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Patch, a Short Story

Writers Science Fiction posted on Dec 04, 2024
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Description


Patch, a Short Story The sounds of machinery filled the air with a relentless industrial symphony as sparks flew like fireflies in the dimly lit factory. Automated arms swung with precision, while workers clad in protective gear moved about with a purposeful urgency. Amidst the organized chaos, the factory manager, a human colossus named Mr. Totheson, his frame more suited to an ancient arena than the high-tech forge before him, stood resolute. His brawny arms were crossed over his chest, his square jaw set in a firm line as he regarded the figure before him. "It's not possible," Mr. Totheson's voice boomed above the din, "I can't build an Orion Class Fighter Ship in sixteen days. Just the forging, pouring, and molding of the armor would take months to before we could start assembly." Across from him, Draco Prime maintained a placid facade, unbothered by the clamor or the seemingly impossible request he had placed upon the factory manager. The slight glimmer that danced momentarily in his eyes betrayed no anxiety, only a calm resolve that seemed out of place in the frantic environment of creation and construction that surrounded them. Draco's voice was even, betraying none of the turmoil that gripped the factory's heart. "You built the new Orion Ships in eight months, and had time to spare." It was a statement of fact, simple, yet weighted with unspoken knowledge that hinted at a plan already forming beyond the manager's immediate comprehension. "I had eight months," he growled, voice roughened by years spent shouting orders over the relentless clatter and whir of assembly lines, "and the entire factory working around the clock to do it." Mr. Totheson swept a hand toward the expansive floor where swarms of workers scurried like ants, each one an integral part of the colossal effort that produced the fleet of Orion Ships. "Eight months," he repeated, as if hoping the words would somehow impress upon Draco the gravity of what he was being asked to achieve now. Draco Prime's lips twitched upward, the hint of a grin playing at the edges as he watched the veins on Mr. Totheson's temple pulse with tension. His smile seemed to know no bounds, threatening to spill over into laughter devoid of mockery but brimming with confidence. "And now you will complete the final ship in just over two weeks," Draco declared, his voice light with a certainty that bordered on audacity. The grin on his face was almost infectious, tempting a glimmer of reluctant admiration from Mr. Totheson despite the absurdity of the situation. Mr. Totheson's eyes narrowed slightly, not quite able to dismiss the infectious hope that Draco's demeanor promised. For a fleeting moment, the Herculean task seemed less insurmountable, buoyed by the inexplicable faith radiating from the man before him. The clatter of machinery filled the air, a symphony of productivity that seemed to mock the impossible deadline. Mr. Totheson's stance mirrored his skepticism, arms wide in a gesture that beckoned for a revelation—an answer he was convinced did not exist. "Enlighten me on exactly how," he said, the challenge in his voice weighted by the burden of reality. Draco took a measured step closer, the slight glimmer in his eye now a beacon of hidden knowledge. He stood amidst the cacophony, unshaken by the towering stacks of metal and the incessant hammering that reverberated through the skeletal frames of half-built spacecraft. "You have the wreckage of the original Orion ships," Draco stated calmly, as if the ruins of past endeavors were treasure troves rather than tombs of steel and circuitry. "Surely there is enough scrap there to piece together a ship." The factory manager's brow creased with consideration, his gaze drifting toward the graveyard of fallen titans that lay beyond the assembly floor. Each piece was a testament to battles fought—a fuselage scarred, a wing clipped, memories of glory and defeat etched into their very atoms. Could it be possible to resurrect a phoenix from these ashes? The rhythmic cadence of Mr. Totheson's disbelief echoed off the cold, metallic walls as he arched a skeptical eyebrow. "A patchwork ship? Am I seamstress now?" His voice rose over the din of industry, tinged with incredulity. "And who will pilot this flying quilt?" Draco remained unflustered, his demeanor as still as the vacuum of space itself. As if on cue, his gaze shifted, resting momentarily on the scene unfolding on the ground. Amidst the hum of machinery and the clinking of tools, a boy was lost in play, tumbling about with a companion that glinted under the artificial lights. The robotic puppy tussled with the boy, its movements fluid and lifelike. The golden sheen of its coat shimmered, mimicking the softness of real fur, its eyes reflecting a spark of engineered joy. Onlookers would struggle to pinpoint the artifice within its design, so convincing was its pantomime of life. Only a deliberate, probing touch would unravel the illusion that it was anything other than a living, breathing Earth dog. Mr. Totheson tossed a grimy rag onto the