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.

6. to be loved is to be good

"I wanted to be loved more than I wanted to be alive. For so long, I thought not to be loved is good, but to be loved is to be good. All those years, convinced, surely I must be bad, the way you keep punishing me." - Leila Chatty, Faulty

---

APRIL 7 2044

7:48 PM

Dad is on the television screen.

And Astro can't look away.

Dad is right there on the television screen — so agonizingly close, and so painfully far away, all at once.

The room suddenly blurs out and clouds over, dissolving into a hundred thousand million multicolored pixels, his crystal-clear 8k-resolution vision all fogged up and completely useless. It takes him an embarrassingly long minute to realize there are tears in his eyes, and he blinks rapidly, scrubbing them away with his knuckles to try and get his optics back online again.

But what if his dad isn't actually there when he takes a second look? Nothing in his system has really worked exactly right since Mr. Kusai slammed his head into that wall over and over and over, so what if it's just a system glitch? What if it's all in his head? What if it's just that he wants to see his dad again so badly that he just thought he did? What if all the flickering, fuzzy, grey-white static clears away again, and it's somebody else up there on the screen? And that would make sense, wouldn't it, because Nancy Delaney said this was a vigil in honor of Astro Boy, and why would his dad show up to a vigil for him when his dad is the one who put him here in the first place?

"—has not been seen since last year, when he departed Metro City Federal Bank after he assisted the local fire department in a—"

The TV finally coalesces back into the usual perfect, pin-sharp clarity.

And Dad is still there, with a yellow-white candle clutched in his cupped hands, and his face all lit up with the soft golden glow, but he's—

He's all wrong. His body is stiff and tense, hunched inward on itself like he hurts all over and he's trying his best not to agitate the pain (or like somebody reached inside him and removed every last one of his bones, so he can't hold himself up anymore) and his pale skin is even paler than usual — starkly white, and sallow, almost, like he hasn't seen the sun in years. His sweater hang limply off his bone-thin frame in stiff woolen folds, and his cheeks are so sunken that he could be a ghost, or a zombie, or a living corpse. There are big black shadows beneath his brown eyes, livid as purple bruises — and his eyes, they're all puffy and swollen and red-rimmed, and hollow, and heartbroken, the exact same way he looked when Tobi—

Why does he look like that? Why does he look so sad? Why does he look so sick? Why is he out here, in front of a rolling camera on live television, when he looks like he can barely even stand up on his own? Isn't Orrin taking care of him? Isn't anyone taking care of him?

"—eyewitnesses recall he behaved as normal throughout the incident, and footage taken from the building's exterior security cameras confirms he was not injured or damaged when he left the scene—"

Dad looks so awful, small and fragile and weak like he's thirty years younger than he really is, a little kid all over again, or maybe thirty years older than he really is, grey and ancient as Mr. Maeda, and Astro can't tear his eyes away because he's suddenly and irrationally terrified that the moment he does, a single gust of wind will blow through, and knock Dr. Tenma clean off his feet, or a light touch will shatter him, smash him to pieces like broken glass, or he'll die right here, in the empty space between one heartbeat and the next, and when Astro looks at him again, he'll be gone forever.

(Astro thinks about his father, all alone in that big empty penthouse, with no one to take care of him while he gets sicker and sadder and weaker by the day, and his heart cracks open with the thought. Why isn't anyone taking care of him?)

"—toward Wright Avenue, his usual route to the house he lived in with his creator—"

But it doesn't make any sense.

No matter the way he looks at it — no matter how he estimates and adjusts, no matter how he calculates and recalculates — this whole thing just doesn't add up.

The puzzle pieces just don't fit together.

It just doesn't make sense.

Why would his dad show up to a candlelight vigil for him? And why would the city even hold a candlelight vigil for him in the first place? It's already been five months since he woke up in Mr. Kusai's lab (no, it's been longer than that, it's been so much longer than that, and he can tell because he is so much older than he was when he walked away from the bank, with the rain all around him and his hands stuffed in his pockets, his head tipped back and the soles of his boots scraping against the asphalt, so young and so clueless, so blissfully and blindly ignorant with his pure, untouched body and clean, unstained hands and independent, unmarred mind, and it has been so much longer than five months for him, but it's only been five months for everyone else) so everyone has moved on by now, haven't they? Everyone has forgotten all about him by now, haven't they?

When it comes down to it, he didn't actually live in Metro City too long before he ended up in here — only seven months, just over half a year, and aside from that big fight with the Peacekeeper last April (which wasn't really about him, remember? that was about the power-hungry president who turned out to be a total lunatic) he really didn't leave too much of a mark, either. At the end of the day, he was just one single citizen in a sea of seventeen thousand or so, superhero or not.

And it's not like they need him specifically to do that job, anyway. Because Dad built a whole entire team of robots just to replace him, remember? Dad built a whole entire team of robots that are so much better than him, since they're designed to protect the city, and he didn't really know what the hell he was doing half the time. And Dad probably likes them so much better, too. Dad probably likes them so much better than he's ever liked Astro. Maybe he even loves them like he used to love Tobi, and like he never loved Astro.

(That's a stupid thing to think, because Dad will never love anyone as much as he loves Tobi — and if he did, it definitely wouldn't be a robot — but Astro can't help thinking about it, and he can't help the bitter sense of burning jealousy he gets in the pit of his stomach whenever he does.)

So why is there an entire candlelight vigil for him going on right now, five months from the day he woke up in Mr. Kusai's lab? Why are there so many people out there? Why are they all still looking for him? Why is anyone still looking for him at all? Why didn't they just shake their heads and shrug it off and turn to his bigger and better replacements instead? Why didn't they all just forget about him and move on?

Sure, maybe there could be a small handful of people back in Metro City who still think about him here and there, and maybe they even miss him every now and again — Cora and Zane, Widget and Sludge, and Orrin, of course, and maybe even Kenichi from fourth-period Biology or Reno and Liliana from AP Physics or Shigaraki from PE — but he's counting at least six hundred people out there, which is a whole lot more than a small handful, and—

—and his dad shouldn't be there.

Because his dad doesn't want him.

And he never will, and it's as simple and straightforward as that, so what is he doing out there at the vigil?

It doesn't make any sense.

None of this makes any sense.

"—but Astro Boy never made it home."

Even if he could pretend it hasn't been five months (which he can't, because his electronic brain logs everything, so he can't forget even when he wants to, and even when he tries) there's still the fact that he's a robot, and last he checked, Metro City doesn't do this kind of thing for robots. No one ever cares when a robot disappears. No one ever talks about it. No one ever runs a report in the news or puts an article in the paper about it. No one ever notices it, really. And if they do, they just shake their heads and shrug it off and replace them with bigger and better robots, and isn't that what they did here? Didn't they all just collectively forget about him and move on with their lives?

Why would his dad show up to a city-sponsored candlelight vigil for him? He's already made it perfectly clear that he doesn't care about him, and he doesn't want him back, and he doesn't love him — and Astro is sure about that, because you don't do this to someone if you love them. You don't throw them away like they're garbage, you don't throw them away like they're nothing, you don't hand them off to the highest bidder like a house on the market, or a plot of land for sale, you don't toss them out with the trash and never look back, you don't sign their whole life away to a man like Skunk Kusai, you don't leave them all alone to live locked up in tiny dark trunks, and loaned out to anyone who asks for them, and forced to their knees for any man who wants them.

You don't do this to someone if you love them.

And Dad did this to him.

So Dad doesn't love him.

And that's just the end of it.

"Astro will be found."

The rough, scratchy voice is barely even a whisper, low and hoarse and quiet, but it cuts its way through the frantic, whirling thoughts in Astro's mind quicker than a knife, burying itself in his brain and sticking to the insides of his skull like thick honey, or heavy maple syrup, because that's—

—that's his dad.

That's his dad's voice, and he knows it better than the back of his own hand, even as soft and sad and broken as it sounds right now, because it's the exact same way he talked when he lost Tobi: like every single word hurts more than the last, like it's taking all of his strength just to breathe, like his heart is a million broken, jagged pieces inside his chest.

"Astro will be found. I'm certain of it." Dad's dark eyes (puffy and swollen and red-rimmed) shine and sparkle with tears in the soft glow of the candles, and his mouth trembles at the edges like he's trying hard not to cry. "Because I am never giving up on him. I will never stop trying to bring him home."

All the breath rips itself out of Astro's lungs in one big burst, a heavy quivery gasp, and he presses a hand to his mouth to hold back the choked sob trying to claw up out of his throat, blinking against the sudden swell of blinding, burning-hot tears and squeezing his eyes shut so he doesn't have to see the screen anymore. This is everything he's wanted to hear for five months, and his heart aches with it, his whole body crying out with the bone-deep want.

It feels so real.

But he knows it can't be.

And he can't let himself think it is, or he will break.

"H-Hey, kid," a low, firm voice says in his ear, and a broad callused hand claps down on his shoulder (so suddenly that his raw skinned-up heart kicks over like a car engine, and he startles wildly, jerking away from the touch and whirling around on his heel to face—oh, right, it's just Hamegg). "Let's get you back to the shop, and get you some more oil, okay? Sound good?"

He should probably do that, shouldn't he? He should probably nod along and say okay, let Hamegg lead him back upstairs, and forget all about this. He should probably just listen to Hamegg, because the guy hasn't been too bad so far — he's been really nice, actually, and he hasn't hit him or anything like that, and he also hasn't yelled at him, either, and that's obviously not going to last through the rest of the week, but it's really kind of him to try — and Astro doesn't want to make any trouble for him.

So he should probably listen to Hamegg.

And he shouldn't even believe what he's seeing on the TV right now, anyway.

Because it's not real.

But.

