Delaware:October 1985
Timothy Morton was running for his life.
His heart was pumping. He could hear the pulse in his ear. Under his thick, frizzy blond curls, a pool of sweat was collecting on the back of his neck. It was a warm fall afternoon, and his skin was moist under his mint cotton sweater and hunter green jacket. His cheeks were pink and hot, and in his size-eight and a half sneakers, his feet were suffocating.
He was an athlete—a basketball player. Not like he was on the track team or anything. He was also in P.E. Monday through Friday, so was used to a little running, but not like this—nonstop, intense, as fast as he could push himself. His ankles ached with every flex of his foot on the pavement. His lungs worked twice as hard to keep up with the demand for oxygen.
Down the middle of a street, he turned into a publicly abused, private narrow gangway between two houses, hopping a tiny gate with a small rusted Beware Of Dog sign that hadn't been truthful for at least fifteen years. Quickly slipping through the backyard without being noticed, he jumped another gate into the middle of an alley, scrambled to the right down the tremendously cracked cobblestone road, hitting the t-shaped fork of the street and running left alongside a garage until he hit the beginning of another sidewalk, and made a sharp left.
All along, he was filled with dread and propelled forward by the knowledge that he was right over his shoulder. Tim didn't know what kind of damage the inhuman creature could do to a person like him, but he wasn't going to take any chances.
He ran.
As far and as fast as he could. In the early sun set, little thin cotton clouds scattered in the baby blue sky overhead, pink on top and purple underneath. Over streets and rolling sidewalks, he ran, with only a little breeze at his back to help move him forward—hardly enough to rustle a yellow leaf from a tree branch. When the pavements were severely broken, he jumped or veered onto the green lawns before the fenceless houses. Sometimes he forgot to switch back until he hit an obstacle in the yards.
Big mistake.
Tim knew these streets like the back of his hand. He grew up on them. He crossed on them on his bike every summer and weekend for as long as he could remember. And yet, in his terror filled shortcut into a less traveled portion of the neighborhood, he took the wrong route, winding up on the worst possible street he could be on. Ignoring the green street signs, he thought he instinctively knew where to go.
Unfortunately, the realization hit him at the last minute, as he finally recognized the houses and the cars and the distinct awkward incline of the laws and sidewalk. But by then, it was too late to turn around. He had already entered the danger zone, and now, smack in the middle of a little, average suburban block, the unmistakable, steel, two story cube shaped residence was standing over him, casting its shadow on his face.
Timothy stuck out his left foot and skid to a halt, digging his heels into the grass yard. But he was too late. He stopped right in front of the metal building, mere feet from the front entrance.
He froze, panting softly, too afraid to move, sensing that any second now that his pursuer would make his appearance.
He sensed right.
"Foolish human," he soon heard from behind.
Tim reluctantly turned around and face the mechanical creature that had called him out in that emotionless voice.
There the automaton stood, on the corner of the lawn, with his back to the setting sun. His front side darkened, surrounded by the pale blue sky background and thin clouds. His enormous, strikingly bright eyes, the lids lowered halfway down in a cold stare, penetrated the dark ovals, hooked together like a mask around them, with his shadow trailing under his feet and behind like a great, black cape. The intimidation of his steely presence was not corrupted by the fact that he stood just under four feet tall.
In his morbidly stern tone, the robot make clear his intentions, his eyes pulsating to dark with every syllable. "You have trapped yourself within my personal domain."
Tim shivered like a leaf. Fearing the eminent, he fell to his knees for mercy. In stiff, exact steps, the robot marched forward like the hardest soldier in the world. "Now your time has expired."
The quaking human could only bare one last look up as the robot raised his arm with a mechanical groan, and firmly pressed the tips of two of his his black rubber fingers to the center of his hairline to hold him in place.
"Game over... friend."
Defeated, the human through his arms up over his head in a helpless last attempt to protect himself.
