#robot!logan

Roman heard the largest—Brutus. That’s his name now. Might as well call him something—exhale in the I’m-trying-and-failing-not-to-get-mad-at-you manner. He reached into one of his strange get-up’s pockets and pulled out what looked like a brick. After a few seconds he thrusted it at Roman.

Roman noticed two things. The first was that the brick-like object was actually a phone, and the second was that Roman’s breakfast seemed to be projected on the grainy screen.

Roman thought he should probably be offended.

It wasn’t Instagram-worthy, sure, but it was still his marvelous cooking skills displayed on the screen. Roman still had followed the social media-addict urge to document everything about his life and posted the picture to Twitter. But...

“Since when is bacon illegal in the state of Florida?” Roman asked.

Brutus’ eye twitched, before he jabbed a finger at the photo. It landed on a tiny, ragged leg, like a doll’s. The actor suddenly realized what—rather, who he was pointing at.

Oh.

Roman swallowed.  

“Yes,” he said, willing his voice steady, “that’s my breakfast. Congratulations.”

Roman had scooped up and set aside the owner of the leg before he took the photo. Said owner had let him, before continuing on with his business as if nothing happened. It was a stark contrast to the shaking, terrified pleading he had been met with the first time the human tried to hold him.

“Do you see this?” Brutus asked, raising a jagged eyebrow.

When Roman had first met the little guy, it was pouring so hard Roman could’ve sworn his lights were going to pop out. He’d pulled on a jacket and hobbled outside when he remembered something on the apartment deck. He’d been about to grimace at its drenched appearance when he noticed a strange light pulsing in the alley below.

“You have something of ours, don’t you?” Another of the group smiled, and it was all teeth. “Small? Human-shaped? Literal chatterbox? Ring any bells, Mr. Prince?”

With a groan, Roman had hurried down the stairs, praying that whatever the light belonged to, it wasn’t his. He’d rounded the corner with a shiver to find that same light coming from what appeared to be...a tiny humanoid?

Panic struck like a whip when Roman realized he’d been silent for too long. “I—I have a doll redesigning hobby. That—was one of my projects. Not that it’s any of your business.”

Curiosity had overridden fear and before the actor had known it, he’d been crouching down and inspecting what really seemed to be a tiny person. What he wasn’t expecting was the silver sheen to the tiny’s skin, or to see circuits and panels littered throughout his body. He certainly wasn’t expecting the little guy's eyes to snap open and flinch back, and was anything but prepared for the almost-human to start begging.

He’d managed to calm the little guy down after far too long in the storm, but it’d been worth it. Roman soon began the process of bringing the tiny person inside and drying him off, as well as the process of trying not to make him fear his every twitch. He’d managed to pry a name from him even still.

Well, less a name, more of a serial code. L0G1C-s, or something like that. A dull choice for a title, Roman had thought. The tiny agreed.

A few days later, they’d found a name that stuck. That same day, Logan’d asked if he could stay with Roman.

And thus, the tiny robot became a wonderful part of Roman’s household.

“Well, then.” Brutus rumbled, starling Roman out of the memory. Brutus zoomed in on the leg, revealing a—had that been there the whole time? “If this is yours, then how do you explain one of our markings on it?”

Roman couldn’t help but gape at the hourglass-like symbol on Logan’s ankle.

Over the days, Roman had grown closer to the android, and Logan had learned as much about the actor as he had of him. He’d learned about Logan’s predesigned use and purpose and code, what they had made his four-inch-supercomputer-of-a-guest for. He’d also learned that Logan didn’t live up to his predesigned use, and all about the “bug” in Logan’s code.

They—who “they” were, Logan never answered, and that probably had something to do with the fact that Roman never asked—had always acted angry when he’d shown emotion. They’d express disappointment when he questioned his makers. They’d explode when Logan acted the even the tiniest bit human.

He’d learned that Logan had delt with this by shutting up and doing his job, until he couldn’t, and that’s when Roman’d met him.

But he’d also learnt about Logan’s love for art and poetry and music, about philosophy and ethics and the nature of morals. Roman had encouraged that Logan indulge in the things he was taught to flinch from.

And eventually, they steered away from ever discussing how Logan was and why.  

Because Roman knew that Logan never liked talking about his past.

And now, it seemed like that past had come back to haunt him.

“What—what do you mean ‘yours’?” Roman stuttered, but it was already too late. He saw one of the bastards pull out a pair of handcuffs. “I found that piece from a thrift store, I don’t—hey!”

The actor only had a moment to prepare before the one with the handcuffs slammed Roman against the wall. Roman wheezed, because ow, and the stranger took the moment to flip him on his back. Roman twisted his head to look at the guy—stocky, scars on his face, couldn’t be more than Roman’s age—and he adverted his eyes.  

The scarred man’s face remained blank as he spoke, “Roman Prince, you are under arrest for illegal possession of government technology, obstruction of justice, and resisting arrest. Depending on how you cooperate, that list may expand.”

Even through the roaring of blood in his ears and the pounding of his heart, Roman realized his rights weren’t read. Thick, black dread began to well up when he realized he didn’t have any.

“Thank you for your time, Mr. Prince,” Brutus sneered, before grasping the actor’s arms and hauling him off the wall. Roman thought saw a figure behind move him but when he attempted to look a gloved hand yanked him back. “I suggest you stay still.”