And another new story this week! Woo! I am on fire. Let me tell you, it feels good to be back. :3 Also, this is my fiftieth story, so hooray for that! Only halfway to a hundred! Think I could reach that number by my second anniversary? ;)

Mmm, this came from theories about Marcus's childhood. It's kinda strange, but I still wanted to share it. If you guys ever have ideas for this story, I would love to hear them. Each chapter tends to be a bit more like a one-shot, I guess, but some will be connected. Especially towards the end.

This story is rated T for criminal activates and mentions of some not-so-friendly stuff. This is delving into the world of the Lab Rats villains. Things get complicated. I hope I'm all right at portraying this stuff. O.o

I don't own Lab Rats, but Mr. Cameron Bryson is mine. Enjoy!

* * * Chapter 1 * * *

I slipped into the soft leather chair and placed my fingers on the keys. With inhuman speed I began to type, scrolling through lists of various codes. My eyes flicked back and forth as I broke down the firewalls.

"You'll be proud, Dad," I whispered. "I'll make you proud."

In the computer screen I could see my own reflection. Plain brown hair and brown eyes—Dad didn't want me to draw too much attention to myself. That was okay. It was easy to blend in, to slip into a sea of humanity and trick them into thinking I was one of them. I wasn't.

No, I wasn't a person. But everyone who met me thought I was. Did I care that I wasn't human? Not really. It was something I was used to; I didn't know any other way. Like someone growing up with a peanut allergy. They can't have peanuts, so to them, they're not missing out on anything. But to the lover of peanut butter, the allergic person is someone to be pitied.

I didn't feel any self-pity. Even knowing that my own life had a deadline didn't make me feel uneasy or worthless. On the contrary, it made me all the more determined to make the most of the time I had. There's a strange freedom in knowing one's expiration date. Unless something went drastically wrong—and I would see to it that it wouldn't—I would know the day I was going to die, down to the minute. Dad hadn't told me that day yet, but I knew he would when the time was right. I never had a fear of death—or whatever it would be for me. I didn't fear the moment of deactivation, when I was swept into oblivion, when the world would forever forget my name. I wasn't afraid to face it. Dad would tell me the date long before it came, and I didn't waste time agonizing over the prospect of sudden illness or injury finishing me off. I would have time to prepare; time to say goodbye. It was liberating.

But I was yet a long way from that day. For now, I would be doing everything that was asked of me, and even some of what wasn't. I plugged the file into the computer and grinned when the desired codes came onto the screen. Then it all disappeared, and slowly an image of a map came into focus. I hit the "command" and "P" keys at the same time, and the printer in Dad's office downstairs began to whir. I hopped up from my chair and hurried down the stairs, waiting patiently for all four sheets to come out.

"Marcus, are you printing another math worksheet?" a voice called from the kitchen.

"No, Dad!" I called back.

"Well you should. You should be working on your times tables."

"Dad, I can do polynomial long division. I don't need to do times tables!"

The only response I got was a muffled grunt, followed by the ding of our toaster. I took that as my cue to leave.

Once I was back up in my room, I grabbed a red marker out of the drawer, sat back down in my chair, and laid out all four sheets of paper in the correct position. "Oh, this is way more important than times tables," I whispered, circling the prime locations I already knew on the map. I stuck the marker between my teeth and began to type again, absorbing as much information as I could. Every time I made a discovery, I circled a new location on the map.

It was several hours later when I heard a sharp knock at the door. I jerked up, startled, having been absorbed in my work. The handle of the door turned and Dad walked in.

"Okay, I'm not really worried about you, but according to the state I'm your legal guardian, and I'm responsible for your education."

"Since when do you care about what the state says?"

Dad squinted and suddenly shook his head. "I'm not really worried about you, but I feel like I should check up to make sure you're . . . what are you doing?"

I looked down at the map and all the red circles I had drawn on it. I couldn't help but grin proudly. "I'm helping you," I said.

Dad sighed. "Marcus, I already told you . . ."

"I know, I know, I'm just a kid. But hear me out! I've been doing research for hours, and I've found a whole bunch of potential buyers in the area. Here, see, I drew it all on the map. The thicker circles are the ones with more money who are more likely to buy things, but they're really all over the place if you look—"

"Marcus!" my dad snapped, cutting me off. He sighed again and gripped the bridge of his nose. "I can't let you help me on this. Stay out of it!"

"No!" I protested. The time had come for me to say something. I wouldn't waste away for another second. "I want to help you! I can do this! Dad, you made me so I could do great things. Please, Dad, I want to do something."

He was silent for a few moments, and I began to hope that he was seriously thinking it over.

"This is what you made me for," I said, using that as my final and most powerful point.

"You're right," he said finally. "You're right. But it's not easy."

"I didn't think it would be."

He frowned a bit, then bowed his head. "Fine," he said. "You can help me." Just as I was about to cheer, he knelt down in front of me and gripped my arms. Staring into my eyes, he continued, "But you have to promise me something."