But instead of the distinct sound of a laser coming to his swift pain and doom, what the human heard was a brief, deep voiced giggle, then more silence. Before long, thought, there was more, terribly muffled, computerized laughter, and Tim felt was the heavy, rubber digits lift from the top of his head, followed by the sound of heavy steel crashing to the ground.
Curious, the confused human boy slowly opened his eyes and brought down his hands. The robot, who had just a moment ago been looming over him in a still, cold stance and a menacing expression, had suddenly gotten himself into a giggling-fit, wrapping his thin, metal arms over his little red and black chassis, at some point falling down and rolling around his own open front lawn like a dog. All essence of robotic danger had vanished right before the boy's eyes, and what remained of the lethal, artificial life form was a friendly, fun-loving little teenager with a heart most certainly softer than steel.
"Socks unit!" the automaton managed to gasp in between chuckles, the front of his head now caught under the sunlight. There was a small sparkle off the sharp corner of his wide-grinning face, and there was nothing whatsoever now about his expression that looked slightly capable of doing harm, let alone the human's graphic annihilation. "You ought to see your face! Like you believed I was actually going to blast you or something!"
Timothy, or as the robot called him by his official nickname, Socks, made a face, lowered his right eyelid. But it was impossible for him not to eventually grin, at the scene of his buddy, the tiny, innocent automaton, stuck in such a fit of laughter that was rare, even for his best friend, to be witness to. "You are something, Robot Jones."
Robot cracked open his eyes, still smiling. "You... didn't actually think..."
"Naw! Are you kiddin'?" Socks tossed his hand and rolled his eyes. "... But I admit, you almost had me going there for a second."
"What can I say?" Robot shrugged. "I had a lot of time to practice."
Of course there was no real danger involved. It was all just pretend—part of a little game Robot and Socks had been playing for some time now. In retrospect, they might have admitted that it was a bit immature for kids their age, and even more so, a little out of taste considering Robot's condition of being an actual robot with uncertain, unmeasured abilities to destroy and injur—thankfully, to that date, the automaton, nor his dangerously inept parental units had never come close enough to accidentally doing real harm to anybody.
But the game gave the boys the chance to experiment with their top secret, super alter egos: Socks, the handsome, rugged, street crime fighter, and Robot, the merciless, feared urban evildoer, with a distinct hateful resentment of human beings.
Socks could easily dream of becoming his alter ego in real life. Flexing his biceps, rescuing the innocent, saving the day, impressing the ladies, but Robot didn't play the bad guy just to give Socks someone to fight. Robot wanted to be the bad guy. In truth, as behaved as he was, Robot's record was not spotless. Like every normal boy, he was susceptible to a misdeed ever now and again. And he wasn't necessarily always tricked into trouble by his enemies. Every so often, his impulse to cause trouble was driven someway or another by his social frustration. From getting sweet-talked into helping kids cheat on their history tests, to seeking revenge and flooding the boy's locker room with hair removal cream, Robot desire to fit in and be accepted had given him the reputation of being a smart-alak miscreant, rather than a goody two shoes—thought it's wasn't like he'd want to be known for that, either. And pretending to be bad in a stupid game of pretend, imaging himself for a moment as this figure of domination and vicious crime was another small way Robot coped with his unpopularity. But even as he played the hated and feared villain in their games, the little automaton was no more evil at his core than the common, mischievous little boy. And in the end, he was typically nicer and better mannered.
Soon, Robot's crippling condition passed. His chuckles ceased, and he managed to sit up just as a little white mail truck drove up to his curb for a late, afternoon drop off. While the Joneses did receive most of their mail via computer, they relied on the postage service to deliver more personal letters and notices.
A light brown haired man with a matching mustache hopped out of the truck with a bundle of envelopes and a friendly smile.
"Here comes the new mailman," Robot told Socks as the human helped pull him to his feet.
