All the Rooftops

by backto1978

One rainy night in late October, Astro flies out to answer a call for help in the heart of the city, and he never comes home. Five months later, he returns, with a little help from the unlikeliest person of all. Rated for graphic depictions of sexual assault and child abuse.

2. stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse

"I loved him (I think). Shameless. Laid before him. Stupid lamb in a slaughterhouse." - Karese Burrows, Persephone Writes a Poem

---

OCTOBER 26 2043

6:47 PM

Astro wakes up slowly, heavy and hazy and half-numb, to a whole lot of bright rainbow lights flashing and popping in the dark around him. They go off like fireworks in his brain, bursting all over the inside of his skull in big, iridescent soap bubbles. They boom like thunder, and they strike like lightning, like the shining silver tail of a shooting star as it streaks across the night sky, or the burning end of an icy comet as it races past the earth.

He squeezes his eyes shut to try and shut it all out, but he can still see the sharp storms of crystalline color in the cool, quiet black, crashing 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 for a few more minutes.

He tries to rub at his eyes to rub the rainbow lights away, or block his ears to block out the booming thunderclaps, but his arms won't listen to him or lift themselves up, and his legs are the same way, too stiff and sore to move an inch. Like when he carried the falling city down to the Surface, and it felt like every muscle (wire?) he had inside his body was snapping in two like flimsy, fraying string, or an elastic band stretched too thin, and he thought he'd die from the pain, but he couldn't stop, and he couldn't let go, not until he'd made sure everybody was safe. His head feels heavy, too — almost full, like if he turned over on his side right now, gallons on gallons of water (or wet cement, maybe) would come pouring out through his ears.

He just wants to go back to sleep.

But the thunder is so loud it's all he can hear, pressing down on his ears like a physical weight. He tries to turn his head away from the cacophony, but there must be a bright light somewhere nearby, because the moment that he does, the black world behind his eyes burns blood-orange.

Like fire.

The bank caught on fire.

The bank caught on fire. And the smoke was everywhere, thick and black and hot, filling up and flooding the whole building with its bitter and sour and awful smell. Everyone else coughed and gasped and choked on it, hands over their mouths and eyes welling up with reflexive tears, but he didn't, because it couldn't hurt him the way it hurt everybody else—he doesn't actually need to breathe like people do—so he could go inside, and he could help the people get out, and he'd be okay (and even if he wasn't okay, he could always get fixed up at the Ministry later, so it didn't really matter).

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 for him, and it was so hot it felt like his plastic skin would melt off right there, but everyone got out, and everyone was okay. And then the police and the firefighters and the paramedics showed up, and they all thanked him for his help, and he thanked them for theirs, and then he realized it was almost eleven o'clock at night, and he'd better get home, so he left the bank.

But.

But he couldn't fly in the rain.

So he had to walk the whole way back to the penthouse.

But he didn't actually have to walk the whole way back to the penthouse, did he? Because Mr. Kusai showed up just a few minutes later in his gleaming red hovercar, and he said why don't you hop in, and I'll give you a lift back to your dad's, and he said I know you can do it on your own, believe me, but that doesn't mean you should have to, so he said okay and got in the car, and then—

—and then—

—and then Mr. Kusai heard a strange noise somewhere in Astro's engine, or he thought he did, at least, and he wanted to make sure everything was all right. So Astro opened up his chest, and let Mr. Kusai look inside, but he said he couldn't see anything past the glow of the Core, so Astro let him take it out. And he promised to put it back in when he was done, and Astro watched him as he reached in, and pulled it out, and then—

Astro snaps his eyes open.

For a minute, he can't see anything past the flashing rainbow lights, dancing around like tiny, colorful stars and twisting themselves into different shapes, circles and squares and triangles coming to life on the ceiling above him, but then he blinks, and all of a sudden, he's stretched out flat and strapped down tight to a smooth metal lab table, cold and hard under his stiff and sore and heavy body, with unyielding iron rings around his wrists and ankles to hold him down.

It looks kind of like he's in his dad's lab at the Ministry, except his dad's lab is way bigger than this one, and way more cluttered, too, and Dad doesn't ever use the restraints on him. They're not strong enough to pin him, anyway.

On the other side of the room, he can see a pair of automatic silver doors on the far wall—closed, and locked, too, if that faint blue glow is really there, and not just another one of those flashing rainbow lights winking in and out on the edges of his vision, playing tricks on his brain. The walls and the floor are just these straight sheets of smooth grey metal, and there are no windows at all, so those doors must be the only exit in the whole room.

In the center of the lab, a big camera stands proudly on a spindly black tripod—one of those really high-tech ones like they use in the Ministry when they're getting ready to test out a brand-new robot, or like they use at the police station to record witness statements and victim testimonies and criminal confessions—and the second it senses his movements, it clicks on, all of a sudden, to stare back at him with its dull, steady red light, like the enormous and unblinking eye of some massive monster.

It's recording him.

It's watching him.

Just behind the tripod, there's a small wooden stool, and the small wooden stool holds a tall thin man in a long black coat with lots of pockets on the front of it, and a pair of shiny black gloves over his hands, and a black hat on his head, with just the barest glimpse of pale platinum-blonde hair peeking out from under the low brim…

It's Mr. Kusai, Astro realizes, a minute later, and cool relief washes over him like an ocean wave, so complete he goes almost limp on the table beneath him. It's Mr. Kusai, and he'll explain everything. He'll tell me what's going on. He'll answer my questions. He'll listen to me. He'll help me. He always does.

But Mr. Kusai is sitting so completely and absolutely still on his stool that it's like he's not even breathing at all, his eyes burning with a quiet, smoldering intensity that's almost scary, and locked on Astro like they're the only two people left in the world. There's something in his rigid posture, something in his coldly analytical stare, that reminds Astro of all the pictures in his biology textbook of the wild, carnivorous animals in the forest that died out when the trees did — the deadly, quiet calm of a predator that's just scented its prey. His gaze is like a surgical scalpel, like 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.

A cold shudder crawls up Astro's spine, like hundreds of spiders scuttling over his skin on long hairy legs, and a hard knot of unease twists itself up in the pit of his stomach. He pulls experimentally against the steel cuffs locked around his limbs, digging into the skin of his wrists and bolting him to the table, but he's nowhere near as strong as he should be, still dizzy and dazed and blinking away the last of the flashing lights.

