Chapter Text
Wu's life followed a set rhythm.
There was no room for chance, no room for dreams.
Each day began with tea—not for the clients, but for peace of mind. Then work. Repairs. Collecting parts. Testing the mech's mechanisms. Sometimes a fight. Sometimes a wound. Always exhaustion.
The war with his brother was an endless cycle.
Lord Garmadon attacked—predictably, but relentlessly. The city could never rest in peace for long. And Wu, though he had neither an army nor allies, always fought. Alone.
A rusty mech. Silent preparations. A body that increasingly refused to obey him.
But he didn't complain.
Because he knew he had to.
Amidst this rigid routine, where each day was a repetition of the previous one, there were them—Koko and Lloyd.
Wu treasured Koko.
He had always admired her—for her courage, for her stubbornness, for never letting herself be broken.
After leaving Garmadon, she raised Lloyd alone, with a pride that neither poverty nor public opinion could shake.
Wu saw how hard she worked. Sometimes he helped her—bringing food, paying an overdue bill, dropping off things for Lloyd. But he didn't interfere in her life. He helped from a distance.
He loved Lloyd. He truly did.
But every time he looked at the boy, he saw a shadow of the past.
The red eyes, the fangs, the features—everything reminded him of Garmadon when he was still human. Before he vanished. Before he chose darkness.
The resemblance was painful.
Wu had no doubt the boy was nothing like his father.
But that thought wasn't enough to calm his heart.
So he withdrew.
Not from a lack of love, but from a fear that his presence would only complicate everything.
He feared that one day Lloyd would have to choose—between him and Garmadon. And Wu didn't want the boy drawn into this conflict.
He didn't want to occupy a place that didn't belong to him.
And so Wu stopped living as a human and began as a tool.
For seven years, his days had been filled with only four functions: fight, repair, observe, survive.
When Koko left Garmadon, taking the infant and leaving the past behind, Wu felt their history sundered for good.
He didn't try to inquire. He didn't ask.
He simply became the city's protector, simultaneously erasing himself from the lives of his loved ones.
One day—like any other—Wu went to the outskirts of the port, to a district the locals called the slums.
Searching for scrap to repair the mech he'd just mauled in his last fight, he turned into familiar, forgotten alleyways where the walls were covered in mold, the roofs leaked, and the smell of damp and old garbage hung in the air like smog. He knew this place. He'd seen it many times before. But then he noticed something else. Different, but not surprising.
It was a group of children.
Too skinny. Too dirty. Too accustomed to a world that offered them nothing. They rummaged through the trash, searching for anything—batteries, metal parts, old clothes, scraps of food. Wu stopped. Something stirred within him. His heart sank.
The children quickly noticed him. They froze. And then, as if on a prearranged signal, they scattered in different directions.
All of them…except one.
It was a boy.
Small. He looked no older than nine, maybe ten. Jet-black, slightly too long hair, stuck together in greasy strings. Eyes—dark green, intense.
He didn't move. He didn't flee immediately.
He looked at Wu without fear, perhaps with curiosity... or perhaps with calculation.
Then, stubbornly, he reached into the dumpster again—to the very bottom. He pulled something out and only then ran after the others.
The event lasted only a few seconds.
But for Wu, time stopped for a moment.
He didn't yet know that this boy would return. He didn't know how much he would change his life. But that day, amid the trash and silence, something stirred within him.
For the first time in years.
---
Wu was visiting the slums more and more often.
Officially, in search of mech parts—scrap, outdated power boards, malfunctioning hydraulic components. But he couldn't deny to himself that it wasn't the rusty screws that drew him to this place.
It was a boy.
The same boy he'd first spotted among the garbage cans, alert as a wild animal, his hard gaze fixed on him from beneath his matted fringe. The one who, his lips pressed together stubbornly, reached a thin hand deep into the decaying remains. Who, despite his outsized appearance, persisted, trying to carve out a place for himself with everything he had.
From that moment on, Wu saw him many more times.
The boy slipped between the ruins of the slums with the grace of a predator. He stole with a skill that would have done a grown thief proud. He did it quickly, silently, and without a shred of hesitation. He could disappear into the shadows of a wall, stuff food into his breast pocket, and evaporate before anyone could scream.
He was fast.
He was agile.
He was incredibly alert.
Wu also saw how often he fought.
With other children, usually older, stronger ones. For crumbs. For sleeping space. For survival. Sometimes he defended himself, sometimes others—younger, weaker children. Despite his small size, he wasn't afraid to push away an adult who tried to raise his hand, and his lack of strength was easily compensated for by the clever tricks he demonstrated at every turn.
He wasn't meek.
He wasn't gentle.
But he was fair.
Although, unlike other children foraging on the streets, he didn't have his own group, he wasn't heartless either. Wu saw him giving food he'd found to younger children. How he explained to another boy which trash could still be used. How he shielded a girl from a drunk who had taken a swing at her. He was lonely, but not cold. Retired, but somehow moving.