But that's his dad up there, so agonizingly close and so painfully far away all at once, and he's saying I'm never giving up on him, I will never stop trying to bring him home, and he shouldn't be at the vigil, but he is, and he's saying all these things like he—like maybe he still wants—

Astro wants to believe it. He wants to believe this is real more than he has ever wanted to believe in anything in his whole entire life.

But he's already made that mistake once.

And look where that got him.

So he should just listen to Hamegg. He should just get out of here before he has to see his dad's face again, and he should put this whole crazy situation out of his mind and move on with his life, and he shouldn't think about it ever again. He should just forget about all these ten thousand impossibilities and inconsistencies and contradictions and do what Hamegg tells him to. He should just go straight back to the shop, and he shouldn't say anything, and he shouldn't ask questions, because it's not real.

But.

But he can't.

"W-What is he doing? Why is he saying all that?" It comes out so much softer and quieter and sadder than he means it to, quivery and unsure. "What's he doing out there? Why is he there? Is this—?" He wants to ask is this real and is that really him and does he really mean it and does he really miss me that much and does he really want me back and does he really love me? but he's just not brave enough for that. "What is all of this?"

"It's—uh—" Hamegg does that thing again where he looks all around the room so he doesn't have to look at Astro, but at least he doesn't tell him to shut up or stop asking questions, "—it's—it's something called a vigil. People do it when somebody they know has—y'know, died, or—or gone missing, or… something… like that."

"No, I know what a vigil is." Astro shakes his head, a sharp side-to-side jerk, and jabs a finger at the screen. "What is that? Why is my dad there? What's he doing there? Why would he show up to a vigil for—?" Even he can hear the way his voice comes out, high and thin and tight — strained and cracking and trembling with the fear and the pain trying to pull him to pieces. "For me?"

Hamegg frowns at him, a deep wrinkle creasing his dark brow. "I mean… probably for the same reasons as everyone else?"

"No, but—but that's not—" he shakes his head again, trying to shake all the doubts and what ifs and maybes clear out of his brain. "Isn't he—?" he casts a quick, cautious glance over at the television again, his heart twisting up tighter and tighter in his chest until it's a big tangled mess too heavy to breathe past. "Isn't he… glad that I'm gone?"

And he hates the way his voice comes out then—all small and shaky and pleading, like he's five years old instead of eternally eleven, like he's a little kid scared to death of a bad dream stuck in his head, or a loud thunderstorm outside his window, except this isn't a bad dream or a loud storm. It's the thought that Hamegg is about to tell him the truth — yes, of course he is, of course he's glad you're gone, he's not mourning you, he's not grieving you, he's not missing you, he's not here to cry about it, he's here to celebrate it, he's so relieved that you're finally gone forever and he never has to deal with you again, he doesn't give a damn about you, he never wants to see you ever again, he's so glad you're gone, he's been so happy these past few months, he's so much better off without you — and it's going to hurt.

But it would be even worse if Hamegg didn't say any of that. It would be even worse if Hamegg said the exact opposite of all that. It would be even worse if Hamegg said no, of course he's not glad that you're gone, he's been dying to see you again, he's been looking all over the world for you, he missed you so much, he'd be so happy to have you back, he loves you so much, because then he might actually believe it. And it won't be true, but he'll think it is, and then he'll have to realize it isn't, and he'll be right back where he was: in the living room at his dad's penthouse, standing on the big rug in front of the sofa while 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:

Dad doesn't love him.

And he can't do that again.

He can't go through that again.

"What the heck are you talking about?" Hamegg says blankly, like it's really so unbelievable and unthinkable and unimaginable, like he's just said the sky isn't blue or water isn't wet or the sun isn't hot, like he's just tried to deny a simple and basic and fundamental fact of life. Like his dad really does love him, and that's such a simple and basic and fundamental fact of life that Hamegg can't believe he doesn't know it. "Why the heck would you say that? Haven't you seen the news lately? He's been looking all over for you! He's been talking about you nonstop since the day you—!"

"What?" No, that's—that's not true, is it? That can't be true, because Dad doesn't miss him and Dad doesn't care about him and Dad doesn'twant him back and Dad doesn't love him. "No, but he—he doesn't want—he never—" —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 you anymore, I don't want you anymore, I don't want you anymore, I don't want you anymore— "—he doesn't want me." His voice snags painfully on the heavy, ugly sobs trapped in his throat, breaking and cracking. "I—I don't think he ever really did."

For a single second that feels a whole lot longer, Hamegg stares silently back at him, dark brows arching higher and higher, and the disbelief written all over his face clear as black ink on white paper, etched into the lines around his eyes and the lines around his mouth and the deep furrows in his forehead, before he finally says—softer now, and kinder, almost— "What do you mean? Who told you that?"

Astro doesn't want to say it. He doesn't want to tell Hamegg the truth. He doesn't want Hamegg to know. He doesn't want Hamegg to see that. He doesn't want Hamegg to see him like that. He doesn't want Hamegg to see the indisputable and undeniable and obvious truth that he just isn'tsomething that anyone could ever want.

But it will only hurt more if he doesn't. It will only hurt more if he doesn't say it now that he's got the chance, because Hamegg will just keep going like this, keep pressing and pressing and pressing on the aching, ugly purple bruises all over him.

"I didn't exactly need to be told. I saw the contract for myself." The blunt and bitter truth of it scrapes at the back of his throat, over the tip of his tongue, against the roof of his mouth, and it's rough like sandpaper, stinging and scratching and burning everywhere it touches. "He signed it. Case closed."

"Contract?" Hamegg narrows his eyes and furrows his brow. "Like what kind of contract?"

Like he really doesn't know. Like he still can't figure it out even with all the pieces of the puzzle laid out in front of him, even though it's so indisputable and undeniable and obvious, because why the hell else would Astro be here? If there was anyone left on this planet who could actually stand to put up with some stupid screw-up robot kid hanging around them twenty-four seven, why would he be stuck with Skunk Kusai?!

This is what happens to robots when no one wants them.

How does Hamegg not see that?!

"Like a conveyance kind of contract. Where he relinquished all rights over me and transferred them to Mr. Kusai. He sold me away for a measly sixty thousand dollars." His voice trembles, tries to break. "He doesn't give a damn about me, and believe me, he's never going to."

Astro tries to push out a scoff, but it's shaky and unsteady and way too close to a sob, hanging heavy in the air like the swift, sudden drop of barometric pressure just before a bad storm, so he turns back to the television before he has to see the look on Hamegg's face, and shoves down the tight tangle of cold guilt in the pit of his stomach that tells him this isn't Hamegg's problem, he shouldn't have to deal with this, stop making him deal with this, stop putting this on him, it's not on him, it's not his fault, it's not his fault no one in their right mind could ever actually want a robot for a son, it's not his fault no one could ever actually want you for a son, it's not his fault that Dad just woke up one day and realized that.

It's not even really Dad's fault when it comes down to it, because no one in their right mind could ever actually want a robot for a son, no one in their right mind could ever actually want him for a son, and that's not really anyone's fault.

It just is.

So there's no point in getting angry about it, and there's no point in crying over it.

But it's just not fair. It's not fair that he's finally swallowed down the sharpest edges of his own grief, that he's finally come to terms with the fact that no one wants him, that he'squietly buried his dream that he'll be rescued, that he'll make it out alive and he'll get to go back home to his dad, and Orrin, and Dr. Elefun, and Cora and Zane and Widget and Sludge, because he knows that dream isn't coming true, and he knows no one wants him.

But now here comes his dad, completely out of nowhere, with all these promises, and all these lies, and it's just not fair, because it's not true! It's not true, and he's not going to fall for it again! He's not going to be the stupid, clueless little kid trying not to cry, asking why don't you love me anymore? He's not going to do that. He's not that stupid, clueless little kid anymore. He doesn't get hurt like that when people leave him behind anymore. He doesn't let himself get hurt like that when people leave him behind anymore.

Maybe he really did fall asleep in the shower, and this is all just a dream. Maybe, any second now, he'll wake up and he'll still be in the bathtub, collapsed on the soaking-wet soap-slick linoleum with the burning-hot spray pouring down over him like rain, and when he gets out, Hamegg won't be nice to him, and Hamegg won't let him in the house, and Hamegg won't give him real, actual clothes that don't make him look like a mindless sex doll, and Hamegg won't let him take his old jacket back and Hamegg won't keep his promise, and all of that would make so much more sense than this.

Or maybe this is just another one of Mr. Kusai's tests. Maybe he created this whole fake broadcast from the ground up (and Astro knows he could do it, because Mr. Kusai can do anything, so you can't fight him and you can't lie to him and you can't hide from him and you can't get away from him and you can't even trust your own eyes, because he can do anything) just so Hamegg could play it for him, just so Hamegg could be nice to him and let him in the house and give him real, actual clothes that don't make him look like a mindless sex doll, and let him take his old jacket back, and promise not to hurt him and promise not to use the SAI software, and stick with it as long as it takes for him to really believe it.

Only now Hamegg will rip off the mask, and he won't be nice anymore, and everything will go right back to normal: Hamegg will still hate him, and his dad still won't want him, and he'll still be the same worthless, overpowered piece of scrap he's always been.

So Astro can't believe this.

He can't believe any of this.

He can't trust anything his own eyes tell him.

Because Mr. Kusai can make anything look real, even if it's not, and that would make so much more sense than all of this. Anything would make more sense than all of this.

Hamegg blows out a long breath, runs a hand through his hair, and flicks a glance between Astro and the television and back again. "Y-You know what? Stay here for a second, kiddo. I'll be right back." He doesn't even wait for an answer before he heads out of the room with heavy, thumping footsteps, the old iron stairway groaning tiredly under his shoes.

And then Astro is alone in the empty living room, the soles of his boots glued to the ground and his heart lodged in his throat.

This isn't real.

This can't be real.

Because Dad doesn't want him.

