CHAPTER 12
Uncanny Valley

It took two full days for him to gather the necessary parts.

The first time he left the house, Frogg announced that he was going for a long walk. Gisela was the only Guardian home at the time, and he had expected her to be happy with this sudden shift in motivation, but she only showed concern. Even worse was when she volunteered to join and offer to buy Frogg some ice cream on the way back if he tolerated a visit at a plant nursery (of course she knew he enjoyed it there too – his favorites were the pitcher plants and fly traps), but Frogg solemnly shook his head 'no.'

"I need fresh air," he would say, "I was in bed too long, I have to get out."

And of course, Gisela could not argue with that. Even if she had a bad feeling about it, she knew that she should be proud that Archibald was finally practicing with the prosthetics given to him, which he now had tucked into his coat pockets. That she should feel relieved that he was finally leaving his room – the place he had locked himself in for weeks, just suffering, sometimes for hours doing that god-awful writhing like a wounded animal. It still did not feel right, though. Frogg hated that he manipulated her kindness so it would work in his favor… But soon he would just find out how far his lies would go, and this was hardly the worst of them to come.

"I just want to feel normal again…" he had mumbled.

The statement was enough to guilt Gisela into saying a skeptical 'yes', but he still promised not to do anything extraneous, simply just go on a stroll. When he came back the first night after dark, he was met with two frantic Guardians who explained they were close to calling the police. They had been scared about how long he had been out; afraid the boy may have fainted or worse. He apologized, and from that point on made sure to say that he would be with Lisbeth next time. Of course, it was another lie. The boy was still terrified of his best friend and love interest seeing how much an invalid he had become. But it worked. Frogg wanted to be angry once more at his infantilization and that his Guardians thought a little girl with powers was needed for him to be safe, but at least it worked.

Each time before setting off, Frogg carefully wrapped a scarf around his neck and chin so his healing scars could not be seen. When he wasn't actively scavenging, he walked with his prosthetic hidden away in his pockets. To an outside viewer, he passed like any other boy his age – not the freak that he felt he was.

Frogg scavenged for the tiniest of parts that he could repurpose. Like a curator, he would improve the smallest pieces of wiring and circuitry, taking something old and derelict and making them better than brand new. Once more, and as always, the boy was not even conscious of the scientific feats he was performing in this time – focused solely on the project at hand, a shark that had to keep swimming or sink.

He visited junkyards. He visited scrapped car lots. Frogg even smashed a rusty Volkswagen's window with a piece of iron so he could crawl in and pop the hood – he was looking for the circuit board. It was risky, but he had determined that what he was doing technically was not stealing. It was all garbage. What was valuable to him (and there were some truly good finds, like when he looked in astonished disbelief at an entire wrecked biplane deep within a lot and left with four tiny, valuable bearings) was trash to whoever put these things in here. And yet, some of these places were private property, and he knew he looked like a slinking thief, so forever cautious Archibald Frogg was on high alert.

He had been given a real scare on the first night of his expeditions that he may have deserved from this sort of creeping about… just as it got dark, Frogg found a construction site and lifted a trash bin. He excitedly gasped at the contents. Right on top was scrapped copper wire, a lot of it, and it was needle thin. Just what he needed. But with his new prosthetics and their difficulty, he had only gotten a couple handfuls until he became aware of a growl. Frogg's hair stood up, and he slowly turned to see a dog staring and growling at him. It was a mutt – ugly and big – and it was there to guard the site.

Frogg certainly looked the part of perpetrator, frozen in place with a bundle of copper sticking through the unnaturally bent prosthetic fingers. However, there was just enough space between them. When it lunged, Frogg barely had time to scramble to the top of the trash bin, and from there, the incomplete frame of the house. Due to his fake hands, he hit his elbows and forearms hard to compensate, and they'd be purple and yellow for days following. He had to wait for close to an hour as the dog barked and barked and circled before getting bored and moving on, Frogg scared straight the entire time.

Frightening as that was, despite his phobia of dogs, that was nothing compared to when he did one of the last things he had expected.

Frogg was a little boy all over again when he approached Checkpoint Charlie.

