Meddy and Frank, Chapter Two

The soldering iron burned his fingertips, but Tamazaki barely noticed. His eyes, bloodshot and blurry, were fixated on the intricate network of wires within the android's chest. Franko. His masterpiece. Years of research, countless sleepless nights, all culminating in this moment. He brushed a stray hair from the android's forehead. The skin was cool to the touch, eerily lifelike. He'd achieved it. Perfection. A pang of guilt pierced his elation. Naoki. The snow festival. His promise. But just a few more adjustments, a final test, and then he'd be there. He had to be sure.

Finally, he trudged upstairs, still not fully aware of the time that had passed. The clock on the microwave blinked accusingly - 6:37 PM. The sight of the familiar Nishiki tote bag on the kitchen counter brought a fresh wave of shame. Chieko. Always one step ahead. Always anticipating his failings.

He peered inside, a sigh escaping his lips. Of course, she'd thought of everything. Neatly packaged trays of thinly sliced beef, a colorful assortment of vegetables - enoki mushrooms, Napa cabbage, tofu and chrysanthemum leaves. A small bag of freshly polished rice. A container of pre-made dashi broth. Ponzu, a jar of yuzu kosho, even a tiny container of grated ginger.

She even included dessert, red bean yokan, Naoki’s favorite, lovingly packaged in a small box with a delicate autumn leaf design. A wave of warmth washed over him, followed by a deeper sense of despair. These carefully packed meals weren't just food - they were evidence for the family court, proof that he couldn't even manage the basics of caring for their son during his limited visitation time. How many more failures before she petitioned to restrict his access even further? Before the monthly visits became quarterly, then yearly, then nothing at all?

He set about preparing the nabe, his hands moved with the same detached precision he usually reserved for Franko’s circuitry, but his thoughts were a whirlwind of regret and anxiety. He washed the rice, set it to cook, and arranged the nabe ingredients on a platter. The fragrant steam from the simmering broth filled the kitchen, a stark contrast to the sterile, metallic scent of his workshop.

"Naoki-san, gohan da yo!" he called out, his voice laced with a forced cheerfulness.

Silence.

A knot of dread tightened in his stomach. He rushed towards Naoki's room, his heart pounding like a taiko drum. The sight that greeted him sent a chill down his spine. Pluto Volume 1, a gift meant to bridge the gap between them, lay on the floor, its pages askew. And beside it, the empty skate box, open in accusation - not just any skates, but the professional short track racing skates Naoki had begged for after watching Viktor Ahn's legendary gold medal performance in Sochi.

Panic clawed at his throat. He scanned the room, his eyes darting from the discarded toys to the open window. Naoki was gone.

He raced through the house, his frantic calls echoing unanswered. The front door, usually bolted shut, stood ajar, a silent indictment of his negligence. Naoki's snow jacket, a splash of bright blue against the muted grays of the hallway, was missing.

Chieko's face flashed before his eyes, her lips twisted in a mixture of fury and despair. He could almost hear her voice, sharp and accusing, "You're not fit to be a father!"

He grabbed his coat, his fingers fumbling with the buttons. He had to find Naoki. But first, a quick glance, a final farewell to his creation. He descended the basement stairs, his footsteps heavy with guilt and fear. Franko stood motionless in the center of the workshop, his eyes seemed to glow in the dim light, a silent witness to his creator's failings.

Maybe if he were at home with Chieko, he would have been more excited about the manga collection, but today Naoki was supposed to be spending time with his dad… at the snow festival… breaking in his new short track skates… training to be a superstar like Viktor Ahn.

Naoki swept the manga collection aside, sending the colorful volumes scattering across the floor of the guest room. Pluto, Volume 1 would have to wait for another day. His gaze fell on the jumbled mess, and an idea sparked in his imagination. These weren't manga anymore; they were icebergs, jagged and adrift, separated by a cataclysmic fracturing of the ice shelf - just like his own world had fractured when Mom moved them to Kyoto. He carefully placed his mini figures on the books, imagining them as a colony of Emperor penguins, stranded and bewildered by the sudden shift in their world.

