"Data Log, Number 104: Preparations are almost complete on Project Alan. Final details on self-conceptualization, proper language expression, cyber-neural pathways of least resistance, and physical adaptability will ensue."
A lone figure stood by the makeshift operating table. Crimson eyes gazed down upon the slab, taking in the clicks and sparks of the metal arms currently making a concerto out of the subject. Some sparks flew beyond the table and almost hit the figure's ashen face. He did not even breathe in their direction. He never breathed. Times like these were too crucial for a triviality such as breathing.
He was in common company. An army of red eyes surrounded him in the arena. No eye moved unless he commanded it. Each eye or two belonged to a small machine of junk parts meshed to create a robot. They were his creations. Undying servitude was the least they could do to show thanks.
Crossing his arms, the figure furrowed his brow. His forehead, a map of synthetic veins already flowing and glowing, gained yet another stream. An eye in the audience flew forth and hovered near its master. Among its meager features of a battery and a long-forgotten mascot action figure was a circle of glass on a thin arm. A twitch on the figure's face brought the glass near his eye. A small vibration on the arm caused jagged lines to appear on the glass's surface. A second later, he could see deep into the circuitry of the chip on the table.
A square chip lay on the table, receiving the thin ends of arms with the sole purpose of becoming obsolete with its birth. Thin wires splayed the chip's surface and interior, flashing with electric life. The circuitry and mechanisms also led to the appearance of a single-eyed face on the chip. As the work continued, some operating robots, if they could have conceived it, might have sworn the single eye on the chip was moving and reacting to the operation.
The figure overlooked the development with a frozen gaze. A tape recorder with two red eyes and a series of propellers circled his head. It suddenly stopped and made its way near his mouth as he began to speak again. "Far more than adequate time has been spent on this. Obstacles were in the way. Much has been at risk."
For the first time since the start of the operation and the recording, the figure shifted his focus from solely on the table. He looked further down on his own cloak. In a subdued voice, he added, "Much has been sacrificed."
As he said that into the recording bot, he felt something in his stomach. Or whatever was his stomach at this point. He felt something, but it only was a something. He spent a moment to figure out what it was, but that something turned out to be a nothing, at least a nothing important to him.
Yet he could not let it go. He knew this was a long and important project. Was it not logical for him to feel something about this? In his mind, he filed and searched memory banks to a time when he could have felt something. He found memories where he indeed had felt things about this project. Happy things. Angry things. Times when it was in his head at bed in the morning and at night. Talking about it.
Those memories played in his head as the arms sparked, the litter of eyes watched, and the recording bot hovered. The images were washed-out, like photos from a grandparent's album or a home video with a fading piano in the background. Grandparents? Did I have those? The mental videos were lighter and weaker than before. That something flared in his whatever-he-had-for-a-stomach, but nothing changed on his face. Details in the memories started to fade. Even the times with Louise were whiting out.
"Have you forgotten who you are, Robert Petrikov?"
"I am Fixit," he answered to a mute audience.