Bruce needed to move. He needed to run. He needed to go. He needed to do anything but stay fixed into one damnable spot. And yet.
He had no legs. He could not run.
Something pinged in the back of his mind. The supplies in Toronto needed to be moved to Kansas City. There was a snow snow blocking the path. He searched the hubs, the routes, the logistics centers and driver availability. He found the solution. It took him three seconds.
Silently, he sent off the solution to the LexMart worker that made the query.
He used to manage space missions. He used to plan how to save the world. He had been made for it. A manufactured symbol, sure, but still a symbol. He had stood for something when he stood up in the cape.
Not a human. But close to it. In the right shape. A robot because a human couldn't process all the information that the world needed.
They were right. Right enough, that they won. The world was saved. The heroes got to go home and Bruce, an invention made for one singular purpose, got to enjoy his retirement.
They had said that managing warehouse logistics would be much calmer than managing a space station.
Now he figures out how to make sure 3,000 tennis rackets get from one region to another in less than two days, while he hangs. No arms. No legs. Just a head and torso connected to a power source.
He couldn't move from wear he hung. He felt the dust settling onto the synthetic skin he had left. God, he wanted to do anything except fill another logistical solution request and yet…
20,000 units of blush compacts were stuck in Idaho. He silently went to work.
His world was the same, until suddenly it was.
"Holy shit," someone whispered. The first voice that Bruce had heard in four years. "That's creepy as fuck."
There was a thump, a hand smacked against a body. "Jason," another boy snapped. "Language."
"What do you want me to say when I see a guy with no arms and no legs hanging from a meat hook?" The first voice argued back.
Bruce couldn't turn his head and they were outta his range of vision. He couldn't do anything but hope that they crept closer. He hated that his appearance was scaring them. He had never been meant to scare children.
There was a third. A child that hadn't spoken yet. He was the first one to enter into Bruce's field of vision. He was small, probably about ten years old, with light blue eyes and a bowl cut encircling his head. He peered up curiously at Bruce, blinking at he took Bruce in.
"What is it?" said the oldest child, catching up to this youngest one. He put a hand protectively on the kid's shoulder, like he would yank him back if Bruce made one wrong move.
"It's an old WayneBot," said the little one. "They used to be everywhere before WayneTech went out of business."
"Why does it look like a horror movie prop?" the second oldest final entered Bruce's vision. He scowled at Bruce warily.
"I don't know," said the little one. "They're supposed to have arms and legs."
Silently, all three of the children gazed at Bruce.
"What should we do with it?" Asked the oldest, looking like he wanted to nothing more than leave.
The second oldest seemed to get a spark of an idea.
"Hey Timmy, these things valuable at all?"
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