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“Knock-knock!” Heavy footsteps faltered at the top of the staircase. “Whoa, I didn’t know this room could get any messier.”
Akira snorted, his eyes glued to the mechanical hand curled daintily over his palm. A toothbrush handle dangled between his teeth as he mumbled, “‘Ey, Taba. Gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”
”I’ll say.” A sheet of aluminum rattled behind Akira, crashing into something with a hollow clang before a curtain of copper hair swung in Akira’s periphery. “Big new project?”
“What gave it away?” Akira plucked the gritty toothbrush from his teeth and scrubbed dirt from the grooves of the mechanical hand. Every brush exposed spidery white roots, nestling into any possible gap. Akira’s shoulders drooped with resignation.
“When you start something big, it always looks like a scrapyard in here.”
Futaba settled beside him, pressing the soles of her mechanized feet together. She scooted closer to the puppet, rustling the tarp laid down beneath him. “What are you doing with a banged-up puppet, anyways? I’ve never seen a model like this before. Especially not one this busted.”
“Me neither. Iwai found him under a pile of scrapped combat drones. Thought I’d be interested in fixing him up on the side.”
“Poor guy looks like he’s been out of commission for years.” Futaba craned her neck for a better look, flicking a weed sprouting from the puppet’s collarbone. Akira gathered and draped her hair over her shoulder before it grazed any dirt. They’d learned one too many times how difficult it was to wash machine oil out of Futaba’s hair. “Any info on his model number?”
“Yeah, actually. I found it by accident earlier.” Trading his toothbrush for a flashlight, Akira clicked it on. Under ultraviolet light, the puppet’s frame was eye-shatteringly bright. Dirt and oil radiated shades of fluorescent cyan. Trails of plants outlined the puppet’s silhouette in deep ruby. Akira swore the ochre specks of stubborn tar winked back at him tauntingly.
Futaba whistled. “Hoo, boy. This’ll keep you busy.”
“You sound like Sojiro,” Akira teased. “Look at this.” He aimed the flashlight at the nape of the puppet’s neck. A serial number gleamed a brilliant white against the scuffed surface.
Futaba rubbed her thumb across the lettering, reading aloud, “AG0. Nothing in the system resembles that.” Eyebrows cinched together, her expression hardened, uncharacteristically serious and longing. “Do you…”
Futaba’s body stilled, and the attic’s air followed, heavy with unspoken sentiments. Outside, Yongen-Jaya grumbled. An old, steam-powered engine sputtered away, echoing through labyrinthine alleyways. Wind howled through exposed beams in the next building over, a casualty among many. Ridden with hope, Futaba asked, “Do you think he’s like me?”
“You said it yourself: he isn’t a model we’ve ever heard of. If he were mass-manufactured, they wouldn’t have hidden his serial number like Wakaba did with you.”
“Is that a yes?” Futaba’s expression softened, eyes round with uncertainty and hope.
Akira reached over and ruffled Futaba’s hair. “Only one way to find out, right?”
“Ignore the mess,” Akira called out ahead of Sojiro.
A scoff. “Not sure I could, kid. Now, where is he?”
Akira gestured to the puppet slumped beneath his windowsill, the freshly polished chassis swathed in matte grays and obsidian. Slate blue plating stretched across the puppet’s shoulders and forearms, twisting down his thighs. Splotches of scarlet dotted across the peaks of his knuckles. Akira couldn’t decide what feature was his favorite, the bright red ears or—
Sojiro squinted at the puppet’s face. “Are those freckles?”
“I thought it was just staining at first.” Akira ran a gentle thumb over the puppet’s nose, tucking a tendril of the puppet’s hair—no longer a dull and oily brown, but a light amber—behind one scarlet ear. “But, no. Someone definitely cherished him. I mean, this detail—”
Sojiro’s voice lowered with trepidation. “You sure this is a good idea, kid? Futaba’s excited as all get out, but Wakaba’s not so sure. I trust you know what you’re doin’, but I wanna make sure my kids are safe.”
Akira fidgeted with one of his fingerless gloves, the crimson leather dark with oil spots. “I have hope. I mean, look at him. He looks nothing like the service puppets out there. Even his model number is unique, like it’s supposed to spell out a name. The more I learn, the more he seems like Futaba.”
