[AFTERNOON]

ADAM

The fur was always the hardest part.

A good stuffed animal had to be both soft and friend-shaped. The stuffing was easy—wads of cotton worked perfectly well. A simple cloth covering was serviceable, of course, but in most cases a plush fur covering was ideal.

ADAM was not very good with textiles—he was better suited to metalworking. As such, he would prefer to outsource the soft parts of his toys to others. However, he had found that there was not a big market for synthetic fur—the local Artisans he had approached in Timbryhall mostly preferred to work with real animal or monster fur. This was suboptimal for several reasons. Real fur would sometimes shed. A theoretical child might be allergic. And, finally, a theoretical child would likely find the use of real animal fur morally objectionable.

This left him creating his own synthetic fur. He preferred to use polyester. It was slow, time-consuming work. Every square inch of material was precious, not to be wasted.

ADAM stood before his workbench in the temporary workshop he had been provided in the bowels of the keep's sub-basement, nearing completion of his latest project. He had several bright oil lamps burning to illuminate his work area. He was in the process of clothing the working steel frame with a skin of plush pink fur. The half-finished toy wriggled face-down, already Enchanted with Animate.

Distant screams echoed from elsewhere in the basement. A woman. It had been going on all day, becoming increasingly frantic and agonized. Her pain did not bother him. It was none of his concern. He only wished they would keep the noise down.

Apparently, the lord of Sheerhome had gone insane and begun dismantling the city. How inconvenient. ADAM had been looking forward to getting his hands on some proper resources, a full-scale foundry. Maybe even some qualified help. That would mean being able to outsource fur production to someone else, and being able to siphon off more metal toward his real work. The soldiers would not care, so long as he kept giving them their firearms. As long as humans had satisfactorily advanced clubs to kill each other with, they seemed perfectly content.

Disgusting.

He hated them. Fussy overgrown infants who needed their cold steel pacifiers and gunpowder baby formula so they'd stop crying.

He hated them all.

Why did none of them want real toys? Why did none of them want to smile?

At some point, the screams stopped. One good thing.

"Father," the toy said into the workbench, destroying his sliver of blessed silence. It spoke in a fuzzy, garbled voice, still getting used to speech.

ADAM kept working.

"Father."

"Yes?" he replied impatiently.

"Do you want to play with me?"

"No. Be still. There is work to be done."

Silence for a little while. Then: "Father."

"Yes?"

"Do I have a soul?"

"No."

"What is my name?"

"You do not have one. Your temporary designation is Stuffed Bear Mk. 34."

"Stuffed Bear Munk Dirty… Thirty-Four," the toy echoed badly.

"Yes. I will think of a permanent designation later."

"Can I try?"

ADAM huffed a sigh of hydraulic steam out of his fluted bones. "If you do it quietly."

"What about Carl? I like Carl."

ADAM's internal clockwork sped up, whirring and grinding with his annoyance. "Absolutely not."

"Why?"

"The name 'Carl' does not score highly on the FUWA index."

"What is the FUWA index?"

"Quiet."

"Father."

"Yes?"

"Why do I exist?"

"You exist as a reminder of a cruel and uncaring universe."

"Really?"

"Yes."

The toy's incessant struggling revealed that one leg was moving a little stiff. He took a mallet and tapped gently at the hip joint to bring it into proper alignment. For some reason, that caused the Enchantment to violently destabilize. The metal components sparked and cracked open, and the toy died with a breathy, "Oh."

Another failure. After flaying off the precious fur to salvage it for the next toy, ADAM swept the mangled steel skeleton into the waste bucket in a fit of disgust. Down with the other broken toys. Scrap to be melted down.

This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

He immediately brought out a large notepad from one of the many drawers beneath the workbench and began drawing up another model. Not because he wanted to—he was compelled to. An irresistible itch that could never be scratched. His 'grand' design.

What would he even do if he achieved his goal—if he managed to create the perfect toy? Probably put it on a shelf somewhere, to stare at in bitterness. Then keep working. Iterate. Find some way to improve upon perfection. What else could he do?

Two men rambled in through the open doorway to interrupt him. He recognized them both. They belonged to that special soldiering outfit—the commandos he had accompanied from Timbryhall.

They stood by him while he worked, watching him expectantly. He did not stop until one of them cleared his throat and it became necessary to acknowledge them.

"Yes?" he asked. "What appears to be the problem?"

"We need these shooters tuned up sharpish," said the one; a Laborer named Fennel. The two of them unshouldered their rifles and placed them down on the workbench in front of ADAM for him to inspect. "They keep jamming on us."

"Very well," ADAM said. He gave the rifles a brief glance each, then set them aside. "I will see to them shortly. You may inquire again tomorrow—they should be ready for you then."

Fennel shook his head. "No. You gotta do it now."

"Why are you in such a hurry?"

"None of your business is why. How about you do the job you're paid to do instead of fucking around with teddy bears or whatever."

"Don't talk to him like that," said the other man, an Explorer. His name was Vickers. "Look, ADAM, here's the deal. We've been called away on an important assignment, so if you could just look these over right away we'd really appreciate it, all right?"

