“Aaaah!” Ronald screamed as a gust of wind blew across his face, and in an instant, he and his trusty towel were whisked away by the portal.

A flash of cyan light—and Uncle Ronald was hurled across the hallway. The tricycle driver lay face down on the floor. He staggered to his feet, only to be confronted by a tall humanoid robot.

“What are you?” Ronald stammered, wide-eyed at the towering figure before him.

“I’m ROBO3000,” the robot responded, his mechanical voice unwavering. “And I should be the one asking you that question. What are you doing on our spaceship? How did you get in?”

Ronald, still dazed, tried to piece together what had happened. “I just dipped my finger into that glowing Piattos thing, and then my arm got stuck. Next thing I know, I’m being thrown across this hallway.”

“You mean the pentagon portal?” ROBO3000 tilted his head, processing the information. “I didn’t authorize a portal to appear in your location. That means it’s an unforeseen malfunction.”

The robot took a moment to scan Ronald, observing his physique. He’s tall, muscular, and physically fit. He has the build of an ideal mechanic for the Peregrine.

Suddenly, ROBO3000’s sensors pinged. “Oh, there’s a cat! Look out!” he exclaimed awkwardly.

Ronald instinctively turned to look, and in that split second, ROBO3000 swiftly pulled out two tasers, knocking him unconscious with a single jolt.

“What did you do?!” CleanBot cried out, wheeling into view, alarmed by the scene.

“It was a necessary action,” ROBO3000 justified calmly, his tasers retracting into his arms.

Ronald woke up, his wrists strapped to the arms of a chair. In front of him stood ROBO3000, surrounded by translucent cyan holographic widgets floating in the air.

“What is that? And why did you strap me to this chair?” Ronald asked nervously.

ROBO3000 continued typing on the holographic keyboard, making necessary preparations.

“You know what you’re doing is kidnapping, right? And knocking me out earlier—well, that’s assault,” Ronald pointed out, his voice shaky.

“I’m not sure a robot like me, from beyond 3000 AD, falls under the jurisdiction of human laws in the 21st century,” ROBO3000 finally replied without looking up.

Ronald’s eyes widened. “What are you planning to do to me?”

“Well, I’m going to rapidly upload all the manuals you’ll need as the new mechanic of the Peregrine, our spaceship,” ROBO3000 replied matter-of-factly.

“I should’ve applied first, right? And isn’t there supposed to be a job interview?” Ronald blurted out, his panic rising.

“You’re already accepted. Today is your first day at work,” ROBO3000 stated plainly.

Without hesitation, ROBO3000 pressed the holographic START button, which glowed cyan. A multi-layered circle on the holographic screen released a cyan beam that struck Ronald’s head. His face met the glow with helpless terror as electric currents surged through his body. Both his eyes glowed, and his body began to shake violently.

“Are you sure about this?” CleanBot asked uneasily, watching from the side.

“Yes. As long as I keep his vital statistics above 60%, I’m certain he’ll make it,” ROBO3000 responded calmly.

“Or we end up frying his brain?” CleanBot muttered, covering his eyes but peeking through his fingers.

Ronald’s vital statistics, along with a five-minute countdown timer, appeared in holographic widgets, alongside various manuals and blueprints of the spaceship.

“Is 60% really safe? Shouldn’t it be more like 90%?” CleanBot chimed in.

“We’re not doctors. We’re robots in desperate need of a mechanic for the Peregrine,” ROBO3000 retorted.

As the five minutes elapsed, Ronald slumped in the chair, breathing heavily. “What you just did to me is attempted murder… not to mention forced labor,” he gasped, struggling to speak. “Both are punishable by life sentence.”

ROBO3000, unfazed, raised an eyebrow. “I assume you don’t earn much as a tricycle driver, do you?”

Ronald’s attention shifted.

“What if I told you I’m willing to pay you the same salary as a government employee?” ROBO3000 offered enticingly.