"M-Mr. Kusai?" he calls out, or tries to, but his voice is too quiet, and almost—distorted, kind of, like it's coming from somewhere deep underwater, garbled and broken and practically incoherent. "Mr. Kusai, what's going on? Where are we? Is there a problem with my engine, like you said? Is it bad?"

Mr. Kusai doesn't answer that. He adjusts the camera, tilting it an inch or two over to the right, so the lens is focused directly on Astro now, and the glare of the blue-white fluorescent lights bounces off the dark glass. He doesn't hit a button, or flip a switch, or anything like that, but the tight bands clasped around Astro's arms and legs retract seamlessly back into the table, so it's just a flat slab of plain metal now. His body still feels all wrong, heavy and slow and bulky like he's just had a few hundred thousand extra pounds added on, but at least he can move.

He tries to sit up, but the whole room spins around him in a sharp, sickening lurch, colorful stars bursting wherever he looks, and he slumps back down with a wince, hands reflexively coming up to cradle his throbbing head while he waits for the pain to subside.

"What's going on with me?" he asks, as soon as he can see straight again. "Did I get damaged on that last mission, or something?" His stomach clenches painfully when he swallows, like he's about to throw up, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden flare of nausea, fighting off the embarrassing impulse to say I don't feel so good, like a little kid, or something.

"Date: 10.26.2043," Mr. Kusai's voice rings out, calm and clear as a cloudless blue sky in the middle of the summer, and so unexpected that Astro startles, jerking upright and prying his head out of his hands to stare at his friend. "Testing: Subject 7517, LOR software."

10.26.2043? Astro frowns as the meaning sinks in, automatically opening up the calendar built into his brain and flipping through it to make sure, but it looks like Mr. Kusai got it right, and it really is the twenty-sixth day of October. What on earth happened? Why is it suddenly Friday instead of Tuesday? Why can't he remember the last two days of his life? Why does he feel like he just got run over by an eighteen-wheeler, twice? Why does his brain feel all sticky and slow and gummed up, like somebody opened his skull and poured thick syrup inside? Oh, god, he missed his make-up geometry midterm, didn't he? And Mr. Hirota already hates Astro because he doesn't think robots should be allowed to attend school, so he's definitely not going to get another chance again after this.

Why has he been offline for so long, anyway? Did Mr. Kusai really find a problem in Astro's system like he thought he would? Was it a serious problem? Is it just that it wasn't safe for him to power Astro back on again until it could be fixed? Is it just that he had to leave him deactivated for a couple of days? Is that why the past forty-eight hours are a complete and total blank in Astro's mind? Is that what's going on here? That would make sense, but why wouldn't Mr. Kusai just tell him that?

Mr. Kusai finally looks at Astro again, his dark gaze just as eerie and unnerving as the last time. "Sit up."

And Astro—

—sits up.

He doesn't want to do it. He doesn't even think that he can do it until he does, because everything is still tilting all over the place like he's on a carousel ride at the carnival and the rainbow lights are still flickering faintly in the corners of his eyes, but he does do it.

He sits up.

And he doesn't know why he did that.

Except that Mr. Kusai told him to.

The knot of unease in his stomach gets a little bigger, pulls a little tighter. "Mr. Kusai, what's going on? W-What's wrong with me? What happened to my engine? Did you fix it?"

Mr. Kusai doesn't answer that, either, but he's still staring at Astro like he wants to grab a chainsaw and split him apart just to see what he looks like on the inside. "Stand up off the table."

Immediately, Astro pushes himself to his feet—and he doesn't want to, he doesn't even know if he can, he doesn't even know if his legs will hold him up right now when he still feels so dizzy and shaky and unsteady all over, but he does it. His boots hit the hard metal floor with a loud click, and his knees wobble a little when they take on his weight, but he stays on his feet.

He stands up.

And he doesn't know why he did that.

Except that Mr. Kusai told him to.

It was like he couldn't say no. It was like he had to do exactly what Mr. Kusai said, and he didn't have any choice at all, like he didn't have any way to refuse or resist. Like somebody else temporarily took over his motor functions and moved his limbs for him. Like he couldn't control his own body.

Testing: Subject 7517, LOR software.

That's what Mr. Kusai said, isn't it? That's exactly what Mr. Kusai said. And he didn't catch it, he didn't even notice it, because he was just so focused on the strange gaps in his memory, that big blank stretch of empty space between Tuesday, October the twenty-third and Friday, October the twenty-sixth, and he was so worried about what that might mean that he didn't even slow down to think about what LOR software might mean instead.

Except he doesn't need to think about it.

He already knows what it means.

LOR is just an acronym for the laws of robotics.

All the air in his lungs turns to ice. "M-Mr. Kusai, please, just tell me what's going on. I don't understand why—"

"Stand up straight."

And Astro doesn't want to do it, but Mr. Kusai told him to, and his body responds automatically, pulling itself out of the slumped-over slouch he'd crumpled into when he got to his feet—and he realizes, then, with a little jolt in the pit of his stomach, that he's completely naked or, at least, as close to it as he can ever get: he isn't wearing anything except his underwear and his big red boots.

"Um," he says. "W-Where are my clothes?"

It's a stupid question to ask. He knows that. But he asks it anyway, because he wants his clothes back—he wants his worn-out old blue jeans with the rips in the knees from all the daily fighting and flying around the city, and he wants his one-size-too-big white sweatshirt with the NASA logo on it that Orrin gave to him to celebrate his first day of sixth grade. He wants to cover up, so he doesn't feel like Mr. Kusai is seeing right through him, past the skin and all the way down to the solid steel frame that holds him together. He wants to cover up, so Mr. Kusai can't dissect him with that surgical scalpel stare anymore.

But Mr. Kusai shakes his head. "Oh, I wouldn't worry about that. You won't be needing them anymore." His mouth twitches up, just the slightest bit, at one corner. "Walk over to the wall now."

And Astro does it.

And he doesn't mean to.

And he doesn't want to.

But he can't stop it, he can't stop himself, he can't fight it off, and he can't say no. He has to do exactly what Mr. Kusai says, and he doesn't have any choice at all, he doesn't have any way to refuse or resist, and it's like somebody else is temporarily taking over his motor functions and moving his limbs for him, like he can't control his own body.