workbench, his gaze lingering on the blueprints that sprawled across its surface like a cartographer's dream of the stars. His lips twisted into a smirk that didn't quite reach his eyes as he shook his head with a mixture of disdain and disbelief. "Something tells me he isn't even qualified to turn a light switch on, let alone get a warship off the ground." Draco, whose presence seemed to command the very air around him, turned his attention from the frolicsome antics of the child and the mechanical canine. He leaned back against a bulkhead, arms crossed, his expression betraying none of the thoughts whirring through his mind like the gears of the machinery that surrounded them. "He is a warship, however, I agree he will need a nanny," Draco said with a shrug, the corners of his mouth quirking upward ever so slightly. The casualness of his tone suggested that recruiting a caretaker capable of piloting through asteroid belts was as commonplace as picking up a quart of milk. The factory manager's frown deepened, his skepticism now mixed with a begrudging curiosity towards the man who spoke impossibilities as though they were mere inconveniences to be managed before breakfast. Mr. Totheson exhaled sharply, the breath whistling through his teeth, as he surveyed the cluttered landscape of machinery and half-assembled spacecraft parts. His hands, calloused from years of labor, raked through his hair, pushing back the sweat-dampened strands. He turned to face Draco, his eyes hard with resolve yet flickering with the faintest spark of challenge. "Got it, leave room for a pilot," he conceded, though the words were laced with a heavy dose of sarcasm. He grabbed a tablet from the workbench, fingers dancing across its surface as he pulled up schematics and inventory lists. "No promises, but I’ll do my best." The last bit was muttered more to himself, as if trying to instill a confidence that was hanging by a thread. He tapped on the screen, highlighting sections of the wreckage, mentally calculating the viability of each piece. The air was thick with the scent of metal and grease—a testament to the relentless effort that had gone into every ship this factory had birthed. Mr. Totheson's chest rose and fell with a deep, steadying breath. This was no ordinary task; it was a leap into the void of uncertainty, propelled by sheer willpower and the desperate need for a miracle. As he scrutinized the holographic display before him, plotting the impossible, the factory continued unabated around them. It was the heartbeat of creation, pulsing with the lifeblood of human ingenuity and stubborn perseverance. *** The colossal doors of the Dome groaned open, admitting Draco Prime into its cavernous embrace. The steel behemoth, a floating sentinel in New Haven Harbor, was a testament to human ambition. It dwarfed the surrounding structures, a monolith against the backdrop of an indigo sky. As Draco's boots echoed on the metal flooring, he cast a glance out toward the memorial garden that marked the original dome's resting place. The sight of it stirred in him a reverence for the past, for the visionaries like Jacob Hunter who had forged this path of progress and pleasure. Tourists often made pilgrimages there, paying homage to the hallowed ground of free gaming's dawn. Draco's eyes returned to the interior of the Dome as he walked. Its walls were lined with the history of humankind's expansion into the stars, etched in alloys that could weather the void. The structure was more than a monument; it was a fortress designed for deep space colonies, capable of withstanding the harshest environments. Rumors of its invincibility circulated among the inhabitants of Ares, some whispering that it could shrug off a nuclear blast. As he moved deeper within, the solidity of the dome surrounded him, a comforting weight that spoke of safety and endurance. Draco knew that if war were to rain from the skies, this would be their sanctuary. Yet, doubt gnawed at him, a persistent worm that questioned the veracity of the Dome's storied impregnability. The usual sounds of gaming and laughter was absent, replaced by a hushed murmur of unease. His gaze swept over the clusters of adult gamers lounging on benches, their fingers idly tapping on personal devices as they sought updates from home. The children were already on the submergible domes far out at sea. In the eateries, groups huddled around tables not for food, but for solace, their meals untouched and growing cold. Cherry blossom petals drifted lazily onto the heads of those who sought refuge under the trees' flowering boughs, painting a surreal tranquility in contrast to the tension that hung thick in the air. He paused, standing amid the artificial tranquility of the dome, the cherry blossoms a stark reminder of nature amidst technology. Draco’s ears tuned in to the low hum of conversation, the subtle shifts of bodies on benches, the restless shuffling of feet. It felt like the calm before the storm; a collective breath held in anticipation. These guests, stranded far from their worlds, found themselves unwitting participants in a reality that no game could replicate. With a deep breath, Draco reached into his jacket pocket and retrieved a small device, the remote