“It’s a dangerous world out there for puppets like Futaba,” Sojiro reminded him. “You know how illegal it is, creating and housing a free-thinking puppet.”
“Well, hopefully soon” —Akira swung his head to meet Sojiro’s gaze, conviction burning bright in his chest like phosphorus fire— “it won’t be so dangerous for puppets like her forever.”
Sojiro heaved a sigh and worked his jaw. “You kids and your rebel groups, lately. The only thing I was adamant about at your age was hitting on older women.”
“Unfortunately, I’ve been too busy recently for any sort of MILF-hunting.”
Sojiro’s grin was crooked and teasing. “Instead, you’re makin’ eyes at your newest project. He’s cute. Kind of creepy how still he is, though.”
“I—uh, yeah, you get used to it.” Clearing his throat, Akira pulled away his hand, barely aware he’d been twirling a stray lock of the puppet’s hair between his fingers. “Tonight, I’m hoping to start on his wiring. Once his battery is capable, it should start charging itself back up.”
“Well, just make sure to sleep tonight, kid. He’s not going anywhere anytime soon. And try to clean up before he powers up. You might scare him away with this mess.”
Dawn’s silver light bloomed from Akira’s windows, drifting over his workbench. The soft whisper of machinery pulled him further from sleep, crescendoing from white noise to an ancient, sluggish wheeze. Like a machine rebooting after decades of dormancy.
Akira jolted awake. The puppet’s slumped spine rolled straight, his chin jerking up with wide eyes. Their gazes met, and the puppet froze, dark pupils constricting to pinpricks. As intimately as Akira knew the puppet’s inner workings, he never knew his eye color until now: a deep auburn, like a jar of fresh honey held under light.
“Where—” With emphasis, shaky in a manner Akira didn’t know puppets could emulate, the puppet asked, “Who are you?”
Akira rose from his seat, and the puppet lurched back, wedging himself desperately between the wall and the end of Akira’s bed like a cornered wolf. He gripped the window sill and bedpost, red knuckles gleaming and poised to launch forward.
Was he programmed to flee? To sense danger? No manufactured puppet would react this way.
Heart hammering, Akira raised his hands, palms open. The puppet flinched.
“My name is Akira. You were in bad shape when I found you. I’m not going to hurt you.”
Amber eyes flickered over Akira’s form, metal fingers clenched so hard around the bedpost that Akira worried the wood might split. “I have no reason to believe you.”
Akira paused, wiggling his fingers in dancing waves, wracking his brain. ”I spent four months deep cleaning decades’ worth of rust and dirt off you. Pretty sure I have a permanent hunch from scooping debris out of all your joints. Logically, it’d be stupid of me to scrap all that labor.”
The puppet furrowed his brow, chin dimpling as he stuck out his bottom lip. “You’re lying.”
It wasn’t like Akira kept a log of every trash bag chock-full of dirt and rags he took out nearly every day. As if electrocuted, Akira jolted with a thought, startling the poor puppet so severely that he kicked his heels into the floorboards to sink deeper into the corner.
Akira raised his palms again. “Sorry. I just—I have your old parts. I repaired most of them, but there were some I couldn’t quite salvage. I can show you them, if you’d like?”
A nod. Akira searched his drawers and bins—plucking up what he needed and sliding them toward the puppet’s feet. To the untrained eye, the items could have been mistaken for a tangle of stripped cables, the copper wiring exposed and frayed beyond repair.
“These are—” The puppet shifted, nervously eyeing Akira before inching closer to the pile. As he sorted through the frazzled parts, some tension released from the puppet’s body. “My wires? My sensors? But I—”
Akira kept stock-still, patient as the puppet sorted through every piece, keeping the same distance between each piece with precise symmetry. Good to see his cognitive and fine motor skills were not only intact, but exemplary.
“Do you recall anything before you were turned off?”
“I do not. Only my name.”
“Oh? Can I ask—”
“What year is it?”
Akira sighed, leaning over to grab a recent newspaper and holding it out. The puppet stared over the front page, eyes glued to the publishing date in the upper corner. When he looked up, his stare could melt bone, unblinking and searing. “Fourteen years.” He sounded breathless. “Was I abandoned?”
