District of Columbia: September 4th, 1954
In the heart of Washington, settled cleverly between the streets of some of the most recognized government offices in the country sat one building classified private.
No better way to hide than in plain sight.
Midnight, and inside the main entrance, robust chuckles echoed off of the high walls of the enormous hallway, as two men walked and talked on their way down the dark, left corridor.
"Kerdy," said the very slightly stout man with a roll under his chin, long dark eyebrows and slicked back, thinning hair of the same color that came to a widow's peak, "I have been anticipating this for so long."
"No, Mr. McCarthy," said the other, balding man with a cheeky smile, "The pleasure is mine. I'm a big fan."
"Thank you."
The Wisconsin Senator and his chubby, short escort reached the end of the hall and hit a white, circular wall. Going around a few feet, they then stopped outside a set of metal, navy doors, with long, narrow strips of windows near the middle from which McCarthy could faintly see people settled inside the lighted room.
"Please, come in," asked the man called Kerdy, opening the door. "I'm glad that you could find the time to come by. I think you are going to be most impressed with the technological discoveries you see tonight."
Kerdy was a five and a half feet from his polished shoes to his shiny head, and almost as wide around the waist as he was tall. The only remaining trace of his hair was silver sideburns, and his plastic-looking tan face wrinkled every other second that he flashed the visitor one of his porcelain-tooth smiles.
"Just as long as you keep the Commies from it," McCarthy mumbled with dull eyes as black as the night outside.
"I wouldn't dream of it another way."
Mr. Kerdy let the other man go in first, which gave him time to roll his eyes, then quickly replace his grin he pulled the door shut behind him.
Contrast to the hallways, the lights inside the room were on. It was made up of a tiny arena, with seven rings of chairs heading down the stairs to a large circular floor at the bottom, where the chairs were filled with at least ten different men.
Kerdy thrust out his arm to the men at the bottom of the arena. "I'd like to present to you, the finest men of the Founding Fathers. I dare you to find a better array of the brightest businessmen, scientists and politicians in the country grouped together in one room."
McCarthy took a few curious steps around the arena. Some of the men were more familiar to him than others, because of their frequent appearances on political campaigns, public service announcements, and more significantly, scientific publishings. A few, however—who's faces were the most immediately recognizable, in fact—were simply clever businessmen from all types of retail, sitting there, for the most part, because of their money. An assortment of different men from a rainbow of popular media.
But as he came down the steps, there was one gentleman on the end—one he didn't recognize from his outside career, not from magazines or newspapers, not from TV or even popular conversation. He didn't recognize this man at all, and he looked nothing like the rest of the people he sat with.
This one man was absurdly tall-about six feet, four inches, if he were to stand up. Even sitting, he came up at least half a head above the second tallest sitting man in the room, with a body type resembling that of Abraham Lincoln. Although nameless at this point, it was very hard to glance over him.
Much like the younger sixteenth president, he was built with fairly sized muscles up the shoulders and up the torso like a minor woodsman. Separate from the mostly balding men in the room with shiny domes of skin surrounded by toffs of hair by their ears, this man had a full head of gray locks that shot from his scalp in thick, but soft locks and hung down relaxed like the leaves of a coconut tree. On his face, he had a large, triangular nose, and hiding just under his bands were his unmistakable white eyes, the size of baseballs, with tiny, navy irises. He wore no glasses, for unlike most people his age, he had perfect vision. However, underneath his humongous eyes sat a series of slight lines, the only wrinkles appropriate for a man of his true age that appeared on his face. Despite first conclusions because his height, and his appearance, this man was actually older than the rest by ten years, at the very least. It was almost impossible to make out more than a drop of fat on his belly from under that lab coat, compared to the majority of the rather husky men in the chairs to his right.
As large as he was, this man was actually the most quiet of the group. His mouth, which was appropriately small, for as soft spoken as he was, was framed by the thin hairs of a beard, with a goatee end that pointed down his large chin like an upside down teardrop.
McCarthy waited for Kerdy to step at his side before leaning in and whispering, "Who is that?"
