CONTENT WARNING: This chapter deals with graphic, detailed, on-screen sexual assault of an underage child. The assault begins with the line "Get up," Skunk says, sharp, "on your knees." and ends with the line Skunk finally steps back. though Astro continues to think vaguely about the assault for several moments. Don't read the passages in between if you believe you could be triggered.


OCTOBER 26 2043

6:47 PM

Astro wakes up slowly, in a heavy hazy slide from the blank black numb of deep sleep to a whole lot of bright rainbow lights flashing and popping in the dark all around him—they go off like fireworks in his brain and burst like big iridescent bubbles all over the inside of his skull. They boom like thunder and strike like lightning—like the shining silver tail of a shooting star, or the burning end of a comet as it races past the earth. He squeezes his eyes shut to try and block it all out, but he can still see the sharp storms of color in the cool, quiet black. It crashes over him like ocean waves—so hard that his whole body shakes with them, and his pounding head aches with them, and he just wants it to stop, to go away so he can go back to sleep.

And he tries to rub at his eyes to rub the rainbow lights away, or block his ears to block out the thunder booms, but his hands won't listen to him and his arms are so stiff and sore and heavy (—like when he carried the falling city down to the Surface, and he could swear every muscle—wire?—he had in him snapped like thin string, like stretched elastic, and he thought he'd die from the pain, but he couldn't let go until everyone was safe—) and his head feels heavy, too—almost full, like if he turned over on his side, gallons on gallons of water (or wet cement, maybe?) would pour out through his ears.

He just wants to go back to sleep—please just let him go back to sleep, please, he's just so tired with all these awful things going on in the city lately, please just let him sleep a little while longer, but the thunder is so loud that it's all he can hear, pressing down on him like a heavy quilt, and it's—it's not really thunder, actually. When he slows down long enough to listen, he realizes it's voices and words, and it's all crashing together in a buzzing humming drone of constant noise, and he's pretty sure if he just focused, it would all coalesce into coherence, and he could make out what's being said and who's saying it, but he doesn't really care about all that, to tell the truth—he just wants it to stop.

He tries to turn his head away from the sound, but then the black world burns blood-orange like—like fire

The bank caught on fire.

The bank caught on fire, and—and the smoke was everywhere, thick and black and hot. It filled up and flooded the whole building with its bitter and sour and awful smell, and everyone else coughed and gasped and choked on it except for him—it couldn't hurt him like it hurt everyone else, because he doesn't need to breathe like people do, so he could go inside, and he'd be okay, and he wouldn't get hurt (—and it's not like he'll die if he gets hurt, anyway, it's not like he's a human—so long as the Core stays intact and inside his chest, he can just be repaired or rebuilt—) so he went inside the bank, where the fire burned bright, and the smoke billowed thick, and everyone else coughed and gasped and choked on it except him.

But everyone got out.

And everyone got out okay.

And that's—that's when he left the bank, wasn't it? The officers and the firefighters thanked him for his help, and he said he had to go because he needed to talk to his dad down at the Ministry, and his dad—

—his dad sent a nice man in a nice car to come and get him—new intern, he said, and he knew Astro's name, and he called him his dad's son (—Dr. Tenma's boy, not Dr. Tenma's robot or Dr. Tenma's machine or Dr. Tenma's drone—) and he talked to him like he was a human, and he gave him a ride to the Ministry, but—

—but he didn't actually take him to the Ministry, did he?

And he—he zapped Astro—hit him with a sharp, burning-hot shock that made his whole body go numb and heavy and limp—and in the back of his brain he knew he had been Stunned, and he knew he had to fight it, but he could barely even lift his own hand before the whole world tipped over on its side and turned on its head and cut to black—

Astro snaps his eyes open.

For a second, the flashing rainbow lights are all he can see, booming like thunder and striking like lightning, dancing and glowing like tiny fireflies in the night, twisting themselves into different shapes, into circles and squares and triangles on the ceiling over his head—but he blinks, and all of a sudden, he's stretched out flat and strapped down to a smooth metal table, cold and hard under his (—stiff and sore and heavy—) body.

Okay.

So, that's—that's not great.

On the other side of the room, a big DRD stands on a spindly black tripod—one of the really high-tech ones, like Dad uses down at the Ministry of Science when he's about to test out a new machine, like the police use to take down witness statement and victim testimony and criminal confession—and it clicks on, all of a sudden, to stare unflinchingly back at him with its dull, steady red light, like the enormous unblinking eye of a massive monster.

