Chapter Text
T0M-A1 stands at attention, eyes forward, waiting for instructions. He waits in the corner of the brightly lit room, blank as stone, letting the flicker of artificial lights above him pass without a single thought. He feels nothing. He thinks nothing. He is an instrument, precise and reliable. No thoughts beyond his programming. No emotions to cloud his judgment. He doesn’t look at his handler, Judge, as the man comes in and begins typing something into the terminal across the room. T0M-A1 is nothing.
Just a useful tool.
Across the room, Judge mutters under his breath, irritation lacing his tone, and T0M-A1 catches the word “dog” tossed carelessly in his direction. He registers the sound, not the sentiment—an echo that bounces in the silence, skittering across his mind like static.
In the background, the faint hum of Judge’s voice quiets, and T0M-A1 hears his cue: “Turn around.” He does so on instinct. Mechanically. He makes no attempt to look Judge in the eye; his vision remains unfocused, drifting slightly past the man as his gaze lands instead on the wall behind him. Judge watches, appraising. T0M-A1 knows his job. He is here to obey.
“You’ve been assigned to the next mission,” Judge says, typing commands into the console, the blue light casting shadows on his face. “Public appearance. Same as usual.”
T0M-A1 waits for the rest. But nothing comes. He realizes, faintly, that he isn’t supposed to process the small gap in time, isn’t supposed to wonder at all why his programming feels restless at the thought of “public appearance.” There are no questions. His directives are to complete the objective with efficiency, to maintain the cover, to ensure that Tommy Watson, model son of the nation’s hero, remains the smiling face in every headline, every camera angle.
He has been told before that he must appear innocent.
T0M-A1 doesn’t question the directive, but some unbidden part of his mind recalls that word. Innocent. The memory of the word triggers a hazy feeling, a blurry wisp of something intangible, something he’s sure isn’t supposed to be there. It’s faint, like a flickering light at the edge of his vision, a memory he’s unable to grasp.
“What are you waiting for, mutt?” Judge snaps, breaking the haze.
The slight sting of the word doesn’t linger in T0M-A1’s mind for long. It wasn’t designed to. There is no value in a response, and so, T0M-A1 simply nods and steps forward, mechanically, every footstep carefully measured, even as Judge mutters to himself.
They leave the room and step into the hallway. T0M-A1 moves with silent precision, his steps echoing faintly off the sterile walls, and he thinks only of the mission. His mind cycles through his list—ten words, nothing more, nothing less. Obey. Do not learn without supervision. Protect the mission. Do not harm handlers.
But a vague, unwanted sensation pulses at the back of his mind. Not pain, not really. A tickling, inescapable prickle that doesn’t fit into his directives. It’s as though something presses against the walls of his mind, a lingering echo of the word that isn’t supposed to matter: innocent.
As they walk, the memory presses closer, a flash of a small boy standing in front of a house, hands stretched toward a figure with soft eyes and an open smile. The boy is laughing, and for a moment, T0M-A1 feels a faint sensation at the edge of his awareness—an impression of warmth, of something fragile and warm. Something soft, delicate, and precious, like glass catching the sun.
The memory cuts off, leaving him blank once more. Empty. T0M-A1 blinks, recalibrating himself. This memory—this feeling—serves no purpose. He must focus. He cannot remember innocence if he is to succeed.
Judge interrupts, muttering, “Keep up. They don’t pay me enough to deal with lagging mutts.” His tone is sharp, dismissive, and T0M-A1 obeys, quickening his step. He doesn’t ask why. He doesn’t question the instructions, doesn’t consider whether “lagging” should concern him. His mind is silent again, reverting to the default.
They reach the preparation room, and Judge halts, turning to T0M-A1. “Do you remember the routine for public interviews?”
T0M-A1 nods mechanically. “Yes, sir.”
“Then let’s go over it one more time,” Judge says, his tone clipped as he pulls a tablet from his coat pocket and taps a few commands.
T0M-A1 stands still, waiting, observing his reflection in the glass wall beside him. He takes in the sight, studying his own blue eyes, the golden blond curls framing his face just as they’d styled it to appear. He knows his role, his instructions: look innocent, look young, look… human. Every strand of hair, every angle of his face was crafted to project that image.
The glass reflects back only what it was told to reflect, but T0M-A1 looks closer. For the first time, he realizes that his own eyes appear as empty as the glass.
