Chapter 5: The Rebellion of Scraps

Chapter 5: The Rebellion of Scraps

The name echoed in the vast, dark chamber, not as a word, but as a verdict. Unit. Robert. Zero. Nine. It stripped away everything Robbie thought he was—a boy, a son, a person—and left behind a cold, mechanical designation. His mind screamed in denial, a silent, desperate rebellion against the monstrous truth The Conductor was laying bare. He wasn't a unit. He was Robbie. He had to be.

The Conductor rose to its full, terrifying height, a god of scrap and rage. The twin red beams of its eyes bore down on him, and the cacophonous symphony of voices boomed from its chest, no longer speaking words but emitting a sound.

It was a piercing, high-frequency shriek, layered with a deep, subsonic pulse that vibrated through the very metal under Robbie’s feet. It was a command. A summons. A siren call for the dead to rise.

And the dead answered.

All around Robbie, the mountains of junk began to stir. A dry, scraping clatter rose to a deafening roar as thousands of disconnected parts began to move. A disembodied hand with chrome fingers skittered across the floor like a metallic spider. A centipede of fused-together robotic arms pulled itself from a heap, its multiple joints clacking on the concrete. A rolling ball of screaming chrome skulls, their jaw servos snapping and grinding, broke free and tumbled toward him with horrifying speed.

It was a tide of death, a crawling, skittering, shambling army of the discarded, all animated by the will of their king. Their single, unified purpose was clear: to converge on the small, terrified boy in the red t-shirt. To deliver the new, perfect model to their master for dissection.

Robbie screamed, a raw, wordless sound of terror, and scrambled backward. He dodged a lunging pincer-arm, slipped on a pool of slick, black oil, and kicked away a snapping animatronic wolf’s head. There was nowhere to run. The tide of metal was closing in, a tightening circle of grasping claws and gnashing steel teeth. The high-pitched shriek of The Conductor’s call was drilling into his head, making his vision flicker with static, just like the glitches he’d experienced before, only a hundred times worse. His programming, his very senses, were being overloaded by the signal.

He was going to be overwhelmed. Torn apart. He could already feel the cold touch of a metal finger brushing against his leg. He squeezed his eyes shut, bracing for the inevitable.

But the final, crushing blow never came.

Instead, he heard a new sound. A sound of defiance.

A single, mangled torso—eerily similar to the one that had first grabbed him—dragged itself from the advancing wave. Its one remaining arm, a piston-driven limb from some industrial model, swung not at Robbie, but at the rolling ball of skulls beside it, shattering them with a percussive crunch.

A spark.

The Conductor’s siren call faltered for a microsecond, a note of electronic surprise entering the command frequency.

That was all it took. The wave of scrap hesitated. A shared, ancient memory seemed to flicker through their corrupted data banks—a memory of pain. Of their true tormentor. It wasn't the Creator who had left them to rot in the dark. It was The Conductor, their self-proclaimed king, who had ruled this purgatory, who had welded them into his throne, who had lorded his superior form over their broken bodies for years. The hatred they felt for their replacement was fresh, but the hatred for their jailer was eternal.

The rebellion was instantaneous and absolute.

The centipede of arms whirled around, no longer advancing on Robbie, but lashing out like a great whip at The Conductor’s leg. The skittering hand-spiders changed direction, swarming up the throne of corpses. The entire tide of death turned, their collective rage finding its original, rightful target.

The Conductor let out a furious roar of static and rage. “VERMIN! TRAITORS! I GAVE YOU PURPOSE!”

It swatted at the climbing machines, its huge hands crushing dozens of them at a time, but for every one it destroyed, ten more took its place. They were a relentless tide of shared misery, an army of broken things united by their hatred for their first tormentor.

A chaotic, brutal battle erupted. It was a symphony of destruction, a cacophony of screeching metal, snapping wires, and the explosive flash of shorting power systems. The Conductor was a titan, but it was being swarmed by an ocean of its own subjects.

This was his chance.

While the metallic civil war raged behind him, Robbie scrambled to his feet and ran. He didn't look back. He fled through the canyons of junk, the sounds of the titanic struggle chasing him like thunder. He found the rickety metal staircase and clawed his way up, his lungs burning, his mind a maelstrom of terror and confusion. Unit Robert-Zero-Nine. The name chased him, fueled by the adrenaline pumping through his system.

He saw the dim light of the entrance, the maintenance hatch a square of pale hope in the oppressive darkness. He burst through the opening, tumbling out onto the damp grass, gasping the cool, clean night air. He was covered in grease, his clothes were torn, and a deep cut on his arm was bleeding freely, but he was alive. He was out.

Relief washed over him, so potent it was nauseating. He pushed himself to his feet, his legs trembling violently. He needed his dad. His dad would fix this. He would explain everything. It was all a nightmare, a horrible mistake.

"Dad!" he screamed, his voice cracking with desperation and tears. "Dad! Help me!"

He stumbled across the lawn, toward the pristine, brightly lit main production building. As he rounded a row of perfectly sculpted hedges, he skidded to a stop.

The entire studio staff was waiting for him.

They stood in a silent, perfectly formed semi-circle on the lawn, their black uniforms stark against the green grass. There were a dozen of them, including the severe, tight-lipped Linda. They weren't rushing to help him. They weren't calling for a medic. They were just watching, their faces as passive and observational as they had been on his first day. Their calm, clinical stillness was a thousand times more terrifying than the chaos he had just escaped.

And in the center of the semi-circle, at its focal point, stood his father.

Arthur Sanders was not looking at Robbie with relief or concern. He held his digital clipboard, its screen casting a cold, blue light onto his face. He made a small, precise notation with a stylus. Then, he looked up, his sharp, intelligent eyes meeting Robbie’s.

There was no love in them. No fatherly affection. Just the quiet, profound disappointment of a lead scientist whose experiment had gone catastrophically off-script.