It's recording him.

It's watching him.

And that's—that's not exactly great, either.

Just behind the tripod, a small wooden stool stands empty, and he can see a young woman only ten feet off, hovering in the open doorway—maybe twenty-two at most, with thick layers of reddish-brown hair framing her pretty, heart-shaped face, her arms folded over her chest and her brows twisted up in a dark, furious scowl, cutting deeper and deeper into her forehead as her hushed whispers get louder and louder.

Mr. Kusai leans on the other side of the doorframe, the brim of his hat pulled low, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets and his black eyes cold as ice.

He looked so much smaller in the car.

He looked so much nicer in the car.

A sharp shudder crawls up Astro's spine like spiders scuttling over his skin, and he pulls at the cold steel cuffs locked around his wrists, bolting him to the table, but he still feels so heavy and dizzy and dazed, his brain scrambled and scattered from all the zaps and shocks (and that—that's probably where all the flashing lights are coming from, isn't it—) and he can tell he's nowhere near as strong as he should be.

So that's also not great.

Astro's skin prickles and itches and tingles, his body raw and painfully oversensitive with the leftovers of all that voltage—whatever Kusai hit him with, it was about a thousand times stronger than any Stunner he's ever felt before—but he lifts his head as high as he can (—which is just about a fraction of an inch off the table—) to get a better look around the room. The walls and the floor are just these straight sheets of smooth and uncut metal, no windows or exits so far as he can see (—if he doesn't count the door, which he doesn't because he'd need to get past the angry young woman and Mr. Kusai to reach it, and he's not going to hurt them—) so the best thing he can do right now is just lay low and wait it out.

If he gives it about ten minutes, the funny fuzzy feeling in his head will clear up like storm clouds, and he can break these cuffs, no problem. Then he'll just power up his rockets, blast straight through the far wall with a single punch, and fly back home.

…Okay, yes, fine, he knows it's not actually going to be that simple, but this has been a really not-great day, so just—just let him have it for a second, all right? The point is that he'll be out of here and on his way back home (or—to the Ministry? does he still need to go down to the Ministry? does he still need to talk to his dad? that feels like a thing he needs to do, but who knows how long he's been here? who knows how long it's been since Skunk knocked him out with that Stunner?—) in less than half an hour, and he just needs a minute or two for his systems to correct themselves, for his body to regain its equilibrium.

And, right at that second, Skunk Kusai turns his head, and his cold black eyes lock on Astro—and he snaps to a sudden sharp stop, so stock-still it's like he's not even breathing, the deadly quiet calm of a predator that's just scented prey. He never takes his eyes off Astro—not even when he pulls one black-gloved hand out of his pocket and holds it up in the air, palm open and empty.

An abrupt hush falls over the room like a heavy quilt. The woman's whispers die away into complete silence.

"Leave us," Skunk says, soft and serious, but his black eyes never waver—his stare is like a surgical scalpel, and he's dissecting Astro, carving into him, cutting him up in pieces, pulling his mechanical skull apart to see the electronic brain inside, tearing his synthetic skin off to see the wires and circuits hiding beneath. "We will continue this discussion shortly."

The woman—girl? she really does look too young to be a woman—glances over her shoulder to stare at Astro the whole way outside, her face still scrunched up in a sour and sullen frown, before the door slides shut with a soft whoosh, and she's gone.

Skunk stays exactly where he is for a long second that stretches into two—three—four—five. His glittering black eyes are still fixed squarely on Astro.

But it's—it's fine.

He just has to give it a few more minutes—that Stunner was super-strong, remember, so it'll take his body a little longer than last time to go back to normal, but his body will go back to normal, and he will break out of here, and everything will be fine.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

He can handle this.

Skunk heads over to the big silver DRD and takes the stool set up right behind it with a quiet creak of old wood. "Testing – Subject 7517 – LOR programming."

And it—it doesn't look like he hits a button or flips a switch or anything, but the hard steel bands on Astro's arms and legs melt away like snowflakes in the sun, and the table is just a table now. His body still feels wrong and his brain still feels fuzzy and his head still feels full, but at least he can move, and he tries to get up, but the whole room spins, and the bright rainbow lights flash and pop in front of him again. He slumps back down on the table with a wince.

"What's—what's going on?" he blurts out. "What are you doing? Why am I here?"