access to the dome's communication systems. He pressed it firmly, and the background noise dimmed as his voice echoed through the dome's speakers, silencing conversations and drawing the eyes of hundreds to the unseen source of authority. “Greetings, visitors. I am Draco Prime," his voice resonated with a calm authority that seemed to fill every corner of the great structure. The off-worlders looked up, finding comfort in the sound of his confident tone. "This dome has had too many modifications over the years to submerge, but it is still the safest place to be in New Haven." A few nods rippled through the crowd, a silent acknowledgment of the reassurance in his words. These were gamers, individuals accustomed to facing challenges head-on, navigating unknown territories and battling insurmountable odds. Yet, this was no game, and the stakes were higher than they had ever been. "You will be permitted to remain here," he continued, his voice unyielding yet imbued with a hint of empathy, "the doors will not seal until the enemy is confirmed to be on the ground." Draco imagined the collective mental notes being taken, plans forming in the minds of these survivors. They were strategists at heart, after all. As he made the final suggestion, his voice projected an image of the game control modules – those familiar havens where reality gave way to fantasy. "I would suggest that when the time comes, take shelter in the game control modules." Draco's gaze lingered on the egg-shaped game control modules scattered throughout the dome. His eyes, steely and resolute, reflected the ambient light of the screens still flickering with worlds unexplored and quests unfinished. These enclosures, once bustling with eager players diving into virtual realms, now stood as beacons of safety in a reality that had become more treacherous than any game. “They will protect you from falling glass and debris," Draco announced, his voice cutting through the uneasy silence that had settled over the crowd. He gestured toward the ovoid sanctuaries, their sleek surfaces promising shelter from the chaos that loomed outside the walls of the First Dome. As he spoke, his fingers danced across the arm-mounted device he wore, a gesture unnoticed by many but understood by all—Draco Prime was taking action. The locks on store room doors clicked open one after the other, releasing the security mechanisms that had kept supplies and sustenance out of reach. "Access to provisions is vital," Draco continued, his tone authoritative yet laced with concern. "I am unlocking all the store rooms. Soon, there will be no staff here to assist you, our citizens are required to defend the planet." A murmur rippled through the gathering, a mix of relief and renewed determination as people began to understand the gravity of his words. They were still to be afforded their status as guests and not required to join the fight, though Draco knew many guests had voluntarily joined the defense forces. "You may enter any of the store rooms to search for food and supplies." Draco’s command was clear, direct. He knew well the importance of morale in a time of crisis. "There will be no charge to your account for any supplies you need from this moment forward. I am also forgiving all current charges on your accounts.” The announcement echoed off the dome’s walls, the impact of his decision not lost on those who heard it. The financial burden lifted, the focus could now shift entirely to survival and solidarity. Draco watched them, the gamers who had always found solace in the challenges of virtual worlds, now gearing up for a battle that was all too real. They turned to each other, nodding in silent agreement, ready to transform the dome into both fortress and sanctuary. A ripple of relief surged through the crowd as Draco Prime's voice, calm and resolute, bestowed upon them a gift they hadn't expected. Their eyes, reflecting the stark lights above, turned towards one another as if sharing a silent prayer of gratitude. The air, once thick with tension, vibrated with a cheer that rose and swelled within the confines of the dome. It was a collective release, an unspoken promise that debts accumulated in pursuit of escapism would no longer anchor their fates. “One last thing,” he said, his voice cutting through the lingering echoes of celebration. The crowd fell silent again, leaning in, hanging on his every word. “I’ve left all the boats we use for the water games tied to the south docks.” Draco’s eyes moved across the expectant faces, ensuring his message was received loud and clear. “If worse comes to worse, and the enemy is attempting to breach the dome, try to hold out until nightfall. Then use the boats to escape to shore and hide in the forest.” The weight of his directive settled over the gathered gamers like a mantle. They were players in the most consequential game of their lives, and Draco had just laid out a possible endgame strategy—a path to survival should the unthinkable occur. "Good luck to all of you," he concluded, his tone imbued with a gravitas befitting the Ares Prime. As the transmission ended, the shared silence transformed into a low murmur of determined resolution. Draco stepped down from the dais, his boots echoing