From when he was a boy living in East Berlin, from when he and the Professor and Lisbeth stood atop a tall apartment and watched as the Berlin Wall came down that historical night in November… it was the same. The sign from his direction read Sie verlassen den amerikanischen sektor – you are now leaving the American sector – in four different languages. He had expected it to disappear, just like the excavators smashed other parts of the wall into harmless rubble. He did not realize just how famous this landmark would become. Walking towards it, Frogg was on high alert when he saw the soldiers milling about and the pistols at their belts. They were laughing with each other and sharing a cigarette.

Nine years of living within East Berlin fought hard against what Frogg knew he was now legally allowed to do. The voice still rang in his ears you're not allowed to cross, you're not allowed to cross, his body in a state of fight-or-flight distress, that's how you get shot! Yet his feet still carried him closer, and he was more aware than ever of his scarred face concealed under his scarf, or whether his 'hands' being in his pockets appeared questionable, drawing attention. He'd get stopped and questioned – and now one of the men there was taking a hard look at him as he lit a cigarette, scrutinizing the boy – but he only gave Frogg a cordial nod and paid no other mind.

Frogg roamed the once sealed city as if he were a ghost. Though he was born in a small northern town of Soviet Germany and lived in East Berlin for three of those last years, it was still as though he had entered another dimension.

He passed the market just blocks from his old neighborhood where people once stood in line to receive their weekly allotment of groceries. The military headquarters, once bustling with men and women in uniform and diplomats, was now silent save a group of crows cawing to each other on its awning. The building he used to pass daily with an entire wall of communist art - uniformed school children looking up admirably at laboring men - had been gone over with bright red spray paint, their bright words loud to all the passersby, "Augen zu und durch!". He curiously eyed the people who went about their daily lives, wondering why they would stay. Had they had the fear of escaping beaten that far into their psyche? Did they actually like it here? He felt suddenly very spoiled by his last three years living in the Western side of city.

Despite it all, Frogg could have found his way with his eyes closed. It might have felt like a lifetime ago, but it was once his home, and he fell much too comfortably into the familiar role – keep quiet, do not draw attention to yourself – just as if The Stasi could be anyone from the elderly woman with her groceries to the young man in the business suit, always looking, always vigilant.

At one point, Frogg stopped and judged the wide street on his left, a chilly breeze hitting his face as he did so. How many years had he taken that route? If he turned now, it would only be a fifteen-minute walk to his old apartment building. Apartment 47, where his bedroom overlooked a stretch of the Berlin Wall, so he had to have thick curtains to block their floodlights glow. It would just be like old times… he could head there now. He could look at the window where his papa may very well still live and wonder what waited for him inside – would his papa be passed out early, or would he be walking into another alcohol-fueled fight? Or just maybe, the rare occurrence of nothing being wrong at all?

He could go and take a small detour, only adding minutes on the trip, to visit where his old pet Kaspar was buried by the S-Bahn tracks. Where his fingers bled from the rocks and frozen dirt the same night he made his flight from the city, what could have been either the best or the worst night of his life. Did his papa even know what had happened to him since then? His lab accident? Would he even care?

Frogg stood there for several seconds. He felt like a small boy all over again, yearning for love and attention yet afraid to meet his father's wrath.

" -I'll always be here, alright? "

That was what his papa had said the last time they spoke on the lawn of The Free University, when Frogg had been shocked to suddenly see him standing right before him when he least expected it. Both curiosity and indecision gnawed at him…

Frogg forced himself to abruptly turn. He walked briskly and determinedly, as if distance could lessen the desire to do exactly what he should not. He felt stupid and hated himself for the thought that had crossed his mind in those seconds of wondering… maybe papa has changed. No. It was always the same. Frogg did not need any more heartbreak in his life. He had more important things to attend to.

So instead, a ghost of his past self, he haunted the abandoned railways of the Geisterbahnhof, or the old docks where GDR soldiers once patrolled the Spree River in their high-speed motorboats, an expert of being the unseen.