Skunk just stares back at him, face smoothed out to a cool, neutral indifference. "Sit up."

And Astro—

—Astro sits up.

But the thing is that he doesn't want to—he doesn't even really think he can, with the way the whole room is spinning and the bright rainbow lights are still flashing and popping, and his body is just so stiff and sore and heavy, but he does it, he sits up, and he—

—he doesn't know why he did that.

Except that Skunk told him to.

"Where are we?" he says, high and tight, like a rubber band stretched to its limit and seconds away from the inevitable snap. "What are we doing here?"

Skunk leans back on his stool and crosses his arms over his chest. "Stand up off the table."

Astro pushes himself to his feet—and he doesn't want to, and he doesn't even know if his legs will hold him up right now, and it feels kind of like a miracle when his boots hit the floor and his knees don't buckle beneath him, and he doesn't know why he did that except that Skunk told him to.

It was like he couldn't say no—like he had to do it, like he couldn't just not, like he's got a big, bright-red alarm bell in the back of his brain, blaring and blaring and blaring, screaming at him to do it do it do it and—

testingsubject 7517LOR programming

—that's—that's what Skunk said.

That's exactly what Skunk said.

And Astro is sure of it because his electronic brain logs everything.

But that's—that's crazy, because everyone knows he doesn't have the laws of robotics in his system, everyone knows his dad never installed the software, everyone knows that his dad left it out of his design on purpose (—because he wasn't really trying to build a robot—he was trying to build a person—) and he can tell because he's said no to a human before, and he's defied direct orders from a human before, and he couldn't do that if he had the laws of robotics in his system.

Unless Skunk put it there, but that—that can't be right, because it takes all sorts of gadgets and gizmos to do that, and ordinary people just don't have access to that kind of tech, and Skunk—

—well, he doesn't—he doesn't actually know if Skunk has access to that kind of tech or not, does he? No, he doesn't know anything about the man in front of him—and he has to swallow down a sharp, white-hot burst of raw panic clawing up the back of his throat. He's been here before with Hamegg, with President Stone, and he got through it just fine, and if that's not definitive proof that he can handle whatever this guy throws at him, he's not sure what is.

"What's going on here?" he says, steady and even—he needs to drag this out for another minute or two, at least, buy a little extra time until his head stops spinning and he can blast out of here. "Why did you bring me here?"

But Skunk just arches a brow at him. "Stand up straight."

And Astro doesn't want to, and he doesn't mean to, but Skunk told him to, and he can't stop himself before he pulls his stiff and sore and heavy body up out of its slumped slouch—and he realizes, with a little jolt in the pit of his stomach, that he's almost completely naked, nothing left but his underwear and his clunky red boots. "Where are my clothes?"

It's a stupid thing to think about.

It's a stupid thing to care about.

And he knows that, but he asks it anyway, because he wants his clothes back.

"Oh, I wouldn't worry about that." Skunk's mouth twitches up at the corners. "You won't need them anymore."

Astro definitely does not agree with that, and he wants to say so—he wants to say but I want them back, give them back, they're mine, you can't have them, you can't have my clothes, you can't take my clothes, but he shoves it down and he swallows it back because it's a stupid thing to think about and it's a stupid thing to care about and he's got way bigger things to deal with.

Like that Skunk told him to stand up straight, and he did it.

testing, subject 7517, LOR programming

But that—that can't be right, because ordinary people can't do things like that, remember? And ordinary people don't do things like that, either—but ordinary people also don't just snatch robots straight off the streets and strap them down to metal tables and record them on DRDs and what in the world is going on here?

What does Skunk want with him?

Skunk nudges his hat up a little higher with the back of his hand. "Walk over to the wall."

And Astro does it.

And he doesn't want to.

And he doesn't mean to.

But it's like he can't stop himself—like he has to do it, like he can't say no, like he's got a big, bright-red alarm bell in the back of his brain, blaring and blaring and blaring, screaming at him to do it do it do it and it won't shut up until he does.

And he knows that's not normal. He knows he's never had that before.

And Skunk won't even tell him what's going on—just ignoring him and talking over him and talking at him but never talking to him, and sure, yeah, he's met some people who do that, who talk to his dad and talk to his friends and talk to whatever human he's with because they think it's better than talking to him, and they just pretend he's not even there, but they don't usually lock him down on lab tables and screw with his software.