The Bionicles became a pod of predatory orcas, their sleek forms circling the makeshift ice floes, picking off the penguins one by one, except for one lone penguin Naoki carefully set aside, next to a small fox charm his mother had given him for protection from Aunt's shrine.

He watched the scene unfold, a knot of anxiety tightening in his chest. Just like the penguins, he felt lost and alone. His dad, absorbed in his work, was like the shifting ice shelf, leaving Naoki adrift in a sea of uncertainty. Would the penguins find a way to survive? Would he? Or were they both destined to be swallowed up by the cold, uncaring forces that surrounded them?

After a while, the game lost its appeal, and his eyes drifted to the new skates propped against the wall - his ticket to becoming the next Viktor Ahn, if only his father would keep his promise to take him to the festival. The pang of loneliness grew sharper. He needed to see his dad, to reassure himself that he wasn't completely forgotten. Naoki crept out of the room and towards the workshop, his heart pounding in his chest like a trapped bird. He opened the door that led to the basement stairs and descended slowly, each step a hesitant move into the unknown. Crouching down, he peered through the crack in the door, his eyes adjusting to the dim light of the workshop.

Mr. Tamazaki was hunched over his workbench, oblivious to Naoki's presence. He was so engrossed in his work that he wouldn't have noticed a typhoon raging outside, let alone his son's quiet observation. The robot, still in progress, lay on the table before him. It was eerily lifelike, resembling an American teenager with a strong jawline and a crown of amber waves. Tamazaki always modeled his robots after Hollywood celebrities, a fact that never sat well with Naoki. Sometimes, he couldn't shake the feeling that his dad was building replacements, that somehow he and Chieko weren't good enough, weren't... perfect enough.

He watched as his father meticulously soldered wires and connected circuits, his movements precise and deliberate. Each adjustment, each refinement, felt like a betrayal, a further step away from Naoki and towards this artificial creation. The knot in his chest tightened, and a wave of sadness washed over him. He retreated back up the stairs, the image of the robot burned into his mind, a chilling reminder of his own perceived inadequacy.

As Naoki walked toward Odori Park with his skates slung across his back, he imagined himself as his hero, short track Olympic superstar, Viktor Ahn, in the 1000 meter race. It was 2014, the Sochi Winter Olympics. As Naoki imagined himself at the start of the race. It was nine laps, five racers. He was at the starting line just like his hero, left knee bent, the toe of his skate nuzzled against the edge of the starting line. He turned his head to the left, then to the right, and grinned at the competition flanking him on either side. At the sound of the starting gun… Naoki took off, gliding block after block, oblivious to the winter cold and to any pedestrians who might be walking the other way.

Thump. He had collided head on into a woman pushing groceries in a cart.

“Watch where you are going!”, the woman chastised him. “Where are your parents.”

He looked up with the pained expression of an Olympic skater who had just been disqualified from his race.

“Sorry, sorry.” He pointed ahead at a couple on the next block. “My parents are there. We are going to the Snow Festival”.

The woman scolded him and muttered something about irresponsible parents, then went on her way. Naoki looked around him. He was close to the park now as the streets were more crowded. On the next block was where the snow carvings started. The Sapporo Snow Festival was an annual event held over seven days. The city brought in the equivalent of five tractor trailers of snow just to be used for the giant statues that were built in the park and teams from all over the world came to Sapporo to compete to build the most extravagant snow sculptures.

Naoki stood mesmerized in front of a sculpture of three singing children dressed in hooded parkas. The intricately carved scene must have been three stories high. Another statue was of a Shinto temple, its frosted eaves seeming to disappear into the swirling snow. He was jostled by a group of teenagers hurrying past, their laughter echoing in the crisp air. He realized he was dawdling. He needed to get to the rink.

He hurried through the park, his new skates slung over his shoulder, the blades gleaming in the afternoon sun. When he reached the rink, he paid his entrance fee and quickly found a bench to lace up his skates. He tightened the laces, picturing Viktor Ahn in his mind, the Russian flag on his uniform, the fierce determination in his eyes. Naoki would be like Viktor, powerful and unstoppable.