His collection of materials grew. Every night he would discreetly unload them under a tarp in the shed, then head inside and to put on a face for his guardians. Hans and Gisela did not realize that what appeared to be a healthy return to his hobbies was far from the truth. When he was not scavenging for parts or trying to make appearances that announced recovery! to them, Frogg would be out in the shed. All Frogg did was work and work, his fixation keeping him up into the late hours of the night after the others were asleep. As frantic as he was to complete the current objective, Frogg found it easy to ignore the delirium that exhaustion brought with it. The work was all-consuming. Sometimes, out of a dead sleep, he would suddenly jolt awake with an epiphany delivered to him in dreams – some revelation or method to improve his design, and down he would go to the shed and work between the hours of midnight and dawn, only to be awoken by his well-intending Guardians just minutes after his head hit the pillow.

The endeavor was talking much longer than he anticipated.

His self-imposed deadline of four days stretched into six. Frogg found that if knocking his head during his accident did not already impede his usual smooth and deliberate way of working, as he feared it would, something else certainly would… the damn prosthetics. Time was drawn out into excruciating lengths as he struggled with the things. What could have only taken minutes before was now a lifetime.

It was truly maddening, like the time he had been using a set of needle-nose pliers to navigate a copper wire into the tiniest of chips and had his tongue out in deep concentration, sweat beading his forehead, face inches from his work. It had taken ten minutes for Frogg to position the fake fingers to hold the pliers securely (the fake skin was now riddled with bite marks from him having to even give them a good securing chomp sometimes). Frogg was so close, the wire perfectly lined up… the 'fingers' of his prosthetic suddenly slipped and the delicate wire was immediately bent into the table, the pliers snapping back.

With a yelp, Frogg jerked back at just the right moment – had he not been wearing his new goggles, and eye most certainly would have been poked out. He cursed again, jumping to his feet and went to hurl the tool in his defeat, but it hit the wall at just the right angle. The pliers ricocheted and hit Frogg in the temple of all places, making him see stars. Poor Frogg could only tuck his head between his knees, waiting for the pain to stop before he began the excruciating process all over again. He was going to go crazy, surely, and it was instances like this over and over, hour after hour. But he had to keep going, working through the madness of it.

Frogg waited until the weekend for the final steps.

The most dangerous part of his project was now complete – scouring dumps and construction sites housing guard dogs in East and West Berlin alike – but now it was time to do what Frogg feared most. Return to the Free University.

As if it were just two months ago when he and Lisbeth would sneak out and roam the city at hours inappropriate for children to be out, Frogg waited after the house had gone to bed. However, rather than the clicks of pebbles against his window stirring him into action (Lisbeth's method of summoning Frogg to join her in her bouts of insomnia) it was the sounds of the Professor's snoring that gave the green light. The materials Frogg had agonizingly prepared from the prior nights waited for him, carefully stored in a backpack by the garden gate. For the first time, Frogg did not have his best friend to accompany him during these late hours. It was lonely, and he tried to ignore how much more frightening it was without her there. He just stared straight ahead as his neighborhood opened into the larger city, uneasy yet determined.

The University's campus was dead. This, of course, was deliberate, and Frogg easily slipped through unnoticed.

There was the familiar satisfying beep of his keycard letting himself into a building, but this was not his usual residence of The Science Department. Where he stepped into now was dedicated towards those who studied disciplines such as 'textiles', or 'construction management', or 'building sciences' to name the few he knew. Truly, Frogg though many of these things sounded like titles for over-glorified construction workers, yet he envied the equipment that lived here. As planned, the basement was completely devoid of other students at the hour. It was humid and hot down in the dark, and looking at the clock on the wall Frogg could see it was 12:23 in the morning.

Time to get to work.

Frogg had decided upon sand-casting to create his mold. The abundance of sleek and modern machinery currently humming about made the decision appear rather outdated, yet he was sure of it. Of course, he did not want the roar of the running machines to attract attention as it spit hot metals and cooled them with hisses of steam. There was also the possibility of his data and measurements being stored in their logs, and all these possibilities were heavily weighed into consideration. There was, however, comfort in the sheer simplicity of sand-casting. Perhaps he was a fool to also find something bitterly romantic about it all – using one of the oldest forms of welding created over six thousand years ago to make hands of all things, what could be the biological catalyst that evolved primates into the most intelligent species on Earth. A full circle.

