last night i asked if people would be interested in me posting a backstory piece for Martyn from the hero/villain / yellow rose au i’ve posted a single oneshot for despite the fact the backstory piece doesn’t seem to outwardly relate to the posted oneshot. no one outright shot me down so. here you go
for some context, the powers in this world of yellow rose come from a catastrophic event that took place almost 20 years prior to the start of the story, which wiped out a lot of the world’s cities/towns and gave many of the survivors powers or mutations
backstory takes place when Martyn is 0-10 years old (he was born shortly before the aforementioned catastrophic event) and focuses on an OC parent character / martyn’s relationship to said parent
anyway. yellow rose is an au made w @cherrifire. time for you all to meet robot dad
It’s hot on the day the world ends. This is not the only thing it remembers, but it’s one that still stands out, even years down the line.
It’d been dealing with a patient with symptoms of heatstroke, the third it had seen in an hour. Heatstroke is an easy enough ailment to give to a nurse bot to treat, so it gets the job. It had stepped out of its patient’s room and run into a doctor, who had asked it to fetch something from the basement storage.
This is why it had survived, it thinks, looking back. It had been in the basement, and by some stroke of luck, the building had not collapsed so completely as to destroy it alongside the rest of the building.
It had not had a concept of luck before that moment, before the shaking had stopped and the dust had cleared, leaving it mostly in tact. Once it had forced its way up the stairs, it found it was not sure whether surviving the collapse was good or bad luck.
When the nurse bot tried to ring its network for help, it found the line inside its head had gone dead. When it looked to the surrounding street, it found hundreds of buildings similarly smoldering. When it called out, it found only its own voice returning to it.
The nurse bot had tried to comb through the wreckage of its practice, looking for survivors. It found nothing, heard nothing, but it still attempted to sift through the rubble, to search for the people it had been built to assist.
A nurse bot’s arms are not meant to move stone and iron, however. It was not used to the strange things that happened in its processing when it thought about what might be under the wreckage, and did not know how to handle them. It made a mistake, lifting things it could not, and when the wreckage in its grasp had buckled…
Well. It had thought itself lucky, distantly, that unlike humans, robots are not generally “handed” in one way or the other. Statistically, it would have preferred its right hand, and it would have been much worse off when the debris crushed its arm, taking its limb from the elbow down.
Ah, and pain, of course. It would have been quite bad if it had been able to feel pain, or bleed. It probably would have died, had this fallen on it, or had it lost a flesh and blood arm.
It… does not look in the wreckage any longer.
The nurse bot did not know what to do, with the practice it had spent its whole existence in destroyed. It had never been outside before—at least, not while activated. It had never left the walls of the hospital it was built for. It had not been intended to function without direction.
It knew its purpose, though, direction or not. The nurse bot had been built to heal. It knew, direction or not, how to do this, and that it must do this. And certainly, if it looks, it would fine someone out there who needed it.
When it comes to matters of health, time is of the essence. With its direction decided, the nurse bot begins to walk.
It finds people, rarely, stumbling and unharmed, or nursing small bruises or minor sprains. It helps these when it can, and gives advice when it cannot. It finds bodies, often, and it looks away, as it has never seen a funeral, and it does not know to help the dead except to assist the living.
It finds a woman soon to be a body, despite its best efforts to help her. It lacks supplies to stop the flow of blood from her wounds, and the woman lacks any hope without stitches or bandages.
It offers her sympathies, and it holds in its one hand both of hers. There is little it can say to her, but it tries, quiet promises of I am here and I will not leave you and you will be at peace soon.
She holds its hand with all the strength in her body, knuckles white as paper, a stark contrast against the dark blood staining the rest of her body. It feels as the strength fades. It watches as the light in her eyes fades with it. She lets it go, and it closes her eyes.
The nurse bot keeps walking, keeps looking, until it hears crying. The sound is loud, a desperate sob of a young child, and it seems to stem from a building sagging in three places, roof and door and floor all ready to give in.
If it were human, the nurse bot may have thought the place too risky to enter. But it is not, and so in it goes, pushing the door open with one hand.
It finds the boy lying in his crib, a round-faced infant wrapped in a patterned onesie and kicking away a thin blanket. He cannot be more than a year old—the nurse boy would guess him to be maybe six months. The fact the boy and his crib have survived the destruction of the city is a miracle, one not offered to the rest of the home.
It reaches down into the crib, brushing its hand over the boy’s face. His sobs stumble, a bit curious, but the baby ultimately doesn’t stop crying.