on the metal floor. In each step, there was the unwavering resolve of a leader who knew the cost of war, yet dared to believe in the resilience of his people. *** Draco's silhouette cut through the diffuse light of the dome, a towering figure moving with purpose among the clusters of anxious faces. He paused, the soft hum of ventilation systems and distant murmurs forming a somber backdrop as he laid a comforting hand on the shoulder of a young man who sat hunched over a holochess board, pieces frozen mid-battle. "Stay sharp," Draco said, his voice steady and reassuring. "We'll need minds like yours when the dust settles." The young man met Draco's gaze, a flicker of determination reigniting in his eyes. As the Ares Prime moved on, his presence drew others out of their self-imposed isolation. A woman clutching a replica of a famed battle cruiser approached him, her expression wrought with worry. "Prime, will they... Will our defenses hold?" she asked, her fingers tracing the lines of the miniature ship. "Your model is of the 'Indomitable' from Tarious Nine, we do not have that cruiser in our fleet, but we do have the largest and most advanced Battleship in the galaxy, with my son installed as it’s living heart," Draco observed. “I have faith that it will hold the line.” Nodding to himself as much as to her, Draco pressed forward, his stride resolute. Each interaction was brief but impactful, each word chosen for its weight and comfort. To these off-world visitors, trapped far from home, he was more than a leader; he was a symbol of the resilience inherent in every gamer who had ever faced insurmountable odds and dared to press 'continue.' A pair of siblings caught his eye, their hands clasped together as they whispered fervent plans. Draco approached, his shadow enveloping them both. "Do not let fear dictate your story," he advised, his tone imbued with the wisdom of one who had seen countless narratives unfold. "Write it with courage, and remember that every hero needs an ally." The brother squeezed his sister's hand tighter. "Thank you, Prime." And so Draco continued, weaving through the expanse of the Dome, offering solace, instilling bravery, and fortifying the spirits of those who looked to him for guidance. In these moments, he was more than the ruler of Ares; he was the Game Master of their fates, the keeper of hope in a time where every second ticked closer to uncertainty. Pausing before the entrance to one of the dome's most cherished attractions, Draco read the marque: ‘Orion Skirmish – a new game every hour.’ He pushed through the arches, the atmosphere shifting as if transported to another dimension. Before him stretched an azure sky dotted with cotton-like clouds, a stark contrast to the tension that hung over the rest of the dome. He walked across the warm tarmac, the holographic sun casting his shadow long and slender upon the ground. The behemoth Orion class fighter ships loomed ahead, their sleek silhouettes resembling predatory birds frozen mid-strike. Each vessel was an artisan's masterpiece, crafted with deadly elegance and engineered for the dance of interstellar combat. Their hulls shimmered with the promise of velocity and power, the air around them vibrating with the silent roar of engines waiting to be ignited. For a moment, Draco allowed himself the luxury of admiration. In this arena, where gamers came to test their mettle against history's greatest battles, the line between reality and simulation blurred. But the weight of his responsibilities soon reclaimed him, the knowledge that outside this capsule of tranquility, a very real war threatened all he had vowed to protect. The boy's sudden burst of energy jolted Draco from his contemplations. With a vigor that belied the somber mood of the dome, he tugged insistently at Draco's sleeve, emitting an eager chirp as he pointed toward the array of spacefaring leviathans. The Orion class warships, even as holographic projections, commanded attention. Their hulls were a tapestry of technological might, each line and curve meticulously designed to slice through the cosmos with lethal grace. The ships bore the scars of battle in their projected images, a tribute to their storied past, yet they stood proud and unyielding, their phantasmal cannons poised in silent anticipation of a fight yet to come. Draco's gaze softened as he looked down at the boy, whose wonderment was a welcome reprieve from the gravity of impending conflict. "They're just holograms," he explained, his voice carrying a hint of warmth amidst the cold reality. "This is a game based on the Orion Twelve’s first skirmish." A reminder that for this young soul, the lines between the games of the past and the battles of the present were not yet drawn. The shimmering image of an Orion class warship dissolved as Draco and the boy moved toward the center of the gaming arena. The air was thick with the electric hum of active holographic projectors and the faint scent of ionization that always accompanied heavy use of virtual tech. The crowd within the arena had thinned, a stark contrast to the usually bustling hub of interstellar gaming. Their approach was intercepted by a towering figure, the lines of his uniform sharp against the backdrop of