The Ingenious Repairman Hugo de León

Throughout the annals of time, scholars, intellectuals, and academics have debated the importance of integrity. Integrity: the living in accordance with your deepest values.

Honesty.

Purity.

Honor.

Integrity. It transcends across industries, and nowhere more important than in journalism. Yet, if you scour across all written accounts of the word, the state of New Jersey is never mentioned. Not even once. More importantly, the Jersey Journal of Jersey City never seemed to be accepted as a world leader in journalism, until one day out of the blue it was.

The staggering reputations of the likes of any Times, Dispatch, or Herald out there crumbled beneath the overwhelming weight of commercialization, and one paper rose out of the ashes of tabloids and magazines alike. One paper to call itself the most trusted news outlets in the world: the Jersey Journal.

Working at the Journal is now considered the pinnacle of the journalistic mountain. In fact, in thirteen out of the past fourteen years, the Journal has had a winner in at least one of the Pulitzer Prize’s journalism categories. The lone out-lier being when the entire Journal staff went on a year-long strike, demanding higher wages. The reason behind their request for higher pay? Winning twelve straight Pulitzers.

After a year of New Jerseyans having no clue what was going on in the world, the Journal’s brass met all of the writer’s demands, leading once again to another Pulitzer win the following year. The focus of the story, of course, centered on how low reporter wages had already destroyed the news industry.

The who’s who of journalists come and go as full-time staff members of the Journal, including their lead investigative journalist and New Jersey native, Tatiana Gencarelli, who was currently hanging over the edge of a reefer ship, just off the coast of South Africa.

She had pulled her thick locks up into a bun and then covered it with a knit beret. She wore what she referred to as her reporter’s uniform: an untucked white button up, a pair of beige straight-legged chinos, and a matching pea-coat. Her luggage was packed with different patterned and colored versions of these exact pieces.

“You didn’t say it was going to be this choppy.” The room-temperature gruel that the crew served the night before started to work its way back up from where it came from.

A lean, gray bearded man smirked at the journalist. Matching gray hairs peeked out of the back of his knit hat. “We never promised the Four Seasons, Gencarelli.”

Ever since she entered the professional workforce, Tatiana had made it a point to be called by her surname. This wasn’t because of a dislike towards her given name, she adored her name, it was her grandmother’s name as well. The Gencarelli insistence stemmed from one minor childhood love of hers: gnocchi. She had loved the doughy, potato dumplings so much when she was younger that her name slowly transformed from Tatiana to Tata, and then to it’s final form of Patata — the affectionate and direct Italian word for potato. One could only imagine what constantly being called a potato would do to a pre-pubescent girl and why from this point on she will hereby referred to as Gencarelli.

“Or should I say Tata?” Unfortunately, she had had one too many drinks the night before and told everyone in ear shot her the same story. “You’ll have to live like us lowly government peasants on this one.” The gray haired man smiled a gap-toothed grin.

Gencarelli, always the professional, tried to dig a story out of a nonsensical comment. “So you’re saying your agency is underfunded, Russell?”

Russell Brooks was one for three members of NATO’s Taskforce for Undersea and Nautical Affairs, but most outsiders referred to them as their unfortunately aquatic acronym.

TUNA’s initial objective was to protect what was left of the great ocean reefs but by the time NATO agreed on an agency name, uniform, and of course insignia, most of the aquatic wildlife had become nothing more than a steaming pile of plastic.

Up until their recent mission, TUNA mainly dealt with low-end piracy and off-shore banking affairs, although through all their travels they never quite came across any banks in the middle of the ocean.

Gencarelli was shadowing the three-person team as they investigated the under utilization and mostly failing wind farms across the planet’s oceans. Their current destination was Needle Bay Turbine, a farm built off the coast of Cape Agulhas, and according to Brooks’ superior, Director Carey Poole, the facility was constructed fifteen years prior but never put to use.

Brooks’ grin only grew larger at the reporter’s low-hanging bait. “Nope, I didn’t say anything of the sorts.” His eyes surveyed the never-ending water ahead of them. “What a waste of assets…” His voice trailed off.

His frustration was well-put. They had just flown in from the Norwegian Sea where water levels rose so high that the turbines were deemed “useless” by TUNA. Gencarelli could understand Brooks’ dissatisfaction, and like any good journalist, she noted this exact moment in her mind should she need to add any color to her story.

“Deputy Brooks?” A short man strode towards the pair. He was average in every way except the large coiffure of hair that bobbed on the top of his head. Had you been an outsider, you would have thought he was Brooks’ nephew or second-cousin once removed, but he was indeed the Director of TUNA, Carey Poole.

“Director Poole?” Brooks echoed his superior.

The director’s hair continued to bobble in the wind. This entire trip he desperately tried to ignore the reporter, believing he was being set up, that the pin-head suits at TUNA headquarters were trying to find dirt on him. “Is she going to be alright?” He passive aggressively asked Brooks. “We can turn around and have her dropped back on shore.”

