Chapter 5: "Breakfast, Bots, and a Name That Wasn't Ramen"
(In which Naruto tries to relax, eats too much, and realizes his robot needs an identity crisis)
Spyke was having a great day.
And no, that wasn't sarcasm—for once in his semi-tragic teenage life, things were actually looking up. The sun was shining, his brand-new Medabot part sparkled in the bag he clutched like it was the Holy Grail, and for once, no one had insulted his "genius" online today.
He practically skipped down the sidewalk.
"I, the great Spyke, number three member of the glorious Screws, am one step closer to upgrading Cyandog into the ultimate robo-warrior!" he announced proudly to no one in particular.
A passing cat meowed at him, unimpressed.
"Your envy is noted, feline."
Unfortunately, in this world, good days had the life expectancy of a snowball in a volcano. And as Spyke turned the corner into a quiet alley shortcut, the universe decided it was time for character development.
Three shadows loomed ahead.
Big ones.
Really big ones.
Spyke blinked up at the trio of brick walls wearing sunglasses and leather jackets.
They were all muscle, zero neck, and roughly the size of vending machines. Each had a stylized "R" branded on their sleeves.
The Rockers.
Spyke's legs went cold.
"Oh no," he muttered, backing up. "Nonononono—I'm too young to be mugged! I still haven't gotten my PhD in Advanced Cyber-Quantum-Hackery!"
The tallest one—who had arms like tree trunks and a neck like a tire—stepped forward.
"Hey, kid," he said in a tone that was almost friendly. "That a Medabot part you got there?"
Spyke instinctively held the bag to his chest. "No."
The Rocker raised an eyebrow.
Spyke winced. "Yes."
Spyke did the only thing he could think of. He reached into his coat and pulled out his Medawatch.
"Cyandog! Deploy!"
A flash of light later, a cool blue-and-silver Medabot with a visor and a tail cannon materialized beside him.
"Ready for battle!" Cyandog barked in his robotic dog voice.
The Rockers didn't move.
Spyke swallowed hard. "O-Okay, see, this is fine! We'll just… back away slowly and… pretend this didn't happen, right?"
One of the other Rockers—slightly shorter but no less terrifying—grinned. "Relax, we're not here to jump you. Just wanted to ask if you'd be willing to hand that part over. You know. As a gift."
Spyke's mind raced. These guys were at least in their twenties—real gang members. Not the cosplay-tough guys like the Screws.
And if they were asking nicely, it probably meant they didn't want the Select Corps—the robo-police force—to come down on them for bullying a kid.
Spyke hated being a coward. Hated being weak. Hated how his knees shook and his throat felt like it was filled with battery acid.
But he also hated getting his face rearranged.
"…Sure," he mumbled, handing over the bag with trembling fingers. "Consider it… a donation to local crime."
The Rockers smiled. "Appreciate it."
And just like that, they let him go.
Spyke turned, walking quickly. Then jogging. Then flat-out sprinting.
He didn't stop running until he was two blocks away, crouched behind a vending machine, gasping for air.
Cyandog stood beside him, ears lowered.
"Master… you okay?"
Spyke didn't answer at first. His glasses were fogged. His voice cracked.
"…I wanted to be a hero, Cyandog," he whispered. "But I'm just a scared kid."
A tear slid down his cheek. He sniffled and wiped it away.
Then, barely audible: "Don't tell Boss."
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Spyke slammed his hands on the table in the schoolyard cafeteria like a dramatic movie lawyer delivering a final argument.
"They took it!" he shouted. "Just—took it! My brand-new medapart! Do you know how long I spent researching that model? I even ran six simulations!"
Samantha raised an eyebrow, crunching on an apple like it was a villain's hopes and dreams. Her signature red headband fluttered slightly in the morning breeze. Her cat-type Medabot, Peppercat, stood at her side, arms crossed and static sparking from her metal whiskers.
"Let me get this straight," she said slowly. "You, Spyke, gave up your medapart… without a fight?"
Spyke winced. "They were huge! Like mutant-sized gym bros! They weren't even teenagers!"
Sloan, tall, well-built, and somehow already polishing his Medawatch with an antibacterial wipe, let out a sympathetic sigh. "Man, that sucks. I'm sorry, dude. That was your new booster lens, right?"
Spyke nodded, nose already starting to sniffle.
"Boosted aim algorithms by 37%!" he wailed. "Cyandog was going to be an unstoppable sharpshooting machine! He could've become... Cyansniper!"
Sloan patted him on the shoulder, then immediately sanitized his hand.
Samantha, meanwhile, was glaring holes into the table like it had personally offended her. She stood up so fast her chair practically flipped.
"We're not letting this slide."
Spyke blinked. "Wait, really?"
"You think we're gonna let some third-rate street gang muscle in on our turf and mug one of my teammates?" Samantha growled, fists clenched. "No way. The Screws don't go down like that."
She pointed dramatically toward the school gates like a general commanding an army.
"After school. We're finding those clowns."
