Breachers

CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

Quills and Echoes

Marcus gritted his teeth as he dropped onto his stomach, landing hard on the floor of his living room with a muffled thud. He groaned, pressing his forehead against the cool wood, too sore to move for a second.

"First, the Salamanders. Then shopping. Then testing out the robots in a Sphere that totally didn't end with me being manipulated by those steel bastards into actually clearing the damn thing," he muttered, his lips slightly squashed against the floorboards beneath him.

"It's just training, Marcus… in and out in a second… we didn't know a guild cleared out most of the monsters earlier… it'd be a shame not to take advantage, right?" he added, pitching his voice higher and giving it a nagging, robotic whine to mimic his mechanical companions.

Behind him, the window-frame creaked as two figures climbed in after him, one with practiced ease, the other a little less gracefully. The first robot—Specter—stood tall, hands in the pockets of a hoodie that hid its unnatural frame. The second robot followed, lugging two bags—one filled with Marcus's gear, the other rattling ominously with what they'd scavenged tonight.

"You look like a porcupine," Specter said, tilting its head at the mess of quill-like spikes jutting out of Marcus's back and rear.

Marcus pushed himself onto his hands and knees, scowling. "Yeah? Well, you look like the son of a toaster."

Specter made a sound that could have been a chuckle, but it was hard to tell.

Ignoring it, Marcus staggered to his feet, wincing as a few of the quills shifted painfully against his clothes. He stomped toward the kitchen, throwing open a drawer and grabbing both a pair of pliers and a sharp kitchen knife. "Is anyone gonna help me, or what?"

Specter and the other robot followed, their clothes making them look almost human in the dim kitchen light. Specter picked up the pliers and twirled them between its fingers before gripping the first quill. "Alright, hold still."

Marcus tensed as he felt the quill slightly move inside his skin before his companion yanked it out.

"Son of a—"

Specter held up the quill, inspecting the end. "Huh. Barbs." It rotated the quill so Marcus could see. "That explains the pain."

Marcus shoved its hand away. "You think? Just get them out already."

Specter went back in, yanking out two more in quick succession, and each time Marcus let out a sharp hiss, his curses growing more colorful.

"Dude, do it right," Marcus snapped.

"You're the one who keeps squirming," Specter said, way too amused for Marcus's liking.

The young Breacher turned without warning and snatched the pliers out of Specter's hands, moving so fast it surprised the robot, before pressing his palm flat against its steel chest.

Specter's three lenses flashed blue for a split second. "You wouldn't—"

A blast of wind shot from Marcus's hand, sending Specter rolling backward across the floor like a tin can in a hurricane. It crashed into the couch, legs sticking up for a moment before it slowly righted itself, looking completely unbothered.

Marcus turned to the other robot and shoved the pliers into its hands. "Congratulations, you've been promoted. Pull these buggers out without making me want to punch you, and you get to have your own name instead of just being a drone. How about that?"

The robot stared at the pliers, then at Specter, then back to Marcus. After a moment, it gave a short, deliberate nod.

Marcus sighed and braced himself, gripping the edge of the counter as the robot studied one of the already-removed quills. It tilted the quill in the light before shifting its attention back to Marcus.

The robot pulled the quill out slowly, twisting it slightly to the left as it did. Marcus hissed through his teeth, but the pain wasn't as sharp this time.

"Lucky guess," Specter mumbled as it stepped closer, watching its robotic counterpart work.

The other robot kept going, its movements methodical and steady.

"Remind me to never fight monsters like that again," Marcus muttered.

Specter chuckled. "Hey, it attacked me too."

"It's sticking out of my ass, not yours. It just bounced off your steel frame like it was nothing," Marcus shot back. He winced as he shifted, his gaze landing on the bags, knowing his gear was still filthy. He'd have to clean it now or tomorrow. His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall—ten after five. He groaned as he realized in two hours, Felix would probably be knocking on his door.

"Done," the other robot said, its voice flat yet an exact copy of Marcus's own.

"Good job enduring it all. You want a lollipop?" Specter asked, clearly amused. Before Marcus could answer, Specter tapped his shoulder, re-establishing their connection. A flood of shared experiences and memories rushed through him before the robot pulled back. "I'll take care of the gear. You just rest up, alright?"