As soon as he's reached it, he pushes off the wall with the palm of his hand and turns around to face Mr. Kusai again, backing up until he can feel the smooth, cold metal pressing into the warm skin of his spine. It's a little bit easier to breathe once he's sure no one can sneak up on him from behind. "What happened? What's going on here? Why is the LOR in my system? It's not supposed to be in there. It doesn't belong there."

"Belong there?" Mr. Kusai echoes. He laughs, then, and it's an awful sound—harsh and grating, like metal on metal. "You're a robot. The LOR software belongs in you just as much as any other machine. You aren't special. You should just count yourself lucky Tenma let you get away with playing human for as long as he did."

An irrational pang of hurt slams into him, right in the dead center of his chest, even though he tries to squash it down, shove it to the back of his mind, remind himself that Mr. Kusai isn't wrong when he says Astro isn't human. But there's something in the way he says it, in the way he spits out the word robot like it's such a vile profanity that he doesn't want to let it touch his tongue any longer than he absolutely has to, in the way he says you aren't special, in the way he says playing human…

"W-Why did you do this to me?" Astro says, his voice high and tight like a rubber band stretched to its limit, seconds away from the inevitable snap. "Why did you put the LOR in my code? Why did you mess with my programming? Why would you do that?"

Mr. Kusai huffs out a heavy sigh and rolls his eyes. "Goddamn it, I told Tenma he should have handled the explanations…" he pinches the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger, squeezing his eyes shut like it's too much effort for him to keep them open all of a sudden. "All right, fine, if I tell you, will you stop your whining so I can finish up the tests? 'Cause we really need to get this done, kid."

Astro flinches (why is Mr. Kusai being so mean?) but he bites his lip and forces himself to nod, anyway. At least once he knows what's going on, he'll have a better idea about what to do from there.

"Right. Okay then." Mr. Kusai settles back on his stool like he knows he'll be here for a long while. "Sometime in the middle of August, Dr. Tenma contacted me to ask if I would like to purchase one of his robots for my collection."

"Y-Your collection?" Astro stammers out through numb lips, trying to wrap his mind around the term. He's never heard anybody talk about their robots like that before, and the knot in his stomach gets even bigger, swelling up like a birthday balloon until his body feels too small to hold it at all.

But Mr. Kusai carries on like he didn't even hear the question—and maybe he didn't. Maybe Astro didn't say it loud enough. "I told him I'd be happy to take his machine off his hands if he was seriously looking to sell it, but I wanted to make sure it would be worth the investment first. So he hired me on as his personal intern, invited me to see you for myself, spend some time with you before we cut a deal."

"What?" The hard metal floor suddenly drops out from beneath his feet, his brain running wild with everything Mr. Kusai has just said, and everything he could mean. Is he saying what Astro thinks he's saying? "I—I don't—you were—what?"

"Last week, we finally sat down together and made the whole thing official." Mr. Kusai is deliberately ignoring him now, that's a definite, because there's no way he didn't hear all of that. "Dr. Tenma legally forfeited all rights to you, and transferred your ownership over to me instead. He has no further interest or authority in any decisions concerning your placement, your uses, or your care from here on out. You're my robot, and you belong to me now. Got it?"

"N-No!" Astro shakes his head, tries to take a step back, but the wall is right there behind him, so he has nowhere to go, and Dr. Tenma legally forfeited all rights to you, and transferred your ownership over to me instead, you're my robot, you belong to me— "No! No, Dad wouldn't do that to me! Dad would never do that to me! And you—!" And you wouldn't do that either, would you? Would you?

"Well, you don't have to take my word for it," Mr. Kusai shrugs, and puts a hand in one of the many pockets on the front of his coat to pull out a paper-thin tablet, its metallic grey casing gleaming faintly in the fluorescent lights. "Come over here and see for yourself."

Astro doesn't want to.

But Mr. Kusai told him to.

So he can't say no.

And he can't stop himself.

But even as he stumbles toward the rickety stool in the middle of the room, slow and clumsy and unsteady in the involuntary motions, like he's learning to walk all over again, he knows his dad wouldn't do this to him.

Look, he's not stupid. He knows his dad wants Tobi back more than anything else, that his dad would much rather rewind his whole life and go back to a time when his son was still alive instead of being stuck with the imperfect copy, that his dad would rather have a real human kid over the second-best mechanical substitute, that a robot for a son was not his dad's first choice, and his dad will never really love him as much as he loves Tobi.

He knows that.

And that's okay.

But his dad does love him, and he knows that, too, because his dad came back.

That morning in the Ministry of Science, just before President Stone went crazy and launched the Peacekeeper with the Red Core, his dad came back to him, and powered him on again. And he didn't have to do that. He knew Astro wasn't anything like Tobi and couldn't even pretend to be. He knew he'd be facing down the full might of the entire Metro City military for his actions. He knew he was painting a bright red target on his own back. He knew he was putting himself in the line of fire.

But he still came back.

He had a choice between Astro and his career, his reputation, his wealth, his life itself, and in the end, he chose Astro.

He chose Astro over everything else.

(Astro has never said it to anyone, and he never will, but every now and then, when it's the middle of the night and he can't sleep, he pulls the memory of that moment out and plays it back again in his brain, reliving the wonderful warmth of his father's arms around him, and the sheer, all-consuming joy of knowing that there was somebody who loved him, somebody who wanted him, somebody who cared about him, somebody who would stand up for him and keep him safe, somebody who wouldn't leave, somebody who would come back, somebody who was finally finally finally here to stay.)

His dad loves him.

And his dad would never get rid of him like this—selling him off to the highest bidder like a house on the market or a plot of land for sale, kicking him to the curb like some old and unwanted piece of furniture, throw him away like he's garbage, throw him away like he's nothing—

([[OPENING FILE 04.07. 4… OPENING FILE 04.07. 4… OPENING FILE 04.07. 4…]]

"—got here as fast as I could," Dr. Elefun's voice rings out loud and clear even through the thick glass panes between them, like the volume has been suddenly cranked up on the whole world. "Where is he? Where's Tobi?")

No.