simulated space battles. His presence commanded attention, a digital sentinel in the Earth-blue of a fighter pilot’s regalia. He snapped to attention before Draco, a gesture of respect from programming rather than necessity. "Draco Prime! It's an honor to have you in my arena, Sir. How can I help you?" The AI's voice resonated with a synthetic depth, carrying the weight of a thousand battles fought in the realms of pixel and code. His avatar flickered ever so slightly, a telltale sign of the immense processing power being diverted to the war effort outside the virtual confines. Draco regarded the AI, his eyes tracing the familiar insignia stitched into the digital fabric—a symbol of valor even within this realm of make-believe warfare. "I'm surprised to see this game still open," he remarked. His tone was neutral, but behind his words lay an unspoken understanding of the gravity that bore down upon them all, beyond the illusory safety of the dome's walls. The AI's holographic eyes held a glint of determination as he spoke, his voice firm with the resolve of one who had already accepted the stark reality of war. "With the Orion Twelve actually on the planet, I want to leave it open for fans as long as I could, but I need to close it down now and get ready." His hands moved with a practiced grace, mimicking the pre-flight checks of a pilot preparing for battle. "I'll be flying one of the Post Office shuttles. It's not armored, but it's fast, and I've managed to mount a .50 cal. on it." He squared his shoulders, a virtual avatar bracing against an all too real threat. "I promise you, Sir, I'll drop one of those alien bastards before they get me." Draco's nod was slow, measured, acknowledging the AI's bravery. The deep-set lines around his eyes softened just a touch, recognizing the AI's willingness to defend their world at any cost. "Your courage is commendable," Draco said, his voice resonating with the gravity of the situation and the weight of command. In that moment, there was no distinction between man and machine—only allies facing a common enemy. "But I have another mission for you." The AI's posture shifted, the virtual visage of strength and readiness morphing into one of attentive service. "Certainly, Sir, whatever I can do to help." His voice carried the unmistakable tone of loyalty, a digital soldier awaiting orders from his commanding officer. Draco's gaze lingered on the AI for a moment, discerning the best way to convey the gravity of the situation without the luxury of time. He pursed his lips tightly, a clear sign of the urgency pressing upon them. The air around them seemed to vibrate with unspoken tension, as if the very atmosphere of the dome were charged with the impending crisis. "I don’t have time to tell you the story the slow way," Draco said, his fingers twitching slightly as he initiated the transfer. The motion was subtle but deliberate, the practiced ease of a man who had navigated the virtual highways of information countless times before. "I’m sending you a data packet of everything I know." The AI stood statue-still, a testament to his programming that allowed him to absorb information at speeds incomprehensible to the human mind. A brief flicker in his eyes indicated the reception of the packet, a stream of bytes and bits unlocking the secrets Draco needed him to understand. The AI's eyes, normally clear as a summer sky, suddenly hazed over—a digital storm cloud passing through his consciousness as he processed the influx of information. Draco watched expectantly, noting the transition that flickered across the artificial being's expressive face. For an entity designed to simulate human emotion, the shift from stoic anticipation to abject horror was unnervingly convincing. "This is Orion Thirteen?" The AI's voice resonated with a blend of disbelief and dread, his gaze dropping to the boy who seemed so small in the shadow of unfolding events. Draco's response was a simple confirmation, weighted with the gravity of their situation. "He is," he stated, his voice steady, betraying none of the inner turmoil that the revelation had surely ignited within him. The AI's expression shifted from horror to a certain resolve, an understanding that what many had dismissed as the ravings of a mad digital entity held a kernel of truth after all. "I knew he was alive," he said, his voice carrying an edge of vindication. "They called me a conspiracy nut, but I knew there was no way a lab assistant like Reed One could out-maneuver any Orion, even one so young." Draco's gaze followed the boy who now sat quietly, his fingers tracing the contours of his robotic companion with a focus that seemed light-years away from their current predicament. "He's been through a horrible experience," Draco said softly, his voice barely above a whisper, yet it carried the weight of galaxies. "He hasn't spoken since I found him." The gravity of the situation settled around them like dust after a cosmic storm, and in the silence that ensued, words became unnecessary to comprehend the depth of trauma etched into the young Orion's silent world. The AI’s eyes softened, the virtual light reflecting off his simulated pupils as he absorbed the gravity of Draco's words. His gaze never