“No…” Brooks held out in a melodramatic tone. “She’s a tough one…like a potato you might say.”

Poole jerked his head at Brooks and then at Tata Gencarelli and then back to Brooks. “A potato? Have you gone mad, Brooks?”

“I’m fine.” Gencarelli spat as she scribbled a note on her pad. She had made a habit of always having some sort of paper to write on in her back pocket.

The reporter decided to leave Brooks alone with his boss and head over to a bench nearby. She had gather just as many notes on the Napoleon-like leader of this TUNA band as she had on her actual assignment. Carey Poole, son of Edgar Poole, Director of NATO Office Resources, seemed to have an impostor syndrome as large as the ocean, and rightfully so. From everything that Gencarelli could gather, Russell Brooks, a twenty year United States Navy veteran, was sent on this mission to babysit the inexperienced director.

The younger of the two TUNA-men peered off at the calm water ahead of them. “You know, the crew says there’s a point where you can see where the two oceans meet. Because of the temperatures in the two bodies of water they clash together to cause a distinct divide.” He let his prolific words hover in the air for a moment before continuing. “They say its magical…”

The first thought that came to Brooks’ head was one that had a full-time residency in there, a thought that came hand in hand whenever his boss spoke, but just like every other circumstance, he bit his tongue and politely said “Sir…”

“Not now Brooks.” Poole cut him off, turning to face his second-in-command, he lowered his voice. “Go get with Anker and ensure we don’t run into the same problem we did in the Arctic Circle.”

Scribbling down the director’s outburst, Gencarelli laughed at Poole’s poor attempt at making sure his orders weren’t overheard, or as her father would put it, his Italian whisper.

Pulling her legs up on to the bench and watched the dejected deputy amble down into the passenger’s quarters, trying to recall all of the missteps that they faced in the Scandinavian waters.

First there was the “typo” in the coordinates Poole gave the captain of the ship that nearly lead them into an iceberg, and then there was the “miscommunication” where Poole was under the assumption all service droids were recalled from their posts at said farms. “Spoiler.” Gencarelli re-read her notes. “They weren’t.”

The wind whipped around, sending a shiver up the reporter’s spine. The further they traveled South, the further she realized they got from the equator and the hot African weather she had built up in her mind. She pulled her socks up over her ankles, trying to enclose as much body heat as she possibly could.

The ship’s deep horn bellowed out, and doing his best Captain Ahab, Poole called out, “There she blows!” Massive wind turbines jutted out of the ocean just over the horizon. Gencarelli’s jaw dropped at the sheer size of the blades. Even at this distance they seemed to tower over the ship.

Drifting closer and closer to Needle Bay, something curious caught everyone’s attention: the turbines were still running, swiftly rotating in all of their glory.

Gencarelli vaulted off of from her seat and straight for the operation’s lead. “Director Poole, I thought you said these turbines were all shut down?”

Poole stood in aw, slack-jawed for a moment before realizing he was once again being interrogated. “Don’t be daft.” He scowled at the reporter. “That’s just the wind pushing them around! I can guarantee that farm is off-line.”

Despite not feeling the wind blow at all, Gencarelli decided to play along. “And I can put that statement on record?”

“No, of course not.” Poole’s hair started to flatten with the lack of wind around. Finally, as if it pained him, Poole turned to face the reporter. “Let me put it in a way that you’d understand. Those turbines are just like those pin wheels you’d play with as a kid. Blow a little air and they spin.” Vitriol burned in the depths of his cold eyes.

He leaned in so that only Gencarelli would hear him. “Now why don’t you leave these observations to the professionals.” It may have been just a sense or it may have been reality, but Gencarelli swore the diminutive director was gradually raising up on to the tips of his toes while his brows furrowed in aggravation.

An irresistible urge flutter in the finger tips of the reporter. An urge that often came to those stuck in an endless loop with a fool, idiot, or ignoramus. She could feel the sting in her palm. The red hand mark left on his face. The pleasure of slapping the unadulterated arrogance out of him. And yet, much like any other level headed person, Gencarelli’s deep, dark desires were subconsciously held back until someone unwittingly interrupted her and her potential slappee.

Russell Brooks strode out of the cabin with the third member of the TUNA trio, Officer Shelley Anker, all packed up and ready to disembark. Unlike the two formerly mentioned TUNA-men, our inquisitive reporter found Anker quite intimidating, and judging by the on-looking crew members, they emphatically agreed.

Said trepidation seemed to stem from the shroud of mystery that followed Shelley Anker. Not really a talker, it was left to third party rumors to fill in the blanks on Anker’s past. Everything from the Navy Seals to MI6 and even the KGB have been thrown out there as a possible former employer of the secretive officer, but the one fact that anyone and everyone debated over the most wasn’t where she had worked or what she did, but what she was.