“I’m not sure, but I doubt it.” Akira offered his warmest smile. “There isn’t a model out there like you. Whoever created you did so with love for the craft. If you’d like, we can try going through your memory files. See if we can recover anything.”
“I would not be opposed.” The puppet ducked his head, returning to his organizing task. “How did you replace my sensors and wiring?”
“Spare parts I had lying around. And it’s kind of my job.”
His brows pinched together again, a deep frown etched in his face. “Did you repair me to make me your servant?”
“Absolutely not.” Akira couldn’t get the words out any faster. “I just wanted to try my hand at repairing something this unique and complex. You don’t owe me a single thing, and I don’t expect anything from you, just like how I mean no harm. I promise you. I’ll even pinky promise on it.”
The puppet’s expression morphed wildly, his face wrinkling with confusion. “Pinky promise?”
Akira held up his pinky finger between them. Pride flashed in his chest when the puppet barely winced. “Yeah. When we link our pinkies together, the promise is made. If I break the promise, you break my pinky.”
A smooth, mechanical pinky curled loosely around his own. “Why would I break your pinky?”
“Because I broke our promise.”
“You broke our promise?” The metal pinky around his own cinched tighter.
Akira jerked away, fluttery with panic. “Wait! I didn’t—”
The corner of the puppet’s mouth twitched, fighting a smirk.
Cheeks burning, Akira rubbed the nape of his neck. He opened his mouth to speak, but the puppet beat him to it.
“It’s Goro.”
“Huh?”
“My name.” Scooting closer, the puppet leaned in. “My name is Goro. And I’ll accept your pinky promise if you help recover my memory files.”
“It’s a promise.”
“Checkmate. Again.”
Akira threw his head back, groaning as he slumped in his seat.
Goro cocked an eyebrow, already setting the board up for a new match. “Are all humans this dramatic, or just you?”
Palms pressed into his eyes, Akira sighed with his whole body. “I can’t tell when you’re serious or just trying to give me a hard time.”
“I’m completely serious.”
Another dramatic sigh. “Of course you are.”
Obsidian and slate metal interlaced beneath Goro’s chin, an interweaving of intricate and damn fine handiwork, if Akira had anything to say about it. Goro was artwork—created with such visible passion and respect for the material, for the act of life itself. His eyes sparkled with an eager innocence that Akira’s heart always faltered over.
“Another game, then?” Goro asked.
“As much as I love losing to you in chess, I think six is my max today.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Aw, don’t give me that look, Goro. You know I’m weak to that look.”
“That’s why I’m doing it. This usually gets me what I want.” Goro pouted harder, his bottom lip trembling. Who taught him that? He needed to have a word with Futaba.
Akira clenched his eyes shut and turned away, unwilling to be tempted, “Jeez, and you call me dramatic. Fine, fine! I’m out-chessed right now, but we can do something else if you’d like.”
Immediately, Goro perked up. “Well, in that case…” His eyes flickered down, sheepishness coloring his voice as he asked softly, “Can you braid my hair? Like you do with Futaba?”
If Goro could blush, Akira imagined he would in that moment. Akira’s own face certainly warmed. “Yeah. I’d love to. Where do you want me?”
“Just like when you do with Futaba, please. The floor is fine.”
Goro was quiet as Akira knelt behind him on the attic’s floor, brushing through silky, caramel hair with his fingers.
“Tell me if anything stings, okay?”
“I don’t have transmitters to feel that sort of pain.”
“Either way, let me know if you’d like me to brush gentler.”
Goro nodded. “I’m not sure I could dislike anything you do.”
Akira dragged his fingertips down Goro’s scalp. The smooth hair cascaded out of his hand, slithering out of his grasp like a handful of silk ribbons. “Any specific braid in mind?”
Goro purred, his shoulders slumping with every drag. After clearing his throat, he softly replied, “Anything intricate. You can experiment, if you’d like.”
Akira worked slowly, drawing gentle, indulgent lines through Goro’s hair as he wove the upper portion into a fishtail braid. He redid the braid a few times as an excuse to watch Goro further melt and sigh, muttering about making sure the braid was perfect.