The scrawny man in postal blue half-mindedly made his way up the front walk, stopping just before he collided with the short robot. "Jones residence?" the mailman inquired, reading off of one of the envelopes.
"You are correct, sir," Robot replied.
"Here ya go, son," the human handed him the stack of letters with a smile, "Nice to meet you."
Without so much as the bat of an eye, the mailman hummed the way back to his truck. It wasn't until he was about to hop into the seat, his foot on the floor of the truck, that he stopped, turned around, and got a real look the child whom he had just given the mail to.
Stuck nervous by the attention, Robot smiled and made a mechanically stiff wave.
"AHHHHH!"
The postman screamed, throwing him self into the front seat. Moments later, the truck was screeching away from the steel home and down the road, passing over a block of houses.
Socks looked at the unmoved Robot with a strange expression. "Weird. I didn't know that you were still getting that kind of reaction from people. Just curious, how many mailmen have you guys been through since you moved here?"
Robot sighed. "Seventeen," he shook his head, "But I think I can assume it will be eighteen by tomorrow."
"What'cha get?"
Robot thumbed through the stack of mail in his claws, reading the return addresses and pacing about the yard.
"Charity, charity," he tossed the junk mail over his shoulder, "Electric solicitation charity, miscellaneous-"
With one large envelope in his hands, he stopped dead in his tracks, suddenly going quiet. Socks peered over at his best friend with concern."What?"
Robot didn't reply. He marched right up to his front door and pushed the 'in' button, and waited for the door to fly up. "Dad unit," he hollered inside from the doorway, "We've received another letter from Jack."
Before long, Robot's father rolled up to the doorway. Robot held out the envelope, which he snatched from him with an eagerness that made Robot scowl, and he neatly tore open the seal with his metal fingers. Inside was a telegram-style typed personal letter, and a smaller envelope which Mr. Jones dropped on the ground.
"Confirmed. Processing correspondence of unit: Jack," the elder robot said aloud.
"Jack?" Socks asked Robot. "You mean that Jack I heard about that used to work for your dad?"
"Affirmative," his metallic friend replied. "Jack was my father's robotic assistant when he was still just a factory droid. He left years ago to work and take private classes in Japan."
Robot picked up the smaller envelope that his father had dropped and tore it open.
"He has been away for quite some time, and keeps my parents updated via letters," he pulled out several small cards and what looked like a class photograph. "And from the looks of it, I would say he just graduated."
Both boys peered at the photo while Mrs. Jones appeared in the doorway. "Was that the mail delivery vehicle my sensors detected?" she asked.
"Yes," Robot replied, "And Jack has just sent us another letter. It appears he has completed his twelfth grade level of education."
He showed her Jack's tiny class picture, while Socks sifted through the various cards and sticky notes that were also in the envelope. "Dang," he sighed. "High school's gotta be awesome in Japan. Look at all the friends he made. They all sighed their name on one of these with a little goodbye message to him. How much you wanna bet some of these signatures belong to some real cute Japanese girls, too?"
"Excellent," said Robot's mother. "Jack's current task is complete."
"Sounds like he has been enjoying himself, as well," Robot added, rolling his eyes when he thought no one was looking.
"Pffff, I'll say!" said Socks, leaning over Robot's shoulder to see the picture.
"Proposal confirmed," said Mr. Jones, finished reading the letter. "Answer is: Yes."
"What'd he say?" Robot asked his dad.
"Jack has finished his high school learning objective. GPA is 4.0. Class rank: 1 of 129."
"Whooo!" Socks tossed his head back and whistled. "Ace of the class."
"What else?" asked Robot.
Without normal eyes for her to see with, Mr. Jones handed the letter for his wife to scan with her red camera-sensor bulb. "Hmm, Jack has been offered a scholarship to an exclusive finishing school in the Japanese countryside... "
"Of course he has... " Robot shook his head to his human friend, who was melting with depression, his hands slapping against his face.
"... To which he has..." Mrs. Jones lowered the letter from her face, "... denied."