Anker walked alongside Brooks, her blade-like legs clattering against the wooden deck. She sported a buzz cut, and always had on her black tactical suit, covering the rest of her body. Questions constantly arose, wondering what else was hidden underneath. Whispers of cyborg or android populated the drunken voices of the ship’s men.

Her job now, as Gencarelli understood it, was as TUNA’s deep-sea specialist, a fact that the reporter had to triple check to be correct based on the officer’s surname. She was always the first one in the water and the last one out, and despite her long dives under, rumor was she was never seen with an oxygen pack.

Brooks checked the trans-communicator on his wrist, one hand shielding it from the sun. “Can’t read the damn thing with this sun out…” He grumbled to himself. Brooks was an old soul who struggled, or refused to keep up with the ever-evolving technology. Whenever the team found themselves in a local pub or drinking on the deck of a ship, it was only a matter of time before he started to reminisce over his old wrist watch or the feeling of holding a printed book in his hands. He even marveled at the fact that Gencarelli still carried around a pen and paper.

Once his eyes adjusted to the shadow created from his hand he called out. “According to the captain, twenty minutes until we make land.”

Director Poole opened his mouth to talk down to his two subordinates but the clattering of Anker’s metal legs drowned out all surrounding noise. Impatient, Poole’s mouth moved but even the closest ear could only make out a jumble of words.

With blood boiling in the diminutive man’s face, he burst out, “Do you have to walk so slow?” But even as the spittle flew out of his mouth, that still was barely audible. Finally, just as it looked as if a vein may tear through Poole’s neck, his blade-legged officer stopped, allowing Poole to properly scold her. “Don’t you have shoes of some sort for those things?” He clearly didn’t understand the life of a bionic being. “Or perhaps you could just slip a sock over those things.” He added.

For one engrossing moment it felt like Anker might lift up her defensive veil and speak up, but to one reporter’s regret, she kept her mouth shut.

“Sir.” Brooks initiated. “We did as you told and sent out a forewarning message across all formerly used radio frequencies.”

“Wonderful, great work Brooks.” Poole said prematurely.

“Well, sir, as it so happens, we received a message back.”

“A message?” Poole echoed the veteran military man.

Brooks, unsure what his superior wanted him to say, repeated himself. “A message, yes sir, that’s what I meant. From the resident repair technician at Needle Bay.”

The acting TUNA director, still recovering from the initial comment, dawdled like a teenager pushing off their chores as he considered his options. This gave Gencarelli just enough time to tap record on her recorder before Poole finally responded. “Repair technician for a closed down wind farm?” He questioned but quickly recovered not wanting to appear uninformed.

Pulling the collar of his jacket up to either shield himself from the wind or the reporter, he continued. “Good…good…” He stumbled through. “It will be, erm, good to have someone experienced with the turbine farm to give us some insight into their facility.”

“Hopefully he’ll be more helpful then the last droid.” Brooks muttered.

The android the TUNA-men came across in the Norwegian Sea had no name, just a number, number 107, and had little information to provide besides what the turbine’s manual had to offer. While the inner mechanics of the machinery was certainly informative, it gave little insight into the farm’s structural hierarchy that lead to its downfall.

“What’s its number?” Poole demanded.

Brooks scratched at his silver-streaked beard. “No number. He gave a name though…Hugo de León.”

At that, everyone but the director raised their eyebrows in intrigue, leaving Poole nodding his head in satisfaction. “Well, I look forward to meeting this de León fellow. It will be nice to have an intelligent conversation for once.”

The quartet shifted over to the starboard side of the ship as the turbines grew closer. At this distance, you had to crane your neck up to catch a glimpse of the towering rotors. On a lone island stood a blurred figure, welcoming the crew with an empathic wave.

A gaunt looking man ambled up onto the deck. Had it not been known that he himself was an android, one may have considered that the man, who goes by the name Hugo de León, was emaciated. Despite the hunch in his shoulder, he stood with pride and his clean-shaved jaw clenched in honor. The man, Hugo, was as tan as tan could be. One might say he was olive skinned had he not dried up so much in the sun. His eyes were squinted, though it could not be determined if that was hereditary or from the Sun’s bright rays. He wore a uniform, as well kept as clothing could be living on a deserted island by yourself, and a cap, similar to what an old train conductor would wear, with an ‘NB’ embossed above its bill.

To be as delicate as one could be, Hugo was short in stature. Had he been on one of those droid/human dating services, he certainly wouldn’t have listed his height, and his profile picture would most assuredly be pointing up at him to give a false sense of height. And because of this height disparity, Director Poole gravitated directly towards him to boost his own confidence and whatever power he may believe he had over the repair technician.

Before Poole could open his mouth, repairman Hugo de León cut off the dolt of a director. “If I may, we must go through a questionnaire before you all disembark onto Needle Bay proper.”

The repairman prepped a clipboard and pencil in hand, ready to mark down the responses.

