The air in the workshop was cold and stale, heavy with the scent of machine oil and old solder. Ethan Ryker stood in the doorway, gripping the edge of the frame, his gaze sweeping across the room. It was tucked just off the main house, a structure his father had insisted on keeping close. "A true inventor needs his workspace nearby," his dad used to say with a grin, tinkering late into the night while Ethan fell asleep to the hum of machinery.
Now, the place was a tomb. The once-bustling workbenches were dust-covered, tools scattered as if his father had only stepped away for a moment. But he hadn't. It had been two years since the accident, and in those years, Ethan had learned how quiet life could truly be.
His mother had died when he was only eight, her absence a raw wound that never fully healed. Losing his father, though, had hollowed him out. At sixteen, he had emancipated himself from the state, using the savings his father left behind to scrape by. But money didn't replace purpose, and for the last two years, Ethan had been a feather in the wind—drifting through high school without direction, blown from one meaningless moment to the next.
He stepped further inside, the soles of his sneakers scuffing lightly against the smooth concrete floor. The space felt untouched, frozen in time as if even the dust refused to settle too heavily out of respect. Sunlight filtered through a single high window, casting pale beams across the room and catching motes of dust in its glow. Ethan tugged his hoodie tighter around him, trying to shake off the chill that seeped into his bones.
"One more day," he muttered to himself. "One more day of sorting, and it's done." The workshop wasn't just a space he avoided—it was a repository of memories he wasn't sure he could handle. But if he didn't clean it out now, he knew he never would.
His gaze landed on the workbench near the back wall, cluttered with gadgets and tools that seemed impossibly advanced for the suburban life they led. Ethan's dad had always been secretive about his projects, claiming they were "ahead of their time." At first, Ethan had thought it was just eccentricity. Now, standing in the workshop's eerie stillness, he wasn't so sure.
The faint hum of his HUD brought him back to the present.
Welcome back, Ethan. Would you like to view your progress?
The words floated in the corner of his vision, glowing gold and translucent. He sighed, shaking his head. The HUD—his constant, inexplicable companion since his father's death—was a mystery he hadn't been able to solve. It had appeared without warning one night, a faint shimmer in his left eye that soon revealed itself as something far more complex.
"Not now," Ethan muttered, brushing away the notification with a thought. It vanished immediately, retreating into the periphery of his vision. He didn't need it distracting him now.
Pushing aside a box of tangled wires, Ethan unearthed an old console from beneath the mess. The device was sleek, its surface a dull silver that seemed to absorb the light around it. He frowned. It wasn't like the other equipment scattered in the workshop—those were practical and functional. This… this looked alien.
The HUD flickered back to life.
New Skill Tree Detected: Alien Technology. Would you like to activate it?
"What the hell?" Ethan whispered, staring at the glowing words. His fingers tightened around the console as his pulse quickened. The HUD was always cryptic, but this was new. Alien Technology? That couldn't be real… right?
Before he could process it, a faint noise broke the silence.
Clink.
The sound came from the far side of the workshop, where a tarp-covered object stood against the wall. Ethan froze, his breath catching in his throat. He didn't dare move momentarily, straining to hear anything more. The noise didn't come again.
Taking a slow, steadying breath, he picked up a screwdriver from the bench. It wasn't much, but it was better than nothing. The workshop was supposed to be locked. The thought that someone—or something—might have gotten inside made his skin crawl.
Ethan approached the tarp cautiously, his heart pounding with each step. The shape beneath it was humanoid, its proportions delicate yet oddly rigid. It stood just over five feet tall, shorter than him, and the sight of it made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.
He reached out with his free hand, hesitating for a moment before grabbing the edge of the tarp and pulling it away.
The fabric fell to the ground, revealing a figure that made Ethan's blood run cold.
It was an android—or at least, that was the only word he could think of to describe it. The figure was slender, standing at around 5'2", with a body that gleamed faintly in the sunlight. Its surface was a mixture of smooth composite material and polished metal, and its design was both functional and eerily beautiful. Its face was serene, almost human, with closed eyes and delicate features that seemed carved from some unearthly material.
The HUD chimed.
Object Identified: Model AYA-09. Status: Dormant.
"AYA-09?" Ethan read aloud, his voice barely above a whisper. His gaze flicked to the engraving on its chest plate, which bore the name Arcanis Corporation.
He didn't know what that meant, but his gut told him this wasn't something his dad had built alone. The android didn't belong in their small suburban town—or anywhere on Earth, for that matter.
The HUD's text shifted again.
Skill Tree Activated: Alien Technology. First Skill Unlocked: Basic Repair Protocols.
Ethan stumbled back, clutching his head as a flood of information overwhelmed his senses. Schematics, diagrams, and instructions flashed through his mind, each one more alien than the last. It wasn't painful, but the sheer intensity left him reeling.
Before he could make sense of it, the android's chest plate began to glow. A soft, pulsing light spread outward, illuminating the workshop in an ethereal blue hue. Ethan's breath hitched as the light grew brighter, accompanied by a faint, rhythmic hum.
And then, with a sharp mechanical whir, the android's eyes opened.
They were vivid blue, glowing with an intensity that seemed to pierce through Ethan's soul. For a moment, neither of them moved.
"Who… are you?" the android asked, her voice soft but edged with something mechanical. She tilted her head, studying him with unsettling precision. "Designation: AYA. Status: Reactivated. Environment: Earth."
Ethan stared, his mouth dry. "I—I should be asking you that," he managed, his voice cracking. "What are you doing in my dad's workshop?"
Her gaze flickered, her expression unreadable. "Primary systems online. Memory corrupted. Mission status: compromised."
Ethan's heart pounded in his chest as she took a step forward, her movements fluid yet unnaturally precise. For the first time in two years, he felt like his life had a direction—whether he wanted it or not.