"Him?" the bald man replied.
"I've never seen him before," McCarthy commented. "What does he do?"
Seemingly too far away to hear them, it was as if the lonely man suddenly had an itch in his ear, or simply sensed that be was being talked about. He glanced up, mouth slightly parted, and McCarthy could now see under his bangs the man's guiltless, shiny eyes. "Senator McCarthy?"
The fact that he had actually spoken aloud surprised the men around him.
Smiling, McCarthy stepped down the stairs and approached the cautious looking man in his seat. As soon as he saw this, the gentle giant rose from his chair, like a statue turned alive, fiddling with the tips of his rough fingers.
"Nice to meet you," he finally stuck out his hand with an awkward smile on his face.
"Charmed," the suited Senator took the awkward giant's hand with comfort. "And... who might you be?"
The tall man, seeming almost unprepared for the simple question, to take a brief instant to remember. "... Jones," he said in a moderately deep voice. "I'm Dr. Jones."
"Ooo... a doctor," McCarthy said, cracking a smile from the side of his face.
"Jones has done some incredible things since coming here," Kerdy told his famous guest, slapping a heavy hand on the doctor's shoulder, making the doctor cringe and have to force a smile.
"Really?" McCarthy asked. "What kind of medicine do you work in?"
"He's not that kind of doctor, McCarthy. This is a man of science."
"Really?" asked the Senator, squinting his eyes, "You know, you look slightly familiar. We're you on the Manhattan Project?"
"Uh..." Jones said. "... I don't really know much about bombs, either..."
"Jones is more into the mechanical technology, aren't you, Jones?" asked Kerdy.
"Uh... yes! I ah... work in... auto-body," the doctor dropped that last part like it was a shame.
"Don't be so modest, doctor," Mr. Kerdy said. "Robots, automatons—all that."
"Oh!" McCarthy said. "Now there's something you don't hear everyday," he turned back to Jones. "So how far are we from the automatic house cleaning machine?"
Jones puckered his lips nervously. "... pretty far?"
"Ahahaha!" Kerdy laughed. "Jones, you killer!" he turned to McCarthy. "No, I swear, this man has got a robot—oh, you just got have to see it to believe it."
Jones forced a crooked smile, again. His dark, olive-colored cheeks were turning slightly pink.
The sudden silence of a few of the men in the chairs made it clear that they had begun listening to them, even thought they looked to each other in a nonchalant way.
"If you'll excuse me," Kerdy said, "I must go and get the meeting started, gentleman."
With Kerdy gone, the senator continued to question the strange gentleman. "So tell me a little more about these robots. Are they intelligent?"
The doctor briefly tilted his head to the side. "In a sense..."
"Pardon me for asking," McCarthy looked from side to side, them dropped his voice, "But, how did a man such as yourself get into such an exclusive society?"
"Well... I... uh..." Jones raised a finger to his chin. .
"Excuse me, I didn't mean that as an offense," McCarthy assured. "You sound like a very educated man. You weren't from Oxford or anything?"
"Oh, no!" Jones shook his hands. "Nothing like that. Vassar, actually."
"Impressive," McCarthy commented. "I thought detected the slightest New York accent."
Jones grinned. "You did."
"What did you have to do to get into such an exclusive school?"
The doctor shrugged. "Grades. The right transcript..."
"Ca-ching, ca-ching," muttered a man in the circle behind them.
Jones swallowed hard. He felt his hands become clammy. Things were quickly falling apart, again—namely, him.
"For the right price, you'd think could've just finished school," another man in the chairs whispered to his neighbor.
There were some small chuckles.
While his ears gave him no trouble, Jones pretended that he didn't hear any of that, even though he was now undeniably blushing.
Whether or not the men intended for him to overhear that—which they had to, since they would have had to be idiots to not know he could hear them from eight feet away—the doctor was sensitive to all forms of criticisms. Even the slightest comment like that made him feel terrible, even though not finishing up his last few months in school was a decision he made without regret to that very day. He was more than capable of finishing his college education and becoming a full Professor, but there were things about school he was not capable of—social things that he had to flee from to save whatever shred of self esteem he had left. No surprise that at this point that it was a very small shred that remained.