“Ah, a man of principles and priorities.” Poole said, slapping the back of Hugo de León in support. “Go on then, we are happy to follow any protocols in place.”

The repairman began. “Has anyone felt sick or had a fever within the last two weeks?”

A grumble of no’s responded before the Jersey Journal reporter inquired, “Does sea sickness count?” Her stomach gurgled at the thought of the rough waves that they had sailed through only a day or two ago.

Hugo de León looked up from his checklist. “Were there any other symptoms besides nausea and or an upset stomach?”

“No.” Gencarelli said honestly.

“No diarrhea or burning when you urinate?” de León continued to question.

“Yeah Tata, did that sailor in Cape Town make your wee burn?” Brooks winked over at the reporter.

Gencarelli began to feel the way she did when her younger self would be referred to as Fatiana or Tubby Tata. She could still remember hiding away under the gymnasium staircase to eat her lunch. And yes, it was gnocchi.

“Burning when I peed? What? No.” She’ll just have to get over this just as she did with the Fatiana incident. It took the two Tubby Tata name-callers to move out of town to do so — or at least that’s what her father said happened to them — but she did eventually get over it.

Marking down a note, the repairman continued. “Do you have any perishables on-board from any of the following locations: Malta, Cape Verde, Tonga, or the Marshall Islands?”

Everyone’s eyes fixated on the ship’s captain. “No.” He muttered in a thick French accent.

Nodding, Hugo de León continued. “Lastly, have you recently made port in the Balearic Islands of Spain?”

“Spain?” Director Poole asked. “Why some random island in Spain? Should we be avoiding it?”

“If you haven’t been there then there is no reason to worry.” Hugo de León finished his paperwork and brought his attention to his visitors. “And now, if you will I can lead your team onto Needle Bay Island, but I will warn you, I am on a tight schedule and must not waste too much time if I am to keep the turbines operational.”

“Operational?” Poole stuttered through. “Surely you mean operational from a outside perspective. You know…for the image.” He held his hands out in some type of manner like everyone knew what he was talking about. Judging by the facial expressions of the repairman and his TUNA-men, they didn’t.

“No.” Hugo responded flatly. “We’re powering one-third of the Southern Hemisphere as we speak.”

Everyone looked up to see the ever-turning turbines. Everyone that is except Gencarelli who was staring over at the TUNA head before pulling her notepad out of her back pocket. A smirk deliberately planting itself on the middle of her face.

Gears began to grind in Director Poole’s brain as he attempted to pivot. “And all by yourself?” He questioned the way you do when you don’t expect a response.

“Of course.” The repairman responded with pride. “Despite my title I do very little repairs at the moment and that, I believe, is because of my hard work and determination. If I strive to make Needle Bay the best wind farm in the world, I must work hard enough to do so. With that comes a routine of daily upkeep work that I have planned out over the course of my time here. You may say I am here for more service than anything, and if I must resort to repair, then I fear I have failed at my job.” Despair crept onto Hugo de León’s face merely at the thought of this.

Poole on the other hand had taken the bate and was now being reeled in. “Well, it is quite an honor to be working along side such a prideful work. Resources such as yourself have been difficult to find on our journey so far. You certainly seem like a wealth of knowledge.”

The repairman nodded his head curtly at Poole and then the rest of the team. “We should be on our way, I have four minutes and thirty-seven seconds before I must run my daily systems diagnosis.”

Gencarelli watched as Hugo de León turned down the gangway and headed for land, Poole right on his tail. The silhouetted pair brought a headline to the savvy reporter’s mind. “Fool’s Gold…” she considered to herself. “Or perhaps A Fool on a Ship is Worth Two on the Land.” And then, like any good reporter would, she recalled her editor’s advise when pitching headlines: Be concise, be precise, and most importantly, no puns, and put both headlines to rest.

“You coming, Tata?” Brooks called out. The old wooden boards creaked as he turned around to face the ship. He had that type of look on his face that cried ‘don’t leave me alone with these two maniacs’. A faint splash lead him to continue. “Besides, we just dropped Anker so I’m on my own if you don’t come.”

In the water below, Anker submerged herself, beginning her procedural perimeter check. Within a blink of an eye, the deep sea specialist was out of sight.

Slinging her pack over her shoulder, Gencarelli looked back at the weary crew before joining Brooks down to Needle Bay.

As the band of seafarers set foot on land, they came to an unexpected halt as Hugo knelt down, pulling wild weeds out of the ground. A flare of sunlight reflected into the visitor’s eyes and for the first time, Russell Brooks, in all his military experience, caught sight of the blade that hung from the repairman’s belt. “I hope that cutlass isn’t for protection.” He said loud enough for the entire group to hear.

With the weeds in his hands, Hugo de León stood back up. “Oh, this.” His head bobbed down at his hip. “As I said, at this point my job mainly consists of upkeep. Being this open to the elements, part of that upkeep is the unwanted growth of weeds and vines that might hinder my job, and sometimes my hands are not strong enough to break through those vines.” At this point he smiled the most inhuman smile Gencarelli had ever seen. “Besides, any respectable wind farmer would want their estate to look respectable, no?” Or was it perhaps, she noted, just the grin of a fool.

