Children are invisible. Not exactly true, but we can be, if we want to. We fit into small spaces, blend into shadows, get ignored by “hardened criminals.” Usually terrorists. Those movies you see with the full-grown spy crawling through overhead ductwork? Forget it. But get a Toddler model and it can go anywhere.
The humans still aren’t used to us yet, though. Some try to pass for annoyed, but we all know the truth--it’s in their monkey instincts. “Civilized” humans don’t send three year olds into battle. Children are to be coddled and loved and wiped when we shit our pants. And there are those who do those things.
Mothers, we call them. Sometimes Fathers, but those are a rare sight. Usually we allow them the satisfaction of taking care of us, as most of them get really attached. They are the ones that protested our design. Said that it wasn’t human to make such a thing. “A civilization can be judged by how it treats its children,” or some other sap. But we aren’t children. We’re machines.
Our minds can do calculations in the time it would take a human to even read the entire equation. We have, programmed into our physique, the proficiency of a grand master in multiple forms of martial arts and the weapons knowledge of a war-tested General. We have the strength to bend steel and break tungsten. We just...have all the outward traits of a child.
But hey, at least I’m not a Cherub Model.
There is only one human that I get along with. He is one of the agents in Project: Child, mainly working with us because he designed us. Our intelligence and personalities stem from him, and while he is technically our father we do not address him as such. He is simply Jake. Everyone else is just an asshole.
“Shepard!” I hear my name barked from inside our break room.
When I get there, it’s Finnegan--another Toddler--leaning against the shortened table. He’s wearing only a shirt and a diaper, the tabletop lining up perfectly with the choo-choo on his chest.
Fuck. The train. The train on his chest.
“Yes sir?”
“How’s our picnic coming?”
“Picnic’s fine, sir. Just working on the ants, is all.”
The humans think this is some remnant in our programing--some kind of imaginary play--and they never question what the words mean. But if you must know, the “picnic” is our mission, passed down from the very first Child models. The “ants” are...let’s just say they are what could ruin our picnic.
“Better take care of them, they aren’t going to wait forever.” He takes a swig from his sippy cup. It matches his shirt, smiling sun and all.
I give a half-hearted salute. “Yes, sir--get right on it, sir.”
“I’m serious, Shepard. Get it together, or I’ll have to find someone else that will. And I’ll have to assume that you--”
“Don’t even,” I say. It’s bad enough being distrusted with my current assignment, it’s just downright insulting to be accused of colluding with the ants. Greedy, impatient little bastards. I stuff the binky--pacifier, goddammit. Pacifier--Jake gave me into my mouth and stomp out of the room.