""What?"" both Socks and Robot exclaimed, with a comic style bubble illustration of the word.
"Instead, he wishes to return home and take community college courses in the United States."
"But why?" asked Socks. "What for?"
"Maybe he is homesick," suggested Robot. "Jack has spent the better half of his existence working in a foreign country. Perhaps he just misses the United States. "
"Or maybe the babes and the scenery weren't enough," Socks mumbled under his breath.
Robot turned to his dad. "But... you are not actually letting him go through with this, are you?"
Robot understood the unique relationship between Jack and his father. The one-of-a kind, parentless robot had served Mr. Jones years before Robot was even built. In return for his help, Mr. Jones took the younger robot under his wing, so to speak, and they became pretty close. Years after being relocated to Japan, Jack continued to report back to the Joneses often—going a little too much into detail about his personal accomplishments, at least for Robot's approval. Though their connection was mostly professional, Jack had always taken orders from Robot's father, and he relied on Mr. Jones, the older and wiser automaton who held one of the highest robotic positions of power in the company, to make decisions for his benefit. It was only because of those conditions that Robot figured he might have say in the Jack's decisions, or maybe even forbid him from something so drastic such as this.
"Jack is not under our authority," his father replied. "He is now an adult-free to do as he wishes."
"Then what proposal have you agreed to?"
"He inquired in his letter about possible living arrangements," said Mrs. Jones, "Because he would like to stay close to work so that he may lend a hand at the factory, it only seemed logical that he take boarding in the house."
Robot's shoulders went limp, and his frown curled downward erratically. "Wha-you mean our house? Here?"
"Whoa," Socks said. "Japan 'bot's coming? Sweet!"
"It will be delightful to see him again, after all this time," noted Mrs. Jones. "And we could certainly use his help around the house."
"But..." Robot started, but didn't finish, confused of why he felt compelled to object in the first place.
He supposed it was reasonable, after all. Robot got behind many parts of the housework and he knew what a big chore it was to keep the house in order, so he couldn't argue with his mother there. But still, there was something about this swift arrangement that didn't sit easy with him. With his mother and father gathered around the letter in chatter, he was frozen, off to the side, gazing into space and thinking the hardest he ever thought about Jack, the unit Robot only really knew by name.
The older robot that apprenticed his father had been gone for so long, he almost seemed like a figment of Robot's young imagination. Jack lived with the Joneses at the factory almost thirteen years ago, when Robot was a very, very new prototype, and still a little crude in his developmental evolution. Back then, Robot's eyes were pretty poor, certainly not as superior as they were now. And while the little automaton used to think he had crystal clear memory, it was only recently that Robot had struggled to remember things about his early childhood. The picture of Jack was just about there, but Robot's memories of him were faint.
Now the older robot was on his way home After all these years, that one quirky little unit that only existed as a ghost in Robot's earliest memory banks was going to make a re-apperance,
Suddenly, Robot felt a pressure on his shoulder. He turned his head to find a human hand sitting at the top of his arm.
"You okay, robot?" asked Socks, noticing how quiet Robot had suddenly gotten.
"It's just a little shocking, I suppose," replied Robot in his ungiving monotone, "Thirteen years..."
Robot would finally meet this mysterious robot that took over his parents conversation every now and again. That machine behind the boasting letters would finally be something tangible to him.
"Yeah, and he's moving into your house," Socks reminded him.
"Yes..." Robot said, his blank expression slowly melting into a look of concern.
It couldn't be that much different, right? No biggie.
At Polyneux Middle School, the group of Socks, Mitch, Cubey and Robot were known—if they were ever noticed, that is—for being the unproclaimed outcasts of the seventh grade. Throughout their school history, Socks, Mitch and Cubey were never popular with the teachers for their grades, the guys for their athletic or comedic talent, or the girls for their charm. But they didn't let that hinder their fun. The boys, and the newest addition to their gang, Robot, did a lot together outside of school. Going to the theater to make jokes about a bad movie, the arcade to play the same video games until the buttons wore out under their fingers, or when they were broke, the park for a little catch football.
