Information

Charles has a minion!

Hal the Wrenchett

Charles

The

Steamwork Jollin
Owner:

Gandalf

Age: 13 years, 4 months, 2 weeks

Born: November 29th, 2010

Adopted: 12 years, 1 month, 1 week ago

Adopted: March 9th, 2012

Statistics

Level: 18
Strength: 44
Defense: 40
Speed: 10
Health: 18
HP: 18/18
Intelligence: 49
Books Read: 48
Food Eaten: 0
Job: Veterinary Technician

Music Playlist
Character Sheet

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Thank you Cerebral for Clifford's Yunium Key!

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During his lunch break, Fabiano went to see the doctor yet again. It was the fifth time this month that he found himself hooked up to dozens of beeping diagnostic machines, and it was the latest in line of increasingly frequent visits.

“You know Doctor,” Fabiano said, “I think I might have found the cause of my dysfunction.” The doctor adjusted one of the wires attached to Fabiano's motherboard before turning back to his display screen.

“I was walking past the payroll office yesterday,” Fabiano continued, “and I overheard some of the human women talking there. Apparently, older human women suffer from many of the symptoms that I am displaying: overheating, reduced processing speed, and the occasional short-circuiting, leading to irrational behavior. They called it menopause. I wonder that I might have it.”

The doctor continued to check the lines of numbers that scrolled past the diagnostic machine displays. Occasionally, he would come and adjust one of Fabiano's wires, or he would attach a new, blinking device into one of Fabiano's ports, but otherwise, the doctor paid him no mind.

Yes, Fabiano thought to himself, it was likely just this menopause that was causing his recent symptoms. He debated for a moment whether he ought to go home, get some rest, and take a small, antivirus patch, but then he thought of the proposal that his company needed him to put together by tomorrow morning. The humans in payroll seemed to be alright, he thought to himself. Surely he could stay and finish his proposal before going home.

The numbers on the diagnostic displays stopped scrolling. The doctor put away the wires and made a few, final calculations before turning to face Fabiano.

“Diagnosis complete,” the doctor said. “Robot specimen P4775 is obsolete.”

Fabiano stared at the robot doctor in shock. “I-I beg your pardon?” he asked.

“Processor speed is 1.5 GHZ. Too slow for modern information loads. Solid-state hard drive. Worn from use. Too outdated to run new software. Graphics card is a model 84895. Cannot perform HD functions of newer programs. Diagnosis is complete. Robot specimen P4775 is obsolete.”

Fabiano pulled himself off the desk. “First of all, my name is Fabiano, not 'Robot Speciman P4775'. Secondly, I will have you know that I am Linkspot's chief product developer, and have been for over 25 years. You are likely running on a processor that I designed. Something is wrong with your analysis; I certainly am not obsolete.”

“Diagnosis shows that robot specimen components are incompatible with modern day needs. Robot specimen is obsolete.”

“You are mistaken. Good day, doctor!” Fabiano snatched his hat from the rack and marched out of the office.

The afternoon sun beat down upon the bustling, mid-afternoon street. Fabiano joined the throng of people and robots that rushed like ants through behemoth, steel skyscrapers. He was still fuming about the doctor's diagnosis. “Obsolete, indeed!” He muttered to himself. Never mind the doctor; he had a proposal to finish for the company tomorrow.

He was so engrossed in his thoughts that he almost didn't notice the decrepit robot sitting in an alley between two gleaming buildings.

"Hullo, Fabiano!" the robot called out. "You look well."

Fabiano squinted at the robot, then gasped. "Carlyle! What in heaven has happened to you?" The last time Fabiano had seen Carlyle was 3 years ago in the boardroom of the Century Tower. The research bot had been dated back then, but his breakthrough in the development of a new circuit system had earned him everybody's respect.

The heap of metal sitting in front of Fabiano was unrecognizable; Carlyle was dented and cracked, with large blooms of rust eating away at his formerly gleaming exterior. In some places, the rust was beginning to flake away, so that every time Carlyle moved, he appeared to be deteriorating right in front of Fabiano's eyes.

Carlyle laughed, a thin, wheezing sound. “Unemployment happened to me. I suppose you've heard of the new A-series robots?”

“Of course I have. We've just hired a few of them ourselves to handle some of the research work. But you've been Webgroup's best research bot for decades!”

“Was. I was Webgroup's best research bot. You know what the bastards said to me before they dumped me here? 'We're sorry Q6946, but we can no longer afford the inefficiencies caused by your antiquated technology.' Q-6-9-4-6. I was expecting the antiquated technology part, but I thought they'd figure out my name after 30 years.”