Just another shot in the weak ego of Dr. Harris Jones.
"Well, I'm sure your machine is brilliant," McCarthy suddenly broke Jones' train of thought. The Senator turned and joined the other men in the chairs, as Kerdy prepared to make his announcements.
Embarrassed, the doctor sat back down slowly. He introduced himself to no one else. He did not speak up again for that entire meeting. Subtle, spirit-broken, he became the quiet giant once again.
And it was how the rest of them liked it.
Sitting there silently, picking at the chipped wood corner of the chair's pull out table while the rest of the men chattered away so smoothly, it was these times that the Doctor wondered how he got himself into these degrading circumstances. It seemed like just yesterday he was an independent inventor, living on his own, away from these people.
Then he was whisked away into a world they told him would be life changing. A world where he thought maybe he'd finally feel like he belonged.
But now he was just a gear in a machine—a body in a movement he didn't even approve to begin with. It was too late for him. He was tangled in the corrupt organization with no way out, and every time the boss, Kerdy, gave him one of his phony smiles, Jones felt helpless.
The world didn't care about him. It was wrapped up in itself to understand one pathetic, loathsome man. To concerned with its own self gratification. And because of that, he would never let his guard down. He would be wary of people forever more, and it would take someone mighty special to turn that around.
Delaware: Thirty Years Later
September 6th, 1984.
8:16 A.M.
Disclaimer:
Dear Mom and Dad units,
I currently sit here aboard this long, orange bus, off to an uncertain location, where I can best assume would be this 'junior high school'-wherever that is, exactly. I look out the window at the passing streets, gaze at the blue autumn sky and the red and orange trees—it is much too beautiful for me to regard as summer still, despite what the calender claims. I notice every single house we pass as we bend and turn though neighborhoods, all unfamiliar to me.
But you would hardly let me leave the house to see these things in the first place.
I explain this before I begin because I want you to know where I am when I write this to you.
This is certainly not the most comfortable form of transportation. I feel the shutter and shake of the vehicle and think, 'I just hope it stays in one piece'. I hear the nearly constant coughs and sniffs of the driver as he winds this thin-steel deathtrap of a vehicle through the village. I assume he has a head cold, and he is too lazy to deal with it properly like he should—with medicine. He glance up at the long mirror once and saw me gawking at him. When I did not look away, he turned his head from the road and glared at me for a moment.
He hates me already. Chalk that up as a new record.
Mostly, I hear conversation. Lots of conversation—Geez, and I thought the factory was loud. To only assume what this public school is going to be like, based on this experience? There are clicks of tongues and pops of bubble-gum and belches and all matter of bodily noises.
Ugh. In my time locked away, I forgot how disgusting human children can be.
I can't make clear sense of all the idle chatter. Few of the conversations around me are congruent. Even less of them intelligent.
They are talking about me, too, you know. They always do.
Human beings.
Of course, in my experience, humans appear to have such diverse first reactions to us, but the majority tends to lean on the less mature side.
This one wide-eyed boy, for example, leaned over my seat and made a sound of awe, knocking on my head, as if he didn't believe I was really there. I told him my brain was very fragile, and I asked him to please stop.
He responded by salivating on my head.
I don't understand humans.
But I can't bring myself to hate them. It is not their fault they are inferior. Gramps unit claims they are to be wary of and untrusted, but for the majority of them, I would rather believe they are to be pitied.
I am not certain about what can be learned from humans. I question if anything is worth being taken from their culture, as their tendency to revert back to their ancient instincts in daily scenarios, as I see on the television and read in books, is primitive, if not frightening.
I begin to wonder who could possibly yearn so much to learn about these creatures in depth, but I understand that our role on this planet is not to question, but to take in our orders, and follow through with them.
That's the sad thing about us, don't you think? That machines of such intelligence are reduced to the petty jobs that the humans cast away? I think that it is not just the service droids that are slaving at the will of the human race, but, again, I know there is a narrow margin for me to complain. I'm only supposed to study them.