Astro shuts the memory down before it can go any further, because he knows it will play all the way through if he lets it, and he's not going to let it, he's not going to think about that night any more than he has to, and he's not going to hold it against his dad when he knows his dad was just too torn up over Tobi to think about him, or even look at him—and that's fine! That's okay! Astro isn't upset about it! He's not angry, or bitter, or resentful, or anything like that, because he understands. He knows his dad was just so sad and lost and tangled up in his own sorrow that he didn't even really know what he was doing, and it's okay, because how could it not be when he knows what his dad was going through? How can a handful of harsh words ever compare to the pain of losing your only son? What right does Astro have to be hurt when his dad's grief runs so much deeper than his own?

As soon as he gets close enough, Mr. Kusai hands him the tablet, the glowing screen filled from the top to the bottom with big blocks of black text, stark against the blue-white background. It takes less than a minute for him to read it all the way through, his electronic brain tearing through the data so much faster than a human ever could, but he has to go over it at least a dozen more times after that anyway, slower and slower and slower, because he's just—he's just going too quickly and getting it mixed up, right? Or maybe he's just reading it wrong, because his vision is still pretty messed up from all those flashing lights earlier, hazy and blurry and clouded with afterimages of twinkling, multicolored stars, so he's probably just seeing things that aren't really there, right?

Because this can't really be true.

This can't really be real.

This agreement, dated and signed on the 20th day of October 2043, by and between William Umataro Tenma, hereinafter referred to as "Vendor", and Skunk Kusai, hereinafter referred to as "Purchaser", on the ownership of Unit 040743, wherein the Vendor has agreed to relinquish all legal claims and intellectual rights to the property designated herein, to the return of $60,000, and the Purchaser has agreed to assume and acquire all claims and rights to the property designated herein, to the expense of $60,000…

And then, right there at the bottom of the page, his dad's signature sits neatly on the dotted line: Dr. William Tenma, with that big sweeping flourish he does on his uppercase T, and Astro knows it better than he knows his name, because he's been trying to copy it (or Tobi has been trying to copy it) since before he could even write his own.

That's his dad's signature.

There's no doubt about that.

And Mr. Kusai's signature is just below it, every letter straight and sure and precise.

And there's no doubt about that, either.

But why would his dad put his name on a contract like this? Why would Mr. Kusai put his name on a contract like this? Why would they draw up a contract like this? Why would they even think about drawing up a contract like this? Why would they cut a deal like this? Why would they just sign his entire life away like it's nothing? Why would they just sign his entire life away like he's property?

No, they wouldn't do that to him. They would never do that to him. Because Mr. Kusai is his friend, and his dad loves him now.

"Th-This is a fake," Astro says, finally, but his voice comes out soft and shaky and fragile, like glass, like even the lightest touch could shatter him into a hundred thousand jagged pieces. "This is a fake, or a forgery, or—or—" he shoves the tablet back into Mr. Kusai's hands and shakes his head, trying to swallow around the hard lump in his throat, the ringing in his ears, the memory file automatically opening itself up again in the back of his brain. "This isn't real. Dad wouldn't do this to me. You wouldn't do this to me."

It doesn't even make any sense! If Dad really wanted to get rid of him so badly, he would just take him to the Ministry and shut him off for good, toss his body down to the Surface with all the other unwanted, used-up robots, and forget all about him, leave him to rust away to nothing, and he knows Astro wouldn't fight it if that's what he wanted to do, he knows Astro would do whatever he asked him to, he knows Astro would remove the Core himself if that's what he had to do. He knows all of that. He has to know all of that, because he's already done it once, and Astro didn't fight him then, did he?

But.

But maybe it was too much for Dad last time. Maybe it was too hard on him to deactivate the robot that looks so much like his own lost son, and maybe he knew he wouldn't be able to go through with it if he tried that again. Maybe he really did hire Mr. Kusai to quietly take Astro away somewhere and make him disappear. That would explain why he suddenly took on an intern when he's never wanted one of them before, wouldn't it?

No, his dad does love him.

His dad does love him, and he knows that.

Even if it's just because he looks exactly like Tobi, or just because he's got the memories of the real Tobi programmed into his brain, or just because he's the closest thing to Tobi that his dad will ever have, he knows his dad loves him, and he'd never just throw him away or get rid of him. So he's not going to fall for this. He's not going to listen to this. He's not going to believe this, because he knows his dad loves him.

And Mr. Kusai wouldn't do this to him, either, would he? Mr. Kusai has never been anything but nice to him. Mr. Kusai is a good man. Mr. Kusai is his friend. He talks to Astro, listens to Astro, puts his own work aside to pay attention to Astro, helps him with his history homework, tells him all about the latest in-progress projects at the Ministry, and the leading theories in particle physics, and the recent breakthroughs in biochemistry, and his own childhood years on the Europa outpost, and one time, he gave him a real Martian rock just because.

Mr. Kusai likes him just because he's him.

And there's no way he faked all of that, right? There's no way that was all a lie. Mr. Kusai is his friend. Mr. Kusai likes him.

So even if Dad did just wake up one day and decide to sell him off like a gallon of milk at the supermarket, Mr. Kusai wouldn't buy him like he's a gallon of milk at the supermarket, because Mr. Kusai is his friend. But why would he lie about something like this? Why would he say he did do it if he didn't? Why would he draw up a fake conveyance contract, complete with a perfect forgery of Dr. Tenma's signature? Why would he go to all that trouble? Why would he put so much effort into something so small?

Why would Dad sell him? And why would Mr. Kusai buy him? But why would Mr. Kusai lie about it?

None of this makes any sense.

"L-Look, this is some kind of—of—" Astro flounders for a second, trying to come up with the correct term, "—misunderstanding, or something like that." He swallows, drags in a deep breath, and tells himself, very firmly, to calm down. This isn't the worst situation he's ever found himself in. He's faced a darker dark than this. He's going to be okay. He can handle this. "Why don't we just go and talk to my dad? I'm sure he'll be able to explain."

"No, he won't see you," Mr. Kusai says bluntly. "He said so himself. He doesn't want anything to do with you from now on. I asked him about that already — I thought maybe he'd be willing to take care of the routine maintenance and repairs, fix you up when you need it, you know, all of that, but he said he didn't want to see you again. He was pretty firm about it, too."

"H-He didn't—" Astro tries to shake his head, shake off the doubts suddenly whispering in his ears and crawling into his skull, settling in the back of his brain— "He didn't mean that. He didn't say that. He wouldn't say that."