Astro pushes off the wall to level a hard glare at Skunk. "What did you do to me? Why did you mess with my programming?"

Skunk's mouth finally curves up in a full smile, but it's sharp and cold and mean, like a shark showing all its teeth. "Why do you think?"

And he's just so relaxed about it, so open and assured and brazen—all loose posture and puffed-up swagger and sharp shark smile, all circular answers and smirks, and he really thinks he can just—he can just mess up Astro's mind and rearrange him into whatever he wants him to be, pound him into the shape that suits him, and sure, Astro might be a robot, but he's got independence and agency and choice, the power to make his own decisions even if the humans around him don't always like those decisions or agree with those decisions, and he'd give up his rockets and his laser cannons and his machine guns and his superstrength and his eyes that can see through anything before he'd give up that.

And Skunk just tore it out of him.

And he had no right.

And he is not going to get away with this.

Just because he's got the LOR in his system doesn't mean he's helpless, and it definitely doesn't mean that he's just going to stand back and let this happen.

"I'm not doing this," Astro says—snaps, just as cold and just as mean as Skunk's shark smile. "We're done here."

Sure, he still doesn't feel exactly right, but he's not about to stick around for any more of this, especially now that he's got the laws of robotics in his brain, so he stamps his boots hard on the metal floor to kick off the rockets hidden in the soles, and he throws himself up into the air, fists already out to barrel through the wall with sheer brute force. He knows the exact way to angle it so Skunk won't get hurt or hurled backward in the blast (—and he will never let a human come to harm, not even a human like Skunk—) and he knows he's got to do this faster than he's ever done anything before, or Skunk will call him back, and he'll have to listen and he'll have to obey and he can't do that, he can't

His whole body lights up with white-hot pain.

And he falls.

It's like a flash of lightning striking straight through him—blazing from the top of his head to the bottoms of his boots, a hundred thousand million volts frying all his wires and blowing all his circuits, worse than even the Stunner, and he hits the ground so hard his teeth rattle in his skull and he's burning up from the inside out and he's screaming screaming screaming and he can't stop because it just hurts so much and he tries to dig his nails into the metal under him but it's too flat and too smooth and he knows he's going to die because there is no way that anyone could possibly live through so much pain and then—

—and then it's over.

The agony just lifts up off him like a veil, and he's left on the ice-cold floor, hard under his cheek as he shakes and shudders and hurts all the way down to his bones—no, down to the solid steel frame that holds him together because he doesn't have any bones. It hurts just to breathe, just to pull the air in and push it back out again.

Bright rainbow lights flash and pop all around him.

Astro doesn't know how long he stays where he fell on the floor, shivering and gasping with the leftover ache still plucking and pricking at him like tiny needles, sprawled out flat on his front with his arms and legs bent and twisted at odd angles, and he knows he needs to get up and get out of here and maybe he could do it if he just tried harder and why didn't he try harder and why isn't he trying harder and he could do it if he just tried harder—if he just—he could do it if he just—onward and upward—but he—but he can't

—he can't do that again.

He can't take it.

Not again.

And maybe he says it out loud, or maybe it just shows on his face, he doesn't know, it hurts so bad that he doesn't know what he says and what he doesn't, and he doesn't know what he does and what he doesn't—but Skunk flashes him that awful sharklike smile again. "Aw, what's wrong? Don't want to go home anymore?"

Astro swallows. His throat is torn raw from the screams. His brain buzzes with static. "What did you do to me? Why can't I—why can't I—?"

Skunk laughs, harsh and grating, like metal on metal. "Jesus, haven't you ever heard of a KURI before? Thought you were a genius."

"What did you do to me?" Astro says, again, louder now, but he knows. He lifts a shaking hand and presses it to his throat—it's all ice-cold iron and knife-sharp spikes under his fingers, and he knows he knows he knows and he doesn't need Skunk to tell him.

That's a KURI ring around his neck.

His powers are gone.

He can't fly away from this.

He can't do anything—he can't go anywhere until Skunk lets him go, and testing subject 7517 LOR programming and he can't say no to anything and he has to do everything that Skunk tells him to because he has the laws of robotics installed in his brain and he can't fly away from this and he can't do anything and he can't go anywhere until Skunk lets him go and what is Skunk going to make him do?

"So I guess we'll just go ahead and call that the KURI demonstration, yeah?" Skunk pushes up off the stool and his polished black shoes, shining in the bright white lights, walk closer and closer and closer to Astro's face. "No point in doing it again. Don't want to damage the product before it ever hits the shelf."