I understand that we are not the typical breed of our kind. I understand that we have certain duties that others of our kind do not. I understand that collecting information is why we are here, and I understand that this is not only an obligation, but a privilege. I understand how fortunate it is to be deemed competent enough to take on this task, when so many other robots might only wish to be in my place. I know I am blessed, and I am grateful. By no means do I consider for granted that which propels me to a special level of superiority in our species. I do not resent what I am.
And I certainly don't resent you for making me do this. It's just... How you could do this to me? How could you do this to me? Why?
I start of wonder if this is a test. Is it? Is this another way for you two to test me? Haven't I done enough already to show how competent I can be? I mean, it seems like all I do is try and prove myself.
You must be aware of my confidence. I know I am capable of this task of studying humans. It can't be that hard to uncover their daily rituals.
But...
(sigh)...
Of all humans, did it really have to be teenagers?
You expect me to study them? To get along with them? To have 'fun' with them? After eleven years and a brief history of attempts to intergrade with them so long ago, I can hardly imagine myself having success trying to do the same again. Working with them may be easy for you, but I have grown accustom to the bubble that our home has provided for me.
I'm not like you.
I'm not like humans.
I'm not like anybody.
And of all things, if the media has any hint of truth to it, I am probably the least like junior high schoolers.
Eventually, I became curious regarding our destination. I reached over and poked the shoulder of one male child sitting curled up across from me and asked, "Pardon me, how far are we from the address of the junior high school?"
He looked up tiredly, did a double take, and pulled himself closer to the window. He refused to further acknowledge me.
Obviously, one can't count on humans for anything. It appears I will have to rely on solely myself to complete this mission and survive human public school. Like always, I know you want me to be independent. I can assure you right now that I couldn't dream of ever going up to the humans for help—for anything.
But I suppose I shall learn soon what humans my own age are like. Perhaps, even as I am in in the bleakest of my moods, I can be hopeful of finding a congruency between these animals and myself. Even as I must pinch my sound receptors from the random, unintelligible shouts and screams from the rows of seats ahead of me, I find a glimmer of warmth in the light-hearted humor of it all. I guess if I were to look at our hyperactive similarities, my mission doesn't appear so daunting.
I follow my orders. I am an obedient child...
… mostly...
So I say that I reluctantly agree to the mission, even though I believe you know very well how I feel about the majority of the human race. Their conduct to me in the past has but a meager, if any, sliver of kindness.
Will I still do it?
Yes.
Will I like it?
There is severe doubt that I will.
Will I wind up tearing the school down and annihilating them all?
...eh... it could happen. Anything is possible.
Will I try to behave myself?
I'm not making that promise.
But I do promise that I still respect you two.
Your son,
unit Robot Electro Jones
Author of the Data Log following.
Sorry for the long author's note, but there's a lot of stuff that goes along with this.
Right off the bat, I have to give credit to the author who gave me the nerve to post this.
This probably wouldn't be published if not for Demonic lil Angel and her Robot Jones story "Whatever DID Happen to Robot Jones?", which proved to me that in the 2010's there are actually some fans out there who actually still care about Robot Jones, especially enough to write a good fanfiction for the show.
I started writing my story along with many unfinished fanfics about a year ago, but after discovering her fanfic, I was touched. She's right when she says this show needs more attention. I loved her story, and I felt kind of bad that it was the only serious Robot Jones fanfiction out there. For a show like this to not have any fanfiction, when even the most stupid and terrible cartoons from God knows where get at least one fan to keep their stories going and keep their memory alive—that's inexcusable.
This is my response to this problem, and to the tenth anniversary of the series premier. After a year of quiet writing and planning, I finally present "Whatever Happened to Robot Jones: Fanfiction Revamp."
First, yes, I probably need work on my Robot voice.