The nurse bot hadn’t worked with a pediatrician, but it knows about children, as any nurse bot would.
“Are you hungry?” it asks. He doesn’t answer except to cry more, which is understandable—this is what babies do, it knows, and besides, this has been the chosen course of action for most of the people it saw today.
It could not help those people, but it can help with this.
The nurse bot steps away from the crib to examine the boy’s room, though the boy cries louder when its face disappears from his view.
“I will return shortly,” it tells him. This assurance does not calm him down.
It finds what it can in the rest of the home—food for the baby, a warmer blanket, a box of diapers. It finds the living room, where living is not what his parents are doing, and gingerly shuts the door. It finds a photo album and flips through, searching for the information it needs: delicate handwriting next to an image of the boy, held in the arms of the woman on the floor a room over.
April 7th, 20XX: Welcome to the world, Martyn!
His name is Martyn. His birthday is April 7th. The nurse bot usually keeps these things on file about its patients, and so it files them away.
When it returns to the crib, the baby inside is no longer crying, having worn himself out. It reaches down again, face blank.
“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “I am going to be your caretaker for now. I hope we will get along well.”
— — —
They don’t stay in the house. It finds a baby carrier in a closet and a duffle bag in the bedroom, and it packs what Martyn will need and carries him out of the collapsing home.
Martyn laughs a lot. Once he’s been fed and changed and has slept, the nurse bot finds he laughs all the time.
He doesn’t know, it thinks. He must miss his parents, probably, but he doesn’t know. He isn’t old enough to understand any of this. He watches the broken and bloodied street with awe—has he ever been this far from home before? This is all a big adventure to him.
It doesn’t tell him.
— — —
It stops three times a day to change and feed him, and to let him crawl around in the cleanest and sturdiest places it can find.
“Movement is good for development,” it tells him, watching him play with a piece of rubble.
It doesn’t stop to rest at night—it doesn’t need to, and the rocking motion of his continued steps helps Martyn sleep. When that isn’t enough, it tries to replicate the songs it has heard playing in the clinic’s waiting room, or seen mothers and fathers sing in the clinic to calm their children. Martyn seems to like that.
He likes the nurse bot’s hair, too. He tugs on it all the time as the nurse bot walks, held close to its chest, close enough to its head to access it. It lets him—it doesn’t hurt, and besides, it has few other ways to entertain him.
— — —
Martyn grows. He starts to babble, and to toddle. He becomes too big for the bot to carry him, but by then it has become adept at finding places to hunker down for a while.
“Your name is Martyn,” the bot tells him, pointing to his nose.
“Ma,” he tries.
“Very close,” it says. He grabs its hand, tugging, and continues to babble.
“Da,” he says, and it knows that he doesn’t have a concept of fathers or parents or the English language, and he is only making sounds.
“That is me,” it says anyway, and Martyn continues to babble.
— — —
“Dad,” Martyn tugs on its arm, barely tall enough to reach its fingers. “Daaaad.”
“Hello, Martyn,” it says, “What is it?”
“I’m bored,” Martyn says, “And I’m hungry.”
“We still have some food left for you, though I should start a fire soon,” it says, “We will need to move soon. Children your age need a variety of foods to—”
“Grow up healthy, I know,” Martyn whines, “That’s boring. I’m bored.”
“What would you like to do?” it asks, and he lets go of its hand, running off. It stands to follow, but then he’s back, holding a battered old book—some kind of short novel, something with a torn cover that used to have a dragon on it. The title is gone, as is the dragon’s head.
“Read this,” he says. Martyn is learning to read, but he hasn’t quite got the grasp to read a real book on his own yet.
This hasn’t stopped Martyn from searching for them, though, nor from presenting them to his father to read. It had started reading one aloud to Martyn to entertain him when Martyn had come down with a fever last year, and he hasn’t stopped asking to hear them since.
“After you eat,” it says, and Martyn cheers.
—
There is a group of survivors picking their way through town. The bot sees them before they see it, watching the street from a window. It does not know their intentions, and it doesn’t plan to find out.
It crouches down in front of Martyn, putting its hand on his shoulder.
“Hello,” it says, “We’re going to play a game, okay?”
“Okay,” Martyn says, and it nods, once.
“It is called hide and seek,” it says, “There are some people who are looking around town, trying to play, and we are going to hide from them. We will win if we are not found.”
“That’s a dumb game. Why don’t we play something else?” Martyn asks.