While Mitch and Cubey had a longstanding, close friendship that made them nearly inseparable, Robot and Socks hung out a lot together, too. As the one who first properly introduced Robot to the group, Socks had soon developed a different bond with him from Mitch and Cubey. He not only did his part to look out for Robot, but felt, in a way, responsible for teaching him the ins and outs of school and life in general—which he clearly needed help to understand—and exposing him to new fun and experiences.
Another Friday, and another precious weekend was upon the thirteen year olds again. Before leaving the Jones house, Socks asked if Robot might want to sleep over at his house. He was genuinely fond of the polite automaton's company, and it was a good opportunity for the only child to get out of his house.
Besides, Socks sort of picked up the feeling that Robot might have really liked to get away that night, anyway.
At the Morton's house, Socks took the room above the garage. It was kind of cramped—when he didn't pick up the floor and let the clothes pile up, anyways. But it had a kind of cozy feeling to it, and Robot enjoyed it, even though he was used to his big, empty, uncluttered room at home.
Before bed, they would chat, and although occasionally the conversations had their awkward moments, as did most of Robot's human interfaces, the automaton found great comfort in Socks' confidence. They talked about school or parents or girls or something else Robot, frankly, only felt comfortable talking about with Socks, as his best friend was the one human whom he could trust to guard his secrets. And Robot had just as many secrets as any other boy, and even a few more.
His plug in the bedside outlet, Robot sat on the floor in the narrow space between the left of Socks' bed and the sliding closet, on a makeshift bed of blankets, his back propped up by a pillow against Socks' nightstand, while he and his best friend had magazines pulled up to their faces.
Their conversation went about as normal, but that night in particular, there was one thing that was bugging Socks the entire time—his buddy. Even with his face behind the auto body magazine, the human sensed that something was bothering Robot. His sentences were short, and if Socks could pick up a just noticeable change in his monotone, even tense. And he seem to used the magazine as a way of avoiding all eye contact—something very unlike Robot Jones to do.
It was also strange, his friend observed, if he had a problem, to become so reserved. Usually, he spilled his troubles like a tipped milk carton at the first person who would listen. But even if he wouldn't say, Socks thought he may have had a wild guess what on that day could have put Robot in such a funk.
Which should have given him all the more reason to avoid bringing it up.
But he was dying to know, and while he had Robot alone now, Socks had to ask. "So... what's Jack like, anyway? Does he have, like, giant laser cannons? And two foot long claws? Oh! And big long wheel-belt feet, like a tank?"
"I do not really remember that well," Robot confessed, rather calmly. "I only knew him when I was a few weeks old."
It was strange. Since that April, since trying to remember his first word, Robot noticed that memories of his early operation were only getting harder and harder to recall. Concerned as he was getting about that, it also annoyed him that all his memories of Jack were suddenly so difficult to remember, just when he seemed to need them the most.
"Think about what he looks like now," Socks went on, dropping his magazine to the right side of his bed. "A robotic college man. Maybe he's got some kind of robo-goatee, or a steel-spike mohawk!"
Now looking up from his magazine, it was getting easy to see that Robot was quickly growing irritated that his friend wouldn't drop the subject. "Rest assure, I doubt he looks anything like that. As far as I can recollect, he was a short, skinny unit with two arms, two legs, a narrow head and one eye panel."
"I thought you said you didn't remember what he looked like."
"My memory banks stored his image," he said matter-of-factly, "That much of it, anyway."
Socks was mildly suspicious, but he took the opportunity to keep the topic flow moving. "I didn't know there were other robots like you that went to school."
"Public school," corrected Robot without hesitation, "I'm the only robot who attends a public school."