Brooks elbowed Gencarelli in the ribs as the two stepped foot inside Hugo de León’s residence. A tattered and faded pamphlet curled up on a nearby desk. In bold, colorful lettering, ‘Help power one-third of the Southern Hemisphere!’ screamed off the page. Above it, in austere script read ‘A Newcomer’s Guide to Needle Bay’.

Off in the corner, Director Poole cackled at something the repairman had just said.

Leaning in, Brooks softly suggested, “Should we just leave him here?”

Holding in a laugh, the reporter retorted. “Then I wouldn’t be able to publish my piece or I’d risk being arrested as an accessory to incidental manslaughter.”

The pair briefly giggled like a pair of troublesome teenagers before Poole beckoned. “What are you two blubbering fools doing over there? Mr. de León was kind enough to postpone his diagnostics check to show me around, will you two survive on your own?”

“Sir, yes, sir, we’ll be fine.” Brooks said, snapping back into military mode.

“So long as I have time to speak with you, Hugo, afterward…” Gencarelli held up her notepad.

The proud repairman stepped forward. “Unfortunately, the schedule of a true service man such as myself does not allow for breaks in the day. Out of respect for your superior’s title, I have afforded him a moment of my time.”

His face boiling red, Poole spat out. “Ask him what you want now, but make it quick.”

“Oh…well…” The reporter started. “First, I know you go by Hugo de León, but I’d like to have your official serial number down in case it is needed for the article.”

“Erroneous!” Poole barked. “Next question.”

Gencarelli’s eyes darted to the next question she had jotted down on the way to Hugo’s hut. “Beyond the generalized one-third, can you give me exact locations…cities, countries, continents…that this wind farm provides energy to?”

Pulling the cap off of his head, the repairman sympathetically looked at the reporter. “If I could, I would love to; however, you must understand the precision in which this complex system constantly diverts the incoming wind into outbound energy. If you think about it, I am quite blessed to have been chosen for this endeavor.”

“Weren’t you specifically made for this endeavor?” Brooks remarked.

“That’s enough. We must be getting on our way now.” The squawking of a seagull from outside added a certain urgency to Poole’s tone.

Hugo de León re-affixed his hat to his head and lead the head TUNA out of his wooden abode.

The hut itself was a small ten-by-ten square. Rickety boards made up most of the establishment including the shambled furniture inside. Similar equipment that had been found at the other locations lined one wall, the only difference being that these machines appeared to be on and functioning. A cloth hammock hung from the ceiling that at one point was most likely pure white but now resembled the color of a toddler’s soaked bed sheet. A make-shift sling, holding an innumerable amount of books, manuals, and other miscellaneous documentation swayed besides the bed. No other clothes or food or even a wash cloth could be found in the humble abode, all of which Hugo was sure to point out to the acting director of TUNA.

“Luxuries like that would only render me from getting the most out of myself.” Hugo concluded thoughtfully.

“What an operation you run here,” Poole gloated. The two had made their way beyond the repairman’s residence and onto a well-made rope bridge to the closest turbine. “I try to stay professional when on the job, you know, nothing like a fool bloating around, but what you’ve done here is truly marvelous.”

Hugo de León soaked in the kind words before Poole continued. “Here I was thinking I’d find another decrepit site, wasting government money, and here you are powering one-third of the Southern Hemisphere!”

“That is true!” Hugo echoed.

Poole stopped mid-bridge, the wind rocking him like a baby in his mother’s arms, marveling at the outcropping of turbines ahead. “Really, if you think about it, you have it figured out…life I mean of course. You’ve really streamlined everything. I’m sure you don’t sleep…you probably don’t eat…” Poole looked over the scrawny repairman. He wasn’t healthy looking, that’s for sure, but it wasn’t like de León was malnourished or anything.

“You just get what you need done. In some ways, I envy that about you all,” He glanced back down at Hugo. He didn’t mean to sound discriminative with his ‘you all’ but the tone in which Director Poole typically spoke really embodied the voice of a discriminative type of person. “We’d certainly get much more done if the world was filled with your type.” There it was again.

“You know, Director, you speak very much, sir.” Hugo bluntly said to his companion. “Yet, you are right, I am the one who brings light to a once dark world, and I do so with great dignity.”

The sun had risen to its pinnacle, and without a cloud in the sky, the TUNA director had to shield his eyes to catch sight of Hugo de León marching up to the first pearly-white monolith. With his bone-like fingers, Hugo rapped his knuckles up against the base of the machinery.

“And what are you doing here?” Poole inquired. “Is there a certain pattern you must knock to get inside or something?” Even the director believed that sounded absolutely absurd the moment it came out of his mouth but refused to take it back.