Marcus gave a tired nod and turned toward his room. But before he could leave, the other robot spoke up. "I'd like my name now." Its voice was as dull as ever.

Marcus stopped and turned, studying it. He recalled activating this machine—and three others—just a few hours ago, after finishing the mana-battery installation and swapping out the plastic for steel plating.

'I did promise,' he thought.

The robot reached for the bag near it, sliding it open. A pulsing blue glow lit up the grime-covered Glass shards inside. It shifted through the pieces, then pulled out an Orb—the same one Bastion and Specter had tricked Marcus into retrieving during their so-called 'trial run'.

"Alright, let's figure out your name," Marcus muttered, hobbling over and taking the Orb. He turned it over in his hands, feeling the hum of stored energy.

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

Specter moved beside him, unscrewing the robot's breastplate with its built-in finger tool.

"Can't believe we've got six already," Specter said as Marcus slid the Orb into place, locking it at the center of the machine's core. "At this rate, we'll become an army in a few more months."

With a controlled breath, Marcus sent a pulse of mana into the robot, kick-starting the integration. The veins of energy spread rapidly, and the Orb's rhythmic pulsing settled into a steady, constant glow.

Specter finished screwing the plate back into place before stepping back and looking at its steel sibling. "All done."

The other robot nodded but remained still, staring down at its own chest as if lost in thought.

"So, what's the name?" Specter asked, leaning against the wall. "Please don't say Reaper."

Marcus nodded at the comment, still remembering the maniacal laughter of the prototype that was Reaper as it ripped its own Orb out of its own head to prove a point. "Yeah, we'd prefer a more stable companion this time. So, what's it gonna be?" he asked, placing a hand on both Specter and the new robot to briefly redistribute their mental capacity, balancing them out.

The robot remained silent, still staring at its chest. Seconds passed. Then a full minute. Specter glanced at Marcus, who shrugged, with both of them wondering what was taking so long before the robot finally spoke.

"You have Specter for stealth and Bastion for defense, with drones supplementing them," the robot finally said, its voice steady. "At some point, you will create something to replace Reaper, focusing on offense."

Specter nodded in agreement before it brother continued, "The way I see it, the biggest problem you have right now is intelligence."

"Ouch?" Marcus muttered. He didn't know why, but hearing his own steel copy say that to him felt like a kick in the nuts—by his own foot.

"Intelligence, as in utility, planning, and support," the robot clarified. "A unit specialized in creating and repairing more robots, interacting with and learning from other fields, and improving general knowledge." It took a step back, eyes locked on Marcus. "Your ability to create more versions of yourself is a great strength. But the ability to recall all their memories and increase your own knowledge base might be something we have overlooked… or at the very least not exploited fully."

It tapped a finger against its chest. "Imagine me, with all the knowledge of Pete and others, directing a small group of drones to build more drones or improve designs. Or imagine a group of robots researching tactics and sharing that knowledge back to a single Nexus. You."

Marcus nodded slowly. "That actually makes sense. But it sounds—"

"Boring," Specter cut in. "I mean, it's smart, but studying and book smarts were never really his thing—including Marcus's copies. No matter how much we try to be like someone else, you focusing on that sounds almost painful."

"I agree," the robot said, stepping toward Marcus. "Which is why you will create my personality. You made Reaper differently from Bastion and Specter—tailored it, controlled what it could and couldn't be. For me, the identity I will become, I recommend blending some of your good traits, like your focus and drive, with the memories of those more... intelligent than us."

It listed several smart people they had interacted with—high school chemistry professors, MacGyver from tv, old man Pete, and a few others. It paused, its two lenses almost appearing to narrow as it stared at Marcus.

"I think the majority of my personality should be based on Martin. Or a variant of him, at least."

"Martin?" Specter shook its head. "Our Martin? You can't be serious."

"I am."

Specter raised its hands. "Martin hates us. Well, not us—him." It pointed at Marcus. "And he's—"

"The smartest person we know," the other robot cut in. "This Martin, this mature version of him, can be cold, calculating, and determined. Not just gifted, but driven." It extended its hand toward Marcus. "The fact that our brother is broken and we don't know how to fix that—or even what the problem is—doesn't change that having someone like Martin on our side would help enormously. You don't need empathy for a robot that oversees production. You don't need warmth for something built to improve designs or create strategies. What you need is something that can get shit done."

"You sure?" Marcus asked, slowly taking its hand.