Second, if you know this show, and you've got an issue with the date I chose, lay it on me. I'm not an '80s expert (I know saying that could be used to argue that I've chosen the wrong show to write about, then XD) . I based that date on what the internet tells me, and it seems almost positive that the series takes place in the early eighties, but some sources lean more towards the later eighties and closer to the nineties, which get's me giddy, 'cause hey, I know THAT decade! Also, in the last episode "Rules of Dating," there are quite a few hints dropped that tell me that the setting takes place in the later '80s, as we hear Robot say something about a CD-ROM, and, I see a FREAKIN' MODERN DESKTOP COMPUTER in the background at the party house! I kinda guessed the series to be around '82 or '83 (mostly because of the appearance of the 'Wonder Cube', and the brief E.T. Moment at the end of "Vacuum Friend.) But there are a lot more references in the show that come from stuff that didn't appear until later in the decade (not to mention some references from the '90s and beyond, but it's just a cartoon, whadaya, want?)
So, again, please let me know if something sounds inaccurate. I tried to be fair to both sides and find a date that seemed believable. Also, as you will see as I get the story rolling, that I had a whole time-line to mold around this date, so it got really messy with trying to keep it all in order. When I had a realistic date for the pilot pinned down again, I really tried to stick with it. There's bound to be an error in my dates somewhere, and I'll say that now. I went back and changed most of the years, so they're probably be incorrect years that I say, along with the usual typos that we can't help but overlook when it's time to publish. I know this series is really supposed to not have ANY date, because it's an alternate cartoon reality, and they mention things that didn't exist in the eighties, but I though with a few adjustments, I could actually ground this surreal time into a realistic time-line.
Now to explain what this preview is about:
These are his thoughts as he's riding the bus to school for the first time. It's basically Robot's note to his parents before actually getting his Data Log started, saying, "Alright, I'll do this because I want to prove to you a few things, but here's why I don't agree with it, yada yada yada..." pretty much the argument that he would have explained to his mother, had his dad not so abruptly yanked him from the floor and kicked him outside. I hoped I had made it clear, though, that the idea is that Robot at this point thinks this is some sort of test that his parents have set up, just to see if he can perform the same task any better that they once did and interact daily with humans. In this story, Robot was raised and IS actually about eleven right here, like other sixth graders, and he DID encounter humans his life prior to this, so he sort of knows what the species in general is like. (After all, didn't he technically HAVE to run into humans at some point in his construction?) In the pilot, he already seemed to have his own idea of what humans were like when he said they were inefficient. So it's not like he's never ever been exposed to humans before, although this could be argued that this idea could have been given to him my his race-passionate grandfather, or some form of media he could have access to, such as TV, books or magazines, but I say Robot has dealt with humans in the past, just not in a while.
It appears to me from the pilot that Robot has been confined to his house for a while, as he might be nervous about leaving it. This is how Robot feels about being thrust from his "hibernation," so to speak, from the outside world, back into society, and with a mission that forces him to interface with people. I'm not saying he's lived in his house for his whole life, and in fact, as I get on with the story, I'll get to the journey that brought him from the factory to his house with his parents in the pilot. THAT, at least from how I look at it, adds up to about eleven or twelve years, so BAM, done. Did any of that make sense?
I know someone will kindly puncture a hole right though my age theory, and that's okay. I'm bending the logic of this series at least a little.
In my take on the series, I try to introduce a side story involving an original character named Dr. Jones, the man who is responsible for the creation of Robot's parents, and the robotics corporation aka 'JNZ' that they work for, and indirectly responsible for Robot Jones himself. So while teenage Robot has his struggles to fit in and understand humanity, the story bounces back to the past with Dr. Jones, who is a human, and his problematic story of trying to do essentially the same thing.
I don't know how it will impact the Robot Jones side of the story, but I really wanted to do pair up Robot's story with a humans, so it's like 'two persons, two lives,' who will eventually collide. Dr. Jones does not appear in every episode, but he becomes more important to Robot later on. Bits and pieces of the doctor's story will come here and there.
Well, here goes nothing. I hope you guys enjoy. =) Comments and criticism would be great.
Whatever Happened to Robot Jones? © Cartoon Network