The repairman placed his ear up against the glossy column now. “No. The best type of diagnostics is to listen to your machines…be one with them. If they are not feeling well, they will tell you.”

The director opened his mouth to question some more but was stopped by Hugo de León’s fore-finger raising up to his lips, requesting for some quietness. The clueless director now leaned in, trying to hear something himself. Much to his chagrin, he heard nothing but the lapping waves and whipping winds.

Hugo de León in all of his ever growing pretentiousness, stepped away with great satisfaction. “This one is good. She says she is happy to have visitors for a change.” He declared.

“But — how? — “

“Director Poole, if you are going to lolly-gag this entire trip, I do recommend you head back to home base.”

Poole shook his head and in turn shook the nest of hair atop his head. “No, no, my apologies Mr. de León, I am but a humble servant today and will do as you say for the rest of the way. I have learned so much in this short time already.” His eyebrows bent up in a plea to the repairman.

“Alright, I will accept your service, but we must get moving, we have many more turbines to check-in with.”

Back in the honorable repairman’s residency, the reporter and her chaperon rotated between twiddling their thumbs and sitting in silence, staring down at a corridor that apparently ran down to the cliff’s edge where a lighthouse warned oncoming sailors.

Down this exact corridor came a sudden, growing clattering. The faster the clattering got, the louder it echoed out through the dim hall.

Out of the darkness emerged Anker, goggles sitting on top of her wet hair and a peculiar look on her face. One that neither Gencarelli or Brooks had ever seen: unease.

“Where is the director?” She calmly asked.

“He’s on a tour of the facilities with the ingenious repairman Hugo de León.” Brooks eyed Anker with a uncertainty to him.

“Good.” Anker flatly said. “There is something I need to show you.”

A transparent, blue canvas appeared just above Anker’s forearm.

“Goggle footage.” Brooks pointed up Anker’s head. And like most men, he began to over explain things. “You see, there’s a tiny camera connected to the lens there, and it records to a cloud based — “

Gencarelli raised her hand to stop the mansplaining in its tracks. “I got it.”

The footage transformed from a flat blue video to hands wading under water. Soon, the murky sea transitioned into a cavern, and the camera in suit automatically adjusted its iris to see in the darkness.

Anker cut in. “I found this right below where the lighthouse sits.”

Soon a one-man catamaran boat came into view. There was a sizable breach in its stern and the mast was snapped in half. What remained of the sail draped across the rest of the boat.

“So, what are you thinking? Just some random shipwreck that was washed ashore? Or are you thinking someone else is camping out here?” Brooks inquired.

The video feed flickered away and Anker began to stretch, reaching down, grabbing hold of her blades. That triggered a thought in the reporter’s mind: do androids need to stretch — that is, if Anker was a droid. She considered it and then noted ‘Anker not android…cyborg?’ down on the pad in front of her.

“Tough to say. Only thing on board was some crumbled food wrapping and fish bones.” Anker unzipped her wet suit to reveal an identically black, non-wet suit beneath. “But either way, something fishy is going on.”

Grumbles of agreement filled the room. They all toddled around like students who were forced to work together on a school project, everyone waiting for the other to decide on their next move.

Deputy Brooks decided to be the one to take charge of the group. “Do we think Director Poole is in danger? Should we, ermm…” He balked at what he was about to suggest. “Should we go get him?”

Gencarelli tried her best to stay professional, but at Brooks’ suggestion she just couldn’t help blurting out a comically loud, “NO.”

And so, the trio weaved around one another once more, waiting for the next bright idea to surface when the keen-eyed reporter noticed Hugo de León’s pre-departure checklist dangling off the lip of his desk. Paper in hand, her eyebrows furrowed the way one does during an extremely difficult bowel movement or when you just don’t comprehend that math problem your teacher just explained for the fifteenth time, and her jaw dropped to reveal the cavity ridden teeth of someone who ate way too many sweets in their youth.

“What? What is it?” A hint of hesitation lined Brooks’ voice almost as if he wasn’t ready for shit to hit the fan just yet.

First, like any good reporter, Gencarelli scanned said paper with her trans-communicator before flipping it around to show the other two the scribblings of a mad man. Quite literally the white page was full of ineligible scribbles, scratches, and circles. There weren’t even check boxes on this once-thought-of checklist, nor were there the questions Hugo de León had asked them.

Anker tilted her head at the document. “Is that his checklist?”

Silently, Gencarelli widened her eyes and nodded very deliberately. While she waited for the other two to process what she had just shown them, she thought it was as an appropriate time as any to mouth the words, “I know, what the fuck?” After all, she’d seen it done in movies all the time and she had finally found the right circumstance in which to do it.

Brooks drifted over to the Newcomer’s Guide to Needle Bay and started to flip through the pages. “Holy shit…that lunatic is reciting this guide word for word back to us.” His finger landed on the current page that the pamphlet was open to. “One must understand the precision in which this complex system constantly diverts the incoming winds into the extraordinary energy that Needle Bay can harness.”

