The air in Phineas's workshop hummed with the low thrum of machinery, a symphony of arcane technology and sputtering solder. The smell of ozone mingled with stale coffee and the faint metallic tang of oil. Dust motes danced in the single beam of sunlight that pierced the fortified window high on the wall. Phineas, a man whose grey hair seemed perpetually disheveled by electrical fields and whose safety goggles were more often perched on his forehead than over his eyes, gestured emphatically with a wrench.
"Look at them, Vincent!" he railed, pacing between workbenches cluttered with wires, gears, and glowing components. Vincent, a hulking figure of repurposed metal and scavenged power cores, stood silently near the main power conduit, his optical sensors – two soft, blue points of light – focused intently on Phineas. He wasn't just a machine; Phineas had given him life, self-awareness, and a quiet, stoic personality. He was Vincent, Phineas's oldest and only true friend.
"Smashing through buildings!" Phineas continued, the wrench slicing the air. "Flattening city blocks! Oh, look at me, I have the power of a dying star, so I'll just punch this dimension-hopping creature right through a hospital wing! The collateral damage! The sheer, unadulterated recklessness! Do they ever stop to think about the consequences? The poor souls trapped beneath rubble, the businesses destroyed, the simple fact that not everything needs to be solved with disproportionate force?"
Vincent's head tilted almost imperceptibly, a whirring sound accompanying the movement. He couldn't speak in words, not truly, but his presence was a grounding force for Phineas's often-frantic energy. Phineas had designed him for protection, a 'doombot' by initial designation, but he saw something in the broken machine and rubuilt it not into Vincent. Vincent had become more than just a machine. He'd become Vincent.
"That's why this is important, Vincent," Phineas said, his tone shifting from indignation to hushed reverence as he stopped before a reinforced workbench near the center of the room. On it lay the object of his current obsession: the collapse trigger.
It was a bizarre, non-human piece of equipment he had found quite by chance—or perhaps, fate—in a field on his drive home from his parents. It wasn't large, perhaps the size of a grapefruit, but its form was utterly alien. Smooth, obsidian-like surfaces curved and folded in ways that seemed impossible, occasionally flashing with internal, sickly green light. It didn't just sit there; it seemed to absorb the light around it, making the immediate area feel colder, heavier. A low, unsettling hum emanated from it, a frequency that seemed to vibrate more in the bone than the ear.
"This," Phineas whispered, tracing a gloved finger near one of the impossible angles, "doesn't just destroy. It unravels. It could, theoretically, collapse a localized section of reality, reduce it to its base informational state. No explosion, no shockwave, no mess." His eyes gleamed with a dangerous mix of intellectual curiosity and weary resignation. "Imagine. Facing an unstoppable force, not by matching its power and leveling a city, but by simply… removing the space it occupies. Elegant. Precise."
He shivered, despite the workshop's temperature. "And terrifying. The wrong variable, the slightest miscalculation… it could unravel us. Everything. That's why the research is slow, meticulous. Unlike our so-called heroes." He shot a pointed look towards the ceiling, as if addressing the high-flyers he scorned. "No flashy displays, just quiet, careful understanding."
Vincent emitted a soft whirring sound, a low rumble that Phineas had come to interpret as assent or perhaps just acknowledgment. He moved slightly, his heavy form shifting, seemingly settling into a defensive posture near Phineas without being explicitly told. Phineas felt a prickle of warmth in his chest. Even without words, Vincent understood. He always understood.
Phineas returned to his analysis, the hum of the collapse trigger filling the brief silence. He was so engrossed in the complex energy fluctuations displayed on a nearby monitor that he barely registered the first noise.
It started as distinct, heavy thuds from the front of the house, not the workshop door itself, but the main entrance. Phineas paused, cocking his head. That wasn't the postman. That wasn't anyone he expected.
Then came the unmistakable, splintering crash of heavy-duty wood being violently broken open. A cold dread seized Phineas. His workshop was hidden, shielded, reinforced.
Phineas spun around, eyes wide with sudden panic. "Vincent?"
Before Vincent could respond, they heard heavy, rapid footsteps echoing through the house, getting closer. They weren't the measured steps of law enforcement or the heavy thud of someone seeking dialogue. They were the purposeful, urgent strides of intruders.
The reinforced door separating the workshop from the main house corridor didn't stand a chance. With another deafening crash, it exploded inward, splintering wood and twisted metal flying across the room.
Two figures burst through the gap, silhouetted for a moment against the dimmer light of the hallway. They wore dark, nondescript tactical gear and featureless masks that concealed their faces entirely. And they carried heavy assault rifles, muzzles pointed directly at Phineas.
"Tinkerer! Hands where I can see them!" one of them barked, his voice muffled by the mask.
Phineas froze, his heart hammering against his ribs. His hands were still near the collapse trigger. He wasn't armed. He wasn't built for this. He was a scientist, a creator, an inventor, not a combatant.
But Vincent was.
Before Phineas could even fully process the threat, Vincent moved. He didn't hesitate, didn't pause for instruction. His massive frame surged forward with impossible speed, a blur of grey metal and sudden, raw power.
The first masked man didn't even get a shot off. Vincent's colossal, metal-clad hand slammed into his chest with the force of a runaway train. There was a sickening crunch of armor and bone before the man was lifted clean off his feet and hurled backward, a broken puppet, through the doorway he had just entered. He hit the opposite wall of the hallway with a sickening impact and slumped lifelessly to the floor.
The second man, startled and reacting purely on instinct, swung his rifle towards Vincent, squeezing the trigger. Bullets sparked harmlessly against Vincent's reinforced chassis.