Many times, Wu wanted to approach, talk, say something—anything. But he knew the boy would run away. That he wouldn't trust him. That he might see him as a threat. He was wild, like a trapped animal—alert, ready to flee, always prepared for betrayal.
So Wu chose a different path.
One day he came back to the slums.
The children noticed him almost immediately and reacted as always—by fleeing.
All of them, except him. The boy looked at Wu. Without fear, but tense. Prepared to flee or fight. But not yet ready to leave the place where someone had left supplies—where he had found traces of leftovers that could help him survive.
Wu said nothing. He didn't do anything violent. He simply pulled an apple from his bag—not rotten, not worm-infested. Clean. Red. He placed it on a crate near the entrance to one of the ruins. And left. Or at least that's what it looked like. In reality, he hid behind a nearby alley, climbed onto the low roof of one of the shacks, and watched.
The boy stood still for a long time. Then, cautiously, he approached the apple. He didn't touch it immediately. He circled it. He examined it. He smelled it. He searched for poison. A trick. A camera. Anything that might signal a threat.
He found nothing.
Finally, very slowly, he took the apple in his hands. He didn't bite. He didn't eat it right away. He held it for a moment as if it were about to fall apart. Then he turned and ran. Apple in hand. As if holding a treasure.
Wu watched him for a long time until the boy's silhouette disappeared between the walls. He knew this was only the first step. He didn't try to deceive himself—something about this boy made it impossible to ignore him anymore. He didn't know the boy's name yet. He didn't know why this child reminded him so much of someone he once was. But from that day on, he hadn't stopped searching for him.
---
Wu returned to the slums regularly. Not for scrap anymore. Not for mech parts. Though he still pretended to himself that they were the main reason, telling himself that the slums were closer than the scrapyard he'd once frequented more often. He always had more than just screwdrivers and rusty connectors in his bag—a hunk of bread wrapped in a cloth, a bottle of clean water, a few bandages, another piece of fruit. Not much, true, but as much as he could give.
He left them in the same place every time, on the same crate, after making sure he'd been spotted, then walked away to surreptitiously observe from above. He knew this was where the boy preyed most often. And he was there, always. Cautious, wary, vigilant. But with each week, he approached the gifts faster, with less and less hesitation. Until one day, after the tenth "gift," something new happened—the boy, with apparent nonchalance, ran after Wu. However, Wu disappeared into the alley too quickly, as if he knew he would be followed. The boy didn't find him, not this time, not the next, not any other time. This silent ritual of giving and taking continued. It was quiet and discreet, but constant, on its own terms. Without words. Without closeness.
Until one day, the silence was brutally broken.
---
Wu was strolling down one of the narrow streets when he noticed a familiar silhouette—a boy with black hair—being dragged by an adult, seemingly drunk, man into a dark alley. There was no ambiguity in it. The man's movements were decisive, brutal. A knife flashed in his hand.
Wu moved immediately. He didn't hesitate. He didn't think. He simply acted.
The surprised attacker had no chance.
One move, one A blow, the weapon knocked from his hand, a shoulder thrust against the wall. The man slumped to the ground—unconscious, defeated. But that wasn't the most important thing.
The boy sat on the dirty concrete. He was breathing heavily. Blood was oozing from his head, his arm cut and bruised from the blows. He saw Wu. His first instinct was to step back, then recognition flashed in his eyes.
- "I recognize you... you're the guy who left me food." - The words were spoken quietly, in disbelief, with a hint of gratitude permeating his voice. But after a moment, they faded. Caution replaced them.
- "What do you want?" - the boy asked, tensing his muscles as if preparing to fight or flee; he probably hadn't seen it himself yet. - "Are you some kind of pervert? Because if so, I'm not afraid." - His voice was confident, but his eyes held fear. Fear greater than any anger he might feel at that moment...
Wu looked at him calmly. He didn't raise his voice, didn't make a gesture. He just asked one question. - "Are you okay?"
- "What do you care?" - the boy retorted sarcastically.
- "If I didn't care, I wouldn't be here," - Wu said calmly, unfazed by the child's aggression.
The boy looked toward the fallen body. Only now did he seem to understand.
- "Did you knock him down?" - he asked, his voice still laced with uncertainty and admiration.
Wu, enigmatic as ever, only replied, - "If you want help, you can follow me."
The boy growled in response, though it seemed he didn't sound convincing even to himself. - "I can handle it myself."
A typical childish sulk. A form of defense. Too proud a mask to allow himself to be weak.
Wu simply turned and walked away. He didn't press the matter. He didn't look back. He simply left the decision to the boy. But behind him, quiet footsteps could be heard. Gentle, cautious, barely audible. The boy followed him—not out of trust, but out of curiosity. Out of need. Out of something he couldn't yet name. He wanted to leave. But his legs carried him on their own. Following the man who had been the only one for months who hadn't wanted anything from him in return.