Because he never actually wanted a robot for a son at all, and Astro can't really blame him for that because no one in their right mind would. Just because he never talks about it doesn't mean he doesn't know that he's not even a halfway-decent stand-in for a real, living and breathing, flesh-and-blood human kid, and he's tried so hard to make up for that, to apologize for it, to say he's sorry for it in every way possible except out loud, to be the perfect son in every way he could, to earn whatever love his dad had left to give him, but it wasn't enough, he wasn't enough, he wasn't good enough, so Dad just got rid of him.

And that's fine! That's fine! Whatever! It doesn't hurt when people leave him behind anymore! He doesn't let it hurt when people leave him behind anymore!

But now Dad is here, in front of a rolling camera on live television, to tell the whole world that he loves Astro and he misses Astro and he's looking for him and he's never giving up on him and he'll never stop trying to bring him home, and what is he supposed to believe? He saw the contract with his own eyes, but now he's seeing this too, and the contract obviously makes so much more sense, because no one in their right mind could ever really want a robot for a son, no one in their right mind could ever really want him for a son, but why would his dad be here if he didn't want him? Why would his dad show up to the vigil and say all of that and waste his time and waste his breath if he didn't want him?

It doesn't make any sense.

The contract was definitely real. And it wasn't a fake, and it wasn't a forgery.

But this is real, too. So it has to be some kind of dream, or a trick, or a test, just another one of Mr. Kusai's tests, just another way for him to hurt Astro as much as he can — like holding a plate full of food out in front of a starving man and snatching it away when he tries to grab for it.

Hamegg comes back into the room.

Astro doesn't actually see it, because he can't look away from the television screen (he can't look away from his dad) but he can hear it loud and clear: the old iron stairway groaning tiredly, the footsteps thumping heavily, and he can feel it, too, when Hamegg grabs his wrist and pulls him gently over to the sofa, pushes him lightly down onto the end cushion with a faint squeak of worn-out springs.

Hamegg sits down beside him, in the middle seat, with another, slightly louder squeak of worn-out springs, and—

—and he slides a tablet, with its screen glowing that familiar, sickly, too-bright blue-white in front of Astro, where it hums and vibrates on his knees, showing him a dozen blocks of tiny black text all lit up with that blinding glare.

But he doesn't need to read it. He just skims through the first line — this agreement, dated and signed on the 20th day of October 2043, by and between William Umataro Tenma — and he knows exactly what it is, because it already built a home in his brain five months back, and it's lived in there ever since. His throat blocks up like he's going to cry, but he's not, he is definitely not going to cry about the dad who doesn't want him, and never did, and why is Hamegg doing this to him?

Why can't Hamegg just leave him alone?

Astro wants to shove the tablet off his lap and let the hard plastic shell splinter into a hundred thousand pieces all over the warped, dirty floor. He wants to grab it and throw it at the television so hard that the screen cracks in half and it all goes to static, so he can't see his dad and he can't hear all the lies. He wants to grab the tablet in his fist and crush it, shove it back in Hamegg's hands and tell him to leave me alone leave me alone why can't you just leave me the hell alone?!

But it's all he can do to stare at the bright white screen, and swallow so hard it hurts.

"W-Why are you doing this?" he says, finally, low and hoarse and so quiet he's not even completely sure Hamegg can hear him, and he's not even completely sure he wants him to. "Why are you making me look at this? I already know what it says. Believe me, I know."

Hamegg actually winces at that, sucking in a sharp jagged breath like Astro has just punched him in the face, but he doesn't take the tablet back, and he doesn't leave him alone. "All right, look, can you just—can you just sit here and listen to me for—for ten minutes? Please?"

And Astro wants to say no thanks — actually, he kind of wants to say fuck off as loud and mean and angry as he can, and he wants to shut the tablet off so he can't see the contract anymore, and he wants to click off the television so he can't see his dad anymore and he can't hear all the lies anymore, and he wants to go back to the workshop so Hamegg can deactivate him and he can drift off into the deep black numb of nonexistence where he doesn't have to think about anything and he doesn't have to feel anything.

But.

But he could do all of that if he tried.

Because Hamegg didn't tell him to stay here.

Hamegg didn't tell him to listen.

It wasn't an order, so he doesn't have to do it. It wasn't a command, so he doesn't have to obey. And Hamegg probably doesn't even know what he did. Hamegg probably doesn't realize that he didn't trigger the laws of robotics, and he'd probably go back over what he said and turn it into a direct order if he did realize it, but—

But Astro stays exactly where he is.

And it's the first decision he's made for himself in five months.

"Right," Hamegg nods, slow and careful, like he didn't actually think Astro would really stick around long enough to hear him out (but that would mean he does know what he did, that he does know he didn't trigger the laws of robotics, that he did know what he was doing when he said what he said, that he didn't want it to be an order, that he wanted Astro to have a choice, but that—that can't be right, can it?) and now he's got to take a minute to work out what he wants to say before he can go on. "Right. Okay, so, first off… you're famous as all hell, you know that? I-I mean, you're practically a celebrity. Even before all this went down, everyone knew your name. Everyone within a million miles of Metro City knows who you are. And they've all been out there searching for you from day one."

Astro really doesn't think that everyone in the entire city has turned out to search for him, because he can come up with at least a dozen different people who definitely didn't like him all that much before he got in Mr. Kusai's car that night, and they probably don't like him any better now that he's gone, but he doesn't say any of that to Hamegg, because (and he knows it's hopeless, pointless, useless, he knows this is one dream that will just never come true, simple as that) maybe Hamegg really can explain all of this away. Maybe he really does have some kind of hard evidence hidden up his sleeve that will justify or exonerate Tenma in one way or another. Maybe he can definitively prove, beyond so much as a shadow of a doubt, that this was all just some stupid and outrageous and unbelievable lie that Mr. Kusai made up to mess with Astro's mind.

Like a magician pulls a rabbit out of a hat, maybe Hamegg can pull out some sort of excuse for the name on the contract in front of him.

"And Kusai knew that would happen. He knew you'd be all over the news, and everyone would be talking about you. He knew he'd have a hell of a time holding onto you, so…" Hamegg tips his head at the tablet screen. "So he did… what he always does when he adds a real big-name robot like you to his collection."

Astro drops a reflexive glance down at the contract as the full weight of that statement slowly sinks in. This is what Mr. Kusai always does? Does that mean he doesn't actually own any of the robots in his collection? Does he just steal them? Does anyone ever actually sell their old and unwanted machines to him, or does he just take the ones he wants? And does it even matter if he owns them or not when he treats them like he does?

"—gives him a kind of legal leg to stand on if everything goes south, plus it can get people to believe you're actually his," Hamegg goes on. "Or, at least, it'll make 'em turn a blind eye when they find out you're not. Plus, it makes you stay put wherever he takes you, 'cause no point in running if you've got nowhere to go, right?"

Astro's head pulses and pounds, desperate to find any kind of crack or hole or gap in what Hamegg is telling him — he did what he always does when he adds a real big-name robot like you to his collection and it gives him a kind of legal leg to stand on and it can get people to believe you're actually his, and it makes you stay put wherever he takes you—

"But I—I didn't stay put," he says, finally. "I did run away from him. About a hundred times. It just…"

(—the steady red light off the shiny black DRD lens, and the crystal-clear full-color footage playing back on the screen, and Mr. Kusai's hands on his shoulders and Mr. Kusai's hands in his hair and Mr. Kusai's electric whip tearing into his back and Mr. Kusai's ice-cold glass-clear voice saying I hope you know I didn't like that any more than you did, I don't like to hurt my robots if I can help it, but you left me no choice—)

"It—It just…" he swallows, so loud he's sure Hamegg can hear it. "It just never worked."

"Y-Yeah," Hamegg says, finally, and a little bit awkwardly, after a long minute of tense silence. "Yeah, I mean… obviously, it didn't work, but… What if it had? What if you had gotten away from him? You're telling me you wouldn't have gone straight to Tenma with a list of names longer than your own leg?"

Astro doesn't even need to think about it. "He's hurting robots. I'm not just going to let him keep doing that if I've got the power to stop it."

"That's what I thought." Hamegg rolls his eyes. "And Tenma would have gone straight to the cops, and the cops would have turned around and busted Kusai on about a billion different charges. So…" He lifts one shoulder in a loose, lazy half-shrug, and gestures to the tablet again. "He had to come up with something to make sure you'd stay the hell away from Tenma, even if you did make it out."

Oh.

Astro freezes, his breath barely more than a faint, rough rasp at the very back of his throat, as his brain just kind of—whites out, short-circuits, shuts down, nothing but a blank blue screen for a solid minute or two, because he—

—he's thought about it so much in the past five months. He's rolled the question around in his mind like a shining marble, he's picked at its edges and plucked at its corners like a shirt that's just too small to fit, turned it on its sides and back to see it from every last angle, but it's always made so much sense, it's always added up and it's always evened out and it's always fit together, because no one could ever really want a robot for a son and no one could ever really want him for a son, but—

—but he's never thought about it like this.

Astro tried so hard to run away from Mr. Kusai — about a hundred times, just like he told Hamegg.

But he never tried to get back to his dad.

Not after that first week.

Because one week blurred into two, and two weeks blurred into three, and three weeks blurred into four, and one month blurred into two into three into four into five, smearing into and smudging over themselves like wet paint on a white canvas, and Mr. Kusai locked him up in tiny dark trunks and handed him off to strangers he'd never seen and zapped him with burning-hot electric shocks and beat him with a live-wire whip on his back and struck him with a big brass hammer and tore out his wires and slammed his head into a wall and screamed in his face and called him horrible names, and his dad didn't come.

This whole nightmare could have ended long before it ever began if his dad had just come for him that night, or the next day — or the day after that, or even the day after that.

Dad could have come for him.

Dad could have saved him.