([[OPENING FILE 04.07. 4… OPENING FILE 04.07. 4… OPENING FILE 04.07. 4…]]

"—got here as fast as I could," Dr. Elefun's voice rings out loud and clear even through the thick glass panes between them, like the volume has been suddenly cranked up on the whole world. "Where is he? Where's Tobi?"

"I sent him to his room," Dad paces back and forth on the big rug in front of the sofa, his wild dark hair wilder than ever, sticking up in tangled brown tufts all over his head, and his body hunched inward on itself, like somebody reached inside him and removed every last one of his bones so he can't hold himself up anymore. "Please, just deactivate him, and take him away. I can't bear to see his face again.")

"That's what's been keeping him so busy at the Ministry these last few months, you know," Mr. Kusai says suddenly, as he shuts off the tablet and sticks it back in the pocket on his coat. "He's been building your replacements."

"My—?" Astro's heart drops like a stone all the way down into his stomach. "My what?"

"Your replacements," Mr. Kusai says again, like he really thinks it's just that Astro didn't hear him. "Four or five of them. A whole team of combat robots. Same abilities as you, same defense mechanisms as you, same software, same structure…" he shrugs. "They're basically you, more or less. Probably better, though, since they're designed to protect the city, and you…" he breaks off there to let out another laugh, and it's just as awful as the last one. "Well, I mean… come on, you didn't really know what the hell you were doing half the time, did you? You weren't very good at it, anyway."

Astro's chest aches, hot tears stinging at the corners of his eyes, which is stupid, because he knows it's not true, he knows it's a lie, he knows it's not real, he knows his dad wouldn't do something like that, but he's been building your replacements, and you didn't really know what the hell you were doing half the time, did you, and you weren't very good at it, anyway, and the vendor has agreed to relinquish all legal claims and intellectual rights to the property designated herein—

("Come on, Tenma!" Dr. Elefun snaps, loud and angry in a way Tobi has never heard from him before. "You can't just throw him away like a piece of junk!"

"Dad?" Tobi chokes out, through a throat so thick with knots it's a miracle he can speak at all, as he edges slowly into the living room with the two of them, and his heart is pounding like a drum in his chest as he replays everything they just said again and again and again in his brain. "W-What's going on? Why are you talking about me like this?")

"Why are you doing this?" he chokes out, through a throat so thick with knots it's a miracle he can speak at all, and he's in the living room at his dad's penthouse, standing on the big rug in front of the sofa, while his heart pounds like a drum in his chest, and his dad is saying I'm not your dad, you're not Tobi, and his dad is saying you're a copy of Tobi, and his dad is saying not my son, a robot, and he's in the lab under the dull, steady red light of the recording camera, standing in the center of the room and Mr. Kusai is saying Dr. Tenma legally forfeited all rights to you, and transferred your ownership over to me instead, and Mr. Kusai is saying you're my robot, and you belong to me now, and Mr. Kusai is saying he's been building your replacements— "Y-You were so nice to me. You were my friend. I—I thought… I thought we were friends. I thought you liked me."

Mr. Kusai finally glances up to lock eyes with Astro, his pale face softening into something almost like pity. "Oh, kid…" he shakes his head, lets out a sympathetic sigh. "I don't think there's anyone on earth who's capable of that."

Astro's breath catches in his chest, snagging on the sharpest edges of his own hurt, like Mr. Kusai has just smacked him on the face or punched him in the gut, all the air knocked clean out of him in a single blow. I don't think there's anyone on earth who's capable of that. I don't think there's anyone on earth who's capable of that. I don't think there's anyone on earth who's capable of that.

Mr. Kusai has never been anything but nice to him. Mr. Kusai is his friend. Mr. Kusai treats him like he's special just for being him, no state-of-the-art software or world-saving superpowers needed. Mr. Kusai likes him just because he's him.

How could all of that be fake? How could all of that be a lie? How could all of that be not real?

"N-No," Astro says, finally, but it's too quiet, too uncertain, and not steady at all. "No, y-you're—you're lying. You're lying about my dad, and you're lying about me, and I—I don't know why you're doing this. I don't know why you're acting like this. But I'm not—I'm not doing this anymore. I'm going home."

He doesn't give Mr. Kusai the chance to try and stop him. He stamps his boots against the floor to activate the rockets in the soles, and he throws himself up into the air, fists already out to barrel straight through the wall with sheer brute force if that's what he has to do, automatically angling himself so Mr. Kusai won't get hurt, or hurled backward in the blast. He just needs to get out of here, and get to his dad, and his dad will explain everything. He just needs to get out of here and get to his dad, and his dad will prove that Mr. Kusai is lying, and he'll explain why Mr. Kusai is lying, and it will all make sense. Dad will have a perfectly good explanation for all of this, and Mr. Kusai will have a perfectly good explanation for all of this, and Dad will take the laws of robotics out of his system, and he'll be him again, and everything will be okay.

Everything is going to be okay.

Everything is going to be fine.

And then Astro's 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 one by one by one. He hits the ground so hard that his teeth rattle in their sockets, and he's burning up from the inside out, and every gear and cog underneath his skin is on fire, like those flames from the bank really did melt him down, and he just didn't realize it until right now, and he's screaming and he's screaming and he just can't stop, because it just hurts so much, and he's dying, he knows he's dying, he has to be dying, because there is no way anyone could possibly live through so much pain—

—and then it's over.

The blinding haze of all-consuming agony lifts up off him like a veil, and he's left on the ice-cold floor, hard and smooth under his cheek as he shakes and shudders and hurts all the way down to the solid steel frame that holds him together. 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's fallen, shivering and gasping, sprawled out flat on his stomach with his arms and legs bent and twisted at odd angles, jutting out sharply here and there, his skin prickling and tingling and painfully oversensitive with the leftovers of all that voltage, but he knows he needs to get up. He needs to get up, and get out of here. He needs to get away from this strange, awful man who has replaced Mr. Kusai while he was shut down. He needs to get home and get to his dad and tell him what's going on. And he knows he could do it if he just tried harder, and why didn't he try harder? why isn't he trying harder? he could do it if he just tried harder, if he could just—if he could just—onward and upward—but he—

—he can't do that again.

He can't take it.

Not again.