"I'm not looking forward to it, but I'm sure." It nodded, solidifying its choice. "This personality you'll make won't be the same as your brother—just an echo, a replica. But it'll still be useful to us. And besides," it said, gripping Marcus's hand more firmly, "you promised me I could pick my own name. You never said anything about letting me keep my mind."

Then, without warning, the robot forced its mind back into Marcus, the two of them becoming whole in a sudden clash.

Memories hit Marcus like a hammer—thoughts, choices, emotions the robot had processed in the short time it had been separate from him. He felt the weight of its decision, the quiet acceptance of what it would become, knowing it would never be the same again. It was a cold, rational shift in its thinking, reshaping itself for the future.

Marcus clenched his jaw and grabbed onto that part of his mind, hacking away at it like a butcher carving meat from bone. He stripped away anything that made the robot too much like him, tossing aside pieces that didn't belong. Then, with the same brutal efficiency, he stuffed the memories of old man Pete, teachers and professors he knew, and—most importantly—Martin, both the brother he'd known and the broken version of him now. The things he had valued and respected about Martin, the intellect, the relentless pursuit of understanding, the ability to get things done no matter what. He forced that into the echo.

When it was done, he let go and stumbled back, shaking off the disorientation before leaning against the kitchen counter.

He watched the robot stare at its own hands for a moment, flexing its fingers like it was adjusting to something new. Then it made a fist, held it for a second, and let go.

"I think it worked," it said, its voice now less like Marcus's—less human.

"So, about that name of yours," Marcus muttered.

"You already know it. You saw my thoughts."

"Specter doesn't. And I'm feeling theatrical tonight—mostly from lack of sleep. So…"

The robot nodded before shifting its gaze to Specter.

"Call me Cypher."

"Cypher?" Specter cocked its head. "What kind of lame name is that?"

"It's fitting, considering my role and that we do not understand Martin fully, the template of my personality." Cypher paused, then added, his tone carrying a hint more personality, "Besides, it's better than 'Specter.' That one sounds like a ten-year-old came up with it."

Marcus let out a short laugh. "All right, both of you—keep it down and get out of here before Felix comes knocking in a few hours."

He turned toward his bedroom, but a bag slid across the floor, coming to a dull thud at his feet.

Marcus glanced down at all the Glass inside the bag.

"You promised Pete you'd remove as much Glass as possible and only stash it in the Batcave if you had to, remember?" Specter said, arms folded.

Marcus stared at the bag, sighed, and picked it up, muttering a curse as he went into the bathroom.

Inside, he ran the sink, dumping the Glass in to rinse off the blood and grime. He grabbed twenty pieces, pressed them to his chest, and felt them disintegrate in his hands. A sharp jolt of energy crashed through him, setting his nerves on fire each time he did so.

Marcus kept slamming Glass pieces into his chest, ignoring the sharp pricks of pain as the energy inside him built up, growing denser. Each stab sent another jolt racing through his body, setting his nerves on edge, but he pushed past it, forcing himself to keep going. By the time he ran out of Glass, save for the last three, his fingers trembled slightly and his breath came in short, uneven bursts.

He exhaled, finally looking up at the mirror. His reflection stared back—pale, sweaty, exhausted. He scooped up the last three pieces from the sink and stepped out.

Specter stood by the wall, hand outstretched.

Without a word, Marcus dropped the Glass into its waiting palm and dragged himself toward his bedroom. He barely made it to the bed before collapsing face-first onto the mattress.

Footsteps followed him in.

"I'll clean your gear and head out in a minute," Specter said. "Cypher—god, I hate that name—already made you breakfast. You need anything else?"

"Twenty hours of sleep," Marcus muttered into the pillow.

Specter chuckled and patted his leg. "Good night, Nexus." Then it stepped out, leaving Marcus alone.

He lay there, motionless, drained—but the energy inside him wasn't. It surged, coursing through his body in erratic pulses, setting his muscles twitching, his skin tingling. He gritted his teeth, forcing himself to endure the discomfort. The pain built, sharp and insistent, until—finally—he let go, allowing it to spread and strengthen him from within.

A rush of sensation hit all at once. His body burned, spasmed, adjusted. Every nerve screamed, then dulled, settling into something sharper, clearer.

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[Agility] [+1]

[Perception] [+1]

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