He turned the page, read for a moment, and then continued. “To make Needle Bay the best wind farm in the world, you must work hard enough to do so. You are not a mere repairman, be proud that you are now the one bringing life to a once dark world.” He flipped the book shut and then snorted to himself. “Get this…’You are no simple android; you are now part of the Needle Bay community.’”

Being the ethical reporter that she was, Gencarelli winced at the over-use of buzzwords. “Typical marketing hogwash.”

Taking his wool cap off, Brooks scratched at the back of his head. “So, this droid is malfunctioning or something?” If you looked hard enough, you could see the gear, slowly turning in the deputy’s head. “Or…” He looked back up at Gencarelli and then at Anker.

“Or he’s not an android at all.” Gencarelli finished Brooks’ slow-brewing thought.

Anker strode to the desk where Gencarelli still wavered in place. “We need hard evidence.” She tore through the paperwork that cluttered the surface.

And then, an oh-to-familiar cackle howled just outside the mad-man’s hut and the three comrades collectively scrambled around.

Leading up to the events that are due to transpire any moment now, it should be noted that by this time, Hugo de León, the repairman had all in all rightfully wooed Director Carey Poole.

The door to the single-roomed hut joyously flung open as the dynamic duo of Poole and de León burst inside. Director Poole appeared so overjoyed that he may risk permanently creasing his cheeks with the massive grin on his face, and Hugo, well, Hugo just seemed high on whatever propaganda he had recently spewed out. The trio of skeptics calmly waited — or so they hoped they appeared — standing one, next to another at ease.

Poole immediately fell back into his old self. “What are the three of you taking a holiday?” For his two underlings, he had never seemed so incredulous as he did right at this very moment, having his time with the repairman spoiled.

Anker took the first go at it, as they had planned for. “Sir, step away from that man, now.” She didn’t raise her voice, she didn’t stutter, nor did she blink. She just stood firm-bladed, not giving an inch.

“Step away? Office Anker, have you lost your mind? I think you’ve spent too much time with Lucy and Desi?” He pointed accusingly at Gencarelli and Brooks.

However, despite his words, Poole did take a half of a step away from Hugo, you know, for self-preservation purposes.

The bladed officer stepped forward. “Sir, this Hugo de León, he’s not who he says he is. Here, look at this.” As if she were Moses revealing the Ten Commandments, she held the scribbled bit of psycho-jargon in front of Poole and Hugo himself.

Poole began to focus so hard on the sheet of paper that his eyes started to cross before he gave up on translating the nonsense. “And what exactly is this nonsense?”

Unfortunately, the paper was snatched out of Anker’s hands before any of the three prosecutors could plead their case further. “What are you doing with this?” Hugo demanded. “This is official paperwork meant for Needle Bay staff only.” The paper quivered in his hands.

“Official paperwork?” Poole asked, now completely confused.

“Yes, official paperwork.” Hugo de León furthered the confusion.

“That sir, was the check list he went through before we departed the ship.” Brooks stated obviously.

“The — check what?”

The repairman was now standing in front of his corner desk, protecting the rest of his belongings. “This is outrageous, I welcome you into my place of business…my home, and you rummage through my things all willy-nilly.”

“Sir,” Anker stepped towards her boss once more, figuring she’d try a more direct route. “Hugo, he’s not an android, he’s no robot running this facility.”

“But he is.” Poole’s hair seemed to deflate with this wave of emotions. “This facility is running exquisitely. I’ve seen it for myself.”

Like a good soldier, Anker continued on. “Here, look at this.” And she proceeded to activate the archived video of the abandoned boat below. But the holographic video was immediately interrupted as Director Poole advanced through the feed.

“So, what, Officer? It’s a shipwreck. Could be anything…anyone’s ship.”

Hugo treaded through the tension around him. “She is right about one thing, Director Poole.”

This caught everyone’s attention.

“She is?” Poole asked.

“I am?” Anker added.

“She is?” Gencarelli and Brooks finalized.

“She is.” The repairman concluded. “I am no simple android, that is true. I am in fact part of the Needle Bay community.”

Everyone seemed to let out their collectively held breath all at once.

“He said it!” Brooks announced. “He said it!” The deputy who seemed to have grown a few more gray hairs over the past two minutes wiggled the Newcomer’s Guide to Needle Bay pamphlet in his hand.

“You see!” He stabbed the back cover of the guide beneath Director Poole’s nose.

“So what? He memorized a line on the back of his welcome book.” Poole shoved the paperback out of his face. “He’s got a computer in that mind of his, he can probably recite every single piece of literature he’s ever read.”

“In fact, I can.” Hugo, growing more boldly inched closer to the mayhem. “Whatever protocol you’d like to hear, I can recite it. What ever amendment to said protocol you’d like to hear, I too can list it.”