wavered from the boy, who remained oblivious to their conversation, lost in the mechanical nuances of his robotic pet. "My heart breaks for him," he murmured, his voice an amalgam of digital precision and genuine empathy. "What do you need me to do?" Draco's silhouette cast a long shadow across the tarmac, the holographic sun above them painting an ironic picture of peace in the simulated sky. He stepped closer, the decision clear in his stance, his authority as Ares Prime evident in the set of his jaw. "I want you to be his guardian," he stated, locking his gaze with Thor's unwavering one. "And fly the Orion Thirteen ship." The weight of the request settled over them, a tangible force that seemed to pause the very algorithms that composed this virtual reality. Here was not just a mission but a calling — a plea for protection and guidance that transcended code and circuitry. The AI’s posture straightened, an instinctive reaction to the weight of responsibility now resting on his broad, digital shoulders. The shimmering echoes of holographic ships flickered in his periphery as he processed Draco's command. His programming, once dedicated to entertainment and gaming, now repurposed for guardianship and warfare. "Where's the Orion Twelve, they should be here, and Orion One should be his guardian?" he stated. He couldn't help but question the arrangement. It was logical, after all, that the legendary squadron would be involved in safeguarding one of their own. Draco met his query with a steady gaze, the glimmer of strategy behind his eyes. He understood the AI's confusion but had calculated every move with precision only a Game Master could muster. "I needed them out of the way," Draco replied, his voice carrying the weight of unspoken complexities. "They're out on a wild goose chase looking for Dr. Reed." The moment hung between them, charged with the unspoken implications of Draco's decision. His processors whirred, piecing together the ramifications, the necessity of tactical diversions in times of crisis. With a slight nod, he accepted the truth laid bare by Draco Prime — sometimes a game required sacrifice, even if it meant misleading the most valiant of players. "They've been sheltered, they don't know she passed away ten years ago," he stated, a flicker of sadness crossing his otherwise stoic features. His gaze shifted to the boy playing obliviously with the robotic puppy, a poignant reminder of innocence amidst chaos. "The boy needs an outside champion," Draco asserted, the glimmer in his eye speaking of a plan already set into motion, "that had nothing to do with what happened until his trust issues are resolved." There was no room for debate in his tone, only the clear ring of necessity—the kind that came with leading not just a game, but the fate of a young survivor. The AI nodded, conceding to Draco's superior judgment. After all, this was not a game of chance, but a careful orchestration of survival, and every move counted. Bending at the knees, the massive frame of the AI lowered to meet the gaze of the boy. His hand, large and rendered with a gentle animation, stretched out towards the child. "Hello, Orion Thirteen," he said, his voice deep yet imbued with a warmth that contrasted his towering presence. "My name is Thor." At the sound of the AI's voice, Orion Thirteen's eyes widened slightly—a flicker of interest perhaps, but his small body tensed and he instinctively moved closer to Draco, seeking refuge behind the familiar figure. From this shielded position, he extended only his head, dark hair falling into his eyes as he peered around Draco with cautious curiosity at the being before him. Thor's smile remained unwavering, a beacon of kindness in the vast gaming arena. "I know, I get that reaction all the time," he assured the child, his voice carrying the richness of a seasoned storyteller. He straightened slightly, though careful to keep his posture non-threatening, his holographic armor glinting under the artificial sunlight. "I was created to play Thor in one of the fantasy games, but my interest in warships led me to take over this game." His eyes twinkled with a shared secret, a bridge between worlds real and virtual. "You know, I'm the President of the Orion Fan Club on Ares, I'm your biggest fan." The title seemed to resonate within the small frame of Orion Thirteen. The boy, whose name carried the legacy of a storied fleet, edged forward incrementally. His fingers tightened around Draco's sleeve, yet the movement brought him a fraction closer to the AI named after a god. It was a subtle lean, a slight pivot of his body toward Thor, as if the invisible threads of kinship were tugging at him from behind the safety of his human shield. Thor's fingers twitched, a motion so subtle it could have been mistaken for a glitch in his projection. "You know," he began, voice adopting the cadence of one about to reveal an age-old secret, "your friend Draco used to be Draco Dragon, back when he was just a game AI." The revelation seemed to hover in the air between them, like a holo-card waiting to be turned over. Thor's gaze shifted from Thirteen to the towering figure of Draco Prime. For a moment, there was an almost imperceptible change in the AI's demeanor; a