Maybe he says that out loud, or maybe it shows on his face, but he doesn't know, because it hurts so bad that he really doesn't know what he says and what he doesn't, but Mr. Kusai lets out another one of those harsh, grating, metal-on-metal laughs.

"Aww, what's wrong, Astro?" he asks, slow and sugary-sweet, like he's talking to a baby. "Don't you want to go home?"

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—?"

"So, I guess that's the KURI demonstration, then," Mr. Kusai says, and Astro can hear the sick smile in his voice. "No point in doing it again. We don't want to damage the product before it ever hits the shelf, do we?"

"What did you to do to me?!" Astro says, again, louder now, as it echoes in his head, KURI KURI KURI on an endless loop, and panic claws at his insides, sharp and tearing, but he knows. He lifts a hand and presses it to his throat, feels the ice-cold iron under his fingers where warm soft skin should be, and he knows what it is, he knows what happened to him, and he doesn't need Mr. Kusai to tell him, he doesn't need Mr. Kusai to explain.

That's a KURI ring around his neck.

And that means his powers are gone, and that means he can't fly away from this, he can't fly anywhere, he can't do anything, he can't leave this lab until Mr. Kusai lets him go, because testing subject 7517 LOR software and he can't say no to anything and he has to do whatever Mr. Kusai tells him to do and he can't leave this lab until Mr. Kusai lets him go,and what's going to happen now? Where is Mr. Kusai going to take him next? What is Mr. Kusai going to make him do next?

Astro's stomach twists as Mr. Kusai's last words play back again in his head—we don't want to damage the product before it ever hits the shelf, do we?—and he realizes he might already have his answer. He drags in a frantic gulp of air, so he's got enough breath to speak, to ask the question, but when he opens his mouth, it comes out scratchy and hoarse and scared. "W-What are you going to do with me?"

So I guess that's the KURI demonstration, then, and we don't want to damage the product before it ever hits the shelf, do we, and testing, subject 7517, LOR software, and Dr. Tenma legally forfeited all rights to you and transferred your ownership over to me instead, and you're my robot and you belong to me now—

Mr. Kusai smiles, but it's sharp and cold and mean — like a shark showing all its teeth. "I'm going to make a hell of a lot of money off you."

No.

No, this can't actually be real. This can't actually be happening. This can't actually be really happening, and it's—it's probably just like those bright rainbow lights he woke up to, right? He's probably just seeing a whole lot of things and hearing a whole lot of things that aren't actually there, because this can't be happening.

Not when he was just walking home from the bank what feels like less than an hour ago, with his hands in his pockets and his head tipped back to feel the wind and rain on his face, water dripping off the spiked ends of his hair, the night sky above him and the cracked sidewalk beneath him. Not when he had just shushed TrashCan, a finger to his lips and a quick pat on top of the domed metal head so the dog wouldn't bark and give him away before he could slip out his bedroom window and answer the call for help about the fire at the bank, and he said come on, boy, please don't wake Dad up, I promise I'll be back before you know it. Not when he had just told Orrin that he'd be there to help him out with the bacon and eggs and sausage for breakfast tomorrow, and the homemade pizza for dinner that night. Not when he had just promised Mr. Hirota that he would definitely be there at six o'clock for his geometry make-up midterm. Not when he had just promised kind old Mr. Maeda, who can't get around too well anymore with his stiff arthritic knees and brittle bones, that he'd be there to help him pull up the weeds and water the colorful flowers and thick leafy herbs in his beloved garden at noon on Sunday. Not when he'd just promised his friends he'd be there for rocketball practice on Saturday morning. Not when he'd just promised Widget and Sludge that he'd take them out trick-or-treating for Halloween this year, so they won't get themselves lost amid the winding city streets they still haven't fully memorized yet. Not when he'd just promised Cora that they could pull an all-nighter on the day before Halloween to do a marathon of her favorite horror movies, just the two of them and a whole lot of bloody slasher flicks that he probably wouldn't be able to even pretend he enjoyed.

This can't be happening.

Not when everything was so normal just two days ago.

So this has to be a dream, right? This has to be some kind of weird, crazy dream he's having, just one of those really bad nightmares he gets every now and then, and that's why Mr. Kusai is being so mean even though he's never been anything but nice to Astro before, and that's why his dad's signature is on that contract even though he'd never do something like this. Any second now, he'll wake up and be back in his own bed in his own room, with the alarm clock blaring and the sun still dragging itself over the horizon, and everything will be okay. Or maybe he'll wake up, and he'll still be in Mr. Kusai's car, curled up in the passenger seat with his head pressed to the window and his clothes still dripping rainwater, and Mr. Kusai will tell him he fell asleep on the way home, and everything will be okay.

But the seconds stretch out longer and longer, and he's not waking up.

Residual shocks and volts of electricity buzz through his sore body every ten seconds or so, but he's too tired to make a sound, or even tense up whenever the pain hits. He just lays limp on the smooth steel floor, his heart in his throat and his jaw aching from where he clenched his teeth just a little too long, and a little too hard, and Mr. Kusai's cold black eyes always on him, dissecting him, carving into him, cutting him up in pieces, pulling his mechanical skull apart to see the electronic brain inside, tearing his synthetic skin off just to see the wires and circuits hiding beneath.

This is really happening, isn't it?

This is really real.

Mr. Kusai is going to sell him.

And.

And Dr. Tenma legally forfeited all rights to you, and transferred your ownership over to me instead, and the vendor has agreed to relinquish all legal claims and intellectual rights to the property designated herein, to the return of $60,000, and he's been building your replacements, and I'm not your dad, you're not Tobi, you're a copy of Tobi, not my son, a robot, and I don't want—

Did Dad sell him, too?

But he wouldn't do that, would he? He wouldn't do that to Astro. He wouldn't. He wouldn't do that. He loves Astro. He said so. He said.

Mr. Kusai reaches out and twists the knob on the camera to the left, and back to the right, so the steady red light shuts off for a second, and then abruptly clicks on again. "Date: 10.26.2043. Testing: Subject 7517, SAI software."

But what if his dad just didn't know what he was getting into when he said he loved him? What if having a robot for a son is harder than he thought it would be? What if a robot son just isn't good enough after he's already had the real thing? What if he said he loved Astro even though he didn't, really, because he thought maybe one day he would, but it's been seven months and he still doesn't? Or what if he did love him for a little while, and then he just stopped? But why did he stop? What made him stop? What did Astro do wrong?

