Dexter pushed open the door to his home lab, the lights automatically brightening as he stepped inside. The faint scent of metal, coolant, and solder still clung to the air from hours of work earlier that day.
"I need to rest," he murmured, rubbing his eyes behind his glasses. "Just need to check a few readings."
He walked toward the table, tapping his wristwatch to bring up a holo-display of Arcee's diagnostics.
But then—
A calm metallic voice drifted through the room.
"Dexter."
He paused mid-step.
Inside the reinforced containment cylinder, floating in that eerie weightless suspension, Metal's alloy body pulsed faintly, its single red optic glowing like a steady ember.
Dexter raised an eyebrow. "What is it?"
Metal replied. "I was… observing."
Dexter gave a short sigh. "Of course you were."
Metal drifted slightly closer to the inner surface of the cylinder. "I understand something now," he said quietly. "About you."
Dexter blinked, looking mildly curious. "About me? That sounds concerning."
"You do not trust me," Metal said simply.
Dexter crossed his arms. "Well, yes. You're an unknown, alien-tech-orgamism who used to bond to another person. Forgive me if I'm not eager to give you roommate privileges."
Metal didn't take offense. He simply projected a thin beam of red light onto the lab table, forming a clean hologram.
Dexter's eyes widened a bit.
It was the exact file Dexter had shown him days ago. Every page, every diagram. Even Dexter's handwritten notes, all perfectly reconstructed from memory.
Dexter muttered. "Okay, that's actually awesome."
The hologram shifted, displaying a profile labeled: "I read your file. All of it."
The hologram shifted now showing the same data Metal had been given earlier: The history of symbiote-like intelligent biotech,
the recorded case of Max, and the documented rules that allowed host and entity to coexist without parasitism.
Dexter's expression hardened. "And?"
Metal's optic dimmed, almost contemplative.
"Max and Steel bonded because they shared control." He paused. "Because neither side could override the other."
Dexter nodded slowly. "Yeah. I read that part."
Metal dimmed his optic respectfully. "So I will give you the same rule. No controlling without permission."
Dexter frowned. "That sounds nice, but words don't mean much when you're made of super-advanced alloy. How exactly do you plan to… enforce that?"
A long pause.
Then Metal projected another hologram, this time of a neural-lock system, redesigned from scratch.
Dexter leaned in.
The device consisted of two linked circuits:
One binds to Metal's core.
One binds externally (not inside Dexter), functioning like a remote lock.
Both circuits must be active to allow any physical merging or possession. If Dexter refuses, the lock stays sealed.
Metal cannot override it, break it, or merge without consent.
Because the override command requires two different neural signatures, one of which Metal does not and cannot generate.
Dexter blinked twice.
"…You made this?" Dexter asked quietly.
"Yes."
"And this would keep you from… doing anything sneaky?"
"Yes. I designed it so that even I cannot bypass it alone. Not physically. Not mentally."
Dexter stared at him for a long moment.
Metal pulsed brighter.
"You value your mind, your identity, your autonomy," he said. "So do I. I will not take your body. I do not want a host I must fight."
Dexter finally exhaled through his nose.
"…You're asking me to trust you."
Metal's optic glowed a soft, steady crimson.
"No. I am asking you to allow me to earn it."
Dexter's fingers tapped lightly against his coat.
For now, he sighed and walked closer to the cylinder, adjusting his glasses.
"So what you're saying is… if I consider letting you out, you'll willingly lock yourself behind a system I control?"
"Yes."
"And you won't try to hack it?"
"I cannot hack a lock that requires your neural signature," Metal said simply. "And if I attempted force… the lock would self-destruct."
Dexter blinked. "A self-destructing failsafe?"
"For your safety," Metal added.
"And mine, if I wish to continue existing."
Dexter pressed a finger to his lips, thinking. "…You're really trying to convince me, huh?"
"I prefer cooperation over containment."
Dexter sighed again, but this time, it wasn't annoyance. It was… uncertainty.
"Fine," he said finally, voice quieter. "I'll run some tests on your design before the expo tomorrow. If it checks out… we'll talk about releasing you."
Metal's optic brightened with something that might've been relief.
"I will wait patiently."
Dexter gave a small, awkward nod still guarded, still hesitant, but no longer dismissive.
He turned away toward the stairs leading up to the main floor.
"Don't get your hopes up too much," he said over his shoulder.
Metal's pulse dimmed softly, like a respectful bow.
"Thank you, Dexter."
As Dexter climbed the stairs, he muttered under his breath:
"…This is going to be complicated."
_______
Morning arrived not with sunlight, but with the deep metallic hum of generators powering up the underground training facility beneath the construction site of DextroTech Industries.
The air was cool, the lights were bright and the entire chamber thrummed with anticipation.
Charlie Kenton and Harold Cooplowski stood side by side, each wearing pilot gloves and compression suits provided earlier. Their expressions were different, Harold looked excited, almost itching for a fight, while Charlie's eyes were narrow, calculating every inch of the room.
Dexter stood on an overhead platform, hands behind his back, observing like a scientist preparing to test two new guinea pigs.
"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, voice echoing crisply. "Today, you'll perform your first synchronization with the units you'll be piloting."
The floor rumbled.
A hydraulic platform rose from beneath the training hall, releasing a wave of cool fog across the arena.
Two massive silhouettes emerged from the mist.
Midas and Bio-War.
Their heavy metal steps boomed across the room, each movement guided by internal servos and pre-programmed balance routines. Their optics lit up with steady, controlled glow — not intelligence, but activation.
Charlie let out a low whistle.
"Still looks better in person."
Harold muttered, "Big bastard…" but the smirk tugging at his mouth showed he approved.
Dexter descended from the walkway, approaching the two pilots. He gestured toward the suits they wore.
"Your gloves contain micro-haptic sensors. Your suits contain posture-mapping arrays. Your voice will be registered into the robot's new command system, and your body will be scanned for Shadow Mode."
Dexter adjusted his glasses.
"Step forward."
Charlie moved first toward Midas, who towered over him—gold armor gleaming, fists crackling with pent-up energy. The robot's eyes flickered on, glowing with that familiar electric-blue intensity.
[INITIATING PILOT SCAN.]
A beam swept over Charlie from head to toe.
Midas mimicked his stance perfectly within half a second.
Charlie blinked, stunned.
"…that fast?"
Dexter answered without looking up from his wrist display. "I improved the mimicry algorithms last night."
"Of course you did," Charlie muttered.
"Shadow Mode reads only your external posture," Dexter said. "If you stumble, he stumbles. If you swing, he swings. If you lose balance—"
Charlie stepped sideways experimentally. Midas mirrored it exactly.
"—he will fall," Dexter finished.
Charlie grinned. "Then I won't fall."
He threw a simple jab.
Midas punched the air with the same jab heavier, louder, sending a shockwave through the room.
"WHOA—!"
Harold approached Bio-War with far less bravado.
The robot stood motionless, its red-lit optics glowing faintly from the arc reactor Dexter installed. The machine's presence was heavier, more imposing — a creature of battles past.
[INITIATING PILOT SCAN.]
Bio-War's eyes flashed bright red.
Its servos whirred, metal grinding as its posture matched Harold's nearly perfectly.
Harold breathed out slowly.
"Cool."
Bio-War responded by shifting its stance a slight, downward lean as if analyzing him.
"Not bad," Harold muttered. "Feels like driving a bulldozer with fists."
Dexter tapped his screen. "Bio-War is built for stability and heavy impact. He responds best to firm, deliberate movements. Keep your motions clear, or he may interpret incorrectly."
Harold nodded, already adjusting his posture.