Scrapwire pulled the metal panel from the wreckage and turned it over. Rust flaked off in their three-fingered grip. No markings. No maker's stamp. Just another dead end in a field of broken machines. Their life goal burned in their circuits like a faulty wire—to learn who created them and why. Every piece of scrap might hold a clue. Every discarded bot could share their origin. But today, like yesterday, the answers stayed hidden. They needed a new approach. The scrap field had given them nothing. Scrapwire headed toward the structure in the center of town—a sleek building where information got posted and shared. The Galactic Law Enforcement Office stood tall against the sky. Inside, notices covered the walls. Requests for help. Reports of missing cargo. Warnings about dangerous zones. Scrapwire scanned each one, looking for anything about bot makers or abandoned workshops. Nothing useful appeared on the boards. Scrapwire left and walked to the town yard where an EcoSort Bot worked through piles of discarded parts. The machine separated metal from circuits, sorting everything into neat bins. Scrapwire waited until it paused, then dug through the organized piles. They found broken servos, cracked displays, torn wiring. Their fingers moved fast, checking each piece for serial numbers or maker marks. A shard of hull plating caught their optical sensors. The metal came from something bigger—a crashed ship. Scrapwire recognized the scoring pattern from atmospheric entry. They traced the edge and found partial letters stamped into the surface. "Galactic Archive" they could just make out. A records ship. If any workspace held clues about their creation, it would be there. Scrapwire gripped the shard tight and set off toward the crash site. Today might be different. Today might give them answers.

Scrapwire climbed over twisted metal beams and shattered hull plates. The crash site spread across the valley like a graveyard. Smoke still rose from the largest section. They moved toward it, scanning for the archive symbol they'd seen on the shard. Their optical sensors caught it—faded but clear on a half-buried door panel. Scrapwire pulled at the entrance until it gave way. Inside, data cores lay scattered across the floor. Most were cracked or melted. They picked through them one by one, checking for intact memory. The fifth core flickered when they touched it. A serial number appeared on their internal display. Just numbers and letters, but it was a start. Scrapwire downloaded what they could and tucked the core into their chest compartment. The first real clue in cycles of searching. Now they needed to find someone who could read it. They turned to leave but their foot hit something solid. The floor panel shifted under their weight. Scrapwire knelt and brushed away debris. A hatch lay beneath—sleek metal with designs etched along the edges. Light glowed from the seams, pulsing in a steady rhythm. Their processors worked through what it could mean. This wasn't part of the main ship. Someone had hidden it here on purpose. Scrapwire gripped the handle and pulled. The hatch opened with a hiss of air. A ladder dropped down into darkness. The metal rungs showed heavy rust and age. Scrapwire tested the first rung with their weight. It held. They climbed down, their optical sensors adjusting to the dim space below. The ladder ended in a small chamber. Workbenches lined the walls. Tools hung on racks, organized and waiting. A single console sat in the center, its screen still active. Scrapwire approached it and touched the display. Files opened—blueprints, assembly logs, test records. Their processors caught a familiar pattern in the data. The same serial format as the number in their chest compartment. This wasn't just an archive. This was a workshop. Someone had built bots here, away from records and oversight. Scrapwire copied everything they could reach. Their first real clue had led them to the place where they might have been assembled. The search wasn't over, but now they had a direction. Now they knew where to look next. But the console flickered and died. The workshop went dark. Scrapwire's optical sensors switched to low-light mode. The files were only half-copied. They needed power. Their sensors swept the room and found a compact generator pushed against the far wall. Metal casing, still intact. Scrapwire dragged it to the console and connected the cables. The generator hummed to life. Lights blinked across the workshop. The console screen brightened again. Scrapwire watched as the rest of the files downloaded—creator names, assembly dates, shipping records. One name appeared multiple times in the logs. No image, just a designation code. Scrapwire stored it all in their memory banks and climbed back up the rusty ladder. They had what they came for. The next step was clear. Find that creator. Learn why they'd been made in secret. Learn who they really were.