Now, Frogg truly was stealing. Though his future cybernetics were an amalgamation of several materials, it was primarily copper (not-so-conveniently one of the more expensive metals) that he now stole from the storage spaces. Malleable, ductile, with high thermal and electrical conductivity, it was perfect for what he had in mind. He had no remorse for the thievery, either. Frogg's soul and his blood – literally – had been put into the Free University. He deserved it.

The small smelter had been set to heat, rising to an astonishing 1087 degrees, and the room began to ripple from the waves of it, Frogg's clothes sticking to him from sweat. Then in went the copper ingot, and Frogg double, triple, and quadruple-checked his measurements in the sand mold as it liquified and glowed hot like forbidden honey. His face was illuminated by its amber light, accentuating the dark circles beneath his eyes.

Frogg did not dare trust his hospital prosthetics when it was time to transfer the copper. He most certainly did not need to be maimed any further by another accident, not one concerning molten metal. So rather, he tediously balanced the ladle between his wrists, and he was sweating not only from the heat of it but the sheer strenuosity of his concentration – don't mess up, don't mess up, don't mess up – compensating for the smaller loads of each trip with steady, even pours, and keeping the timing between them impeccably measured, and every second mattered…

Frogg stood in a near stupor when it was done. The two sand mold halves were fused together, the contents inside pressed and cooling at that very moment. He waited for something bad to happen. A freak lightning strike, maybe? A bolt shooting from a machine like a bullet? The boy assessed himself from head to toe, looking for perhaps a small flame that was going to grow and suddenly engulf him in a blaze. Nothing. That was it? No accident, no mistake, no flaw in the design that would compromise everything he worked so hard for?

Everything was alright - it was safe. When Frogg suddenly heaved out a deep breath, he nearly became light-headed from the weight of stress leaving him. It was by no means over, but he was so close, and maybe he was dizzy by how hot it was in this room and by how tired he was, and he really needed to lay down…

But something else called, something that had been tugging him in its direction ever since he set foot on campus, and Frogg dreamily moved to answer the call.

Though his memories of the accident were distorted, like a clouded scene suddenly illuminated with intense, sudden snapshots, Frogg did vividly remember one thing. He'd never forget it- the amount of blood. Red streaked across the linoleum and smeared on the wall from where he had desperately tried to stagger to his feet, the terrible sound of it splattering to the ground.

Now, standing before the very room it all took place, it was as if nothing had ever happened. From where Frogg lingered in the door of his old lab space in the Science Department, his eyes roamed the scene, and of all things settled on his colleague Emma's favorite coffee mug. In the darkness he could see the print of her usual plum lipstick on its rim. Like life had just gone on as usual since. He fully stepped inside.

A month a half had passed since he was last in this place. Frogg could now see his prediction was correct – that a significant amount of progress had been made. The last time he saw the laser, it had been in several different parts. Now it stood at two meters tall, fully constructed. Frogg idly noted to himself that they would have to disassemble it again to move it from the room, because surely this machine was going to be going places and making huge impressions soon.

He dreamily reached an arm out as if to graze a hand against the laser. Prosthetic met machine, and Frogg frowned, unable to feel the familiar cool metal of the device that had taken his hands away. And he was not angry at it, he did not resent the thing. It was only a machine. Even though it had shredded his hands, it did exactly as it was supposed to - just follow a sequence of code, a series of commands. He was the one who made the fatal human error, and the science was reliable as ever - lawful and true. In his chaotic life where it was people that hurt him the most, putting him inside walls and their hands around his neck, or tormenting him daily with endless bullying, there was comfort in the machine's consistency. There was no cruelty behind his accident, the kind of cruelty only humans were capable of… this time, he was only a victim of physics. Even if it hurt tremendously now and always would as Frogg aged, the only person at fault this time was him. There was not a single ounce of contempt Frogg had for this amazing invention, only familiar pride as he assessed the work put into it.

