ANIMATOR
EPISODE 01 | SCENE 03
36 YEARS EARLIER • YEAR 311
The girl screams for her life. “Mama!” she cries, her voice cracking. But no answer comes. Her mother isn’t there. She’s alone, trapped inside a cold steel enclosure that swallow every sound. Her words die in the sterile air, her cries thinning into broken whimpers. The straps bite into her wrists as she struggles, the gurney creaking beneath her. She doesn’t understand why she’s bound so tightly. Fear stiffens every limb.
Tears streak her cheeks as the door hisses open. For a fleeting instant, she dares to hope—but then she sees him. A man in a pale coat, face blank and unmoved, steps into the room. Her body trembles. Each step he takes echoes sharp against the floor, each one feeding her panic. When he leans over her, his shadow swallows her face. He lifts a small cup into view. “Water,” he says.
She can’t resist. Her arms are pinned, her body trapped. He slides a hand beneath her head and presses the cup to her lips. “Open.” His tone leaves no room for refusal. She hesitates, but when she meets his eyes, cold and unblinking, she obeys. The liquid passes her throat in quick gulps.
Her eyelids immediately grow heavy. He steps back, checking the time on his wrist. A tremor runs through her body, then violent spasms shake the gurney, its legs rattling. The man keeps his attention fixed on his watch until the motion slows, until it stops altogether. Silence floods the space. He moves closer, unfastens one strap, and presses two fingers to her wrist. No pulse.
He raises a thumb toward the mirror, except it isn’t one. Someone watches from the other side.
“Excellent,” comes Renegade’s voice through the speaker. “Now come back.”
In the control cell, Renegade stands with his hands behind his back, eyes fixed on the experiment chamber. The door opens and the man steps in. Their gazes meet, and the man nods. Behind Renegade, others wait, silent.
He turns back to the glass, the harsh light cutting across his face. With deliberate calm, he flips a switch. Panels in the chamber slide open, and a cluster of mechanical arms unfolds from hidden recesses. One clamps the girl’s head in place; another pierces her skin. A blade flashes. Blood drains into a vial. Renegade watches without expression.
When it’s done, new arms emerge with a black bag. They unstrap her body, shove it in, and seal it away. A vial of red liquid and a small chip slide into a compartment inside the wall. A matching hatch opens in the control room, and Renegade takes them in his hands.
He studies them for a moment, weighing what they mean, then turns to his waiting team. “To the recreation sector.”
Renegade’s stride is steady, his face unreadable. The dozen men behind him follow in silence as they round a corner and enter a vast laboratory. The space purrs with low, calculated life. Tables and consoles crowd the walls, each covered with instruments only these men could decipher. At the center of the room towers a massive structure of steel and circuitry—a machine so immense it dominates the space. Its frame rises three times the height of any man present, threaded with wires that pulse under shifting lights.
Renegade steps toward a control panel built into one of its hexagonal sides. From his pocket, he produces the small circular chip, gleaming faintly. He slides it into its slot, then retrieves the vial. The blood still carries a trace of heat. He removes the stopper and tilts it carefully until the last drop drains into a narrow cavity within the machine. Then his hands move over the buttons, deliberate and practiced.
Just before pulling the main latch, he hesitates. The men exchange uncertain glances, murmurs spreading quietly among them.
“Sir?” one ventures.
Renegade doesn’t answer. His gaze drifts, distant, as if caught in something remembered. Seconds pass. Then, collecting himself, he grips the latch with both hands and yanks it down. The mechanism locks with a heavy clang. A brassy hum fills the air as steam bursts from a funnel at the top. The beacon flares, flickers, then stabilizes into a steady glow.
Renegade exhales and steps back. The others watch him, still and cautious.
“Find something to do if you must,” he says, his tone calm but edged. “Just don’t keep gawking at me.”
He walks the length of the room until he reaches a man near the rear entrance. “Why so reserved, Miles?” he says, voice almost conversational.
Miles meets his eyes — older, broader, frowning slightly.
“Your chip will work,” Renegade assures him. “I have a feeling about this one.”
He pats Miles on the arm and leaves without looking back.
The door to Renegade’s penthouse glides open, spilling a sliver of light into the dark. He steps inside, and the sensors wake the room. Soft illumination spreads through the vast space. Empty. Silent. The city beyond the translucent wall ahead shines beneath a black sky.