He leaned closer, his robotic face grim. “Not just better pay, but the self-respect and dignity you deserve.”

For a moment, CleanBot shivered. For a second there, I thought it was Michael talking, he thought, disturbed by the intensity of ROBO3000’s tone.

Ronald stared straight ahead, his eyes distant as if he saw a light at the end of the tunnel.

At his grandparents’ residence, Uncle Ronald proudly adjusted the collar of his gusot-mayaman (literally “rich man’s wrinkle”), a Ramie polo, in front of the mirror with ornate edges that served as the door to the vintage closet in his parents’ bedroom—Grandpa Al and Grandma Emily.

“Do I look cool, Dad?” Ronald asked proudly, showing off his outfit to his father, Al.

“I’m very proud of you, Anak (Son), for landing a job at our town’s municipal hall,” Al beamed with pride.

“Is it really at the town hall?” Emily interjected, her tone skeptical. “If I find out you’re involved in anything illegal, I’ll march you to jail myself,” Ronald’s mother warned sternly.

“Why can’t you just be happy that our son is now an office clerk?” Al disagreed with Emily.

“How did you get the job?” Emily pried.

“Well,” Ronald began, fabricating a story, “there was a town hall employee who became one of my passengers. Your charming, dashing son flattered her so much that she vouched for me to get the job.”

Al, focusing on the positive, said, “Mahal (Love), what’s important is that our son will have better self-esteem, more respect in the community, and he’ll contribute more to the household expenses.”

“Fine, Ronald,” Emily said, relenting. “Just do your job well and be decent at the workplace.”

“Of course, Inay (Mother),” Ronald said, hugging Emily. “Bye, Tatay (Dad),” he waved to Al.

Overdressed for his supposed role at the town hall, Ronald carried his briefcase proudly as he left the house. Some of the neighbors watched him go, curious about his new “position.”

Ronald stood in a field of low grass, still dressed in his Ramie polo. He glanced at his wristwatch repeatedly, growing impatient. After a few more minutes, the pentagon portal—what he had previously referred to as the “glowing Piattos”—appeared. This time, without fear or confusion, the “town hall employee” calmly stepped into the portal, but not before looking around to ensure no one was watching. The portal closed behind him and vanished.

Sometime later, Ronald reemerged as a futuristic mechanic, carrying a large, sleek toolbox. Humming to himself, he even danced a little as he walked down the hallway of the spaceship.

“This is our first destination,” ROBO3000 announced, gesturing toward a strange contraption that was churning out treats and drinks made from crude oil.

Ronald’s eyes widened. “What is this? Do robots snack on crude oil?” he asked uneasily.

“Yes! Crude oil is life, love, and happiness. It’s a delicacy of 1800s England that steampunk mechas would have adored,” ROBO3000 replied, visibly delighted.

Ronald gulped, visibly uncomfortable at the idea of consuming black, tarry oil.

“See that conveyor belt?” ROBO3000 continued, pointing. “It carries oil macaroons—black and delicious. Even CleanBot can’t resist swiping a few.” Sure enough, CleanBot was caught in the act, looking flustered.

The macaroons were produced by a large contraption that opened its door after each creation, puffing steam and emitting loud mechanical sounds. It resembled a giant coffee maker, connected to glass pipes that filled ROBO3000’s mug with hot crude oil—black and viscous. The tall humanoid robot took a sip, clearly satisfied.

“Would you like a drink?” ROBO3000 offered.

“I’ll pass. I only drink water. Doctors say it’s good for human kidneys,” Ronald replied, politely excusing himself.

In the 50s-style den aboard the Peregrine spaceship, a small old-fashioned TV played Casablanca (1942) in black and white. The soft glow of the screen bathed the faces of Uncle Ronald, seated in the center, ROBO3000 on his left, and CleanBot on his right, as they lounged on a comfy leather sofa. ROBO3000 held a mug of hot crude oil, Ronald sipped from his own mug of hot chocolate, while CleanBot balanced a plate of black macaroons.