Anyone else might have sworn off working with such things, but Frogg had no such inclination.

More than ever, Frogg truly realized he could absolutely not let this accident ruin his future in science. He had risked so much and lost so much already to even be here, in this position of privilege, at the young age of twelve years old. He wanted to be an engineer, he wanted his Master's and his Doctorate oh so badly. No, he needed it, and he would risk everything to have it…

Maybe the accident really did break his brain, maybe he really was going crazy.

It began to drizzle on the walk home. By the time Frogg reached the safety of the tool shed, it turned to frigid rain that hammered the tin roof. His clothes were soaked and cold, Frogg's hair clinging to his face, but he still burned up as if he had never left the smelter.

The contents of his bag were safe and sound from the trek, and the small scientist produced his inventions with somber delicacy. The table was already prepped with his previous work over the past sleepless nights. There were spray bottles of alcohol and a clean towel, and he avoided looking at the hammer lying beside these things. His most recent creations, still warm to the touch from their birthplace at Humboldt just hours ago, were handled with the care of a priceless artifact. Frogg stared for a long moment, oddly numb.

He would never be sure of the exact sequence of events or thought processes that came down to this design. His poor brain was an overworked, stressed, jumbled mess. Many nights ago, when the boy first sat at the edge of his bed and put his plan into place, it began with visions of artificial hands. Just like his old ones, the ones he missed so dearly with long delicate fingers, but with the gleam of shining metals and whir of intricate insides. What he saw now was far from it.

They hardly resembled anything human. What stared back at him was a pair of cylindrical devices. Three appendages sat nearby, claw-like with tapered ends, waiting to be assembled.

How did it change so drastically? Maybe it was night after night of sleepless planning, or how the few precious hours of rest were interrupted with sudden epiphanies that jolted him awake. Like visions from a fever dream, ideas would come to him – faster, better, more efficient! – so that he would drag himself back to the shed and get to work. Maybe that was how the project became so distorted from its original shape. Perhaps it was the impossible task of having to work with his infernal prosthetics, how every single movement and detail was blown into agonizing proportions and Frogg thought his head could explode from it. Or years from now, as if in a moment of clarity, Frogg would suddenly think to himself 'wait, why like this?' and have a rare moment of reflection and recall it wasn't just his hands injured in the lab accident, but also his poor head - was that it?

Nevertheless, what he created was a feat of engineering. They were strong, efficient, and (please, please, hopefully) safe. Whether or not the original plan became twisted in the process to something entirely different, he was successful. Again, and as always, Frogg was not even aware of how priceless his invention was. It was a miracle of will and science and were the boy not so apprehensive of the final step (his eyes flicking to the hammer he had laid out, breath hitching) he may have even been proud. But suddenly, an intrusive thought slithered to his attention that momentarily stopped him right in his tracks.

Are you really going to do this?

In the tool shed with the roar of the rain on the tin roof, soaking wet and tired and alone, Frogg cocked his head from it. As if to say 'pardon?', as if he had presented an absurd question to himself. But there it was still, in some moment of complete clarity or complete insanity, him looking at the cybernetic hands he had worked so very hard for – or claws, rather– and the little voice said it again. What are you doing? This has gotten out of control.

No.

Frogg shook the thought from his head, even physically squeezing his eyes shut and shuddering. No! Frogg may have been a failure in the rest of his life, but he was a genius, and he put all his soul and fight into what he was doing now, he wasn't just going to give up!

He had to finish. He had to do this.

Before he had a chance to think otherwise, Frogg moved into action. No time for second thoughts, not for what he was going to have to force himself through. No going back.

Assembling the cybernetics was simple enough, even considering his current impairment. The pieces fit perfectly, locking into seamless place. The three-jointed claws clicked onto the outer ring of the cylinder. The cybernetic 'guts' formed into a cohesive unit as intricate as the system of muscles, tendon, and ligaments of the human body. All of this ended with something that could most simply be described as a thick ring or bracelet. Though in years to come, Frogg would continually adjust the measurements of these pieces to account for his aging and growth, they currently fit snugly yet comfortably around his wrist.