And Astro hates that he ever wanted that — he hates himself for all the nights curled up in the dark, tiny trunk with his knees pulled to his chest and his eyes squeezed shut while the car rumbled slowly down the long and winding roads, pretending his dad was out there on a big, city-wide search for him, and he'd never give up until he found him, because he loved him more than anything in the world.

Sometimes, he would pretend his dad had already found him, and he wasn't really locked up in a pitch-black trunk. He would pretend that everything was so dark because he was in the backseat of his dad's car in the middle of the night, and Orrin was in the driver's seat, whistling one of his bright, cheery tunes under his breath, and his dad was right there next to him, with a warm, gentle arm around his shoulders to hold him close all through the long ride home, and he was saying I've missed you so much, I've missed you more than I can say, I've been looking all over the world for you, I would have given up everything I've ever had just to find you, and I'm so sorry I didn't get here sooner, I'm so sorry it took me so long to figure out where you were, but I'm here now, and I'm taking you home, and Skunk Kusai will never come near you again, Skunk Kusai will never hurt you again, because I'm here now, and I'll keep you safe, I'll never let this happen ever again, I'll never ever let anyone hurt you ever again, and I love you, I love you, I love you so much, and I'm so sorry he tried to make you believe I didn't.

But Dad didn't come.

Because he doesn't care.

"So why didn't he come to get me?" Astro doesn't mean to sound so bitter, but that's the way his voice comes out. "My power source gives off a ton of energy wherever I go. If he really wanted me back that bad, he could have just followed its trail. It's not exactly rocket science."

Hamegg glances pointedly at Astro's neck. "Kusai never takes that thing off you, does he?"

"The KURI?" Astro jerks a hand up, on blind reflex, to wrap his fingers around the cold iron ring at his throat, all smooth shining metal where soft warm skin should be. He can feel the frantic kick of the Core in his chest as it pushes its power uselessly against the inflexible barrier that holds it back — it's trying so hard to save him from all the hundred thousand threats around him: the tablet on his knees, the television still playing the broadcast, and Hamegg, so close to him that their shoulders and their knees almost touch. "No, but he—he turns it off sometimes. When he needs me to use my powers for something."

"Yeah, I figured as much," Hamegg dips his head down in a quick nod. "A robot's energy signals can't travel past a KURI."

"What?" Astro jerks his head up to lock eyes with Hamegg, so fast that his vision whites out in a dizzy whirl of spinning, blurry pixels again, and his heart aches with the sudden swell of hope, the desperate maybe maybe maybe— "A-Are you serious?"

A robot's energy signals can't travel past a KURI.

That's what Hamegg says.

That's exactly what Hamegg says.

And Astro knows because he can hear it, even with only one functional ear, so he knows he says it, and he knows he's got it right because his electronic brain logs everything, even when he's not listening, but it's all a million miles away from him, because everything is suddenly a million miles away from him — or maybe he's a million miles away from everything, floating deep underwater where no one can find him, all alone at the bottom of a dark, vast ocean, and he can't tell if the rushing river in his veins is grief or hope or terror or fury or relief, because it's a million miles away from him, or he's a million miles away from it, and nothing makes any sense at all anymore.

Of course he wants to believe it more than he's ever wanted anything in his entire life — even more than he wanted to believe his dad had it all wrong and he wasn't really an actual robot, even more than he wanted to believe the other kids would still like him if they knew the truth about him, even more than he wanted to believe that Hamegg would still like him if he knew the truth about him — but one week blurred into two, and two weeks blurred into three, and three weeks blurred into four into five into six into seven, smearing into and smudging over each other like wet paint on a white canvas, and Mr. Kusai locked him up in tiny dark trunks and handed him off to strangers he'd never seen and zapped him with burning-hot electric shocks and beat him with a live-wire whip on his back and struck him with a big brass hammer and tore out his wires and slammed his head into a wall and screamed in his face and called him horrible names, and his dad didn't come.

(But maybe that's just because he couldn't find him. Maybe that's just because of the KURI ring. Maybe it's just that the Core's signal can't get out, so his dad can't get a lock on his location. But what if it's not? What if Hamegg is lying to him? What if it's not really the KURI at all? What if his dad just doesn't want him?)

Honestly,who could ever really want him, anyway?

The truth is ugly, and it lodges in his chest like a stone, so cold and hard and heavy he can barely breathe around it. The truth is ugly, and it aches inside him like a brand-new bruise. The truth is ugly, and his nonexistent, entirely metaphorical heart flinches away from it, doesn't want to look at it, doesn't want to touch it, cries out for a dad that doesn't want him and doesn't love him and never will.

The truth is ugly, but it's the truth.

And the truth is, who could ever really want him, anyway?

And the truth is written on the screen in front of him in stark black ink — Dr. William Tenma, with that big sweeping flourish he does on his uppercase T, and it's not a fake, and it's not a forgery.

The truth is ugly, and it lodges in his chest like a stone, and it aches inside him like a brand-new bruise, and his heart flinches away from it.

But it's the truth.

And he can't pretend it isn't.

"But it's—it's got his signature," he just barely squeezes it out past the too-tight knot at the back of his throat, so it comes out all choked and shaky and hoarse like he's about to cry (but he's not, he's not, he's not going to cry, and he knows he's not going to cry, he hasn't cried in months, because it won't help, it won't make it better, not when everything is too big to come out of him in his tears, and he is not going to cry so much as one more tear over the dad that doesn't want him and doesn't love him and never will). "The contract… it has his signature on it, Hamegg. It's the real thing. I can tell."

"Uh… yeah?" Hamegg frowns, with a quick glance down at the too-bright screen like he has to see it for himself one more time to be sure. "Yeah, I mean… I'd be pretty surprised to hear it wasn't the real thing, to tell you the truth. Like I said, it—it kinda gives him a legal leg to stand on, and everything, in case something goes south for him. Besides, you know how easy it is to get a guy's signature, don't you?"

Mr. Kusai did work in the Ministry of Science, a tiny, hopeful voice somewhere inside him whispers. Mr. Kusai did work as Dad's intern. Mr. Kusai did have access to all of Dad's files. He could have gotten that signature from any one of them. And Dad probably never even knew.

But.

But he's been down this road once already.

And he knows exactly what's waiting for him at the end of it.

"Mr. Kusai put you up to this," he says, slowly, and it's not really a question, because he already knows the answer. He already knows this can't be real. He already knows that his dad can't really love him. "Mr. Kusai put you up to this, didn't he? That's what this is, isn't it? All of this—" he jerks his head up to hit Hamegg with a glare, chin up and jaw set, his teeth clenched and his mouth a firm line, steeled for the bone-shattering impact of the ugly truth, "—Mr. Kusai told you to do it, right?"

"What?" Hamegg rears back like Astro's just punched him, but half a second later, and his face scrunches up in a furious scowl instead. "No! For Christ's sake, what do you think I am? Some kind of lackey? Kusai doesn't 'put me up' to anything! I'm his mechanic, not his servant! And I don't play any of that mind game crap like he does, either!"

There's a knife-edged note of real anger in his voice now, and Astro thinks he'd probably fall for it if only he didn't already know better.

But that's the thing — he knows better.

The truth is ugly, but it's the truth.

And the truth is, who could ever really want him, anyway?

"That's funny," he says, low and bitter and mean, and he stares pointedly at the TV so he doesn't have to look at Hamegg — so he doesn't have to see the second the mask falls off, and the warm brown eyes go cold as ice and all the skin-deep syrupy-sweet kindness melts away like sugar in the rain. "Because you sure played a lot of that mind game crap last time we met."

The absolute silence from the other side of the sofa is so much louder than the television could ever be.

But Astro isn't about to stick around and wait for whatever Hamegg will do next — if it's not just another round of lies, it'll be a sharp, burning-hot electric shock, or the stinging bite of a whip on his back, or a screaming, furious face pressed right up against his, or horrible names echoing for hours (or black-gloved hands on his shoulder, wrapping around and around all the loose and fraying and multicolored wires pushing up out of his skin, and yanking on them so hard that his vision flickers out to fuzzy, grey-white static like an old television as the agony overwhelms him, or black-gloved hands in his hair, slamming his head into the wall over and over and over) because now Hamegg knows he doesn't have to be nice anymore, so he won't be nice anymore. Hamegg has probably been dying to hit him for the last week, to hurt him even worse than Mr. Kusai ever has, to hate him loud enough that it rings in his ears for the rest of his life.

So Astro pushes the tablet up off his knees and sets it up on the armrest of the sofa, and he pushes himself up off the cushion, and he heads straight for the stairway with his chin up, his jaw set, his teeth clenched and his mouth pressed into a firm line, his shaking hands balled up in white-knuckled fists.

He doesn't want to do it.

He wants to see his dad.

Because it's been (so much longer than) five months now, and he misses his dad like a bruise that just won't heal — a constant, endless ache that thrums and throbs and pulses in perfect lockstep with his heart — and he doesn't care if it's all fake, he doesn't care if his dad doesn't really mean it or miss him, he doesn't care if his dad doesn't really want him back and doesn't care about him and didn't come for him and doesn't love him and never did.

But if he stares into that tearstained face or listens to those lies for too long, he really will believe it.

And he's not going to do that.

He's not going to play right into Mr. Kusai's hands like that.

Because he knows his dad doesn't love him.

And he doesn't care if Hamegg gets mad at him. He doesn't care what Hamegg does to him. He doesn't care if Hamegg zaps him with a burning-hot electric shock or beats him with a live-wire whip or screams in his face or calls him horrible names or tears out his wires or slams his head into a wall, because he already knows what all of that feels like, so he knows it won't be any worse than this.

So he walks straight past the television with his chin up, his jaw set, his teeth clenched, his mouth pressed into a firm line, his shaking hands balled up in white-knuckled fists, and he rounds the corner to the creaking, rusted stairway, and—

"I—I'm sorry about that."