Astro's insides go cold and twist up in tight knots and don't want to damage the product before it ever hits the shelf and testing subject 7517 LOR programming and guess we'll just go ahead and call that the KURI demonstration and he drags in a frantic gulp of air and when he tries to talk, it comes out scratchy and hoarse and scared. "What are you going to do with me?"

But Skunk said don't want to damage the product before it ever hits the shelf and testing subject 7517 LOR programming and guess we'll just go ahead and call that the KURI demonstration and he knows he knows he knows but this—this can't be real, this can't be—

Skunk leans down just far enough to grab his chin in one black-gloved hand and gives him that horrible shark smile again. "I'm going to make a hell of a lot of money off you."

No.

No, no, this can't actually be real—this can't actually be happening, this can't actually be seriously happening, and it's—it's probably just like the bright rainbow lights still flashing and popping faintly at the edges of his eyes, just another bad side effect from the Stunner, he's probably just—just seeing a whole lot of things and hearing a whole lot of things that aren't actually there, because this can't actually be happening.

This can't actually be seriously happening.

Not when he was just at the bank what feels like barely an hour ago, with the police officers and the firefighters and the poor terrified people who had gotten stuck inside. Not when he was just on his way to the Ministry, with the cold rain all around him and the cloudy dark sky above him and the cracked sidewalk under his boots and the icy water pouring down his face and dripping off the spiky ends of his hair. Not when he had just dropped a quick pat on top of TrashCan's domed metal head and said it's okay, boy, I'll be back before you know it. Not when he had just promised Orrin that he'd be there to help out with the homemade pizza for dinner tomorrow. Not when he had just promised kind old Mr. Maeda, who can't get around all that great with his stiff arthritic knees and brittle bones, that he'd be there to help him pull the weeds and water the bright flowers and thick leafy herbs in his garden at noon on Sunday. Not when he had just promised his friends he'd be there to catch a movie and a milkshake with them at ten on Saturday.

This can't be happening.

Not when everything was so normal.

This has to be some kind of joke. This has to be some kind of seriously messed-up prank that's not even in the same stratosphere as funny—or maybe it's all just a weird dream, and any second now, he'll wake up and he'll be in his own bed in his own room in his dad's penthouse, and he won't be here anymore, and this will all just be a weird dream and everything will be fine and everything will be okay. Or—maybe he'll wake up and he'll be in the hovercar, on the way to the Ministry, with Skunk in the driver's seat, and he'll still be the new intern who knew his name and knew he was his dad's son and gave him a ride so he wouldn't have to walk in the rain, but the seconds stretch out longer and longer and he's not waking up and please please just let him wake up

But it's—it's too real to be a dream. The residual shocks and volts still surging through his sore body every ten seconds or so, and the smooth, solid-steel floor beneath him, and Skunk's cold eyes and shark smile and firm hand locked under his chin and his heart in his throat and the shake in his hands and the ache in his jaw where he's clenched his teeth too long, and this is—

—this is really happening, isn't it?

This is really happening.

This is really real.

Skunk is going to sell him.

Skunk is going to take him to the markets and sell him off to the highest bidder, who will take him far away from the city—away from his friends and away from his home and away from his dad and—

No.

Wait.

Hang on a second.

His dad.

Dad would never let Skunk get away with this.

"My—my dad is waiting for me," Astro blurts out, raw and rough and all in a rush. "He'll be worried if I don't show up. He'll come looking for me—if I don't show up at the Ministry, and—and I don't come home tonight, he'll come looking for me."

And he knows his dad will find him—any tracker worth its salt can sense the power coming off the Core from a million miles away, and his dad is the richest man in Metro City and the head of the Ministry of Science, so he's got all the resources he needs for a big search, and it's not like Astro exactly blends in with other robots all that great, so he'll stick out and it'll be really easy to find him and he'll probably be back home in less than a week, and all that should definitely make Skunk think twice about the whole thing, right?

He'll get scared off at the thought of Dr. Tenma, and he'll let Astro go—and Astro can just fly straight back home, and he's got a name and a face on Skunk, so he can tell his dad about the robot smuggler in the city, and Dad can take the LOR out of his system and Astro can make sure that all the robots are staying safe and being careful until Skunk is off the streets, and the police will catch Skunk and put him away and all his robots will be free and everything will be fine.