“It is their favorite game. We are going to play because that is what they like to do. But we are going to be very good at it and hide very well,” it says, “You can hide with me, okay? If we win, there will be a special prize.”
That’s all it takes to convince Martyn, who smiles and nods and follows it as it ducks away into the closet. Its legs creak as it sits down, and then it opens its arm, letting him sit in its lap. It can’t be comfortable, all cold metal, but Martyn wraps his arms around its torso and settles right in, content with the hand on his back.
“Now we must be very quiet,” it tells him, “I will tell you when we can talk again.”
Martyn nods, and it puts its hand on the back of his head, and it waits.
When the strangers leave, it asks him what he would like for his prize.
“Hug me again!” He says, and it obliges for as long as he wants.
— — —
Halfway through its sentence, the bot’s voice cuts out.
That has not happened before. Martyn seems unfazed, especially when it begins to talk again, but it takes note of the error.
— — —
It happens more. Its voice cuts out, stutters, corrupts. Martyn really only complains when they’re reading, but it starts to fear the worst.
It sits Martyn down, crouching down to meet his eyes.
“Martyn, I have something very important to tell- to tell- to tell you,” it says, and if it could, it would wince.
“Yeah?” Martyn asks, “Are we moving again?”
“Soon,” it says, “But that is not what I want to tell you.”
“Oh,” Martyn says.
“I am… sick. Do you remember what being sick is?” it asks. Martyn nods, reaching up to put his hand on its forehead, the way it had for him when he had been feverish.
“You feel warm,” Martyn confirms, “It’s okay. I’ll read to you until you’re better.”
“Thank you, Martyn. You are very kind,” it says, “But that is not the kind of sick I am. There are many kinds of sick.”
“Oh,” Martyn says, “Then what kind of sick are you?”
“I am… robot sick. I am- I am- I am- I am- getting old,” it says, “And my voice is starting to… not work properly.”
“I know that,” Martyn says, “You talk funny now and you keep messing up reading.”
“Yes, that’s right. You’re very smart,” it confirms, “But it might get worse. I might not be able to talk anymore soon.”
“But you’ll get better, right? I got better,” Martyn says. It shakes its head.
“I might, but I might not. Robot sick is different,” it says, though it knows it is lying. “I just wanted you to know. If you talk to me and I do not respond, I am not ignoring you. I am still listening. I am just sick, and my voice- my voice- my voice- my voice—”
It shakes its head, the way humans sometimes do, to clear the sentence. When it looks at Martyn again, he seems thoughtful.
“Will you still read to me?” he asks.
“As long as I am able,” it promises. And, for good measure, “I love you, Martyn. Do not forget.”
“I won’t,” Martyn says, “I love you, too.”
— — —
It makes a point to show him how to read. He had already been learning it, but it doubles down when its voice begins to waver.
It picks up novels and reads them to him with Martyn in its lap. It holds its arm around Martyn’s waist, and Martyn holds the book for it to see, and it reads the words Martyn points to, so Martyn knows what they are.
It doesn’t want him to lose this. It doesn’t want him to lose his fun, his creativity, his imagination, just because it cannot read to him anymore.
— — —
It loses its voice for good while it is reading to Martyn.
— — —
Its voice is the first thing it loses, but it is not the last.
Control of its fingers becomes… tricky. Martyn has to help it, doing things that require finer movements.
“Is your hand sick?” he asks, and he sounds afraid. It nods, because it knows it shouldn’t lie to him, even if it wants to.
It loses what little control it had over its face next. Then its neck becomes stuck. It doesn’t seem able to walk as fast, though that might just be due to Martyn getting faster—he grows older still, full of energy, constantly wanting to run and jump and play on his longer legs. It tries its best, but it cannot keep pace like it used to. It used to sing and walk all night, and now it cannot do either.
Martyn is as patient as a six year old can be, which is not very. He gets frustrated and bored, and he complains often. It does not blame him for this. He is doing his best, too, and that is all it can ask.
— — —
There are people. It tries to hide—pulls Martyn into a closet, tucks him close to its chest, pets his hair with his hand—but Martyn doesn’t like to play hide and seek, and he doesn’t know he has to be quiet.
“My name is Martyn!” he tells them, once the closet door opens, “This is Dad. He’s sick.”
They’re nice enough, a woman and her teenage son. It—he, now?—releases Martyn to talk to them, and climbs out of the closet. He hovers at Martyn’s side when they climb out, a hand on his son’s head.
“Why were you two in the closet?” the mother asks.
