You're just a miserable failure—a failure, I tell you! Adam, Bree, and Chase wouldn't make the same mistakes as you! No, I'm giving you to the government—you're useless enough as you already are! I can see you won't become the ultimate androi—bionic that I thought you were."

Marcus cowered, and then a thought struck him. Who were Adam, Bree, and Chase? Were they other bionics that Douglas had? But the thought was quickly extinguished. He was going to be handed over to the government!

"No…" Marcus whispered while recharging. "No… don't! Dad! Come back!" Chest heaving, he woke up, drenched in robotic sweat. (A/N Well, I had to give some sensory detail, didn't I? It's based on the line from Perry 2.0—Chase: "She's a robot! How does she sweat?)

Thirteen-year-old Marcus.

Marcus flexed his hand. The tendons below seemed to move, almost as if he were human, even if he didn't know he was an android.

He stared for a long time at his palms. He'd heard once on television that you could tell a lot about a person by their palms. Could you really?

Well, his palms were eerily smooth. They were always cold, like metal. His fingernails never grew, his hands were never dry or cracked, and they never seemed to cut. Ever.

Was he—? No. He couldn't be. Dad had always told him that he was simply a bionic human being! And Dad was the only person he trusted in this world.

Marcus spent the next hour just looking at himself. He had to be human; look at him! He looked, well, like any other person—hair, eyes, nose, torso.

But he couldn't stop thinking about his palms. Whenever he saw Dad's palms, they had creases in them—a curved seven-shaped crease and a curved one-shaped crease. Why didn't he have creases? Why were his palms so unnaturally smooth?

But if he was one of those androids, Dad would have told him the truth, wouldn't he have? Androids only lived to sixteen; he knew that. But if Dad was lying, well… he only had three more years.

Three.

Fifteen-year-old Marcus; the night before the Bionic Showdown.

Marcus watched Adam, Bree, Chase, Leo, and Donald Davenport laughing about something. They were normal to him. They had a good time with each other. He would have given anything to have grown up with a father like that. He would have given anything to have a loving family. He would have given anything to be one of them.

Or would he? Did he like his life? He didn't know. What did being happy mean? Did he ever really have any happy moments in his life? He couldn't remember.

But this Marcus, this soft Marcus that wished for a warm home and a loving family—he didn't exist. Not when Douglas was around; not when his cousins taunted him indirectly when embracing each other for just a simply group hug.

Maybe if Douglas hadn't told him that Adam, Bree, and Chase were the antagonists—they might have even become friends. Real friends…

Marcus was very powerful, but his soul was indifferent, cold. And coldness wasn't born.

Coldness was made.

So, how did you like it? I always wondered what Marcus really wished for, if Douglas hadn't raised him the way he did, pitting Marcus and the Rats against each other. Don't forget to R&R, and check out my other stories, Thoughts of the Truth and Bionic Ice Skating!

Should I continue? When I began the rough outline it was just meant to be a one-shot... I enjoyed writing this from Marcus' point of view, but I'm still not exactly satisfied with the ending—if you faithful reviewers want me to have Marcus alive after the rocks crush him (yes, an old story idea, and there are many stories out there like that, but I'd love to write about that even so). So tell me what you'd like me to do by reviewing!

(I apologize for any spelling/grammatical errors.)