In case you're new to town, allow me to introduce The Screws:
Samantha – Alpha. Apex. The boss. Known for explosive hair flips and explosive battles. Peppercat, her Medabot, is a lightning-fast feline with claws that crackle and reflexes that make ninjas jealous. Rumor has it Samantha once beat three seniors and a vending machine in one match.
Sloan – The muscle. Obsessively neat, terrifyingly strong. Uses Totalizer, a Medabot so bulky it might legally qualify as a tank. Once got suspended for vacuuming during gym class.
Spyke – The brain (self-proclaimed). Hacker. Strategist. Cries under pressure but also knows how to code a Medabot's dance routine. Used to be higher in the pecking order until the Screws realized crying during battles wasn't a winning strategy.
"So what's the plan?" Sloan asked, already drafting a flowchart in his notebook titled Operation Medapart Retrieval.
Samantha cracked her knuckles. "We wait. After school, we go 'round the alley where Spyke got jumped. If they're dumb enough to hang out there again, we challenge them."
Spyke bit his lip. "They're… kind of out of our league, though. And the Select Corps might not show up in time if they actually try something."
Samantha smirked. "That's why we bring backup."
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Let me just say: waking up in a sci-fi world with flying bikes, floating holograms, and a robot buddy that sounds like Kakashi? Not a bad way to start your day.
After months of fighting for my life, burying a teacher, and surviving a war that made my soul feel like burnt toast, I figured I deserved a break. Like, actual break-break. No battle music. No power-ups. Just breakfast.
I threw on some new clothes — orange and black, because some habits never die — and headed out with Arcbeetle marching beside me like a shiny, bug-themed bodyguard. He was 1.2 meters tall, shiny as a fresh shuriken, and walked with the calm patience of someone who'd definitely read more books than me.
"This weather is optimal," he said in that smooth, cool tone that made him sound like he was five minutes away from quoting an obscure poem and then kicking someone's face in. "Humidity levels at a tolerable 42%. Light breeze. A good day for battle—or breakfast."
I grinned. "I'll take the second one, thanks."
The restaurant I found was this little corner joint near my apartment, with neon signs in five languages and a menu longer than Jiraiya's Make-Out Paradise series (don't ask how I know). I slid into a booth. Arcbeetle hopped up onto the opposite seat like he did this every day.
And you know what? Nobody batted an eye. Everyone had Medabots with them. One guy two tables over was arguing with a samurai toaster. Some lady floated by on a hoverboard while sipping something purple. Hologram ads danced above us advertising everything from upgrade chips to Robot Idol: Galactic Remix. This world was wild, but I kind of loved it.
"Two breakfast specials," I told the server, who blinked at me, then looked at Arcbeetle.
"Do... Medabots eat?" she asked.
"He doesn't," I said, grinning. "But we're bonding. He watches me eat. It's a thing."
She shrugged like that made perfect sense and zoomed off.
Ten minutes later, I was elbow-deep in waffles, eggs, and something called crunchy ham spirals (verdict: delicious, would eat again). Arcbeetle sat across from me, arms crossed, eyes glowing softly.
"You seem... lighter today," he said.
"Yeah, well," I said with my mouth full, "no one's tried to kill me in like, six hours. That's a record."
"I must admit," he said, "I was expecting more conflict upon arrival in this city. You are… unpredictable."
"Thanks?" I wiped my face and reached for the syrup. "Hey, uh, you're sounding more human lately."
He tilted his head. "I've been learning. I studied your world's files last night while you were sleeping. Also, I downloaded seventeen seasons of Ninja Chef Galaxy. The host reminds me of your friend, Kakashi."
"Oh great," I muttered. "Now you're gonna start quoting vague cooking proverbs."
Arcbeetle's visor gleamed. "A good dish begins with fire. Just like a good warrior."
I groaned. "It's already started."
We both chuckled, or, well, I chuckled and Arcbeetle did that thing where he made a soft clicking sound like an AI trying to approximate amusement. But then he leaned forward a little, his tone shifting.
"May I ask a question?"
"Shoot."
"Why haven't you given me a name yet?"
I blinked, halfway to stabbing another waffle. "Wait, what?"
"You name everything," he said calmly. "You name jutsu. You named your shadow clones. You name your attacks, sometimes mid-battle. Yet I remain 'Arcbeetle.' That is a model designation. Not an identity."
I paused.
Wow. Okay. Didn't see that one coming. Leave it to the cool bug-bot ninja to hit me with the existential question before I finished my breakfast.
"I guess…" I started, scratching the back of my head, "I was waiting for the right moment. Y'know, when we were more… in sync."
"I've risked my limbs sparring you for a day," he deadpanned.
"Okay, fair."
He leaned back. "I don't require a name. But it would be... appreciated."
I looked at him. His sleek armor, those crimson horn-lasers, his battle poise and calm voice, the way he moved like a veteran shinobi — a little dramatic, very precise.
And yeah, he reminded me of someone.
"Alright," I said, "how about… Raikō?"
He blinked. "Raiko?"
"Yeah," I grinned. "It means 'Lightning Light.' You know, fast, sharp, kind of flashy. Like you."
Arcbeetle — Raikō — paused. Then he nodded. "Acceptable. Thank you, Naruto."