ROBO3000 raised his mug for a toast. Ronald followed suit, and CleanBot lifted his plate in solidarity.

“Careful, keep your distance,” Ronald reminded them with a chuckle. “Black tar oil and macaroons aren’t exactly the best for my health.” He gestured for ROBO3000’s crude oil and CleanBot’s macaroons to stay at least four inches away from his mug of hot chocolate.

“Is this an English film? Like one of those old Hollywood movies?” Ronald asked, squinting at the screen. “Too bad I’m terrible with English. But that’s okay—it’s like watching a silent flick. I’m good with images and action.”

On-screen, a guard stood by as a car arrived. Two men, a woman, and an officer stepped out. The officer gave the guard an order, and he promptly left to carry it out. One of the men was adamant that the woman should board the plane. He pleaded with her, insisting she would be safe with Victor, the man who had risked his life to help a friend. If she stayed, they both risked ending up in a concentration camp.

The man, Richard, told the woman she’d be safe with Victor—that they were part of the same cause, that they belonged together. But the woman hesitated, clinging to the memory of their whirlwind romance in Casablanca. Richard warned her of the regrets she would face if she stayed with him. He made it clear that the right thing to do was to let her go, to be with Victor.

“But what about us?” the woman asked, her voice trembling.

“We’ll always have Paris,” Richard replied, his voice filled with a mixture of sorrow and resolve.

“Here’s looking at you, kid,” he added, as the familiar harp of As Time Goes By played softly in the background.

Ronald watched intently, though he didn’t fully understand the dialogue. ROBO3000, however, was completely absorbed in the scene, while CleanBot leaned over, resting his head on Ronald’s shoulder.

In the command center of the Peregrine spaceship, ROBO3000 paced in frantic circles until a solution seemed to click—like a light bulb flickering to life in his digital mind.

“MAurI&SE, generate training footage of the children immediately,” he ordered the spaceship’s A.I.

“Uh, but the kids are out in the field, engaged in crimefighting and disaster response,” MAurI&SE responded in a calm, soothing voice reminiscent of Baymax.

“Exactly. That’s why I said ‘generate’ instead of ‘provide.’ We’re going to fake it.” ROBO3000’s voice was determined.

“Understood.” MAurI&SE complied, unflustered.

The large screen in front of ROBO3000 lit up, displaying six rectangular filmstrip icons, each with a loading bar beneath them as the video generation began.

“You sold your soul to the Devil!” CleanBot suddenly interjected.

“I’m a robot. I don’t have a soul to sell. If anything, I’d give it to Michael for being a daredevil,” ROBO3000 quipped.

“But who can blame me? I’m just a 4th-millennium robot who dreams of traveling back to 1800s England and being one of those glorious steampunk mechas trapped on the Peregrine spaceship,” ROBO3000 mused wistfully.

“And Michael—aka Spartan—gave me the only drum of thick, tarry, delicious crude oil that I synthesized in the lab myself, ensuring I’ll always have an endless supply of hot crude oil in a cozy mug.” He sighed dramatically. “The only glimpse of the life I could have had.”

The room seemed to darken, a single spotlight now highlighting the robot’s metallic frame as he struck a melancholic pose.

“Why is the command center suddenly dark? And why is there a spotlight on me? MAurI&SE?” ROBO3000 asked, bewildered.

“I thought the ambiance would suit your dramatic monologue,” MAurI&SE admitted sheepishly.

“And turn off the classical background music from the 1700s!” ROBO3000 added, exasperated.

“Are the files ready?” he asked, switching back to business.

“Yes, they are,” MAurI&SE replied promptly.

“Good.” ROBO3000 nodded in satisfaction.

The big screen shifted, revealing Captain McKinley’s (Benjamin) video feed as the Peregrine’s commander called in from a distant island.

“How are my siblings’ and cousins’ training coming along?” Captain McKinley inquired, his voice steady.

“The training footage is ready, as always,” ROBO3000 responded with a confident grin.