Restart

So this hasn't been updated for forever.  And there's a good reason.  That I didn't realize until now.  I am apathetic about Morian Icard.  PROBLEM!  You can't motivate yourself to write anything or tap into your imagination unless you have your emotions wired in.  You either have to care about your main charac or hate him.  Therefore, I must start over.  And change some things.  But not everything.
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I am sitting upon a bench in the local park.  It is cloudy.  And it is a quiet street, except for the robin song and the wind.  Otherwise there is nothing amiss.
A boy cries.  Not like the sound of weeping, but 83% similar to the sound of a scream.  It is the only disturbance on this quiet street.  I move to find the sound.
It comes from an unlit alley between the liquor store and a permanently closed cafe.  Four boys stand in a circle, between an estimated 10 and 15 years of age.  They surround two others: a taller muscled boy, and a very thin boy, at least a head shorter.  The taller boy hits the smaller one several times and remarks on his opponent's weakness and on his mother.  Each time the small boy cries and cowers away.  It is clearly unequal.
I approach, and all of them turn to look at me.  The tallest comes only to my chest.  It is still unequal, but in my favor.  I choose not to engage in conflict.
"Why are you fighting?" I ask.
"That's none o' your business."  The tall boy forms a fist, and the other four shuffle behind him, eyes wide open.
"We'll get in trouble, Jack, he's an ay-dult," one of the four--the sandy haired one--whispers to the tall boy.
"Shut up," Jack retorts and returns my gaze, eyes narrowed and brows creased.  "Now get out of here, or you'll end up the same way as lil' Willy over there."
"Your threat is incorrect.  You will 'get out of here,' or you will end up in a much worse position."  I lift my arm and engage the plasma laser.  I don't intend to use it, but it has been shown humans are very responsive in the face of danger.
"Jesus, I'm out of here!" the sandy-haired boy screams and runs past me.  The other three are quick to follow.  Jack looks behind him, as if to verify he is indeed alone.  He grinds his teeth and chases after the others.
The boy "Willy" does not get up from his crouch until the other boys are out of my sensor range.  I offer my hand to help him stand.  He stares at my hand and slides backwards.
"Are you a cyborg?" he asks.
"No, I am not a cyborg.  Is your name 'Willy?'"
He scrunches his face.  "No, it's 'Will.'  Who are you?"
I decide the boy is no threat, and truthfully answer.  "I am Arkhos."
Will stands up and brushes the back of his shorts.  There are severe bruises on his arms and legs.  I suggest he see a doctor.
"I just need some makeup, is all.  Don't tell my mother, okay?  She'd freak out."
"What is 'freak out?'"
Will lifts an eyebrow.  "It means she'll worry and fuss like crazy, even more than she does already."  He begins walking past me.  "Anyway, thanks, Arkhos.  Are you sure you're not a cyborg?"
"I am sure."
I follow him.  When we have passed the cafe and the record shop beside it, Will stops walking and turns to me.  "Why are you following me?"
"You are the only thing of interest on this quiet street.  I follow you to learn more."
"Uh, that's creepy."
I must convince him to allow me to follow.  "If I remove your injuries, will you let me follow you?"
"Can you do that?"
"Yes."
"But...how am I supposed to tell Mom who you are?  You're too old to be a classmate, and it would be weird to bring a teacher home...."
"You mean I appear too old to be a classmate.  That is not an issue."  I analyze reference images of 12 year old boys, and reconfigure and compact my physical mainframe.  I also increase the register of my voice.
"Holy cow," Will whispers, "are you a robot?"
"In the most general sense of the term, yes."  I reconsider my speech pattern.  "I meant, 'yup.'"
Will laughs.  "That sounds all wrong.  You have to say it like this, 'yup!'"  I imitate his inflection, and he confirms it is correct.
I take his arm and aim my right index over the first bruise.  "It'll sting," I warn and initiate reconstruction.  He flinches and bites his lower lip.  The first is always the slowest, because each human is unique--which makes the process unique per human--but the pace increases with every bruise I fix.
"Wow, Arkhos.  That's amazing!  You have to show everyone!"  I respond to his apparent excitement with a smile, per protocol.  He grabs my hand and begins running towards, I assume, his home.
The house is ranch-style, yellow-stained white siding and a sagging front porch.  He swings open the front door and shouts, "Mom!"

795 words.