He was telling the truth, or at least as far as the record said. Besides, Jack's 'schooling', as far as Robot was concerned, was really just a gimmick—his progress with academics gave the guys in charge at JNZ Robotics something to brag about. Robot, on the other hand, attended school because it was required to complete his task. But he wouldn't tell Socks that, and that was because the human didn't know yet that Robot's mission was to study humans. It was kind of a supposed to remain a secret—it wasn't an official rule, but he made it one.
There were two reasons Robot didn't openly admit what he was doing there at that junior high school, even to his best friend, whom he trusted with every other secret about him. For one thing, if humans knew he was there to research them, it might alter their behaviors. They might start acting differently around him than if he wasn't there, and that might throw off his data. The other thing was that, personally, Robot really didn't want to get in deep about his mission with anyone. Yes, he was at school as a robot with a job to do, but he was honestly starting to like the idea of fitting in and joining the teenage culture. With many ups and downs in his popularity since being enrolled in Polyneux a year ago, there was no denying that Robot was making himself well known, and on the whole, that was a positive thing. As hard as it was to be accepted by the other students, Robot could only imagine how difficult that would be if they knew he was studying them. Not to mention how humiliating it would be if anyone found out.
And instead of feeling that it was easier to tell Socks, Mitch, and Cubey, who he trusted the most out of all of the humans, Robot was actually afraid the most of them finding out. It was so hard making friends when Robot first got there that he almost stopped trying. Frustrated, hurt and lonely, the automaton didn't approach the trio, they came to him. They liked him, and they apparently saw something worthwhile in Robot that he still, a year later, couldn't figure out. Explaining to them his mission might put their friendship in jeopardy, and that was something Robot could not afford to lose. in order to survive the rest of junior high school.
"And I don't care what my parents say," Robot declared, "I think Jack is being selfish to give up what would be such an excellent opportunity for any robot. The education and experiences he could have at that school could lead the way for incredible benefits for rest of his life. Adult or not, I cannot believe they are allowing him to throw this away," he said, frustratedly turning his back to his friend.
"A little jealous, are we?" Socks looked down with a grin.
Hearing the accusation, Robot whipped himself back around and slapped the magazine onto the floor. "I am most certainly not! Jack unit's fortunes since he began to work abroad are not the least of my interest." He turned his head away and gazed at his claws, "I am just finding an error with the idea that a top student such as he claims to be could not see the idiocy of his choice. I just hope when he gets here he realizes what a large mistake he has made and returns to Japan for a few more years. Not like we really need him around here, anyways."
"Whatever. When's this bro coming, anyway?"
"In three weeks," said Robot airily, then suddenly jerking his head in Socks' direction "And Jack is nothing of the sort of mine, if that is what you are implying."
They may have been automatons from the same generation, but Robot and Jack were not bothers. Robot was created, in part, by his own parents, and in part by the technical researchers at JNZ thirteen years ago. Jack wasn't even made by JNZ—he just lived and worked there for the early part of his operation because the people running the factory gained ownership of him somewhere along the line.
"No," admitted Socks, "But now that you mention it, your Mom and Dad kinda talk about him like he's your brother or something."
Robot rolled his eyes. "That is only because Jack lived with my parents before I was built. I can't help that they are so fond of him."
"You kinda talk about him like he is," he said insightfully.
Robot narrowed an eyelid. "How so?"
"Well, it's obvious to me that you got a little resentment this guy, maybe by the way he soaks up all your parents' attention."
"How would you-?" Robot cut himself off, furiously shaking his head. Sometimes he couldn't stand the way Socks could see right through his situations. It was like the human didn't just contain wisdom, but some sort of mind reading ability. "I mean, what makes you think that?"
"Look, I'm a brother, and I got a brother, and I know what it's like when the folks get stuck on the other kid."
Robot shook his head with error. "But that is different. Jack's not their son. My father just sort of... looked after him before I came along, is all."
"Mm-hmm...?" Socks smiled knowingly.