Everything will be fine.

"Wow, you really just don't get it, do you?" Skunk huffs out a laugh. "Didn't you listen to anything I said earlier? Dr. Tenma hired me on. He asked me to take you off his hands."

What?

It's so blatantly not true that Astro is actually blown away with the sheer audacity and absurdity of the lie, and does Skunk seriously expect him to believe it? Does Skunk seriously expect him to believe his dad would ever do anything like that? His dad loves him—he said so that day in the Ministry, out loud and to his face and just before the fight with the Peacekeeper, he said you may not be Toby, but you're still my son.

And he meant it.

And he powered Astro back on when he didn't have to—when everything would have been so much easier on him if he hadn't—and he defied the president of Metro City and faced down the full force and might of the entire military, just for Astro, even though he's not a human and he's not Toby and he can't even pretend to be, even though he's just a robot, but his dad said he didn't care about any of that, and he put his warm gentle hands on Astro's shoulders and hugged him tight to his chest like he never wanted to let go and he said you're my son.

And Astro knows it all by heart—he'd never admit it out loud, but he pulls that memory out and he plays it on the wall at night when he can't sleep, over and over until he finally dozes off to it like a lullaby, a soft song ringing in his ears, and he holds it close to his chest like his dad held him and he never lets it go because it means his dad loves him.

"Right," Astro says, blunt and flat—and dry as the desert—and pushes himself up on his elbows, slow and careful because he's still pretty sore from all the shocks. "He wouldn't do that."

But Skunk just barks out another laugh, harsh and mean, and pulls his CET out of his coat. "Guess he didn't get the message. Seemed pretty damn happy to be rid of you when he talked to me."

"Yeah, he didn't seem that way last time he talked to me." And he knows this is a really stupid thing to pick a fight over, but it's just such an outrageous lie that Skunk is trying to feed him—he knows he can be kind of hard to handle here and there, and he knows it's not always easy on his dad to have a robot running around the house, and he knows his dad would obviously prefer to have Toby back, or even just a real human son over a mechanical one, and he knows he gets in a lot of trouble and makes a lot of messes (—and he tries his best not to—he really tries his best to be a good son for his dad, he tries his best to protect his dad and look out for him and take care of things so he doesn't have to, and he likes to think he does a pretty good job—) but he also knows that his dad loves him, that his dad is looking for him and his dad misses him and his dad is going to find him. And he knows his dad would never get rid of him, would never just throw him away like garbage, like he's—

please just deactivate him and take him awayI can't bear to see his face again

No, but that was—that was different.

That wasn't anything like this.

Because that was all back before Dad loved him—back when Dad was still too torn up over Toby to even look at him, which is completely fine and totally okay, because Dad did a lot of things back before he loved him, and it's all okay, and Astro's not upset about any of it because he understands, because he could see that his dad was just so sad and lost and alone and tangled up in his own grief that he had no idea what to do, so he just did the best he could and he just tried to do what seemed right.

And it—it wasn't always great.

And sometimes it hurt a lot.

Sometimes it still burns in the back of Astro's brain when he can't sleep. Sometimes it's all he can think about. Sometimes it's all he can see when he shuts his eyes.

But his dad was trying.

And how can Astro ever hold that against him?

I'm not your dad, he said, soft and slow and tired, like it was taking everything in him just to push the words out, and it burns and burns and burns in the back of Astro's brain at night when he can't sleep and sometimes it's all he can see when he shuts his eyes—you're not Toby—you're a copy of Toby—not my son—a robot

"Hey, don't take my word for it." Skunk flips the CET open and holds it out to Astro with the screen faced out so he can see about a dozen blocks of tiny black text, all lit up with that bright blue glare. "You can see it for yourself if you're really so hung up on it."

It takes Astro less than a minute to read it all the way through, top to bottom—his brain processes data so fast—but he scans it again and again, slower now because he's—he's just going too quickly and getting it all mixed up. Or maybe he's just reading it all wrong—his brain's still pretty messed up from the Stunner, and his eyes are still pretty messed up from the bright rainbow lights, so he's probably just—just seeing things that aren't really there, right?

This can't really be there.

This can't really be real.

There's no way that this is real.

There's no way that Dad would ever do something like this.

There's no way that Dad would ever draw up a contract of ownership for Astro like he's—like he's a house on the market or a plot of land for sale, and there's no way that Dad would sign it and let Skunk take him away, so this obviously isn't right. This obviously isn't true.