He stands still for a moment. Then, the faint sound of machinery stirs. A robotic arm lowers smoothly from the ceiling. “Good evening, Dr. Renegade.”
He nods, weary, and sets a few things on the counter. The arm lingers near. “It’s dinnertime, Dr. Renegade. Are you hungry?”
He glances at his watch. There’s time. “I suppose.”
“What would you like, sir?” it asks, tone bright and eager.
Renegade walks toward the bay window, eyes fixed on the skyline. “You know.”
“Right away, sir,” the arm replies, then whirs off toward the kitchen. metal clinks echo faintly, but Renegade pays no attention. His gaze drifts toward the long corridor bathed by the dim city glow. He turns and moves that way, boots tapping against the floor.
He stops along the wall opposite the city. Hanging there is a holographic portrait of a boy—no older than five—grinning as if caught mid-laughter.
“Hi, Auggie,” Renegade murmurs.
“Hi, Daddy,” the portrait answers, the boy’s digital voice bright and warm. Renegade’s lips curve faintly. “I haven’t seen you since morning.”
“You say that all the time,” Renegade says.
“It’s always true.”
“I’m only a few floors below,” he reminds him quietly. “Doing the same things I always do.”
“I know,” says Auggie. “I just like asking you.”
Renegade’s smile fades. His shoulders sag a little.
“You look so sad, Daddy. All the time.”
Renegade lifts his eyes to the projection. They study each other in silence. Then, he forces a small grin. “Soon,” he says. “Soon, I won’t look so sad. Soon, I’ll be the happiest man there is.”
Auggie giggles, pure and delighted. Renegade chuckles softly in return.
“I like it when you’re happy,” the portrait says. “How soon will that be?”
Renegade’s expression hardens. The moment dies.
A mechanical hum breaks the silence. The robotic arm zips into view. “Dinner is ready, Dr. Renegade.”
He tears away from the portrait and stares hard at the robotic arm at the end of the end of the hall.
“You spend a lot of time in front of that portrait,” the arm remarks a few minutes later as it sets down Renegade’s plate. “It’s just a holograph, you know.”
Renegade’s eyes narrow. The comment lands wrong, too human in tone.
He sits, looking down at the meal—chicken tenders, macaroni and cheese, raw carrots. Simple. Childlike. Surrounded by wealth, it looks almost absurd.
The arm hovers for a beat. “So, how was your day, sir?”
“Shut off,” Renegade says flatly, stabbing at the pasta.
The machine retracts into the ceiling, leaving him alone with his meal and the quiet sheen of the city backdrop.
Miles stands with a cluster of technicians outside the recreation room, half-listening to their talk. His attention drifts down the hall. Renegade is approaching. Miles glances at his watch, though he already knows the time.
“Any time now, right, gentlemen?” Renegade says as he reaches them. He doesn’t stop. He strides past the group and through the door. The others follow, murmuring among themselves, but Miles lingers. A flicker of unease crosses his face. His pulse quickens. Something in him hesitates to see what waits beyond that door.
Inside, Renegade circles the towering machine, eyes locked on it with hungry focus. His hands shift restlessly inside his coat pockets. Each footstep echoes sharper than the last. The technicians hang back, watching the seconds crawl. A few glance at their watches; one chews at a fingernail.
The machine’s tremor stops. The silence that follows feels heavier than sound. No one moves.
Steam seeps through the seams, then bursts out as the shell splits apart. Panels descend like opening gates, releasing a flood of fog that spills across the floor.
Even the veterans freeze. Miles steps in at last, his face pale, eyes narrowing as he takes in the sight.
In the center of the collapsing structure stands a figure. Small. Human in shape, but metal in sheen. The chrome surface catches the light, sculpted to perfection—an exact replica of the girl who had died only hours before.
“Mama?” the girl says softly. Her head turns mechanically, searching.
The sound paralyzes the room. Her voice—gentle, frightened, achingly familiar—cuts through the haze like a memory resurrected.
Every gaze turns to Renegade. For a long moment, he says nothing. Then one of the technicians breaks the silence. “Congratulations, sir. You’ve just cheated death.”
A chill passes through the group. Renegade’s lips twitch, then curl into a faint, knowing smile. The expression grows, proud and dangerous. For an instant, he seems almost divinely transfigured—crowned by his own creation.
