A/N: You know, this seems to be becoming a theme. I'm sorry this isn't Thinking. It's being difficult again. But Chase was still stuck in my head, and a little idea that been blowing around for a while finally settled down and grew some roots.

You know how a lot of my stories are taking the best of the relationships in Lab Rats, and showcasing them? This is just the opposite. This is one of the worst parts of the show, exaggerated, highlighted, and surrounded by bright flashing lights. I've touched on it in other stories, like Bruises, but this takes it to a whole different, weirder and darker, level.

Episode: None in particular. Sometime before Bionic Island.

Rating: Low T

Warnings: Angst, and a bit of mess-with-your-mind creepiness

Inspiration: A lot of flak gets tossed between the Davenport siblings, the whole family. But Chase, in particular, is a constant source of comic relief. He's never strong enough, cool enough, fun enough, or, sometimes, even with his super intelligence, smart enough. Add all that to his interesting reaction to one, single insult in the flood of them he hears each day, and this story is the result.

Do something nice for someone else today. Dare to be the one that makes someone smile.

Chase shivers.

The night is warm, air thick and humid. He's even wearing his mission suit, which is another layer, and yet, he shivers.

His siblings don't notice. How unusual. They're walking in front of him, still basking in the adrenaline, and the hype of a successful mission. Laughter and light chatter drift back to him, but Chase isn't listening. He can't quite focus on it, and anything. Not with this cold running through him.

Freak.

Chase isn't normal. He's known that for a long time, basically as far back as he can remember. Not only is he weird by normal human standards, he's an oddball in his own oddball family. The man who raised him is brilliant, but he isn't bionic. His siblings both are, but their abilities were so different from his own, they can't hope to understand.

Outcast.

At school, it's all about being cool. Cool means doing what other people think, and conforming to a system that's laughably inefficient and unhealthy. It means changing yourself to fit. That's not something Chase is willing to do. He's smart. A geek, a nerd, a dork, in their eyes. They don't understand, and therefore they shun.

Dweeb, freak,

nerd, geek,

funkiller.

Weirdo, jerk,

dork, quirk,

loser.

The names hurt, if he's honest. They burn, sting, chase him, battering his thick skin, cutting him when his defenses are lowest. Dark moments where his lives have become too overwhelming, when he fights with his family, or after a mission that may have been a technical success, but people still died. Moments when his ready smirk falls from his lips, his posture slumps, and his bright eyes dim. Danger nights.

Chase is used to fighting, used to pain. He's been thrown, punched, shocked, pummeled, and nearly sliced to pieces.

Funny, almost, how the words hurt more.

The names hurt, but it hurts even more when they come from people he loves, who love him. We believe what the people we care about tell us. His older siblings, who should defend him, only attack him. His younger sibling, who should look up to him, only puts him down.

Tiny, short,

doll, puny,

weak, wimp,

microman,

buttercup.

Chase understands he's not as tall as his brother, or as strong. It wouldn't bother him, he has his own talents after all, but everyone else never stops talking about it. How much less he is because of a couple inches. How weak that must make him. He's heard it so many times, it's incredibly hard not to buy into.

There are a lot of words, a lot of names, put downs he hears each and every day. They sting, they burn, heat his temper, and cut his pride. All, that is, except one.

Robot.

One word, two syllables, and all Chase feels is cold. It doesn't matter if it's a joke, or even a thought in his own mind. That word stops his heart, and makes him feel like a Florida native in in the middle of Alaskan winter.

Because, see, it all comes back to that.

Chase can't have fun.

Chase is too uptight.

Chase doesn't understand people.

Chase looks stupid and can't tell.

Chase is too smart to be human,

too professional,

too cold.

Perfect Chase, with his perfect grades, and talents, and looks. Perfect. Too perfect.

Robot. Chase has to be a robot. Too weird to be anything else.

Because, after all, he almost is. All the things that make him special, his mind, his brilliance, training because of his bionics, the leadership born of them, the resilience they give him, they all come from tiny pieces of metal fused into him. He was created for his bionics, not the other way around. Without them, he would be nothing.

Maybe...

Even if they don't understand him, any of them, they're sort of right. Chase doesn't understand people. He doesn't understand why they hate knowledge, learning, his greatest joys. He doesn't understand their cool, their fun. Chase would much rather, for example, have an informative, analytical app instead of one whose only purpose is to waste time.

I...

Even if they don't understand, not a single one of them, they're sort of right. Chase is weak, he's always too weak. He can't save people, not all of them. That has to mean he's not strong enough. If he were taller, even by a couple inches, he could've reached that little boy before he'd fallen to his death. And even with super-intelligence, he's not smart enough to be right when lives are at stake. Aren't robots inferior to humans in situations that require creativity?

am.

So if what makes Chase special, important, is literally robotics, if he doesn't understand human tendencies and emotions, if he can't be creative when needed, isn't robot the perfect name for what he is? The thought is terrifying, and yet it refuses to leave his mind. His siblings get people, after all. They try to be cool, they fit in pretty well. They have talents, of course, they're not normal, they're still weirdos.

But at least their minds are their own.

"Chase! Hurry up, we're nearly home!"

Chase only nods in response, and his siblings are too busy chatting to notice how quiet he's been. His head is heavy, thoughts racing and sluggishly tripping all over one another. His body feels like it's made of lead, and Chase can barely lift his feet to walk. The cold always weighs him down, shatters his joy and peace, and steals his breath and mobility. Chase is numb, and anything is better than this.

That's why Chase doesn't mind Adam's borderline abuse. Sure, a "friendly punch" might leave him with bruises for weeks after, and getting tossed across the room leaves him with worse, but it's better than the numbness.

The mockery, the constant jibes at his height and strength, they hurt. The fact that his siblings don't defend him against others' jeers, only add to them, that hurts more. It wears him down, day after day after day. And yet, he doesn't protest, because it's better than the numbness.

When something destructive or hurtful is happening, and Mr. Davenport or Tasha happen to see it, and do nothing to stop it, that's painful. How they shrug it off, act like it's no big deal, that stings. They're adults, his parents. They're supposed to take care of him. But it's not as bad as the numbness, so he doesn't question it.

He should question it. He should break out of this cycle, the pain, the suffering. He should. He should.

But the cold, the numb, come back up to overwhelm him, and Chase shivers. He should, of course, but not right now. Not just now. It's better to do these things gradually, after all, so he joins the conversation. In the thirty seconds before they reach their house, Chase has been insulted twice, and the cold is melting before the stinging burn.

He's sure he'll stop it later. After all, this isn't healthy. Of course he'll stop.

Eventually.