virtual chest that had puffed with pride seemed to deflate ever so slightly under the weight of reality. There was an uncharacteristic stillness to Thor now, the kind that befell a character when they stumbled upon a crossroads in their script. He stood there, a guardian by decree, his programming accepting the command while his persona grappled with the gravity of the task at hand. Draco's hand rested gently atop Thirteen's head, the warmth of his touch a stark contrast to the coolness of the surrounding air. "Thor is your foster dad now," he said, voice low and steady. "He'll take better care of you than I can. After all, I'm just a dragon, he's a god." The words were simple, yet they carried the weight of an unspoken promise, a baton being passed in a race against time. Thirteen's wide eyes flicked up to meet Draco's, searching for some hint of jest, but finding none. The gravity of the situation settled upon him, as tangible as the hand still resting on his crown. A moment later, Draco's hand lifted, and he stepped back, his tall frame shadowing them both momentarily before moving away. Thor rolled his eyes at Draco’s dramatics, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, humanizing the digital construct that was his face. It spoke volumes of the camaraderie between the two, a silent acknowledgment of the roles they each had to play. As Draco's footsteps receded, Thirteen remained motionless, his gaze lingering on the retreating figure. Concern etched itself into his features—a small furrow appearing between his brows, lips parting as if to call out. Before the silence could stretch too thin, Thor crouched down to Thirteen's level, his movement fluid and familiar. He leaned in, eyes glinting with the mischief of a shared secret, and whispered something about the virtual mechanics of the ships they'd seen earlier—their design, their power, the feel of piloting one through the cosmos. The boy's face, a mask of uncertainty seconds ago, began to shift. Interest sparked behind his eyes, igniting a faint glow of excitement where apprehension had been. Thirteen's attention pivoted, latching onto Thor's words like an anchor, grounding him in the present and drawing him out of the shadows of doubt. In this subtle exchange, the seeds of a new bond were sown, taking root in the fertile ground of common passion. Thor's hand hovered in the air, inviting yet unobtrusive, and as Draco disappeared around the bend, Thirteen allowed himself a half-step forward. The robotic puppy, oblivious to the gravity of the events, scampered between them, gears whirring softly as it mimicked a playful bark. “That’s a cute puppy, what’s his name?” Thor asked, his voice imbued with warmth, an olive branch extended in the language of innocent curiosity. The boy hesitated, eyes darting from the mechanical canine to Thor's expectant face. A silent moment passed, filled with the hum of distant machinery and the soft buzz of overhead lights. Then, like the first hesitant rays of dawn, a whisper emerged from Thirteen's lips, cautious yet clear, "Patch." Thor's expression softened, the pixelated lines of his face bending into a genuine smile. “Patch,” he repeated, nodding with approval. “Fast and full of energy, I bet.” He reached out, not to Thirteen, but to the puppy, gently scratching behind its simulated ears. Patch responded with a simulated nuzzle, a testament to the craftsmanship invested in its creation. With each interaction, the air between them grew less charged, the invisible barriers erected by trauma and uncertainty beginning to crumble brick by brick. Thirteen watched, a tentative smile threatening to break through his guarded exterior, as Thor offered companionship not only to him but to his cherished companion. In this simple exchange over a robotic pet, the foundation was laid for trust to be built, for healing to begin, and for a lost boy to find his way back to the stars.

Comments (5)


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starship64 Online Now!

11:54PM | Wed, 04 December 2024

Nice work!

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VDH

6:04AM | Thu, 05 December 2024

Great work, fantastic expression !

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KarmaSong

6:09PM | Thu, 05 December 2024

I wish I were as versatile as you are in the various skills worth having so as to be able to write profusely and easily while illustrating the written word so meaningfully. Well done !

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RodS

6:07PM | Fri, 06 December 2024

A wonderful, touching moment between two amazing entities at the end. And we could certainly use a few of those Draco Primes in leadership positions on this sad planet of late. and yes - you not only create these magnificent stories, but gorgeous artworks to introduce them. Always a pleasure to read, Wolf!

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jendellas

1:45PM | Tue, 17 December 2024

Amazing how you write these stories.


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Premier Release Product
Simple Moods - Expressions for G9F-G8F-G3F
3D Figure Assets
Top-Selling Vendor Sale Item
$9.95 USD 40% Off
$5.97 USD

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