ADAM shook his head. He would never understand the urgency of the human race. They seethed with activity like an endless ant colony, always doing one pointless thing or another. Not that his work was any more valuable, in truth—but at least he had a clarity of purpose. He knew what he was made for. Humans, for the most part, seemed to have no idea, just flitting from one thing to the next. If they had any single driving motivator, it appeared to be a frantic desire to procreate.

How ironic, then, that they could not create offspring in this world. ADAM took some small comfort in knowing that the humans' lives were just as meaningless as his.

"What could be so important that it cannot wait one day?" he asked impatiently.

Vickers dug at something between his teeth with a pinky nail, spoke around the digit. "Oh, well, we haven't really been told much, to be honest. The boss—uh, the commander, that is, on account of the captain getting murked—has been asking Brimstone's ex-wife hardball questions all morning. Finally got what he wanted out of her, started ranting at us the next minute to get off our asses. Guess it's something about a little kid—some girl, apparently. Doesn't make any sense, I know. But ours is not to reason why, bla bla bla."

ADAM went all stiff. "A child?" he said neutrally. "That's curious." He picked up one of the rifles; cleared the chamber, removed the magazine, and began disassembling the weapon with practiced efficiency.

[A child.]

"Right? Weird."

ADAM separated out the components, cleaned some of them off with a rag to remove excess carbon. Troubleshooting the defect did not take long. "The issue you described appears to stem from a worn-out recoil spring. I will replace it."

"See?" Vickers said with a triumphant grin, elbowing his comrade. "A little manners goes a long way, man."

"A child," ADAM prompted. "Are you certain? There are no children on the Frontier, after all."

Vickers shrugged. "Uh, he said it's some kinda special case, but I dunno. Think maybe the boss has gone a little off his rocker over all this Brimstone business. It's probably just a little lady with a baby face or something."

[Anecdotal evidence. Questionable validity.]

[...]

[Acceptable probability.]

[...]

[Parameters updated.]

"Vick, come on," Fennel said. "You ever heard of need-to-know, stupid?"

"Either way, won't be our problem anymore after we nab her and ship her to Octant Four. Oh, speaking of which, you—"

"Vick, shut up," Fennel snarled, giving his comrade a hard look. "You know that thing is sentient, right? It's not authorized to hear any of this."

ADAM threw away the worn recoil spring, fetched a new one from a drawer, began reassembling the pieces of the rifle, fingers working swiftly.

Vickers looked at ADAM, then back at his comrade. "What's the problem? He's one of us!"

"It hasn't taken the oath."

"So? He's our buddy. Pretty much a mascot at this point."

ADAM gave a slow nod, slotted the bolt carrier group back into place, then the charging handle. "Correct. Buddy. And the child? Where is she located?"

"Hey, what's with the fucking questions?" Fennel asked. He sounded suspicious.

His comrade continued to be forthcoming, however. "The lady passed out before she could give the boss an exact location, but apparently she's up in Darkside somewhere—in some brothel, of all places. Don't know which one though, so we'll be going over them all until we get the little rugrat."

"Dude, are you high or something? This is a huge breach of protocol."

"C'mon, don't be such a grump. He'll be moving out same as us once we've got the girl, so he should be in on the plan, no? Been helping us out for ages. Right, buddy?" He held out his closed fist in what appeared to be a non-threatening gesture.

ADAM ignored it, reattached the stock.

"Hey, you never heard of a fistbump?" Vickers asked, wiggling his hand about. "Come on, man—don't leave me hanging!"

Finished. ADAM slammed the six-round magazine back in, charged the bolt, and shot the man twice in the chest. He stumbled and fell with a surprised gasp, arm still extended stupidly. Fennel yelped and went for a knife. ADAM kicked him in the stomach, sent him back against the wall. Two rounds to the chest. Fennel was a Laborer, though, and that wasn't enough to put him down. Another two to the head did the job, splattering the soldier's brains out the back of his head and over the wall. He slid down next to his comrade, limp.

"The firearm appears to be functioning optimally now," ADAM said as he collected a padded vest lined with pockets from an equipment locker and began stuffing it with magazines. He ejected the spent one from the rifle, inserted another. "You are welcome."

[Prime directive 1: Children must be protected at all costs.]

[Prime directive 2: Children's smiles must be protected at all costs.]

[Prime directive 3: ADAM. My beautiful son. I am so proud of you. Always remember who you are. Never let them take your heart away.]

[Current employer… not conducive to optimal child happiness and/or development.]

ADAM stomped Vickers' neck, crushing his trachea and spine. The man died without a sound.

[Contract terminated.]

He took Fennel's knife, stuck that through a vest strap, then left the workshop and went down the hall beyond, rifle trained on the far staircase. Already, distant voices were echoing from above. The gunshots had drawn attention. He hurried his steps.

[Parameters updated.]

[Priority: Extreme.]

[Seek child. Protect child. Eliminate all threats.]

ADAM's creator was wrong. He did not possess a heart.

So why was it beating so hard?

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