“We were playing hide and seek. That’s what Dad said other people like to do, but I don’t like it very much,” Martyn explains. She nods.
“Most people do like to play that game,” she says, because, as a parent, she must understand his fear. “But we don’t, either. Do you want to travel together for a little while, Martyn?”
“I want to!” Martyn says, and he looks up at his father, and his father would sigh if he could.
He nods, because what else is he meant to do?
— — —
The teenager entertains Martyn, reading to him the book his father never did get to finish. The mother cooks, and she takes a look at his hands.
“I used to be an engineer,” she says, “You’re a bit above my pay grade, but I could take a look, if you want.”
He doesn’t let her crack him open or anything, but she inspects the pieces of his wiring she can see. He’s reminded of his old clinic, though he can’t tell her how ironic this is.
Her prognosis is… grim.
“You probably only have a few years left in you,” she admits, “Your model was supposed to go for regular updates, replacing parts and…”
He doesn’t listen as she explains the old process, his focus instead on Martyn.
Only a few years? What will happen to Martyn? Who will take care of him?
Humans need care until they are eighteen.
Martyn is six.
“I could try and make some minor repairs for some of the obvious damage, but I don’t have tools for anything more. I can also try and tell you some things you can do to try and stretch that time out,” she says. He nods, understanding, grateful, as she does what she can.
He had been in her place, once, years ago, and so he understands, too, when she offers sympathies, when she holds his hand.
— — —
They split off from each other eventually. The other two are traveling to a place they claim never fell. He does not believe in such a place, and so he does not go with them.
Martyn cries. The mother hugs him, as does her son, and they are gone.
As they walk away, he holds Martyn’s hand, and he does not let go.
— — —
He teaches Martyn how to do… anything he can. He is too young to understand how to hunt or set a trap or clean an animal or cook or treat a fever or start a fire or boil water, and it is very difficult to teach when he cannot speak. He’d wanted to wait until Martyn is older, he does not have the luxury of time anymore.
Martyn is clever, is bright. He takes to the skills as well as a six, eight, ten year old can, and it is only partly due to the fact he has no choice.
— — —
He knows he is dying.
Martyn does not.
He picks up a stick, waving Martyn over. There is a patch of dirt that is mostly clear, and he crouches in front of it.
I AM SICK he writes, and Martyn reads it, and he frowns.
“I know that,” Martyn says, and he shakes his head. The dirt is soft, and so he clears it, trying again.
I AM VERY SICK he writes. Martyn reads it, and he frowns deeper.
“What does that mean?” Martyn asks.
I WILL SLEEP SOON he writes. He wants to be delicate, but he can’t—the patch of dirt isn’t very big.
“Oh, well, that’s okay. I sleep all the time,” Martyn says, “That’s how you get healthy again. It makes you feel better. You told me that.”
He wants to nod, but he can’t. This is the bit he was dreading the most.
I WILL NOT WAKE UP he writes.
For a long moment, Martyn doesn’t say anything.
“What if we get you medicine?” Martyn asks, “When— when I was sick, you found medicine. It made me better. It would make you better.”
NOT FOR ROBOTS
“That… that isn’t fair, though,” Martyn says, “Are you sure? We could get some and try it!”
I AM SURE he writes, and then he erases it, I LOVE YOU
Again, Martyn says nothing. He isn’t sure what Martyn is thinking, and then Martyn charges him, hugging him around the stomach.
He has more he wants to say to Martyn—he wants to teach him so much, to tell him to be careful, to tell him he’ll be okay.
He drops the stick, wrapping his arm around Martyn as tight as his failing joints will let him.
— — —
His goal is to find somewhere safe. An old house, maybe, somewhere where Martyn will be able to survive on his own for a while.
He looks, and he does not find it. He’s been looking for ten years, after all—of course he wouldn’t find one now, just because he is dying.
Other than that, his life does not much change. He holds Martyn’s hand as they walk, and Martyn talks to him about birds and books and whatever else he can think of. Martyn has become very good at filling the air for them both. Neither of them let go of the other’s hand.
He doesn’t actually know when it is going to happen, just that it will be soon.
When the moment finally comes, he does not realize.
They stop to rest for a night. Martyn is tired, as he is a child, and his legs can only carry him so far. He is tired, too, but he does not have it in him to think about why, or how strange that is.
It’s nowhere special, where they stop. A random house that has kept its roof, somewhere safe from rain and sun. Martyn finds a place to roll out his sleeping bag, and when he lies down, his father lies with him.
He does not let go of Martyn’s hand.