"Yes, Dad?" I asked warily.

"You have to promise that you will never tell them what you really are."

"You mean . . . an android?"

"Yes. If they found out, Marcus, they'd tear you apart. They'd take you away from me. I can't lose another one of my creations. It can't happen again."

I swallowed. My dad had told me about the bionic projects. Our ultimate goal was to get them back, but it would take a very long time. Meanwhile, Dad had his business to attend to. It was a dangerous business, and sometimes he would come home with an injury or illness that I knew was no accident. Still, it was intriguing. And Dad was always okay in the end.

"I won't tell anyone," I said. "Cross my heart and hope to die." I promptly drew two fingers in an "X" shape over my chest. It was a childish move, but then again, I was a child, wasn't I?

Dad nodded slowly. "Good," he said. "Good. Having you on my side . . . well, that just might be a very good idea." He began to smile. "Come on, Marcus. It's time I introduce you to my business."

Downstairs I could hear my dad gathering his things together. I smiled and hopped off my bed, grabbing my coat from where it hung on the knob of my dresser. I pulled the sleeves over my arms and bounded down the stairs, reaching the bottom just in time to come face-to-face with Dad as he headed out the door.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, kid!" he said, putting a hand on my shoulder to stop me. "Where do you think you're going?"

"With you," I said, trying to walk out the door. Dad moved in front of me, blocking my path.

"No, you're not," he said, shaking his head.

"But you said I could help!"

"You did help. You made that map, remember? I've already contacted Cameron Bryson, the one on Walnut Street. I'm going to show him some of my stuff." Dad patted his briefcase proudly.

"And I'll help you."

"No," he said firmly. "You can help me organize all you want. In fact, I appreciate it. But you are not going with me to a client's house."

"I can handle it!"

"You've never met these people. If all goes well, you never will."

"But I—"

"There's no point in arguing, Marcus." Dad walked out the door without another word to me. It clicked as he locked it from the outside.

I was left there, blue coat draped over my back, stunner tucked in my boot, and all my dreams crushed by my father. I scowled and leaned against the wall, arms folded across my chest.

"I'll show you," I said finally. "I can handle this."

The door opened with a creak and I peeked out. Dad's car was already down the street. It rounded the corner as I stepped out. I locked the door with the spare key in my pocket.

Walnut Street. I knew exactly where that was. Mr. Bryson's house would not be hard to find; I had the coordinates memorized from looking at the map. I used my super-speed to get to the location in just a few seconds.

Then came the annoying process of waiting. I figured it would be best, as boring as it was. I crouched in the bushes outside the large mansion—yes, Mr. Bryson was a millionaire—and watched the street. It took a few minutes for Dad's old red truck to pull up near the fountain in front of the house. He got out with his briefcase, knocked on the door, and was let in right away.

I hurried up onto the porch and knelt down in front of the door. This was the moment of truth. I flexed my fingers and concentrated on the lock. My bionics weren't fully trained yet, and my molecularkinesis was hard. There were several clicks, and suddenly the door swung open. I silently congratulated myself and slipped inside.

The foyer was elegant, with decorative plants and a jeweled banister on the stairs. "Hard to believe this is the house of a criminal," I whispered.

There were voices coming from down the hall. One of them I recognized as my dad. Quietly I walked closer, making sure to stay out of sight. Soon they ducked through a doorway. I waited a few seconds before walking forward and opening the door myself.

I was surprised to find that I was in some sort of closet. The walls were sheer metal and very close. Only I fit in there. "What the—?" I said softly.

The door closed with a clang and everything went dark. Something under me snapped and before I knew what was going on, I was hanging in the air, apparently suspended by some kind of net. The three walls that made up the "closet" slid to the ground.

"Marcus!" I froze at my dad's angry voice.

"Oh, hi," I said sheepishly. I managed to turn myself around to see Dad with his arms folded across his chest. Beside him was a burly man with a white mustache. The room we were in now was full of computer screens and chemistry equipment.

"Do you know this kid?" the other man said gruffly.

Dad sighed. "He's my . . . son. My son."

"Um, hello," I said. "I'd give you a handshake, but I'm afraid I can't reach you. Mr. Bryson, I presume?"

"He's quite bright for a child," Mr. Bryson said.

"He's gifted," Dad said between gritted teeth. "Marcus, get down from there!"

"I'd love too," I said, "but only your friend can get me down." Of course, I could use the saws in my fingers to cut myself out of the net, but Mr. Bryson couldn't know about my bionics.

The millionaire pushed a button on a nearby computer console. The net dropped to the floor and opened, and I crawled out.

"You brought your kid, Douglas?" he asked.

"No," Dad said crisply.

"Oh, was I not supposed to come?" I said, rubbing the back of my head. "I guess I misunderstood this whole thing."

"You're in big trouble." Dad's voice wasn't accusing or loud, but I could hear the anger boiling beneath the surface.