It can't be true.

It can't be real.

But that's his dad's signature at the bottom—Dr. William Tenma, with that funny flourish-y loop he always does on his capital T, and Astro knows it better than he knows his name because he's been trying to copy it (or Toby has been trying to copy it) since before he could even write his own, but he never gets it right and he never gets it as big and sweeping and flourish-y as Dad does and that's his dad's signature right there on the contract and he knows that's his dad's signature because he would know it anywhere, and why would his dad do that?

Why would his dad sign that contract?

Why would his dad just sign his entire life away like he's nothing?

No, he—he wouldn't do that. His dad would not do that to him. His dad would never do that to him.

His dad loves him now.

Whatever that is on the contract, it is not his dad's signature.

"That's—that's—" Astro lifts a shaky hand and pushes the CET away, "—that's a fake, that's a forgery—Dad wouldn't do that."

Skunk shrugs and takes the CET back to shut it with a sharp snap. "Look, you want to run back home to your dad, go ahead. Let me know how that works out for you." He tucks the device away in his long black coat and heads over to the DRD again. "Maybe we'll all get lucky, and he'll finally just melt you down for scrap."

The steady red light shines on and on and on.

Dad wouldn't do that to him.

Would he?

No. Of course not.

It doesn't even make any sense—if his dad really wanted to get rid of him, he'd just take him into the Ministry and shut him off for good and toss his body down to the Surface with all the other unwanted and used-up robots and then forget all about him, and he knows Astro wouldn't fight it if that's what he wanted to do.

But he already tried that once, and maybe—maybe it was too much for him, maybe it was too hard on him, to deactivate the robot who's a perfect replica of his own lost son, and maybe he knew he couldn't go through with it if he tried to do it himself, so he hired Skunk to stage the whole thing, and that would explain why Skunk said he was his dad's new intern, wouldn't it, why he told a lie that'd be so easy to disprove if Astro hadn't gotten in the car—

No.

No, no, this is all a lie—this is all a big stupid lie that Skunk cooked up (—but why would he do that, why would he need to do that, what's the point, he's already got Astro right where he wants him, he doesn't have to lie—) because his dad loves him and his dad would never just throw him away and his dad would never get rid of him and he is not going to fall for it and he is not going to play right into Skunk's hands like that because he knows his dad loves him.

Skunk twists the knob on the DRD to click it off and on again. "Testing—subject 7517—SAI programming."

But what if—what if he did something wrong? What if he did something wrong that made his dad not love him anymore? What if he did something that made his dad decide he's too hard to handle and too much trouble and too much of a headache? What if his dad just didn't know what he was getting into when he said he loved him? What if he did something that made his dad decide a robot can't ever be as good as a real human son?

please just deactivate him and take him away—I can't bear to see his face again

Skunk pushes the wooden stool out of his way with the heel of his polished black shoe. It slides away to the other side of the room and crashes into the wall with a loud, solid bang, and he walks back over to Astro and stops right in front of him with his arms folded over his chest again.

He looks so tall like that, with his heavy black coat and his sharp shark smile.

Or maybe it's just that Astro is shrinking down, smaller and smaller and smaller, a tiny speck no one can see—I'm not your dad you're not Toby you're a copy of Toby and what if it's true, what if it's real, what if Skunk is right, what if it's not a lie, what if his dad doesn't want him anymore, what if his dad doesn't love him anymore and what if he didn't mean it when he said he didn't care that Astro isn't Toby and what if he didn't mean it when he said he didn't care that Astro's just a robot, and what if he didn't mean it when he said he loved—?

"Get up," Skunk says, sharp, "on your knees."

not my son—a robotand I

Astro drags himself slowly up to balance on his ball-jointed knees, thudding hard on the cold metallic floor. His face is just about level with Skunk's thighs now.

and I don't want you anymore—

Skunk's mouth twists up at the corners in a smirk. "Suck me off."

The order cuts through the thick white fog in his brain like a knife, and he jerks back—so suddenly that the whole world spins like a top, and the bright rainbow lights flash and pop on the edges of the room—to stare blankly up at Skunk, so high above him, and this—this can't be real, right? This has to be the joke right here—this has to be the seriously messed-up trick that's not even in the same stratosphere as funny, right? Skunk can't be serious, right?

This can't actually be happening, right?

