Simular Beings

Hostel Service Etiquette

A mod doll for a son... Something about that skinplate was irritating to the Creator's eyes. Was it the rust? The knots of cables? Was it the reminder of his past projects and betrayal? No, that didn't seem right. He didn't care about those things anymore.

"Why do you keep that around?" Why did he care? Mementos and nostalgia—they were beneath him.

"Keep what around, dear?" Mrs. Morgan asked.

"The skinplate. It doesn't seem like you very much enjoy being reminded of him."

"Well, of course not! But he's my son. I can't just ignore him!"

"I know that, but there's no obligation for it. Why not just trash it?"

"Trash it? I could never!" She hurried over towards his voice, feeling around the place with a new cane she'd found in her bedroom. "Gunther, what's wrong? Is something the matter?"

"All that skinplate brings are negative emotions." Emotions—such uncontrollable aspects of life should be done away with. It was a stain to society as well as a deterrent to progress. "Your son isn't even alive anymore."

"Oh, he definitely isn't!" She chuckled.

That attitude of hers... "I don't understand you."

"You don't have to understand, Gunther. That's just how families work."

"That's not—"

"Shush, shush. No more!" She headed back over to the kitchen where she had been preparing some tea. "We're not here to argue now are we? How about you tell me a little about yourself?"

"Me?"

"Yes, for a change!" She brought over the kettle. "You don't seem like you're from around here. I can tell!"

"It's none of your concern."

"Oh, don't be like that! Are you here on some important business?" She grinned. "You seem the type."

The Creator stared at the skinplate again; it was as if the skinplate was staring him back. He was suddenly curious. He knew the son was no more, but how? "What happened to your son?"

"My son?" The room went quiet. The silence permeated the air as her glassy eyes stared into the void. Then she finally answered, "He... was taken."

"Taken?" That had multiple meanings. The son could've been stolen, broken, or perhaps even malfunctioned. He could've ended up running straight into an accident. "How exactly was he taken?"

"Why, they suddenly barged in!"

"What?" Who were they? Did she mean her son? Or somebody else? Was it a robbery? "What do you mean? Who's they?"

"Well, I-I don't know. They just barged in—I heard some woman speak, and-and... Oh, then I heard him scream... My darling..."

They took her son? The Creator could think of multiple reasons, but the most plausible one was probably for selling parts. Mod dolls had an abundance of precious resources. Especially their energy core. It was an expensive, well sought out part by a large number of illegal buyers. But to be so brazen about it that they'd barge into a stranger's home—that was quite the anomaly...

Or perhaps not.

This was no expensive residence. Perhaps the average population did experience moments such as these much more often than he'd thought.

Whatever the case was, the perpetrators were most likely part of a larger, more prominent group—a group that didn't fear the law because of their size and standing.

"And did you report this?" He knew the authorities wouldn't do a thing for someone of such stature, but still, there were always a few good eggs around.

"Oh, they were no help, but there's no problem in that! Look!" She brought back the skinplate, holding it proudly in her hands. "Some young'uns helped me get this back!"

"That's wonderful." Deplorable. She was satisfied with just this? A being she called her beloved son, and yet, she'd never gone the extra mile to search for more? For any of these scrap pirates and their whereabouts? Evidences of their wrongdoings?

The Creator didn't believe in justice. In this world full of corruption, following rules only got you so far. That was why he had to work for it. If there was something he wanted, he had to earn it himself. If there was someone who'd wronged him, he would punish them himself. Otherwise, he'd have been trampled long ago by those who were just like him—those who were looking to gain power for their own, personal gains.

The skinplate was all the more irritating to look at. It was a constant reminder of what he didn't want to become—a complacent individual who lacked any drive. If he resolved to do something, he'd do it.

There were no exceptions.

"So!" Mrs. Morgan said. "I haven't forgotten what I'd asked earlier. Tell me more about why you're here, darling!"

She was back to her old self. So easily changed by emotions—that was also something he'd never let happen to him.

"You seem like you're looking for something. Or is it someone?"

But the Creator had to admit, she had a good sense of intuition. "I am looking for someone at the moment."

"Oh, do tell! Who?"

"A child." It wasn't like telling her would do him any harm. Conversation for conversation's sake, he supposed, but small talk was never his forte.

"Really? Your child?"

"It doesn't matter who's child." He'd find him soon enough. Unlike her, he would never stop, and he'd already thought of exacting punishment on the one who'd taken what was rightfully his.

"Well, this child seems to matter a lot more than you're letting on," she remarked. "Are they important to you?"

"He's not important." Only Mother was.

"He's not?"

"He's not."

"Then why're you searching for him, dear?"

"I just need him for something." All these probing questions. He really should've found another hotel to stay at. She sounded just like...

Mother...

"What's the matter, dear?"

"Nothing's the matter." Yet another reminder as to why he was out and about. He'd left Simular for one reason and one reason only—to get his mother back.

All he needed now was Bread. That was priority number one.