What?

Astro freezes where he stands, his whole body locked up like prison doors as his electronic brain parses out and processes this brand-new byte of auditory input — which takes just under zero-point-zero-seven seconds, but it feels so much longer than that because he has to slow it down, play it back in his head again and again and again like a broken record until it makes some kind of sense, except that it never does.

Because Hamegg would never say that. Not to him. Not ever.

But he heard it loud and clear, even with his right ear all blocked up like it is.

He finally spins around to face Hamegg full-on, wide-eyed and openmouthed and stunned silent.

"I didn't—I mean—" Hamegg rubs at the back of his neck so roughly, it's like he's trying to tear his own skin off, and he does that thing again where he looks all around the room so he doesn't have to look at Astro. But in the end, he just breaks off with a heavy and huffy and frustrated kind of sigh, biting down on his bottom lip and glowering silently at the cracked brown stone under his scuffed black shoes, his jaw clenched like he's got a million words locked away in his mouth, but he doesn't say so much as a single one.

The quiet stretches out longer and longer until Astro thinks it will never end — that he'll just stand here and stare at Hamegg all night, with wide eyes and open mouth as he plays it back in his head again and again and again like a broken record until it makes some kind of sense.

I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about that. I'm sorry about that.

That's what Hamegg said.

That's exactly what Hamegg said.

Except that—humans don't apologize to robots.

For anything.

Ever.

Because why would they apologize to a robot when they don't have to? Why would they apologize when they've got the legal right to do whatever they want to any robot who crosses their path, and no one will ever think twice about it and no one will ever bat an eye at it and no one will even care about it, because they're just using robots the way robots are meant to be used and robots are just junk waiting to happen and who's going to give a fuck about one little robot anyway, so why would anyone ever waste their breath on an apology when they don't have to?

Why would Hamegg apologize when he doesn't have to?

"I shouldn't have done that to you," Hamegg says, finally, his palms on his knees and his voice so quiet it's barely even a whisper, but his brown eyes are locked on Astro's face now, and he doesn't look away this time. "You didn't deserve it. I was taking a lot of crap out on you that didn't have anything to do with you. So I'm sorry. About that."

In a dull and distant and disconnected kind of way, Astro can feel his legs carry him away from the staircase, back into the living room, as his stiff fingers slowly unfold from white-knuckled fists, palms stinging faintly from the pressure of his own short blunt nails digging into his soft skin. He still wants to turn around and walk away and forget all about this, put it out of his mind and pretend it never happened, pretend he never saw any of this.

But now he's not so sure he can.

It would be so easy to write off everything else—the clothes, and the shower, and I'm not going to do that, I'm not going to do that to you, ever, I don't want that, I don't want to do that to you, as long as you're here under my roof, no one is going to do that to you—because anyone could do those kinds of things. Anyone could let him take a shower, and give him real, actual clothes to wear, and look away while he gets dressed. Anyone could feed him empty sugary-sweet promises that don't actually mean anything and they won't really keep anyway, but—

—but humans don't apologize to robots.

And Hamegg just did.

And he can't really tell exactly what he's trying to say he's sorry about — that he came up with the entire concept of the Robot Games to begin with? that he turned such a horrific, inhumane idea into reality? that he never stopped to think about all the hundred thousand million robots that would inevitably pay the price? that a hundred thousand million robots did pay the price, and he never cared about them? or is it just that he put specifically Astro in the Games, but never mind all the rest? or maybe that he lied to Astro about the Games, made him think it wasn't what it actually was? that he stripped Astro bare in front of all the other kids, ripped away the closest thing he'd ever had to a real family, handed him the last bit of definitive and undeniable proof that no one could ever look past the steel under his skin long enough to actually like him? or is it just that he blamed Astro for ruining the Games earlier, back in the shop? — but whatever it is, he can tell that Hamegg is trying, that he really means it when he says he's sorry, that he's actually feeling bad about it, which means—

—which means Mr. Kusai really didn't put him up to this.

Which means that all of it — the clothes, and the shower, and when he looked away while Astro got dressed, and when he said I'm not going to do that, I'm not going to do that to you, ever, and then he didn't (even when Astro practically threw it at him, he still said he didn't want it, he still said he wasn't going to do it, he still wouldn't take it, and he's had a million chances now to do what he wants, take what he wants, and get it over with, but he still hasn't done it) and I'll handle it myself, don't you worry about that and it's a miracle you're even alive, kid and I'm sorry about that and can you just sit here and listen to me for ten minutes, please and anyone could do all of that, anyone could give him all of that, anyone could say all of that, but—

—but Hamegg is the only human who ever has.

"Y-You're… sorry?" he echoes, mostly so he can make sure he really did hear that right, as he edges haltingly back over to Hamegg, closer and closer, one tiny hesitant step at a time, numb and cold even in his borrowed jeans and long sleeves and double layers. "You're… apologizing? To me? But I—I'm—" —a robot— "—and you're—" —a human— "—and y-you don't—" —and humans don't apologize to robots—

But Hamegg cuts him off with a snort. "Look, don't push your luck, kiddo. I'm not saying it again."

"Oh," Astro says. "Um…" he nods. "Okay."

He glances back to the TV instead, so he has an excuse to look away from Hamegg, and maybe so he can also catch one last glimpse of his father before the broadcast ends. The screen is still blasting all its color and noise and light at him, so loud it's all he can hear, and so bright it's all he can see — that massive crowd of six hundred people standing somber and silent in the dark street with their heads bowed low and their flickering yellow-white candles clutched tight in their hands, and Hamegg really isn't lying, is he?

Mr. Kusai really didn't put him up to this.

All this time, he's been telling the truth.

So if he's—if he's not lying about everything else—

—if he's really not lying about everything else, then—then maybe—

—I am never giving up on him, I will never stop trying to bring him home, I am never giving up on him, I will never stop trying to bring him home, I am never giving up on him, I will never stop trying to bring him home—

The tablet is lying there on the armrest with the contract up on the screen.

But Hamegg said it was a fake.

Hamegg said the contract was a fake. Hamegg said Mr. Kusai made the contract himself just so Astro wouldn't run away. Hamegg said it wasn't real. Hamegg said it wasn't true. Hamegg said it was all a lie. Hamegg said Mr. Kusai made it all up. Hamegg said—

Astro pulls in a deep breath.

"Just… tell me the truth," he says, quiet, but quick, too, because he has to say it before he can stop himself, he has to say it before he can talk himself out of it, before his brain can eat away at itself again, before his brain can remind him that no one in their right mind could ever really want a robot for a son, no one in their right mind could ever really want you for a son, just look at you, how on earth could anyone ever want you? how on earth could anyone ever love you? "P-Please, Hamegg, just—just tell me the truth. Did he… did my dad…?" But his voice just kind of gives out on him right there in the middle, a sharp and sudden break, and he drops limply back down into his seat on the sofa beside Hamegg. "D-Did my dad do this to me, or not?"

And he's got his jaw set, his teeth clenched, his mouth firm, steeled for the bone-shattering impact of the truth, for the second that it all comes crashing back down again, for the moment that Hamegg finally finally finally just comes clean with him and says—

"No." And it's—it's so firm, and it's so final, and Hamegg is—he's so sure of himself when he says it, so completely and absolutely convinced, like the alternative is totally unthinkable, and he can't even picture a world where he's wrong, like he can't even picture a world where his dad actually did— "No. He didn't."

"E-Even though I—?" Even though I'm just a robot? Even though I'm not Tobi and I can't even pretend to be? Even though I get in so much trouble and I make so many messes? Even though he never actually wanted a robot for a son? Even though no one in their right mind could ever actually want a robot for a son? Even though no one in their right mind could ever actually want me for a son? Even though I'm not a halfway-decent stand-in for a real human kid? Even though Dad's already had the real thing and I'll never measure up to that even if I try for the rest of my life? Even though no one could ever really want me? Even though no one could ever really love me? Even though I'm—? "E-Even though I'm me?"

Hamegg's whole face just goes soft all of a sudden, the hard lines smoothed out and the sharp edges smoothed away. His eyes are so kind when he looks at Astro then, and his hand is so gentle when it comes down on Astro's shoulder, firm and warm — and he does it so slowly that Astro could pull away if he really wanted to, but he stays still and he stays quiet and he lets it happen, even as his eyes sting and burn with another swell of hot blurry tears that he has to blink away.

"He misses you," Hamegg says, soft as his face and kind as his eyes and gentle as his hands, warm as his palm on Astro's shoulder. "He really misses you, kiddo. He's been looking all over for you. See… here…" he plunges a hand in his pocket and slides out his beat-up old cell phone, where he taps a finger on the smudged and cracked screen until it lights up — as soon as it does, he pulls open a web browser tab and types three short, simple words into the search bar, all lowercase:

astro boy missing.

It takes less than thirty seconds for eight million results to pop up on the screen.

Astro can feel his eyes stretch wider and wider in his face as he scans down the two dozen links just on the first page: Dr. Tenma Tearfully Pleads for Missing Robot's Safe Return and Local Man Pleads Guilty to Astro Boy's Kidnap in False Confession and Bone-Chilling Voicemail Left from Missing Robot's Cell Phone and Astro Boy Allegedly Spotted in North Bay Area and Mutilated Remnants of Humanoid Robot Found on Wright Avenue and Could This Be the Final Chapter in the Search for Astro Boy? and Haunting Final Footage of Astro Boy Recovered from Metro City Federal Bank and ASTRO BOY: Actual Disappearance, or Elaborate Government Cover-Up?