But he can't say no, and he can't stop himself—not before he grabs the black waistband of Skunk's pressed slacks and wrenches the stiff cloth roughly down the pale thighs to get—it—out and it's—

No—no, it's too big, it's way too big, he can't do this, he can't do this, he can't—it won't fit—it won't fit in his mouth—he'll choke on it if he tries—and he wants to say that—he wants to say I can't do this and he wants to say it's too big and he wants to say it won't fit but he can't he can't he can't because he can't say no and he can't stop himself and he has to—he can't just not—he has to do it, he has to—

He leans in and he takes the head in his mouth.

And he's—he's not even doing anything with it yet but it's on his tongue and he can feel it and it's against his teeth and he can feel it and he wants to spit it out and he wants to throw up just to get away from the taste but he can't he can't he can't and it's hot and it's hard and it's hairy and it's too big—it's just too big—it's taking up his whole mouth and it's pressing against the back of his throat and he can't—he can't do it, he can't do this, he just can't do it, he doesn't even know how, he's never done it before, he's never done anything like this before, he doesn't even know how to do it

And then he—he is doing it.

Just like that.

He pumps it in and out of his open mouth over and over, licking and sucking at the rock-hard tip, pushing it in deeper and deeper with every thrust until he just knows he's going to gag on it, and he doesn't know how he doesn't, and he doesn't know how he knew what to do when he's never done this before, and Skunk tosses his platinum-blond head back and gasps and moans and says just like that, yeah, just like that, right there, you're so good, you're so fucking good, aren't you, in a low and breathless voice—and his big broad black-gloved hands are all over Astro's head, grabbing and yanking at his hair, jerking and twisting the sharp spikes, and it hurts and he wants to say stop but he can't because it's still in his mouth and it's too big and he can't breathe around it and he can't say no and he's going to die he's going to die he's going to die he's going to die

—and then the hot, thick, sour liquid floods out over his tongue.

It's—it's too much, and his mouth can't even hold it all—and it's just coming and coming and coming so fast that it's pooling up at the corners of his lips and streaking and stringing down his chin and dribbling onto the floor and the big broad black-gloved hands in his hair are going loose and limp and it's going softer and smaller in his mouth and the big broad black-gloved hands reach down and ease it out but he's still choking on the sticky white and—

The big broad black-gloved hands grab his chin and drag his head up up up until he's staring straight into the cold blank black eyes.

"Swallow," Skunk says.

And he—he can't stop himself.

And he can't say no.

So he swallows.

It burns his throat the whole way down.

Skunk finally steps back. His polished shoes click loudly on the cold floor. He pulls his pants up and the dark cloth slides slowly over his pale thighs. He takes his hat off to wipe at his brow.

The steady red light from the DRD shines on and on and on.

His mouth is finally empty, but he can still taste it, so he tries to swallow again. But he can't—his throat is too tight and thick with knots. His scalp prickles and stings where Skunk grabbed his hair. The corners of his lips are still sticky with cum.

Oh, god.

Oh—god—he really just—he really just did that—he really just did that, didn't he? And he just—he just got down on his knees and—and he—all because Skunk told him to—and he just—he just did it and he didn't—he didn't stop—he just did it and did it and did it and he—he didn't—he didn't—he couldn't

Oh, god, he is going to be sick.

Astro wraps his arms around his own churning stomach and rips his mouth open, little gags and retches and heaves tearing out of his throat, but he's not—he can't—he can't actually throw up because he's not human, he's just a robot, and the gears in his throat don't work that way—the gears in his throat won't let him do that—and he's gasping and groaning and panting but he's not throwing up and he's—he's crying so hard it hurts, sobbing and shaking but he's not throwing up and he wants to do it—he wants to vomit—he wants it out of him—he wants it gone—but he can't he can't he can't

Hot tears prickle and sting and burn as they pour out of his eyes.

The DRD clicks off again.

A soft, shuddery sob slips out of his throat. His whole body jolts with it. He can still taste Skunk in his mouth and on his tongue and in between his teeth and at the corners of his lips. Bright rainbow lights flash and pop all around him. He's shaking and he can't stop. He can't even feel it.

He wants to claw his own cold metallic skin off until he's just an ugly, busted-up mess of wires and gears and cables and cogs. Maybe then Skunk won't want to sell him anymore. Maybe then no one will want to buy him anymore. Maybe then they'll just let him go back home

—but does he—does he even have a home anymore?