"Listen," Robot swiped the air with his arm, "He is just my father's assistant," he pointed to his chest, "I'm their son. Their feelings for Jack are nothing more than robotic commraderie. That's all there is to it."
"Okay. Well, if that's what you say. I mean, you would know," Socks yawned. "Sleep tight, buddy."
"Goodnight..." said Robot, almost unsurely, turning over onto his back. "... and Socks? Thank you for letting me stay over."
"Anytime, man." Socks flipped onto his other shoulder, facing the opposite wall.
Robot reached up and switched off the bright lamp on the nightstand, and pulled himself down into a comfortable position—well, as comfortable as the automaton could make himself on his back with an extremely cushy pillow propping up his head, anyways
With Socks' room now joining the chorus of silence, the house seemed cast with a spell of eternal peace. It was soon quiet enough that Robot could hear the gentle hum of his own working body. As he lie on the floor, the back of his warm, overworked head smothered by an old, overstuffed pillow, he tried to shake off the thoughts Socks had put in his head. He realized, as he continued to lay active for countless minutes after Socks was fast asleep, it was almost like he was more or less trying to make true whatever he stated just by saying it.
But what a silly notion! The last thing he saw in Jack was a threat to himself. His Mom and Dad units were only doing a kind favor to another robot by welcoming Jack to stay with them for a little while. And he and his parents did have a close relationship. After all, they were the first automatons living and working at the factory back when the company was getting off the ground, according to what Robot was told. Jack's correspondence with his mother and father units was annoying, if anything, but their relationship didn't come off to Robot as anything to be afraid of... at least as far as the little automaton was willing to admit. No. He didn't think anything of Jack's coming home as a imposition to his "normal" life. Surely...
Of course, Robot still had yet to meet him.
To my Guest reviewer: I can't thank you enough for the warm feedback. It's wonderful to hear that someone thinks that this is hitting close to the real series. I believe that fanfiction is most successful when it can do that. As for the approach, it's great to hear that it's working out. I'm more into the kind of realistic/serious Western cartoons, and I think Robot Jones is one of those cartoons that could do really well in a serious light. It already has that kind of door to the main character's personal essence, where we really see and think and feel what Robot's going through day to day. I thought it was easy to take some of the ideas surrounding him already and pull out some deeper themes from them. Not a lot of other kid shows, maybe some Nicktoons, but not Cartoon Cartoons, could take on this mature level with the characters and the setting the show already provides with it. I argue that Robot Jones has something of a more meaningful atmosphere, and it had everything it needed to be a really sentimental show, and a great story, even for a western cartoon. With this fanfic, my hope is to show the potential that I've always seen in this series. Since fanfiction for this show it so scarce, I figured, "Meh, why not?"
Oh, yeah, and Shannon will make an appearance soon. She actually has a big part in this fanfic series, and in later episodes, I plan on working with her a lot, revealing more about her and, even with her bad traits, why she's such a crucial part in Robot's life.
This is the first real episode in this fanfiction take on the series. I don't know how many episodes I'll be doing, but is just supposed to be a quick one to introduce my second original character after Dr. Jones, Jack. If you like him, great. If you don't, don't worry. He's really made to be a minor character, and he not going to show up much in the next few episodes. He's got another agenda in this series, but that doesn't pop up until later on. The focus of this series is on Robot and the real members of the cast.
Sorry if this was a slow chapter. As I get into this fanfic series, I guess my biggest goal is just trying to get in Robot's head during times of personal struggle or drama, yank out whatever is going on in his mind and put it into words. I wanna get into a literary perspective with the show's set up, and yeah, I throw a few variables like Jack in there, but this story is all about Robot.
Also, time and place, again, is a lose estimate. I say the show's based in Delaware just because of what it says on the web, but I'm keeping the city's name unknown to keep with the theme of the show.
More on the way. =)
Whatever Happened To Robot Jones? © Cartoon Network