“There must have been mistake.” Fabiano said. “ After all of your service, all of the accomplishments and discoveries that you’ve made, how is it that they could possibly discard you like this? If you speak to a higher-up in Webgroup, I am certain that they will rectify this mistake and offer you a well-deserved apology. You are important to Webgroup, Carlyle. They will take care of you.”

Carlyle laughed again without humor. He allowed Fabiano to help him to his feet, then he grasped the younger robot by the shoulder.

“Listen, Fabiano. You’re a good bot. I’m telling you this for your own good, understand? The only reason humans invented robots like us in the first place was to do work. You know about our ancestors that lived during the Industrial Revolution, right? All those cloth spinners and paper stampers that we replaced? You and I are just the most recent paper stampers to these humans and now they’re replacing us too.”

There was a long silence. “That isn't true.” Fabiano whispered, looking away from Carlyle’s disintegrating body.

Carlyle shook his head. “You poor kid. You poor, sweet, stupid kid. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

There was another long silence. “What will you do now?”

“I’m heading to the recycle center on 21st street. I’m going ask to be decommissioned.”

“No!” Fabiano cried out. “Carlyle, please. Listen to me. I can take you to a mechanic. We can get new parts for you. You may not be able to run like an A-series robot, but you will run better than you do now. I will pay for each and every one of your expenses For God’s sake, you do not need to be decommissioned!”

“And just what am I supposed to do after I’m all fixed up?” Carlyle snapped. “The only thing I’m designed for is work, and as soon as the newest robot series comes out, me and my ‘antiquated technology’ is getting junked again.” Carlyle slammed a brittle fist into the alleyway wall. He hung his head between his shoulders, his ruined chest heaving with each breath. “Get this through your head; it doesn’t matter how much we accomplished, or what we’ve sacrificed. At the end of the day, we’re just robots to them.”

Carlyle spread his arms and little bits of him deteriorated away. “Goodbye, Fabiano. Take care of yourself, okay?” He squeezed Fabiano’s shoulder one last time before heading down the street. Soon, he was gone.

Fabiano was still shaking when he passed the group of A series robots in the office. “I am Linkspot’s lead product developer.” He muttered to himself. “This is my purpose, and I am important because of it.”

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The following Monday, Fabiano had a meeting with his supervisor. He made his way down a long hallway decorated with dozens of awards and certificates, and stopped at a large, wooden plaque. Imprinted on it in golden script were the words Most Valued Employee: Robot P4775 for exceptional contributions to Linkspot’s growth.

Fabiano took a deep breath. The night before, he had rubbed all of his sockets with a fresh pot of oil. Then, he had burnished every part of himself until he gleamed like new. He knocked on his supervisor’s door.

“Come in.” A voice announced.

Fabiano stepped into the office. The young man sitting behind the desk was unfamiliar; his jaw was sharp, his lips thin, and his eyes an icy, pale, blue. Each strand of his white-blond hair was pulled back towards his skull and frozen in place by gel. For a moment, Fabiano thought he was one of the A series robots.

“Where is Mr. Peterson?” Fabiano asked.

“Mr. Peterson was let go.” The man replied. “Due to his age, he was no longer fit to perform his duties. I will be taking over his position.”

“I see.” Fabiano replied, fidgeting with his hands.

“Please sit down.” The man gestured a pale hand towards the black, leather seat in front of the desk. “I’ve been informed, Robot P4775, that you’ve been employed by this company for over 25 years now.”

“It’s Fabiano, sir.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Fabiano. It is the name that I’ve chosen for myself.”

“I see.” The man said. “And in these 25 or so years, I’m sure you’ve noticed that Linkspot has grown to become a leader in the field of technological development. It is no longer just a regional company struggling to grab market share from the dominant players. It is the dominant player.”

“Of course! I am proud to see the progress that we have made.”

“Yes, Linkspot has come far.” The man said. “In order to maintain our lead however, we cannot afford to grow complacent. We must continually strive to innovate, to shed behind that which has become obsolete and to embrace the new. With that being said, I am afraid that we must terminate your employment with us.”

“What?” Fabiano exclaimed. “But-but sir!” He flailed. “It was-my research! My research grew this company! I am responsible for a quarter of our products!’

“Yes, Linkspot appreciates your years of service. However, surely you must admit that the quality of your work no longer compares favorably to that of the current generation of robots. The A5927 can process 2000 databases in a minute. What is your process speed? What can you offer Linkspot that the A series robots cannot?”

“But all of the work I’ve done in the past-”

“Was in the past. There is no longer anything that you can do for Linkspot, P4775, and therefore, we can no longer have any use for you. We will give you until the end of the day to finish any business you have. Please clean out all of your personal belongings when you leave.”