And it's—it's all for him. All these articles and essays and crazy conspiracy-theory blog posts, all these videos and interviews and official statements from the MCPD about the "case" (and it shouldn't even be a case, because the police never search for missing robots unless their owner pushes for it with everything they've got, unless the owner says they want their robot back, except no human ever does that when they could just go out and buy a new one, so that means)—

"Your dad's been looking all over for you," Hamegg says, again, still in that soft and kind and gentle and warm way, and he's rubbing his hand lightly back and forth in the space between Astro's shoulders like he's doing his best to soothe a scared or sad or sick little kid. It should feel embarrassing, or patronizing, but instead, it just feels… really nice. "And so has everyone else."

All this time, Dad has been trying to find him. All this time, Dad has been missing him, and searching for him, and looking for him, and waiting for him, and wanting him to come back home.

All this time, Dad has loved him.

The guilt crashes over him barely half a second later, settling heavy in his stomach like a stone, as he stares into his father's devastated face on the television screen and realizes he did that. He did that to his dad. He put those tears in his father's eyes, and he put that heartbroken look on his father's face. And his dad has already lost one son, and it pushed him so far over the edge that he constructed a perfect mechanical lookalike just so he could pretend it didn't happen, just so he could pretend Tobi was still there, and he still had all the time in the world to make up for the eleven years he'd missed.

So he must be even worse off now than he's ever been. He must feel like he's just lost Tobi all over again. And Astro did that to him.

"I remember the moment Astro opened his eyes for the first time."

The new voice that rings out from the television isn't his dad this time, but he knows it just as well, and he looks up so fast that the whole world blurs out into a colorful smear of whirling pixels again, and he has to shake his head from side to side to get his vision back online, with a quiet click from the inside of his skull, and—

—and Dr. Elefun is on the screen.

Dr. Elefun is right there on the television screen, so agonizingly close and so painfully far away all at once, just like Dad, and he's exactly the same as he always is — two thick puffs of white hair on the sides of his head like clouds, and the shiny bald patch right on top, and a plain brown sweater where his lab coat should be. He's not crying, but his mouth quivers at the corners like he might, and his soft, kind eyes shine with tears.

"And I've loved him ever since."

A small gasp slides out through Astro's half-open lips, too quick to stop it, and too loud to pretend it didn't happen. He tries to swallow around the hard block in his throat, but he can't, because there are a million memories flooding into his mind like a river, and he feels like he's overflowing with them — I can't see into the future, but I'm sure there's a place for you, you just to have to find it, and this isn't your fault, you know (even though it was, really, because if he just wasn't him, then maybe his dad could have loved him) and this is wrong, Tenma, and you know it (even though it wasn't, really, but he had still tried so hard to help, he had tried so hard to stand up for Astro and stand with Astro even though he had to have known he'd be standing all alone)—

"I've had the incredible privilege," Dr. Elefun goes on, and a small smile flickers across his face, sad at the edges but with so much warmth and fondness in it that Astro can barely believe it's meant for him, "of seeing him grow up into an extraordinarily brave and wonderfully kind young man who has never failed to be a loyal friend to anyone in need. Time and again, he has astonished me with his compassion and humanity."

Astro never even knew that Dr. Elefun actually liked him all that much.

Of course, Dr. Elefun has always been nice to him. He always smiled whenever he saw him, and he always said a quick hello whenever they encountered each other at the Ministry, and he always put his own work on pause to pay attention to him, even when he had a really tight deadline on his latest project, and he always invited him to come in and hang out in his lab for a little while, and he always congratulated him after a successful mission, and he almost never slipped up and called him Tobi, and when he did, he would always apologize, he would always say oh, sorry, Astro, I'll get it right next time, I promise, and then he always did, so Astro knows that Dr. Elefun did like him a little.

But he always just kind of assumed that Dr. Elefun didn't really like him so much as he liked robots in general, and he just happened to fall into that category. It wasn't really a personal thing. It wasn't really specific to Astro. It was just that he liked robots as a collective whole, so he only liked Astro as much as he liked any other robot.

Dr. Elefun, he realizes, suddenly, with another horrible stab of sour guilt in the pit of his stomach, was just as kind to him, and just as patient with him, and just as friendly toward him, as Mr. Kusai ever was. But he always brushed it off and told himself that Dr. Elefun was just being nice, that there was no way the guy actually liked him that much, and he shouldn't read anything into it.

Dr. Elefun was always nice to him. But he ignored it right up until it came from somebody else.

Until it came from somebody who treated him like he was special.

A small handful of stinging tears finally spill from the corners of his brimming eyes, trickling down his cheeks and dripping off his chin, and he can't stop them, or hold them in, or choke them off. A tiny, reflexive sniffle slips out barely a second later, and he wipes at his nose on knee-jerk impulse, even though he doesn't actually have to, because his sinuses don't get all blocked up when he cries anymore (because he doesn't have even have sinuses anymore) but he still remembers when they did. He presses a hand tight to his mouth to try and hold back the sobs trying to burst out of him.

"But right now, Astro is the one in need. And we must do for him as he has always done for us."

Astro's breath hitches and hooks in his chest, collapsing into a little shaky hiccup, and he bites down, hard, on his bottom lip, to make himself shut up and stop that goddamn whining, but there are just so many people in that crowd on the television, and he couldn't count them all even if he tried.

There's the kind old lady who lost her home in the Peacekeeper's wild rampage last year, who cried for her cats when she realized they must have died in the ruins, and cried harder when Astro finally found them for her, alive and safe and okay. There's the little boy who blew a tire on his hoverbike, and watched with wide, rapt eyes while Astro showed him the right way to put on the spare, and hugged him around the waist and said thank you, Astro Boy! when he got up to leave. And there's the woman who couldn't carry all her groceries by herself, so he took her bags up to her apartment on the fourth floor for her, and three days later, she mailed him a personal thank-you card. And there's the man from the bank who almost lost his whole family in that freak fire the day Astro got in Mr. Kusai's car, and he burst into tears when Astro raced over with his daughter in his arms and assured him that she was okay. And there's Mr. Maeda, with his thick silver mustache, and his stiff, arthritic knees that make it so hard for him to take care of his flower garden, so Astro used to go over there every Sunday at noon to help him pull up the weeds and water all the plants.

And there's—

And there's Cora.

It's hard to make out much about her with the way the camera is angled toward Dr. Elefun, but that's definitely her, with another burning candle clutched in her hand, and all the other Surface kids clustered around her in a tight knot: Zane and Widget and Sludge and Grace, their heads ducked down low over their flickering tapers.

All of his friends are out there.

It looks like maybe the entire city is out there.

It looks like the entire city is out there for him.

(Astro has never felt so loved in his whole life.)

Sooner or later, the broadcast comes to its inevitable close, with one last look at Nancy Delaney, pulling her red-painted lips upward in another sad smile.

"If you have any information regarding Astro Boy's disappearance or current whereabouts," she says, seriously, "we ask you to please call the MCPD and report what you know. All we want is to see our superhero return safe and sound. Good night, Metro City, and happy birthday, Astro, wherever you are."

And then it just cuts to a commercial.

Just like that.

Astro doesn't know how he's supposed to hold all this grief and terror and guilt and hope and love inside him without bursting open or breaking apart right here on Hamegg's sofa.

The tears are drying on his face, and he can feel the sticky, damp trails all over his cheeks, so he reaches up to try and wipe them away, but his hands are shaking so badly that he just spreads it around instead, smearing the stains until he's sure he must be a complete and total mess, his breath shuddering and snagging on its way out of his mouth—

—and then there's a warm hand on his, all of a sudden, and it's pressing a small scrap of white cloth into his open palm.

He stares down at it for a slow, drawn-out second, blank and silent as his overloaded brain begins to connect the dots, little by little — he's so completely overwhelmed right now that he's running at least half a dozen steps behind on everything — but it takes him too long to actually do anything about it, and he can tell it takes him too long because Hamegg huffs out a heavy, irritated sigh, and snatches the handkerchief back again.

And he's pretty sure that's going to be the end of it, but then Hamegg leans over, and grabs his chin in rough, callused hands, and tilts his head up a little higher, and—

—and brushes the soft cotton over his tearstained cheeks, easy and gentle and featherlight.

Oh.

Hamegg is cleaning his face for him.

Astro wants to cry all over again.

But he doesn't do that — his head buzzes, and his eyes sting, and his throat burns, and his whole body aches, but he doesn't cry, because he doesn't do that anymore, so he just stays still and quiet on the sofa while Hamegg gently dries the tears off his cheeks.

It feels like it lasts forever.

It feels like it's barely a second.

It feels like he blinks, and it's over, and Hamegg is pulling back and pulling away, with the cloth still clutched in one hand, to stare at Astro full-on, and his face has gone soft again, all the hard lines smoothed out and all the sharp edges smoothed away (and Astro realizes, all of a sudden and out of the blue, with a funny little jolt in the pit of his stomach, that this is exactly the way he looked at him when he said I'm not going to do that, I'm not going to do that to you, ever, and as long as you're here under my roof, no one is going to do that to you)—

Hamegg clears his throat.

It's loud in the silence.

"Listen, kid," he says, "I've got to—to duck outside for a real quick second. There's—uh, there's just something I've really got to do. It shouldn't take me too long, but can you just—just hang out in here 'til I get back?"

And it's—it's not an order.

Again.

So Astro doesn't have to listen.

And Hamegg has to know what he's doing by now, doesn't he? But he—he's still doing it, he's still giving him the chance to say yes or no, to decide for himself, to make his own choices and his own decisions and pick out his own path, he's still giving him the independence and the agency he had once, the independence and the agency that Mr. Kusai stole from him, but even that feels like a fairy tale now, doesn't it? Once upon a time, I was as free as a robot could be, and I could say no whenever I wanted to, and I didn't have to ask the humans around me for permission to stand up, or sit down, or speak my mind, I didn't have to do whatever they told me to do just because they told me to do it, I didn't have to listen to them, I didn't have to obey them, I actually had my own free will.

Hamegg holds out the cloth for him to take.