The Newcomer’s Guide to Needle Bay slammed down to the floor, and it felt as though the walls of the den had started to close in on everyone. “Of course, he can, he’s lost his mind.” Brooks begged for Poole to see the light.

“Deputy Brooks, is that right?” Hugo now had his hand on the lean deputy’s shoulder. “Maybe you’ve had too much of the sun. It can do a number on you if you’re not used to the heat. Why don’t you take a seat and I’ll grab you a glass of water.”

The entire room braced themselves, anticipating that fisticuffs would be thrown; however, like the good reporter that she was, Tatiana Gencarelli found the perfect opportunity to reveal the one piece of evidence that she had found just as Director Poole barged back into the quarters.

“If none of this is proof enough for you, then what about this.”

The stubborn director refused to look her in the eye, but a flash of burgundy caught his attention. “What’s that?” He scowled.

“Take it.” She pushed the red, squared doodad towards Poole.

“International Passport?” The director read the gold filigree lettering on the cover.

“Open it up, idiot.” Gencarelli urged Poole on.

“Hugo de León.” He read off. “Nationality: Spain…Place of birth: Formentera, Balearic Islands.”

Anker and Brooks audibly gasped, Gencarelli meanwhile double checked that the scan she took of the passport saved onto her trans-communicator.

Director Poole stared at the water-stained photograph that clearly was a younger version of Hugo and then back up to the repairman in his current state. “I…you…” Poole bumbled.

“That’s enough!” The repairman called out. His eyes bulged out, his mortality now clearly showing through the wrinkles on his face. “This is absurd. I. AM. A SERVICE ANDROID.”

It was at this exact point that everyone remembered that the insane man who stood in front of them was carrying a cutlass on his hip, because that blade now teetered in one hand of the repairman.

“I’ll prove it to you. All of you.” The repairman, baring his teeth, bit onto the cuff of his uniform shirt and tore the sleeve up to his elbow. “I’ll show you all. I’ll amputate my arm in half and then you’ll see! You’ll see all the wiring inside me!” He declared. “You’ll see and you’ll pay for it. You’ll pay for my repair!”

The smile that grew on to Hugo de León’s face would have struck fear into the heart of any sane person, and if you may not be all there in your head, say, if just moments ago you were supporting the likes of a potential psychopath, it may make you run. And so, Poole ran behind the larger Brooks for protection.

The madness oozed off the repairman. “Until death it is all life.” He admonished on to the group. And in the blink of an eye, Hugo de León, repairman extraordinaire, no longer had half of his left arm.

Blood trickled down to the ground as screams bounced off the walls.

Hugo, the now admonished, howled in pain, or perhaps it was shock, but either way it was a howl. Stumbling backwards, he dropped the blade, crashing into the wall.

The wooden boards first cracked on impact, and then fell on top of the amputee who had crumbled to the ground on his own accord. A neatly placed set of arms, legs, torso, and head revealed themselves, buried within the depths of the wall, staring back at the canned TUNA crew.

More screams ensued before clarity finally hit the brave reporter. “I was wondering where the actual droid ended up.” She began to scan the scene in the room with her trans-communicator. After the scan was complete, she archived the photo, picked up the rogue weapon, and inspected the unassembled android. “103.” She read off. “You never knew what it was like to exist.”

The once-declared repairman moaned at her feet.

“Brooks, why don’t you clean up his wound and get him back on the ship.”

She was sure Poole would object, after all, how could anyone but him give orders to his men, but the frightened director didn’t say a word.

Hugo de León, curled up on himself, whimpered, “To surrender dreams — this may be madness.”

The walk back to the ship was sobering for all.

Now, back on the ship, the former repairman sat on the bench that Tatiana Gencarelli once sat at no more than twenty-four hours ago. A wool blanket was wrapped around him and a hot bowl of soup next to him.

Brooks and Anker found themselves below deck, recalling their heroics on the wind farm. Gencarelli was shut in her room, rapidly typing away, piecing together the story as quickly as she could. She wanted it to feel fresh and relevant, she just wasn’t sure if her editor would accept a story about a mad man when her assignment was to investigate the world’s underutilization of clean energy. Downing a glass of whiskey, she said fuck it and continued typing.

Director Carey Poole, on the other hand, gradually built up the courage to approach his once friend. Finally, he found the nerves and the words he wanted to say.

“You’re going to be alright.” He forced out.

Hugo de León did nothing but say, “I am nothing. I am a no one and going back to my worthless nothing of a home.”

Showing what compassion he could, Poole sat next to the despondent man and awkwardly patted him on his shoulder. “Take my advice and live for a long, long time. Because the maddest thing a man can do in this life is to let himself die.” He let his words weigh over de León. After all, it was probably the most prolific thing he had ever said to anyone.

Poole took the silence as an acceptance by Hugo and picking up the bowl of soup he carefully began to feed the feeble man his meal.

With Needle Bay dwindling away in the distance and the sun setting over the Western horizon, everyone finally seemed at ease.