Nobita looked up, tears streaking his glasses. “Huh?”
He picked up a dorayaki, placed it next to Doraemon’s paw, and whispered:
The next morning, Doraemon did something illogical. He used the Small Light to shrink himself and hid inside Nobita’s pencil case. At school, when Gian pounded Nobita’s desk, Doraemon popped out, inflated to full size, and fired a Sleepy Gas Bomb directly into Gian’s open mouth. The bully collapsed snoring.
Years later, an adult Nobita—now a respected space environmentalist—sat in his living room. Doraemon, dusty and slower, slept on a charging mat shaped like a cat bed.
“My first memory,” Doraemon said. “Was not of a factory. It was of being held. Of being needed .”
“Making the result permanent.”
Nobita screamed. He grabbed Doraemon’s paw. “No! He’s not a unit! He’s my… he’s my…”
Doraemon turned to the Enforcement robots. “Tell Sewashi,” he said calmly, “that the mission is complete. Nobita passed his math test yesterday. He stood up to Gian last week. He will grow into a fine inventor.”
Status: Active. Directive 2: Ensure Nobita’s success. Status: Active. Hidden Directive (Self-Learned): Protect Nobita’s soul. Status: Overriding.
“Doraemon… I’m worthless,” Nobita whispered. “You should go back to the future. Find a better kid.”
“Home is the one who stays. Even when their mission is over.”