Astro stares at it for a slow, drawn-out second — blank and silent as his overloaded brain begins to connect the dots, little by little — before he finally reaches out and takes it. He wants to say thank you, but he just can't speak.

"The remote's over on the TV stand," Hamegg tells him. "So you can change the channel to whatever you want, okay?"

And his voice is warm when he says it, and his hand is gentle when he claps Astro on the back, but his face is dead serious, and a tiny little squirm of unease twists itself up in a tense tangle in the pit of Astro's stomach, tighter and tighter and tighter until he's sure it'll break clean in two, and it doesn't loosen up even when Hamegg pushes off the sofa and gets to his feet and leaves the room, past the rusted iron stairway up to the workshop, and through the kitchen, and straight out the back door, which slides shut with a soft, mechanical hum.

Is Hamegg mad at him?

He can't actually come up with any specific thing he did wrong, but Hamegg just looked so serious, and so upset, and he's always doing something wrong, isn't he? Mr. Kusai wouldn't hurt him so much if he wasn't always doing something wrong. Mr. Kusai wouldn't hurt him so much if he wasn't such a brat. Mr. Kusai wouldn't hurt him so much if he wasn't him.

But no one ever plays nice with him when they're mad at him — he slips up, and the consequences are immediate, a burning-hot electric shock or a live-wire whip on his back or black-gloved hands tearing out his wires or black-gloved hands tangled in his hair and slamming his head into the wall until he sees bright rainbow lights or little white firecrackers, until his throat is shredded and raw and so hoarse he can hardly speak, until he can taste the echoes of his own screams every time he swallows. No one ever plays nice with him or holds back on him when they're mad at him, and no one ever pretends they're not mad at him when they actually are.

So that has to mean Hamegg isn't mad at him, right? Because he wouldn't wait to punish Astro if he was mad (or, at least, Astro doesn't think he would) and he wouldn't need to worry that Mr. Kusai might get mad at him for it — so long as they can repair or repay whatever damage they inflict, Mr. Kusai doesn't care about anything that other people do to Astro.

(Sometimes, when he's really screwed up, Mr. Kusai will tell them to do more, don't go easy on it now, come on, don't hold back, it'll never learn from its mistakes if it isn't properly disciplined, it needs consequences for its actions, and it's a lot tougher than it looks, so don't hold back, it can take whatever you want to give it.)

No, Astro really doesn't think Hamegg is going to hurt him.

Even if he is mad at him.

And that's probably a stupid thing to think, but Hamegg is being so nice to him. Hamegg let him wear real, actual clothes that don't make him look like a mindless sex doll. Hamegg looked away while he got dressed. Hamegg said he would handle it if Mr. Kusai found out about it and got mad. Hamegg said I'm not going to do that to you, and then he didn't. Hamegg made him a promise, and he didn't break it. Hamegg said can you just sit here and listen to me for ten minutes, please, and Hamegg said can you just hang out in here until I get back, even though he didn't have to ask — he could have just ordered Astro to stay put, but he didn't.

Hamegg let him have a choice.

Hamegg let him make the decision for himself.

And he told Astro the truth about his dad. And he said he was sorry about the Robot Games. And he cleaned Astro's face for him when he couldn't do it for himself with his shaking hands. And he gave Astro his handkerchief. And he's not mad at him. And he's not yelling at him. And he's not hurting him.

Hamegg is not going to hurt him.

Hamegg is safe.

For the first time in five months, Astro isn't scared.

The constant pulse of white-hot panic at the back of his brain dulls down to a distant murmur before it finally dies away completely, and all the hundred thousand knots of nervous tension in his tired body slowly begin to settle and slacken, pulling looser and looser with every calm and steady breath he takes. Without the frantic thrum of terror in his chest, the exhaustion sinks into his bones once again, heavier than ever with the weight of everything that's happened tonight.

Maybe he should be happy. His dad didn't sell him, and his dad is still looking for him, and his dad said he'll never give up, and he'll never stop trying. His dad actually wants him back. His dad actually cares about him. His dad actually loves him. And Dr. Elefun loves him, too. And his friends were out there at the vigil. And the entire city was out there at the vigil. And it was so much more love than he thought he would ever receive in his entire life. It was so much more love than he's ever deserved. It was so much love, and he didn't do anything to earn it.

Or maybe he should be sad, because he can never go back home, even now that he knows it's still waiting for him. That broadcast was the closest he'll ever come to being with his friends and family again. It doesn't really matter if they miss him, or if he misses them, because he'll never get away from Mr. Kusai, and he knows better than to even try.

Or maybe he should be angry, because Mr. Kusai lied to him. Mr. Kusai made him believe that his dad didn't love him. Mr. Kusai made him believe that his dad sold him away. And he was stupid enough to actually believe it for five months.

But he's not happy, or sad, or angry. He's just numb, blank as a sheet of brand-new paper, or a blanket of fresh-fallen snow.

He just wants to sleep.

No, actually, he doesn't want to sleep — he wants to wait up until Hamegg comes back inside and find out what's going on with him, make sure he's okay and make sure nothing is seriously wrong, and he wants to wait up until the news comes back on, he wants to know about everything that's going on back home, make sure everyone is okay up there, too — but his brain is so burned out with all the ten billion electrical impulses it's sent out and taken in over the past half hour that it's trying to shut down anyway, a soft whirr playing faintly in his head like a lullaby, pulling him deeper and deeper into the dark…

---

APRIL 7 2044

8:59 PM

Okay, so Hamegg doesn't actually have anything he desperately needs to do at this exact minute, but he's got to get the hell out of the house — to get away from Astro, to get away from the crushing gravity of everything that's just happened, to get away from the painful twist in the pit of his stomach and the dull ache in his chest — and the minute he's out under the open sky, with all the piles on piles of junk and garbage and filth stretched out as far as the eye can see, it's so much easier to remind himself that this is going to be worth it.

This is going to be worth it.

This is all going to be worth it just as soon as he gets his hands on the money. This is all going to be worth it just as soon as he gets the hell out of this dump and gets his life back on-track. This is his second chance, his one-way ticket to greener pastures, his easy open-sesame to everything he's ever wanted.

This is all going to be worth it, and he is not going to give up on it now.

Not when he's so close.

Not when he's right here on the brink of something better.

(There has to be something better.)

But that's pretty cold comfort right now, with his head stuffed so full of Astro that he can hardly think about anything else except that goddamn kid, looking so small and sad on the torn-up old sofa, his whole body trembling as he sneaked those quick, furtive glances at the TV screen like he didn't want Hamegg to see him do it (like he didn't even want to do it at all, like he literally couldn't stop himself) and his little voice so shaky and quiet, and all the things he said—

—he doesn't give a damn about me, and believe me, he's never going to, and why are you doing this? why are you making me look at this? and why didn't he come to get me? and isn't he glad that I'm gone? and even though I'm me? with his big brown eyes brimming and sparkling, his face wet and sticky and stained with actual, honest-to-god tears, his palm pressed to his mouth even as his tiny frame shuddered with sobs, and Hamegg—

—Hamegg has never met a robot that could cry before.

It's a—terribly human thing to do.

It's a thing only humans do.

Which means it—it couldn't be a preprogrammed response, because robots can't do it. Only humans can do it.

The truth sinks in slowly, like a dye tablet dropped down in a glass of water—bright color bleeding gradually through the clear, stirring up little swirls and eddies that get faster and faster, bigger and bigger, as Hamegg's insides tangle up tighter and tighter until it all crashes over him at once, in a dizzying ice-cold wave of stark, undeniable reality.

This is real, isn't it?

Astro is real — beneath all the wires and circuits and steel, he's just a little kid, with all the same feelings and emotions and reactions and responses as any other little kid, and Hamegg knows because he's seen it with his own eyes, he's seen him get mad just like any other little kid (I'm not going back in the arena and he doesn't give a damn about me, and believe me, he's never going to, and he sold me away for a measly sixty thousand dollars, and you sure played a lot of that mind game crap last time we met) and he's seen him get scared just like any other little kid (he'll be really mad if he finds out you gave me clothes and he'll be really mad when he finds out you let me drink so much oil, his head ducked down and his shoulders bunched up like he was trying to brace himself for a blow, or a beating, even) and he gets loud just like any other little kid, and he talks just like any other little kid, and he smiles and laughs and frowns and sighs and glares and scowls (and cries) just like any other little kid, and he—

—he really is just a little kid, isn't he?

Hamegg doesn't want to believe it — he wants to back the hell out of this whole mess, wants to run away from the obvious conclusion his logic is trying to lead him to, he wants to shake his head and say no, wait, that can't be right, that can't be true, that can't be real, I've got it wrong, he wants to brush it off and push it aside and pretend this whole night never happened, because everyone knows that robots don't have real feelings, they can't have real feelings, because if they did—

(—the millions on millions of tiny, centimeter-wide cuts littered all over the battered body, and the shredded synthetic lips chewed to pieces in a haze of pain, the ripped and wrenched and dislocated shoulder, the blown valve in the ball-jointed knee, the busted clamp in the elbow, the hundred thousand torn-up wires sticking out from under the paper-white skin, and its optical systems were functioning at seven-point-three percent yesterday, and the number has probably dropped since then, and you'll have to speak loudly and clearly if you're trying to talk to it, but there's not much point in that and 18+ SAI software installed and activated and thank you, you called me Astro, no one's done that for a while and I'm not permitted to access it and he won't care, just knock a couple grand off the price and he'll know what it's for and he won't care, no one ever does and he'll be mad, he'll be really mad if he finds out that you gave me clothes and he'll be really mad when he finds out you let me drink so much oil and I saw the contract for myself, he doesn't give a damn about me, and believe me, he's never going to—)

—if they did, this would all be real.