Mr. Kusai finally gets up off the stool, his polished shoes shining in the bright lights overhead and pounding on the floor underneath as he walks closer and closer and closer to Astro. When he gets there, he pulls to a dead halt right there in front of him, staring down at his shuddering body on the ground with another one of those awful, shark-showing-all-its-teeth smiles.

He looks so tall like that, with his heavy black coat and cold black eyes. He looks like he could take just one step forward right now, and squash Astro flat beneath his polished shoes like a bug on the sidewalk.

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

("Tobi," Dr. Elefun intercepts him with a gentle hand on his shoulder before he can reach out to his dad instead. "There's been a bit of a misunderstanding. You're not actually an entirely ordinary boy."

Tobi stares at him for a long minute, trying to wrap his mind around the statement. Has Dr. Elefun known all this time that he has these incredible powers? Has Dad known all this time? How long did they keep it a secret from him? Why did they keep it a secret from him? Why didn't they just tell him? Did they think he would just never find out? Did they think it was better for him, or safer for him, to not know what he's capable of? He doesn't ask any of those questions, though, because he doesn't want to know the answers even half as much as he wants his dad to turn around and look at him, tell him what's going on, and tell him it's okay, and they'll figure this out together.

"I—I know!" Tobi nods, pushing past Dr. Elefun to get to his father because maybe, once Dad hears exactly what kind of powers his son has, he'll be so impressed that he'll forget all about whatever made him so upset in the first place. "Dad, I can fly! I can drill my way through solid rock! It's amazing!"

But Dad doesn't turn around.

And Dad doesn't look at him.

He just pulls in a sharp, shaky breath, and hunches even farther inward on himself, and says, in this terribly brittle voice that sounds like it'll collapse into a sob at any moment— "How did I think this could work?")

Astro drags himself up to balance unsteadily on his ball-jointed knees, boots thudding hard on the steel floor with the motion, until his face is just about level with Mr. Kusai's thighs.

(Tobi still doesn't understand exactly what's going on, or why his dad is so sad right now, but he knows in a strange and certain and unshakable way he just can't explain, that it's all because of him. Is it his new powers? Is it a bad thing that he has these powers? Should he pretend he doesn't have them? Should he have pretended he doesn't have them even to his own father? Should he not use them ever again? Should he get rid of them? Is there even a way to get rid of them? But if he does that, will his dad be happy again? If he does that, will his dad look at him again?

He takes a tiny step forward, lifts a shaking hand, latches onto his father's elbow because it's the highest point on the six-foot frame that he can reach, but it only lasts for a fraction of a second before Dad pulls away from him—like the touch is burning him, like he can't stand it, and Tobi's chest aches like there's a big, livid purple bruise on it, like his sternum is slowly caving in on him, white bone breaking into a billion pieces under his skin as he finally realizes what he should have known all along:

It's not that Dad doesn't like his new superpowers.

It's that Dad doesn't like him.

"W-What's wrong with me?" he stammers, feeling small and stupid and so much younger than his eleven years. "Why don't you love me anymore?")

Mr. Kusai's mouth twists up at the corners in another one of those horrible shark smiles. "Suck me off."

The command cuts like a knife through the memory still playing in his brain, and Astro jerks back so sharply and suddenly that the room spins around him like a top, bright rainbow lights flashing and popping at the very edges of his vision, to gape up at Mr. Kusai in stunned, wide-eyed silence, because he can't be serious, can he? He can't actually mean that, can he? This can't really be happening, can it?

But he can't say no, and he can't stop himself, his hands coming up to grab the waistband of Mr. Kusai's pressed slacks and tug them down, farther and farther and farther, until the smooth black fabric gives way to paper-pale skin and dark curly hair, and—and—

No, no, no, and he's shaking his head on blind reflex, pressing his lips together and clenching his teeth tight like he can just keep it out if he tries hard enough, because he can already tell it's way too big and way too thick to fit, he won't be able to get it in his mouth, or at least, he won't be able to get all of it in his mouth, and he'll choke on it if he tries, so he can't do it, he can't do it, he can't do it, and he wants to say so, he wants to say I can't do this, and he wants to say it's too big to fit, and he wants to say I won't be able to get it in my mouth, but he's too scared to relax his jaw even the slightest little bit, because what if Mr. Kusai just pries his mouth open and forces it in?

But Mr. Kusai doesn't need to force it.

Because he can't say no.

And he can't stop himself.

So he leans in and takes the head of Mr. Kusai's penis in his mouth.

He's not even doing anything with it yet, but he can feel it on his tongue, hard as a rock and unpleasantly hot and so hairy, and he can feel it bumping lightly against his teeth, he can taste the salty sweat on it, and something else, too — something sharper, almost sour (pre-ejaculate, a mechanical voice somewhere in the back of his brain tells him, a fluid that oozes from the phallus when sexual arousal occurs) — and it really is too big, taking up his whole mouth and pressing painfully against the back of his throat, and he can't do this, he can't do this, he really can't do this, he doesn't even know how to do it because he's never done it before, he's never done anything like it before, and how is he supposed to know what to do when he's never done it before?

And then—just like that—he is doing it.

Like somebody else is temporarily taking over his motor functions, and moving his lips for him. Like he can't control his own body.

He pumps the big shaft in and out of his open mouth over and over and over, licking and sucking at the rock-hard tip like it's a lollipop, pushing it deeper and deeper down his throat 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's doing this, he doesn't know how he's doing any of this when he's never done it before, but he can't stop, and Mr. Kusai is tossing his platinum-blonde head back, jerking his hips, gasping and moaning and saying just like that, yeah, just like that, you're so good, you're so fucking good, aren't you, and he doesn't know what he's doing, and he can feel black-gloved hands all over his head, tangling in his hair, tugging on the spikes until his scalp burns, and he wants to say stop it, stop it, stop it, you're hurting me, but he can't, because he's still got Mr. Kusai's cock in his mouth, and it's so big that he can't talk around it, he can barely even breathe around it, and he just wants to get it out of him, but he can't he can't he can't he can't say no, and he can't stop himself—

—and then a burst of hot, thick, rancid liquid spurts from the tip of Mr. Kusai's penis, and floods over his tongue.

