As (Y/N) gets dressed for school, he feels uneasy and unable to pinpoint the source of his unease. He walks outside to his childhood friend Tess, who they had made a habit of walking to school together. As they walk, Tess annoys Silver, who is unabl...
A shaft of morning light speared through the dusty window, illuminating a worn photograph on (Y/N)'s bedside table. It depicted two young faces beaming back at him – one, his own, the other a girl with bright, mischievous eyes – Tess, his closest confidante. A pang of nostalgia tugged at his spark core as he carefully tucked the picture away.
Memories flickered to life as he stepped out into the sterile hallway, the harsh fluorescent lights a stark contrast to the warmth of the past. A cheerful greeting cut through his reverie.
"Good morning, sleepyhead!" Tess chirped, her voice like a melody in the monotonous hum of the JCJension facility.
(Y/N) managed a weak smile.
"Morning, Tess."
Together, they entered the imposing Elliot mansion. (Y/N), a member of the (L/N) family tasked with Worker Drone maintenance, carried the weight of responsibility far older than his years. Just a generation ago, Worker Drones were nothing more than automated mining tools. Now, they were the invisible backbone of human society – maids, servants, laborers, all toiling under the harsh glare of human expectations.
Maintaining this vast network of drones has become a mammoth undertaking. JCJension, struggling for funding, had turned to a controversial solution, mirroring the tenant farming practices of a bygone era. Enter the Sunlight family, who, for reasons (Y/N) never fully understood, had volunteered (or perhaps been pressured) to become caretakers of the drones assigned to specific sectors of the city.
The Elliot mansion, a sprawling monument to wealth, loomed before them. The Elliots were notorious – infamous for their extravagant soirees and their callous disregard for the drones that kept their opulent world spinning.
Descending into the bowels of the mansion, (Y/N) and Tess entered the dank, airless basement. The stench of sweat and machine oil hung heavy in the air, a grim counterpoint to the gleaming opulence above. Here, huddled in the dim corners, were the Elliots' Worker Drones – their metallic bodies radiating not just weariness, but a deep-seated fear.
(Y/N) cleared his throat, his voice soft yet carrying a quiet authority.
"Alright everyone," he called out, "it's checkup time."
The Worker Drones – J, V, and N, their faces perpetually etched with apprehension – looked up at (Y/N) and Tess with a flicker of something akin to hope. Unlike the other caretakers who treated them like soulless machines, (Y/N) saw them – truly saw them. He saw the flicker of sentience behind their vacant optics, the spark of fear for their very existence.
"Don't worry," Tess added, her voice laced with empathy. "We're here to help. We promise."
Tentatively, N, the lead drone, stepped forward. His black uniform, once crisp, hung limply on his emaciated frame.
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"N?" (Y/N)'s voice held a hint of relief. "Is that you, buddy?"
N nodded slowly, his metallic voice barely a whisper.