And that's the whole point of robots — that they can't feel it, they can't feel anything, they can't feel sad or scared or sick or lonely or anything at all, so anyone can do whatever they want to a robot, and it won't matter, and it won't hurt anyone, because it's just a robot.

But Astro is so much more than that.

Astro is just a little kid.

So he can really feel all the same emotions a real little kid can.

And he can think all the same thoughts and do all the same things and say all the same things and want all the same things a real little kid can. He can hurt in all the same ways a real little kid can.

He can hurt in all the same ways that Hamegg's kids can.

The thought strikes like a bolt of lightning straight out of a clear blue sky, so hard it knocks all the breath out of him until he's left with empty lungs, and he can't stop himself before he thinks about his kids with millions on millions of tiny, centimeter-wide cuts littered all over their bodies, his kids with their lips ripped and raw and bloody, his kids with fractures and breaks and scrapes and bruises, his kids locked up in rooms at the Hotel, his kids with blinded eyes and deafened ears, all alone in a world that doesn't give half a damn about them—

Hamegg wants to throw up.

This is real.

And it's not okay.

Astro is a little kid just like one of his little kids — and Skunk Kusai snatched him off the street and messed around in his brain, ripped out his capability to say no to anyone or anything, made him so he couldn't fight back, or run away, or speak up for himself, made him so he had to listen, and he had to obey, leased him out like a vacant house to anyone who could afford to rent him, handed him off to other self-important, money-hungry bastards like Virgo and Hawk and Rolfe, and they never think twice about roughing up a robot if it gets them the results they want (Hamegg's chest goes tight to think about the kinds of things they probably did to Astro) and loaned him out to the Hotel, where any man can just walk right on in and ask for a night with any robot he sees (I'm perfectly capable of taking a shower, and I'll be ready to service you afterward, in that dull and flat and mechanical and robotic way, with that look of complete resignation on his tiny, exhausted face)—

Kusai abducted and imprisoned and enslaved and trafficked a little kid.

And Hamegg—

—Hamegg is not going to be a part of it.

No, he's completely and totally done with this whole fucked-up mess, and he's got to call Kusai right now and tell him so — he's got to call him and tell him to get your behind down here and get your stupid robot out of my house and don't ever call me again, don't ever try and hit me up for a job again because I'm not doing it, I'm done, we're done, this is over, this was my one last job and now it's over, it's done, I'm through with it, so you need to go and find yourself another mechanic for all this shit because it sure as hell won't be me anymore, I'm not going to do this anymore, I've had it, I'm done, so you need to come and pick this kid up right now or I'm throwing him out into the junkyard and he can run back home to Metro City for all I care, but he's not staying another night here, he's not staying another second here because I can't do this anymore, I can't look at him anymore, I can't fucking look at him anymore—

But.

But if he does that, then Astro will just go right back to Kusai, who will imprison and enslave and traffic him some more, and he'll go to self-important money-hungry bastards like Virgo and Hawk and Rolfe, who never think twice about roughing up a robot if it gets them the results they want, and he'll go to the Hotel where any man can just walk right on in and ask for a night with any robot he sees, and he'll go to other mechanics who won't be Hamegg, so they obviously won't be anywhere near as good as Hamegg, and it's not like Kusai really gives half a damn about his machines so long as they can still do the work, so he'll probably send the kid off to total idiots who can barely tell a flathead from a phillips, and absolute morons who call it a repair when it's nothing but duct tape and desperate prayers, and then Astro will be left damaged, in pain, barely functional, so mutilated it's a miracle he can still walk upright, and—

(—he won't care, just knock a couple grand off the price and he'll know what it's for, he won't care, no one ever does—)

—and he could go to other mechanics who actually use the SAI software while they've got him. He could go to other mechanics who make him do it every goddamn day, over and over, right up until the repairs are completed and he has to go back to Kusai, and it'll be the same thing there, too, because Kusai will loan him out to the Hotel again the second he's stable.

And that's if he's ever actually stable enough to go back to the Hotel, because what if he's not? What if the damage is too bad, and he dies all alone on a dirty lab table in some seedy wayside body shop where no one gives a shit about him, and Kusai shrugs it off and just goes out to get a new robot instead? What if Kusai gets carried away with that whip of his, and he accidentally kills Astro one day? Or what if he kills Astro on purpose? What if Astro doesn't even live to see the summer?

What if Astro doesn't even live to see next week?

And how the hell is Hamegg supposed to just—just hand him right back to the guy who did all this to him in the first place, and know that he could get beaten within an inch of his life again? He could be even worse off in less than a month, limp and lifeless on another mechanic's table.

Astro could die.

And Hamegg would never know.

No, Astro will die — the millions on millions of tiny, centimeter-wide cuts littered all over the battered body, the shredded synthetic lips chewed to pieces in a haze of pain, the ripped and wrenched and dislocated shoulder, the blown valve in the ball-jointed knee, the busted clamp in the elbow, the hundred thousand torn-up wires sticking out from under the paper-white skin, and its optical systems were functioning at seven-point-three percent yesterday, the number has probably dropped since then—

Sooner or later, Astro is going to die in the rings.

Sooner or later, Kusai is going to kill him.

And there is nothing Hamegg can do about it.

But that's—that's not actually true, is it? Because there is something Hamegg can do about it. There is something Hamegg can do right now that would stop this whole fucked-up mess dead in its tracks.

He could get Astro home.

He could get Astro home right now, and all it would take is one quick call to the police, to Tenma, to anyone in Metro City, to tell them I've got Astro Boy here with me, I've got your famous robot, I've got your superhero kid, he's down here on the Surface, he's down here in my workshop, but he's not safe here, he needs to go home tonight, he needs to go home right now—and they'd come flying down here in a matter of minutes, with their flashing lights and blaring sirens, and they'd take him away, back to the glittering world he came from, and—

—and Kusai would get wind of it inside a week.

And then it would be Hamegg's face on the milk cartons, in the full-color pictures on the seven o'clock news, and his skull brimming with lead bullets and riddled with holes, his body bagged up and sunk in the filthy, stagnant lake two streets over, his body set on fire and dumped in the nearest ditch, because that's what happens to you when you speak up about shit on the Surface, and the only way to stay alive is to stay the hell out of it, tell yourself that you didn't see what you thought you saw if that makes it any easier to swallow, because that's the only thing you can do.

You do not rock the boat.

You do not ask questions.

You do not involve yourself in shit that doesn't involve you.

And you do not double-cross the robot smugglers—that's rule number one right there, and Hamegg knows so much better than to break it, than to stick his neck out for anyone.

Because he would disappear.

And no one would ever find him.

No one would ever even look for him, because he's just some broke old bum on the Surface who's spent the last ten years striking sketchy deals under the table with the local lowlifes, so everyone will just shake their heads and shrug it off and say he probably deserved what he got, because everyone knows people only ever wind up poor or alone or dead if they really deserve it, right?

No, he—he can't do this.

He can't take Astro home. He can't break off the deal. He can't call the police, he can't call Tenma, he can't call anyone, because he's in too deep now, and if he tried to walk away or back out, Kusai would hunt him to the literal ends of the earth, for the rest of his life, on and on until he's six feet under.

And he is not going down like that.

Not for anyone.

Not even Astro.

So he hauls in one last deep breath, holds it in his lungs for a long minute, tries to settle his raw and frazzled nerves, and he heads back into the house, where the rusted beat-up clock on the kitchen wall tells him it's more than half-past nine already, and the TV is still playing quietly in the living room, and Astro is—

—Astro is fast asleep, passed out like a light on the far end of the sofa, slumped over on his side with his dark, spiky head on the armrest and a tiny, anxious pinch between his brows, a frown tugging at the corners of his half-open mouth, the handkerchief still clutched loosely in one limp white hand, his knees pulled halfway to his chest like he dozed off before he could curl up completely.

Hamegg pulls to a dead stop in front of the sofa, staring silently down at the kid on the ripped-up, diamond-pattern cushions.

Even in his sleep, he looks completely and totally exhausted.

And he looks so young.

He looks just like any other little kid at the end of a long day.

Jesus, Hamegg can't fucking do this—can't hand him off to Kusai, can't let him go back and go through all of this again, can't let him go back and get hurt again, can't let him go back to Virgo and Hawk and Rolfe, can't let him go back to the Hotel, and Jazz, and Coyote, can't let him go back to Kusai, can't let him go—

—but it's—it's not like he's really got a whole lot of choice, is it?

It's hard to swallow around the cold lump of rock-hard guilt, heavy as a stone in his throat.

He doesn't try to wake Astro, because there's really no point in that — it's best to leave him as he is and let him get as much rest as he can right now, since Christ knows Kusai won't give him that kind of luxury — but he can't walk away, either, can't tear his eyes off the kid's tiny little face, all tense lines and tangles of unease even in his sleep, and he thinks, all of a sudden and out of the blue, about the sharp shivers and shudders and spasms that wracked Astro's slight frame, his arms wrapped tight around his own body, and the thermal valves, they're not really working—

Might as well go the whole nine yards and get sucker printed on my forehead in big red letters, Hamegg thinks, wryly, but he pulls the thick woolen blanket off the back of the sofa anyway, and he drapes it lightly over Astro's small, sleeping form, tucking it gently around his tiny shoulders so it won't slip off even if he tosses and turns in the night.

The kid stirs a bit when the fabric settles over him, murmuring and mumbling incoherently under his breath, but it's drowsy and dazed and completely incomprehensible, and he doesn't open his eyes even a fraction before he sinks right back into deeper sleep again — his body relaxes, comes loose, all the straight strained cords of rigid tension easing away, and the furrows in his forehead smoothing out like ripples on a lake.

And Hamegg is absurdly and inexplicably relieved to know that he definitely won't get cold in the middle of the night now, that he'll wake up warm and safe and far away from Kusai, and—

—and Hamegg hopes, absurdly and inexplicably, that Astro is dreaming good dreams.