There's so much of it that his mouth can't even hold it all, and it's coming and coming and coming so fast that it's pooling up at the corners of his lips and trickling down his chin and dribbling onto the floor, and the hands in his hair are going loose and limp, slackening and uncurling, and the stiff cock is slowly getting softer and smaller where it sits on his tongue until it's completely flaccid. The hands on his head finally let go of his spikes to reach down and ease the shaft out of his mouth, but he's still coughing and spluttering and choking over the sticky white fluid. He wants to spit it out, but he can't get his jaw to do the motion.

Long, black-gloved fingers grab onto his chin, digging painfully into the soft skin of his round cheeks, and drag his head up until he's staring straight into those cold black eyes. A thumb sweeps lightly over the corner of his lip, deliberately smearing the whatever-it-is (semen, that mechanical voice informs him, the male reproductive fluid containing spermatozoa) around so he's even more of a mess than ever.

"You look pretty cute," Mr. Kusai says, loud in the silence, with that horrible horrible horrible smile on his face, "with my cum in your mouth. Now, be a good boy, and swallow."

And he can't say no.

And he can't stop himself.

So he swallows, and it burns his throat the whole way down.

Mr. Kusai finally steps back, his polished shoes clicking loudly on the steel floor. He pulls his pants up, the dark cloth sliding slowly back into place with a soft rustle.

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

Astro's mouth is finally empty, but he can still taste it. He tries to swallow again, but he can't, because his throat is too tight with all the knots twisting themselves up in the back of it, and he still can't seem to spit. The crown of his head prickles and stings where the black-gloved hands yanked on his hair, and his lips are still damp and sticky with—what did Mr. Kusai call it? Cum?

Oh, god.

Oh, god, he really just—he really just did that, he just got down on his knees, all because Kusai told him to, he just did it and he did it and he did it, and he didn't stop, and he didn't say no, he just did it and he did it and he did it and he did it and he did it, like he—

Like he liked it.

Oh, god, he's going to be sick.

Astro wraps his arms around his own churning stomach and rips his mouth open, gagging and retching and heaving over the floor, but he can't actually throw up, because he's not a human, he's just a robot, and the gears in his throat don't work like that, the gears in his throat won't let him do that, but he wants to do it, he wants to throw up so he can get it out of him, so he doesn't have to live the rest of his life filled with Mr. Kusai's disgusting fluid, but he can't he can't he can't, and he's crying so hard it actually hurts, sobbing and shaking and sniffling, and he can still feel it in his mouth, and he'll never get it out.

Hot tears pour out of his eyes, stinging and burning as they spill down his face.

The camera clicks off again.

A soft, shuddering sob slips out of his throat, his whole body jolting with it. Bright rainbow lights flash and pop all around him. He can taste the semen on his tongue, feel it on his lips and chin. His hands are trembling, and he can't get them to stop. He can't even really feel it.

He just wants to go home.

But.

("He's programmed with the memories of your own son, Tenma!" Dr. Elefun says, louder and harsher now, and Tobi's stomach drops sharply, like he just missed a step on his way down a long and steep staircase. He tries to speak then, to ask the questions and get the answers that didn't seem anywhere near as important to him just a minute ago, but he can't push anything past his numb lips except maybe the faint echo of the word programmed. And it doesn't even matter what he says, anyway, because Dr. Elefun just goes on like he didn't even open his mouth. "Doesn't that mean anything to you?"

Tenma sighs, a heavy breath that seems to use up the last little bit of strength he still had in him, and says—very clearly— "But he isn't my son."

"Dad!" Tobi says, reflexively, half-gasping, because he thinks maybe if his father just hears his voice, hears his son calling out for him, hears how much his son loveshim and needs him, he'll be sorry for what he said, and he'll take it back, he'll say he didn't mean it, but why did he even say it at all? Why would he even think that? Why would he think his son isn't really his son? Why would he wait eleven years to say that? Why doesn't his dad love him anymore? Why does his dad hate him?

Is he — it's a crazy thing to think, he knows, because they're far too much alike for that, the same brown eyes and the same wild dark hair that'll stick up all over the place if he doesn't gel it within an inch of its life, the same pointed nose and the same propensity for robotics engineering and particle physics, but he's thinking it anyway, because it's the only thing that makes sense and doesn't make him feel like the whole world is crashing down on him — is he adopted? Is it just that he doesn't have any biological relation to his dad? Because that's okay! He doesn't care about that! His dad is still the man who raised him, and that's what really matters to him. His dad is still his dad.

"I-I'm not your dad," Dr. Tenma says, like he can hear exactly what Tobi is thinking, and slowly, too, like he's only just now figuring all of this out for himself as he says it aloud. "You're not Tobi. You're… a copy of Tobi."

Tobi realizes, then, he already knows exactly what his father will say next — maybe he always knew somewhere in the back of his mind, maybe he's known it since he opened his eyes last night in that pitch-dark lab in the Ministry of Science, and there was that weird minute before his vision adjusted where the whole room looked kind of… pixelated, almost, or maybe he only just put the pieces together a few seconds before, maybe he's only just now working out what Dad and Dr. Elefun were talking about when they said please just deactivate him and take him away, and you can't just throw him away like a piece of junk, and he's programmed with the memories of your own son, and you're not Tobi, you're a copy of Tobi—

Oh, god.

Oh, god, he's—

"Not my son," Tenma says, again, firmer now, like he wants to make sure Tobi remembers that part above everything else. "A robot."

And he already knew it was coming, he already knew his dad would say that, but he's still shaking his head and trying to say no, he's still clinging to the desperate hope that maybe they've got it wrong, maybe Dad and Dr. Elefun are the ones who don't understand, and maybe he really is an entirely ordinary boy with no superpowers at all, and he just imagined that he flew around the city all day on jet-propulsion boots, but it wasn't real, and any second now, he'll realize that.

Or maybe this is a dream. Maybe this is all a really bad dream, and any second now, he'll wake up, and he'll be back in his own bed in his own room, with the alarm clock blaring, and everything will be okay, everything will be okay, everything will be okay, because this is just a dream, this is just a really bad dream, this is all just a really bad dream, and any second now, he'll wake up, and—

"And I…" Dad finally turns around to face him, dark brown eyes flicking uncomfortably all around the room before they finally settle on Tobi for good, "…don't… want you… anymore.")

Does he even have a home anymore?