"It's scary-looking."

The comment was murmured about the bustling static of the black-and-white television that sat some distance away and the hissing of the stove as their mother prepared dinner for the evening. The young, red-headed girl who had voiced it continued to stare at the sphere-shaped being that had appeared on the small screen from her place at the wooden dining table that separated the parlor and the kitchen area of their home—her drawing left abandoned with a mix of fright and curiosity for the mechanical creature. The child inwardly winced as the figure was then attached to an even greater piece of machinery, amplifying its overall terrible appearance with a huge, sharply-angled core fitted with spidery limbs of various tools and clamps.

"Today dawns a new era!" a prerecorded voice of a man's strong tenor, "Let us praise this new technology. Welcome to the Age of the Machine!"

"I don't like it," she added in a much softer voice, sliding further into her chair until just her eyes peered over the flat tabletop.

But neither her mother nor the trio of siblings that surrounded her—each to their own devices—gave concern for her words. Her eldest sister sat by her, working diligently on her studies for school. The papers stacked before the latter were filled with words and equations that were as good as foreign to the other child, a complicated language that only grown-ups could indulge in knowing. Her youngest sister, being far too young to understand the broadcast, continued to play with the scattered array of blocks spread before her.

Only her brother—the only one also watching the news—shrugged as he cast her a brief, sidelong glance before returning his eyes to the screen. "It's cool," he answered, his tone edged curtly with the defensiveness only a young boy could have over a particular interest of theirs. "It's a robot."

A grin of humor twitched at the corners of the mother's lips at her son's simplistic explanation. "It's going to protect us," she finally voiced, though her eyes remained on her task. Carefully removing the lid of a large pot with a nearby dishtowel, she took a large, wooden spoon and begun stirring the boiling contents—keeping back to avoid the rush of stream that billowed from it. "It's going to build lots of other machines that will watch over us and make our lives easier."

"Oh." The small redhead looked back and forth between her mother and the television. No matter what was said, the thing still managed to intimidate her. Still, she also had no reason to doubt those reassuring words. It was just like when her mother told her about thunder: She didn't like it, but she knew there was no sense in fearing it. "So it's a good robot?"

"Yes, it's a good robot." And with that last reassurance, as the news broadcast continued to talk of the large factory that had recently been built some distance from the city limits, all interest in the matter died and the young girl went back to work with her crayons.

"We're writing essays about what kind of machines we'd make in school," the eldest girl spoke up, her caramel blonde ringlets uncontrollably bouncing around the frames of her cheeks as she lifted her head and set her pencil aside. She flexed her hands briefly work out some of the strain from writing for so long.

"You'll have to read it to your father and I then," their mother replied. Pressingly, she added, "And don't you have some studying to do too, Peter?"

"We have to make a drawing," was all he said. To this the young woman turned from the stove and raised a stern brow, smirking knowingly. The boy only ever mentioned a part of his homework, but sure enough would then reveal to them some assignment he needed help with at the last minute. She knew well that he had a test coming soon. If it weren't for it being a weekend, she might've scolded him for the partial lie.

The comfortable discussion was interrupted by the sound of a key jangling the front door lock, and each of the children perked up at the sound. Peter sat a bit straighter and the young redhead thrust herself from her chair completely to step before the door. As it swung open and a familiar man stepped inside, the girl darter for him with her arms spread wide in a readied hug.

"Papa's home!" the eldest daughter shouted to her mother, a wide smile lining her face. All at once, her homework was abandoned. Her brother had already risen to his feet, but the youngest of them struggled to rise from the floor on chubby toddler legs. Pausing to scoop up the nigh cloned version of her younger self, the adolescent took the last steps to her father in order to greet him.

All of this had been expected, and yet the man fumbled to balance both his briefcase and a medium-sized paper bag as the redhead remained latched upon his hip and the other three children crowded around him. With an awkward grin, he bid them to give him room with a wave of his hand, the bag crumbling noisily at the gesture.

"You're very late tonight," their mother said, folding her arms across her chest good-naturedly from her position at the kitchen entryway.

"Marcus kept me tied up at the office," he explained apologetically, setting down the briefcase at the end of the cream-colored loveseat to relieve himself of part of his load. "What's cooking?"

"Pot roast," was the short reply as the woman was reminded of the dish left simmering. She turned away once to check on it as she continued to speak, "And it's nearly done, so I don't want you sneaking any sweets to them like you usually do."

But sure enough, by the time she spun back around the paper bag already sat open on the dining table and the redhead popped a quick piece of something into her mouth before hiding the wrapper back behind her. A look of gleeful mischief was shared between father and children as the remaining trio hid their own pieces of candy within their pockets.

"Here I am, trying to raise four healthy children," she pursed with false disdain, "and you're giving them sugar right behind my back."

"That's because you're the reasonable one." The man ran a hand once over his already combed back hair before capturing her in a gentle embrace by the waist and pulling her to him. He smiled playfully, "I'm the amusing one." With that, he leaned closer to give her a light kiss on the cheek.

A few eyes rolled at their parents flirtations, but before the children could voice their discomfort their father turned around and took the tot from the eldest sibling—pulling out one of the wooden seats lining the dining table and resting with the child in his lap. She squealed merrily as he then bounced her up and down upon his leg. The tabletop was then cleared and the oldest child rounded into the kitchen to help her mother finish setting everything for dinner.

Though the broadcast continued, excitable and lively chatter drowned it out as the family nestled around the table and shared with one another the stories of their day. It became the faint background of the relaxed moment, so assured were they in security. It was the dawn of a new era, after all, and everything seemed to shine bright.