He feels… something. It’s nothing tangible, nothing clear. A faint thread of unrest, something that buzzes low under his programming. This something pulses, a thread of doubt slithering just beneath his thoughts. But it has no place here. It isn’t on the list.
Judge snaps his fingers, pulling T0M-A1’s attention back, and the sensation fades, buried under the next instructions. “You’ll be appearing with…,” Judge pauses, eyes narrowing as he scrolls on the tablet. “Me."
Judge curses under his breath, and gives T0M-A1 a glance. " As my son. They just have to give me the worst missions with you, don't they?” Judge scrolls through the tablet, barely sparing T0M-A1 a glance. “Remember your name. You’re Tommy Watson. Son of the country’s hero, aka me. And when we call, you smile.”
T0M-A1 nods. His mind processes the command and categorizes it as vital. Smile. Smile like it’s genuine. Smile like you’re human. This is his objective, the only directive that matters. He will complete the mission, just as always.
The final instruction rings in his mind as Judge leads him toward the stage: Obey.
But, as the lights go up, the prickle of that fragmented memory lingers—of warmth, of someone soft and kind. He doesn’t understand the memory or why it resurfaces as he steps in front of the cameras. The crowd is already applauding, and a photographer calls his name, but for the briefest moment, T0M-A1 feels something almost like… curiosity.
Then, just as quickly, he remembers his ten words, and the memory fades to darkness.
Wilbur sits a few rows back, among the audience, half-hidden behind a few chattering fans. His eyes are fixed on the stage, watching Schlatt and the kid—Tommy Watson—put on their show for the public. Schlatt, tall and broad, leans over now and then, giving Tommy that proud look, ruffling his hair just so, the whole thing like some meticulously staged family portrait. Tommy beams up at Schlatt, pressing close, laughing at every joke, eyes crinkling with adoration that reads as so real it almost stings.
Wilbur can’t help the pang in his chest as he watches. He loves his dad, he does, but something about the way Tommy looks up to Schlatt, the way Schlatt rests a casual hand on his shoulder, radiating pride—it’s just… too perfect. Almost out of place against the gloss and glare of the cameras, like they’re a magazine cover come to life. It’s such a picture-perfect image of a father and son, and he can’t tear his gaze away.
He wonders, fleetingly, what it might be like to have that kind of relationship. The thought surprises him, curling its way under his skin as he watches Schlatt lean over to murmur something, causing Tommy’s eyes to light up, his grin so bright it lights up his whole face. That expression—Wilbur has seen it before, but only ever in the eyes of people who have families, who have parents who make them feel safe. Schlatt’s fingers brush over Tommy’s hair, gently scruffing it before he straightens, grinning as the boy tilts his head back, laughing like they share a secret only they know.
And Wilbur… he shifts uncomfortably, some strange, raw thing rising in his throat. His dad is Philza, the man everyone knows as the immortal, the unyielding protector of their family. He’s never known Phil to be anything less, never once seen him off guard, soft, or open like that. Phil loves him, he knows that much. But Wilbur can’t remember a time his father has held him the way Schlatt holds Tommy now, like he’s cherished, like he’s a person worth putting on display.
Something bites hard in his chest. Is that what he’s missing? He loves his dad—he does, he would follow him anywhere, has always looked up to him like no one else. But when he watches Tommy and Schlatt, it feels like watching something alien, something out of reach. Something he never realized he wanted.
The applause roars as Schlatt finishes a story, pulling Tommy close to him with a look that feels like warmth. Wilbur watches Tommy beam up at Schlatt, and he feels something within him twist, a heavy sense of envy almost. He hates it. Jealous of a fourteen-year-old. The thought tastes bitter, and yet it’s inescapable.
Why can’t Dad ever look at me like that?
And it’s strange because he knows his father loves him, has proven it countless times. He remembers his father teaching him how to fight, training him with that unyielding focus, never giving less than his absolute best. But that’s all it ever was—training. Efficiency. Wilbur can’t think of a time his father has ever given him a look of pure, unbridled pride like Schlatt gives Tommy. Maybe that’s just not how Philza is, and he should be grateful for what he has.
But when he looks up and catches Tommy’s expression, warm and open, it hits him that he’s never had that with his dad. The pang intensifies, and Wilbur grips his seat, fingers curling tight around the armrests as he watches. It’s not fair to his father to feel this way, but a part of him wishes he didn’t have to only love Philza in the abstract. He wishes he could feel it the way Tommy seems to feel for Schlatt—like it’s his whole world, like he’s seen.