He stepped onto the ice, not with tentative steps, but with a burst of energy. He pushed off, mimicking the long, powerful strides he'd seen Viktor use in the Sochi Olympics. He leaned into the turns, imagining the roar of the crowd, the ice spraying beneath his blades.

He weaved through the other skaters, some giggling teenagers, a few unsteady beginners. He used them as obstacles, just like Viktor used his opponents, drafting behind them to conserve energy, then darting out to overtake them. He felt a thrill of excitement, a sense of freedom he hadn't felt in a long time.

He was so focused on his speed, on emulating his hero, that he barely noticed the other skaters' annoyed glances. He was in his own world, a world of ice and speed and victory.

Then he saw him.

The stranger.

He wasn't skating like Viktor, all power and aggression. He moved with a different kind of grace, a fluid, almost effortless motion. He seemed to float above the ice, his movements as mesmerizing as the falling snow.

Naoki slowed, intrigued. This wasn't Viktor Ahn, but there was something captivating about the stranger's style. He watched as the stranger executed a series of intricate turns, his body a blur of motion. He felt a pang of envy, a desire to learn those moves, to possess that same effortless grace.

The stranger noticed Naoki's gaze and glided over, a gentle smile on his face. "You seem to be enjoying yourself," he said, his voice calm and reassuring.

Naoki, his cheeks flushed with exertion, nodded. "I want to be like Viktor Ahn," he blurted out.

The stranger's smile widened. "An ambitious goal," he said. "But with practice and dedication, anything is possible."

And so began Naoki's unexpected encounter. The stranger, instead of offering technical advice, spoke of the mental aspects of skating, of the importance of focus and discipline. He spoke of the flow state, where the mind and body become one with the ice.

Naoki listened intently, his earlier excitement tempered by a newfound curiosity. This stranger, he sensed, possessed a wisdom that went beyond mere skating skills.

He was so absorbed in the conversation that he lost all track of time…

Naoki's breath came in ragged gasps as he stumbled out of the rink. The snow was falling harder now, the wind whipping it into a frenzy. He pulled his thin jacket tighter around him, shivering. He was late, terribly late.

*Dad's going to kill me,* he thought, his stomach churning. Or maybe not. Maybe Dad wouldn't even notice he was gone. He'd be so engrossed in his work, hunched over his robot in the basement, oblivious to the world outside.

He pictured his father's face, usually warm and encouraging, now contorted in anger. Or maybe… indifference. The thought stung more than any scolding.

He needed to get home, and fast. He remembered the stranger's words, "Across the frozen pond. It'll cut your journey in half." He hadn't realized the shortcut involved a pond, but it made sense. The park was bordered by a small lake, usually bustling with ducks and swans in the summer. Now, it was a solid expanse of white, the snow falling steadily on its frozen surface.

He hesitated for a moment, a flicker of doubt in his mind. But the stranger had seemed so sure, so confident. And besides, he'd been on frozen lakes before. It was the middle of winter, the coldest time of the year. The ice had to be thick.

He pulled his skates back on, his fingers numb with cold. He took a tentative step onto the ice, the familiar crunch beneath his blades reassuring him. He pushed off, gliding smoothly across the surface. The wind whipped past his face, the snow stinging his eyes.

He was halfway across when he felt it. A subtle shift beneath his feet, a tremor in the ice. He paused, his heart quickening. He looked back towards the shore, the lights of the rink twinkling in the distance.

He should turn back, he knew it. But something urged him onward, a whisper in the wind, a promise of a quicker return. He took another step, then another, his speed increasing.

And then, the ice gave way.

With a sickening crack, the surface splintered beneath him. He plunged into the icy water, the shock of the cold stealing his breath. He thrashed his arms, his legs kicking frantically, but the heavy clothes dragged him down.

He clawed at the ice, his fingers slipping on the smooth surface. He tried to scream, but only a gurgling sound escaped his lips. The world spun around him, a dizzying kaleidoscope of white and blue.

As he sank beneath the surface, he thought he saw a figure standing on the shore, a faint smile playing on his lips. The stranger. Was it a trick of the light, or was there a glint of amusement in his eyes?

The icy water closed over his head, and everything went black.