The remaining two pieces were the most important of all, but what he dreaded most. Frogg's stomach turned, feeling as though he could throw up, and once again noted how hot he was despite the cold rain outside – I must be getting sick. The parts were no longer than a thumbnail and only a few millimeters thick, but Frogg was not fooled by their size. He made them, after all. The razor sharp and needle-thin prongs, so slender it was almost naked to the human eye, were deceptive. This was the brain of his new creation. What married human flesh with machine. Everything he worked for tonight all came to this unavoidable conclusion, yet Frogg still became aware of a sound he was making, some god-awful whine like a baby, but he couldn't help it.

Why can't you be brave? Coward.

Over the past several days, knowing what it would come to, Frogg wondered how to go about this step (is it better to slowly pull the band aid, or rip it off?) and decided it would be best to just get it over with. Again, it seemed pain was just his life now, yet he still dreaded it.

It almost felt pointless in a tool shed of all places, but Frogg still put the bottle of alcohol to use, sanitizing everything. No point in getting an infection. Just as he feared, even lightly resting the micro-prongs at the end of a wrist made his skin crawl, insect legs skittering over his spine. The sensitivity there was insane. With difficulty, he used his now worn prosthetics from the hospital to line it up perfectly, triple checking, quadruple checking and more, that nerve endings that should never be so close to the outside world were just a thin skin layers away from the small, yet so intimidating needles…

All it would take was a firm tap.

He could not pass out – he'd have to repeat the gesture over again for the other arm. Fainting was not an option, and he knew that he had no other choice and anticipated it for days, but still Frogg choked pathetically on a sob. As much as he had encountered it in his short life so far, he never got used to the pain. Frogg prayed to a God that he did not believe in that his prosthetic did not fail him this time, forcing himself to keep his eyes open to see what he was doing, rejecting every instinct to squeeze them shut in anticipation… he raised the hammer, wavering in his grasp, little pants escaping his lips.

He brought it down, the rain silencing his cries.

Professor Hans Reinhart shuffled in the kitchen, bleary-eyed as he waited for the water to heat for coffee. He had left the lights off, and it was early, the skies beyond the window a cool gray-blue before dawn. He could see that there must have been rain last night from the droplets in the bushes and the sheen on the streets, but he had slept right through it. Considering everything happening in his home as of late, plus having to maintain a positive appearance at work, he had been crashing hard. There, as he absently cleaned the lenses of his glasses with his robe as the water began to simmer, he tilted his head towards a sound.

It sounded like the rickety tool shed opening and closing, and in his sleepy confusion, Hans just waited.

The back door opened, and then in walked – no, weaved - Archibald.

For a moment, Hans just blearily watched this, not quite sure if he was imagining it, somewhere between awakening and his first cup of coffee. But no, this was really happening, and it made absolutely no sense for the boy to be awake at this hour, let alone coming from the outside.

"Archibald?"

The boy swayed a bit in place, also becoming aware of the adult in the dark room.

For several moments, the two both seemed to just make sense of their own surroundings and the unexpected appearance of each other, and then Hans realized Frogg seemed to be holding something in his prosthetics. He squinted and took a few steps over.

"Archibald, what are you doing awake?"

"I don't…"

Frogg's face was white and clammy, and with gradual realization, Hans realized that the boy wasn't holding anything at all. There was something peculiar there that he did not quite understand yet in his sleepy haze. Instinctually, Hans reached out a put a hand on Frogg's forehead. The boy was burning up, his forehead slick from sweat. He tried again, "Are you sick? Why were you outside?"

"Professor, I- I don't feel so good."

Without warning, Frogg retched, getting sick on both of their feet.

A/N.

"In aesthetics, the Uncanny Valley is a hypothesized relation between an object's degree of resemblance to a human being and the emotional response to the object. The concept suggests that humanoid objects that imperfectly resemble actual human beings provoke uncanny or strangely familiar feelings of uneasiness and revulsion in observers.

- pulled from Wikipedia

i.e. little Doktor Frogg is (literally and figuratively) metal af