Vincent didn't bother with brute force this time. A low whine built within him, quickly escalating to a high-pitched shriek. The optical sensors on his head flared from soft blue to blinding white. A powerful beam of crackling energy burst from them, a focused torrent of destructive force that lanced through the air and vaporized the masked man's weapon in a flash of molten metal and superheated plastic. The beam then continued its destructive path, hitting the man square in the chest. His body glowed with intense heat for a terrifying second before he too collapsed, smoldering and utterly inert.
It was over in seconds. The silence that followed was more terrifying than the noise had been. Smoke curled from the ruined doorway and the charred remains where the second man had stood. The air conditioning unit Phineas had repurposed to filter workshop fumes struggled to cope with the sudden stench of burnt metal and ozone.
Phineas stood rooted to the spot, breathing heavily, his eyes wide with shock. Vincent swiveled his head, his blue optics scanning the hallway outside the workshop, his posture still coiled and ready.
Then, a new presence in the hallway, quieter than the last, but radiating a palpable aura of cold, deadly competence.
A figure stepped through the ruined doorway, moving with unnerving calm amidst the wreckage. He wore a distinctive tactical suit, less bulky than the masked men's gear, and a full-face mask with a single, glowing red eye-lens. In his hands, he held a sophisticated sniper rifle, held not at the hip, but leveled with casual, professional ease.
Deadshot. The man who never missed.
His voice, electronically filtered behind the mask, was as cold and precise as his reputation. "Cute robot. But you're not the target." His glowing red eye-lens shifted from Vincent to Phineas. "You are."
Vincent didn't hesitate. His protective programming, amplified by the free will Phineas had granted him, overrode any sense of self-preservation. He swung his massive form around, placing himself squarely between Deadshot and Phineas. The energy conduits within his chassis began to whine again, charging for another blast.
But Deadshot was faster. Preternaturally faster. As Vincent's optics began to flare, Deadshot's rifle spat fire.
The shot was impossibly quick, a mere crack in the sudden silence. It wasn't aimed at Vincent's head or his core. It targeted a complex junction of power and mobility circuits on Vincent's shoulder. The bullet, specialized and designed for maximum penetration, punched through Vincent's armor with chilling ease.
Vincent's energy charge sputtered, the whine dying to a choked gurgle. His massive form staggered sideways.
"Go, Phineas! Run!" Vincent's voice, a harsh, metallic roar that Phineas had wired him to produce only in moments of extreme duress, ripped through the air.
That sound, Vincent's desperate command, finally shattered Phineas's paralysis. He didn't need to be told twice. He snatched the collapse trigger from the workbench, its strangely cold surface a stark contrast to his suddenly clammy hands. He clutched it tight, stumbled backward, away from Deadshot.
Deadshot ignored Phineas for the moment, his focus entirely on the much larger threat of the power robot. He moved with fluid grace, sidestepping a wild, haywire energy discharge that erupted from Vincent's damaged shoulder.
Vincent roared again, swinging a heavy metal fist towards Deadshot. The blow was powerful, capable of pulverizing concrete, but Deadshot wasn't there. He was already moving, circling, his rifle tracking Vincent's every motion with unwavering precision.
Phineas scrambled towards the emergency exit, a reinforced panel hidden behind a movable workbench. He risked a glance back over his shoulder as he fumbled with the locking mechanism, eventually gettingit open in his panic.
The fight had moved out of the immediate workshop space, spilling into the cluttered hallway and what looked like the edge of the main living area. Vincent, despite his size and damage, was a whirlwind of struggling power, metal limbs thrashing, optical sensors flashing erratically. Deadshot, in contrast, was a study in cold efficiency. He didn't waste movement or ammunition.
Another shot. This one hit Vincent in the knee joint, severing hydraulic lines with a spray of fluid and sparks. Vincent stumbled, his leg collapsing inward with a hideous screech of tortured metal.
Vincent tried to regain his balance, dragging his ruined leg. He lunged towards Deadshot, a desperate, one-legged charge.
Deadshot didn't retreat. He stood his ground, taking a stable firing stance. His rifle cracked again.
The shots came in rapid succession now, three sharp, precise reports. Crack. Crack. Crack.
Phineas, winced with every sound. He could hear the metallic clangs as he ran, as fast he could. There was no roar of pain from Vincent, just the terrible sounds of internal damage – the shriek of tearing metal, the fizzle of overloaded circuits, the final dying groan of powerful machinery grinding to a halt.
Tears welled in Phineas's eyes, hot and unexpected. Vincent. Gone. Just like that. His friend, his protector, the only being he'd ever truly connected with on a fundamental level. Reduced to scrap metal and broken circuits.
Clutching the collapse trigger like it was a lifeline – or perhaps a death sentence – Phineas stumbled into the tunnel. He didn't look back at the ruined doorway, at the silent, broken hulk that had moments ago been his loyal companion. He couldn't. The image was already seared into his mind.
He started running through the dark, cramped passage, the cold metal of the trigger pressing against his palm. Tears streamed down his face, silent at first, then choked, gasping sobs that echoed strangely in the tunnel.
"Vincent," he whispered, the name thick with grief. "Oh, Vincent…"
He ran, propelled by fear and sorrow, leaving behind the wreckage of his home and cramped tunnel, the silence where his friend lay broken. He ran into the unknown, alone, clutching the trigger, tears blurring his vision, clinging to a desperate, impossible hope that somehow, against all the impossible odds, Vincent was okay.