Like most kids, there's nothing then third grader Socks Morton liked more on quiet, breezy summer days than taking out his bike for a spin through town.

Feeling adventurous, he looked for different routes to and from places, even if that meant sometimes going the long way to get there. The reliable route to the elementary school he took with his friends only lasted five blocks. However, he quickly figured out the bends and turns of the suburb so that he could explore new blocks, meet new kids, and maybe even find something unusual.

There was one place on north Cherry Street that always caught his eye. Right in the middle of the block there had been a tall, grassy square of land, where once sat the creepiest old house known to the kids of town. No one lived there—it was condemned years ago for lack of safety and never rebuilt. The current next door neighbors didn't quite know what the story behind it was, so the most believed rumor about it was that the property owners must have died or just forgotten about it. As the years ticked by, the grass continued to grow bright green and yellow and into swamp grass heights, and the wood-bare exterior chipped away, sliver by sliver.

Socks knew of that house well growing up. It had been in that dilapidated state since before he was born. He remembered his parents taking the route down Cherry Street quite often while on outings, and looking out the window in the backseat of their car and seeing the house become more and more weather-beaten, until at last it was rumored to be haunted. Chances were good in that it was the oldest building in the whole neighborhood, and touching the place just seemed like bad karma.

And then it happened. A development. A tall wood board fence shot up out of the ground, surrounding the abandoned building and signifying that the property was under new ownership. Drills. Saws. Hours upon hours of noise. The construction was loud, and it seemed to go on constantly. Socks felt sorry for the neighbors having to put up with the racket, but was outwardly thankful he didn't live anywhere so close by. Board by board, the untouchable old house was carefully taken down. By the time the summer was over, the haunted house had been replaced by a disturbingly simplistic square-shaped structure, the outside wrapped in protective tape that, every few feet, reading the initials "JNZR." Yet the talk then was nothing compared to what came as soon as the tape began to peel off. Children and adults alike were shocked to behold that the strange box that had erected was plated, not in wood, paint, or brick, but entirely in metal. The ordinary suburb had been planted with an unsightly, two story steel box.

When he got old enough to spend time outside by himself, Socks passed by the fence everyday. As his visits increased, so did his curiosity about it. One day, then ten year olds Mitch and Cubey met up with him on that very block. And while none of them had ever talked about it before, gossip about The Cube was inevitable.

"Dude, what do you think that thing's going to be for?" Socks asked them.

"What if it's a top-secret hideout for things the FBI doesn't want us to know," said Cubey, leaning casually over the handlebars, "like alien bodies, and Bigfoot's corpse-they say it works to hide stuff in plain site."

Mitch flipped his head back in the effort to show that he was rolling his eyes. "Oh, brother."

"You guys remember that creepy old house that used to be there?" asked Socks.

"Yeah, I do," Cubey replied. "I kinda miss it. Remember when we used to sneak inside and bang around and stuff?"

"Uh-huh. Oh, remember that time when we thought we heard a ghost, and Cubey tripped on the broken floorboard on the way out?" Mitch snickered.

"That was about as funny as vomiting on your own mother," Cubey pouted.

Mitch turned his head and took in the sight of the Cube-or what he and his friends could see, sitting right up against the tall fence-which was just a few feet of windowless wall before a flat roof. Though they couldn't tell because of his long hair, putting his hand above his forehead was a sign that Mitch was squinting in the sunlight. "At least we don't have to worry about any new kids at school."

"I'm not so sure about that," Socks rationalized, still feeling somehow that the Cube's purpose was as residential as any house on that block.

"Maybe it's going to be a mansion, or something," Mitch guessed with a shy voice. "You know how millionaires like building weird houses."

"Oh, come on," Cubey whined. "What bozo would want to live in a giant metal box?"

"You mean a giant storage shed for the FBI's secrets makes so much more sense?" Mitch snapped back.

"Besides," Cubey continued, "There's not even fifty feet in between the houses. What kind of mansion would fit there?"

A momentary pause occurred. Finally, Mitch said the only thing that came to his mind: "Aaaaaa... mini-mansion?"

Cubey smiled. "Filled with mini-muffins?"

"Yeah!" Mitch shouted. "Aw, you had to say that, man? Now I want some mini-chocolate muffins!"

"I know, right?" Cubey lifted one of his feet onto a pedal and grabbed hold of his handle bars. "Let's race down over to the corner store-last person there pays!"

"You're on." Mitch hopped back onto his own bike seat just as Cubey took off. "Coming Socks?"

"Yeah, I'll catch up with you guys," said Socks slowly, eyes lingering at a spot above the fence where the corner of the metal structure glinted in the sunlight. A brown bird landed on the roof and began to tweet merrily. Despite its strangeness, the building seemed to possess an air of meek intentions. And for the next two years, Socks would be much too preoccupied with other things in his life to give the weird house-as he was sure it was a house-much more thought after that day.

Yet that didn't keep him from feeling uneasy when he peeked through the wood boards before he took off, and saw a new, little yellow skateboard sitting on the freshly mowed grass.

This series of shorts is just exploring a few scenes right before and after the Pilot takes place. These shorts were nearly all completed, I just ironed them out a little.

In this short, Socks has somewhat more intuition about the significance of Robot moving in, possibly by Robot being more of a kindred spirit to him.

Comment/Critique are always helpful. Hope it's decent!

Whatever Happened to Robot Jones? © Greg Miller & Cartoon Network