Before Akira could ask if Goro would like to inspect it, Goro leaned back into Akira’s chest, head tipping back to stare up at Akira with huge eyes.
“Thank you,” Goro sighed. He watched owlishly like a wary cat, drawing close enough for a few gentle pets.
“Of course.”
Akira ran his thumb across the soft skin of Goro’s cheek, sweeping over the freckles scattered across his nose. Goro’s eyelids fluttered closed, his lips curling up subtly. Akira swallowed the butterflies in his stomach.
“I love your freckles, you know,” Akira said. “They’re like constellations.”
“Show me,” Goro whispered. “I want to see what you see.”
“I think I have an idea.” Akira brushed back Goro’s bangs, exposing a few more scattered freckles across his forehead. “Can I grab a pen?”
“I suppose.” Reluctantly, Goro sat back up, permitting Akira to move.
Akira wasn’t gone long, though all his non-permanent markers seemed to take that very moment to disappear from their usual spots strewn across his desk. He crouched in front of Goro.
“Took you long enough,” Goro teased. His mouth curved in a soft smile.
“I feared the day that Futaba’s impatience would rub off on you.”
“I wouldn’t give Futaba all the credit for that. I simply want what I want.”
Akira uncapped the marker and laughed. He reached for Goro’s chin, scooting closer as Goro obediently tipped his face up for a better view. “You sure do. And I wouldn’t have it any other way. I’m sure you wouldn’t either, with how quickly I fold, huh?”
A pensive hum. “Your amenability is something I enjoy about you. But I find myself more fond of your presence in general.”
“Careful, Goro.” Akira’s heart hammered in his chest as if it might smash through his ribcage. “You almost sound like you enjoy my company.”
“Of course, I enjoy your company.”
Akira’s careful pen strokes wobbled with such an admittance. “Don’t move too much, now. We don’t want shaky lines.”
“Are you telling me or yourself that?”
“Okay.” Akira capped the pen before he scrutinized the lines any harder. “Finished.”
Goro scrambled to the mirror. With his nose pressed to the glass, his eyes flickered between every drawn cluster of star-freckles across his skin in awe, as if gazing upon real stars.
“I love it.”
“I mean, it’s nothing all that—” With one blink, Goro was in his space again, his look of wonder now pinned on him.
“I want you to do this again. Every week. I want to see what you see.”
Tucking the pen behind his ear, Akira slowly reached out and caught Goro’s face in his hands, running his thumbs carefully across Goro’s cheeks. There was something effortless about falling right alongside Goro, wanting to return his gestures, and take that leap of faith.
Goro’s mouth moved, the contractions shifting beneath Akira’s palms, soundless. Eyes glued to Goro’s bloodless lips, Akira’s thumb followed his gaze, running experimentally over his bottom lip. Soft, plush, faintly warm.
Akira wanted to kiss him.
Wait.
Akira jerked away. “Sorry. I, uh, spaced out.”
Goro gave him a skeptical look. A new expression to add to his ever-growing catalog. “You touched my mouth.”
“I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking.”
Goro’s hands, dark and sleek with their intricate array of joints, reached for Akira, only to hesitate. “Did you not want to touch me?”
“I–I overstepped. Sorry.”
A scoff. “I can speak my own mind.” Goro pulled Akira’s hands back to cradle his face. “And set my own boundaries.”
Akira brushed over soft, synthetic skin carefully, affectionately, and pecked the tip of Goro’s nose. He leaned back with a soft smile, watching Goro’s expression bloom and transform from pinched to awe-struck. “Yeah, you’re right. I trust you to tell me if I cross them.”
“Of course I’m right.” Despite his fluttering gaze between the ground and Akira, Goro’s hands pressed tighter over Akira’s own. Warm amber eyes danced over Akira’s lips. Softly, he murmured, “Stay like this with me.”
“I wouldn’t dream of stopping. My arms might get tired, though.”
“Then I’ll hold them up until you regain your strength.”
Akira’s heart soared. Cradling the line of Goro’s jaw, he pulled his face closer. All at once, Goro’s eyes widened before shutting, willingly leaning in. The tips of their noses brushed, foreheads pressed together, as Akira whispered, “I’m glad I found you.”
“I’m glad it was you.”