"Aw, lay off the kid, Dougie," Mr. Bryson said. His tone betrayed his amusement. "Got three boys of my own. Mischievous little buggers."

"I told him to stay home."

"Your son, you say? He ought to learn about your business someday."

"That's what I said!" I interrupted.

"Marcus, was it?" My. Bryson continued. "Come see this."

I followed the man further into the lab-like room, dodging Dad when he tried to grab my shoulder. There were several beakers on a counter in the center of the room, all bubbling with strange substances.

"Poisonous," Mr. Bryson said loudly, like he was leading a tour. "All of them. Do you know what poisonous means, boy?"

I came close to making a snarky comment, but I bit my tongue and replied, "They're deadly."

"All of them!" he repeated proudly. "But not all of them kill. Some of them . . . let's just say they change people. How about I test one out on your father? I kid, I kid!" he added with a laugh when he saw my shocked expression.

"Ha ha," Dad said dryly.

"They change people. Make them act different. Make them act how I want them to. Pretty amazing how people will act with this stuff. Pretty amazing. Douglas, you have a new way for me to administer them?"

Dad put his briefcase on the counter, avoiding my gaze. He opened the case to reveal a set of glass cups.

"That's it?" I asked. "That's all?"

"I'm agreeing with the kid right now, Douglas. You're presentation is lacking. Come on, man, wow me!"

"See the fog on the glass of the cups?" Dad said, holding up one for demonstration. "That's not for decoration. It's for concealment. Notice how the outside of the glass is thick. There's a thin space between the outside of the glass and the inside, enough to hold a small amount of liquid. The bottom of the glass comes off, like so. Simply pour in the desired poison, replace the bottom, and put the drink into the cup. The poison is slowly and inconspicuously released as someone drinks it."

"Brilliant!" Mr. Bryson exclaimed. "See, boy, that's why they call your father a genius. Brilliant, I say! It will be quite easier to slip a poison in to my guests. Douglas, you are a genius."

"I know," my dad said with his signature smirk.

"You teach your boy these things. Marco? No, Marcus. Marcus, boy, you become like your dad, you hear me? Douglas, teach him well. He'll grow up to be just like his dad."

"That's all I've ever wanted," I muttered.

"What was that? Oh, never mind. You just learn, Marcus. You go with your dad to places like this. You learn his trade. You hear me?"

"I hear, I hear!" I said.

"Douglas, I'll order some of those glasses. You've got different sizes, do you? Show me. Different sizes. Yes. Oh, Douglas, I will never doubt your brilliance!"

Dad and Mr. Bryson discussed the details such as the price and number of cups. I studied the beakers, entertaining myself by scanning their molecular makeup.

Eventually they finished up and we headed back into the foyer. "Thank you for coming, Douglas," Mr. Bryson said. "Lovely cups. Brilliant. You know me; more into chemicals and employing them than all those gadgets. A simple man, really. You might not believe it, but I am. Simple man. And your boy. I'm glad he came. You teach him well. And boy, you listen to your father. He's got a lot to teach you. A lot. Come back, now! And Marcus, you haven't learned yet. Learn now. Don't ever take a drink from me." He winked before ushering us out the door. "Goodbye, goodbye!"

The ride back home was silent most of the way. Finally I broke it by saying, "At least I didn't ruin the deal."

"This is about more than just the deal, Marcus," Dad said coolly. "Mr. Bryson is a talker. I was hesitant to do business with him in the first place because he might spread word that I'm alive. Luckily I have . . . something over him. He hasn't said a word, which is impressive."

"Then just use that something to keep him from talking about me!"

"That's not the same. What am I supposed to say? 'Don't tell anyone I have a son'? That'll lead to more questions, and ones that we can't answer." Dad sighed. "And now you're going to want to do this again."

"Yup," I said. "Dad, I am ready. And if I'm not, teach me! This is what you created me for."

Dad sighed again. "You know what? If you want to be involved in this, fine. But just know that if you are, you might not even make it to your expiration date."

"I don't care. This is exciting. It makes life more enjoyable, no matter how long I have."

Dad smirked. "The government wouldn't agree with that. All right, Marcus. It looks like I've finally got a partner again."

Mr. Bryson was so much fun to write. Too much fun, I think. XD How did you guys like him? How about this first chapter? I know this is kind of weird. I don't know if this story will be any good. To be honest, I'm pretty nervous about it. I hope you guys will still enjoy it anyway, even if some chapters turn out to be pretty bad.

Like I said earlier, if you have any ideas, I would love to hear them. I need a lot of help on this story, honestly. Leave ideas in reviews or PM me and we can talk about the story as a whole.

Hopefully this story will turn out okay and I won't regret posting it. Do you guys like it so far? Should I continue? Updates will most likely be infrequent; I apologize. Here and there and pretty random, probably. Still, I'll try not to keep you waiting for too long.

Thanks for reading, everyone! Reviews are much appreciated. See you guys next time. Bye!