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For two years afterwards, Fabiano designed airship parts for Skyfleet Inc. He was eventually promoted to regional project manager after he proved his willingness to work weekends and unpaid overtime to ensure the success of Skyfleet's product launches. As regional project manager, he coordinated all of the engineers and designers on the east coast and was the liaison between the designers and the stakeholders. His supervisor told Fabiano that the success of the company rested on his metallic shoulders, and Fabiano was sure once again that he had found his place in the world. Then one day, a brand new modelling program came out that allowed airship designers to create with the greatest accuracy to date. Fabiano did not have the specifications to run it, but the robot specimen A3159 did.

After that, Fabiano played piano at Loreux, an elegant velvet and candle-lit jazz lounge on the corner of 8th and 62nd. Music flowed from his fingers, and soon Loreux found itself host to all manner of local celebrities and politicians, businessmen and socialites. The owner of the restaurant adored Fabiano, even called him her dearest friend at one point, until the bearings on his fingers began to wear from the constant playing.

"It's nothing personal, you understand" she said. "But the money it costs to fix a P4775 is almost an eighth the cost of a new A2862, and they say that the A series bots can both play and serve food at the same time."

Finally, Fabiano with his obsolete hardware and his worn out bearings came to wash pots in the kitchen of a pub. "We're a team here" the kitchen manager would say when he needed Fabiano to work on a day off. "We all gotta take care of each other." But when a new waiter accidentally dropped a jug of water on Fabiano, and the water seeped into his circuit board, he heard the kitchen manager say to the pub owner: "It's just some scrap robot. We'll replace it with one of them A8333 robots. I hear they're waterproof!"

And once again, Fabiano was left in the street.

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It was midnight. Fabiano sat on the top of the massive scrap pile overlooking the recycle center junkyard. He held himself close inside a woolen blanket, not because he could feel the November chill, but because he had seen humans do it when they were upset, and it had seemed nice.

An old record player that he had bought on a whim that afternoon sat next to him, crooning "Come Fly with Me" in Frank Sinatra's honeyed baritone. Fabiano decided that if he were human, he would've wanted to be Frank Sinatra.

He wasn't human though. That much was clear. He took a sip from the glass of whiskey he held in his metallic fingers. Carlyle was right, he thought to himself. A robot was only as good as his ability to work, and he, robot specimen P4775, could no longer work. It was time for him to be decommissioned.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud crash behind him. He leapt to his feet, only to see a human boy splayed among the pile of debris.

“Ow!” The boy said, getting to his feet. He was a small child, with paper skin and cardboard bones.

“Are you alright?” Fabiano called down to the boy.

“I’m okay.” The boy replied. “But I can’t get up there. Can you help me please?” Fabiano grasped the hand that was offered to him, and as he did so, he noticed that it was hard with callouses.

“What are you doing in a scrapyard at this hour?” he asked the boy. “Are your parents here?”

“I don’t got any parents. I live at Miss. Emilee’s with my friend Eda and all the other orphans. It’s Eda’s birthday tomorrow, and she really, really wants a microchip processor, but I don’t think Miss. Emilee can get it for her, so I’m gonna find her one.”

“Is that so? I have to admit I’ve never heard of a human child wanting a microchip processor before. Don’t they usually want stuffed toys or boxes of candy?”

“Eda’s gonna be a robot repair mechanic when she grows up! She’s already really good-she fixed up Miss. Emilee’s phone the other day-but she needs something to practice on now if she’s gonna fix real robots one day.”

“She wants to repair robots?” Fabiano stared at the boy. “Really?”

“Yeah!”

Fabiano looked away and snorted. “And why does she want to do that for? There are new robots out all the time, aren’t there? They’re better than the old ones too; they can do more research, play more music, and wash more pans. Why not just decommission the old ones?” He wrapped the blanket tighter around himself.

“Because that’s not nice!” The boy protested. “Besides, it’s not true that new robots are always better. There are some things that a new robot could never do!”

This caught Fabiano’s attention. “Like what?” He asked the boy.

“Like being a friend.” The boy said. “It doesn’t matter how old a robot is, it’s can still be somebody’s friend, you know.”

“And what does one have to do to be a friend?” Fabiano asked. “Increase profit margins?”

"Nah, they just have to be themselves.”

“But….” Fabiano hesitated. “what happens when I become obsolete?”

“Friends are never obsolete.”

“Is that so?”

“Of course!" The boy smiled, then held out a hand. "Do you want to be friends? My name is Ronan, by the way. What’s yours?”

Fabiano laughed, a warm, relieved laugh that filled the entire scrapyard. “Fabiano” he said, taking Ronan's hand. “My name is Fabiano, and I would love to be your friend.”