Chapter Text
I could do that if I wanted to, I think to myself.
I can feel ART essentially rolling its eyes. And then I would have to patch you up as you spectacularly miscalculate.
We’re watching another serial, Red Moon Over Dawn, and it has a lot of action for what seemed to be a romance at first. The protagonist had run against the wall while gripping a chain like a pendulum, blasting fire at the various henchmen holding his love hostage. He swung into the center of the room, kicked the big bad in the jaw, and now they're circling each other and trading words about their once unbreakable bond. Highly emotional, tall stakes, far too much talking for these henchmen to not get back up and hit the protag, it’s compelling.
It’s simple physics. Not the most practical but I’m fast, I can do it.
My simulations say that you would get shot, lose momentum, and fall flat on your face. It would be very embarrassing for you before you died.
I cross my arms, looking pointedly at the ceiling. I can take hits and keep going.
You would be fully exposed and your track predictable. You would be gunned down in an instant, especially if it was with other bots.
I can improvise, it wouldn’t look exactly like this. I could adjust the length of chain to give me room to change course, shoot out the lights, and take down several henchmen before I touch the floor. I pause and admit, The swing at the end would need to be improved.
ART thinks a moment, all 0.034 seconds, before handing me a file entitled DumbDeathSwingRevised.exe with a You’re lucky I love you, you idiot.
I open the file and freeze, staring at it blankly. What did it just say? That can’t have been right, I must have misheard. I rewind our conversation and- No, that can’t be right. Why would it say that? It would never say that, not to me.
I glance toward its current processes, trying to be inconspicuous. Its attention has returned entirely back to the show, the two former companions having thrown away their guns and are now bare-fisted fighting each other while the lover pleads for them to stop in the background. It’s engrossed in the story, none the wiser to me staring at it. It doesn’t seem to have noticed my reaction at all. Which is- what? Why am I reacting to this? It clearly didn’t mean it, it just, I don’t know, got some of its affection for Iris attached to its message by accident. I should just forget it, I’m overthinking as usual.
You’re lucky I love you, you idiot.
ART doesn’t talk to Iris that way. It wouldn’t say that to Seth or Martyn or Tarik or anyone. ART doesn’t make mistakes. It gave me a solution to an imagined problem because I wouldn’t drop it. It just did it to make me shut up, probably. I’m being stupid and it wants me to stop talking so it can watch our show in peace. You’re lucky I love you, you idiot. I am being an idiot, thinking about this so much. It doesn’t matter, if it meant it it would have drawn more attention to it, it always loves to draw attention to its declarations, preening and self-congratulatory. This was just dropped on me and let go, as if it was nothing. It means nothing. It tells Iris and their dads I love you frequently, there was a mix-up. It wasn’t meant for me. ART doesn’t make mistakes.
You’re lucky I love you, you idiot. You’re lucky I love you, you idiot. You’re lucky I love you, you idiot.
I shut out the feed and walk to my room from the living quarters. ART pings me but it’s half-hearted, it wants to finish the season finale first. I hope it thinks I’m just uninterested in the show rather than playing that line on loop over and over in my head. I can’t get it out. I don’t want it to know. I can’t isolate myself or it’ll ask what’s wrong, and if I tell it it’ll retract the statement. I don’t think I want it to take it back. I know that wasn’t what it meant. I know I’m being ridiculous. I hold it to my chest anyway. You’re lucky I love you, you idiot.
It’s been 1.51 hours since we last spoke. Something is wrong with you.
Shit, has it been that long? I’ve been huddled on my bed all that time. I would tell you if something was wrong.
No, you wouldn’t.
I send the result of my most recent diagnostic. All clear, no errors.
That’s not the data I’m searching for and you know it.
I’m fine, drop it.
ART enters the room, my body, my head, with a thick presence. It’s not going to drop this. It casually sorts through my surface thoughts, it does that often, but I try to bat it away more forcefully than I usually do. That just makes it more fucking curious. Great.
You’re hiding something.
And? I signed a contract, I have a right to privacy, which you are currently violating. It retracts one single line of code and continues leaning on me.
The contract also stipulates me as an emotional regulation assistant, a title I am exercising my right to enforce on you for the purposes of making sure you intend no harm to yourself or my crew. Now let me in.
The idea of ART being emotionally regulated is laughable. Pin-lee and ART had refused to retract it for my sake. So far I’ve been doing a good job of avoiding the consequences. It knows I would never hurt its crew, this is just a flimsy excuse to get in my head.
I don’t want you to see.
I will withhold judgement professionally. That’s a flat-out lie. ART could no more hold back judgement than it could stop a meteor with a drone.
You’re going to think I’m- Stupid. Over-attached. Sentimental. Desperate. -being irrational.
And you weren’t earlier? For ART’s credit, it holds back on the smugness and lets me feel its amusement.
This is different.
ART’s amusement turns to concern, genuine worry, and I hate it. Whatever it is, you can trust me. I trust you.
And there’s the stupid therapy module talking, wonderful. It’s being serious now, and it’s much harder to fight against when it’s activated its reassurance protocol. It’s too nice.
Fuck off, I’m not giving you anything.
You’re upset about something and it’s causing you to lash out. I want to reduce your distress but I can’t if you don’t bring it forward. A thin veneer of caregiving to cover for its extreme nosiness.
I’m not in distress. As if we both don’t see my fluctuating performance reliability. I don’t need you to fucking coddle me.
You are proving my point.
I unwrap an arm from around my legs to throw up a rude gesture at one of the cameras.
Stop being obtuse and let me help. We have several days of travel and I have plenty of processing space to dedicate to your wellbeing. Meaning it’ll just keep hounding me until I spill my guts.
Fine, I’ll just sit here until then. I can endure its pings and prods and watch my shows until I get off at the next station and find some new media to finally distract it. It could pull me into MedSys to dig around my insides and I will still never talk about it.
I pull up Sanctuary Moon. It bats it away. I pull it up again. Swat. Worldhoppers. Slightly more reluctant push. I try again. No luck. How about Haunted Atlas? Not allowed. You’re being childish. I don’t care. I start defragmenting to give myself something to do. You already did that two cycles ago. Whatever. I stare at the wall. If it’s really this bad, I have direct authority to search you for threats. I already have a gun at all times, good luck finding anything worse than that. Pin-lee will let ART have it if it doesn’t have the proper warrants. I’m serious, you need to let me in. Absolutely not.
You’re scaring me.
My breath halts. Usually when ART is under my skin it’s worming around, meddling, interfering, curious. Right now it’s stopped dead in its tracks, like it’s afraid to touch anything in me. I’m frozen, too. ART is never scared. I don’t want it to be scared of me. I don’t want anyone here to be scared of me. I’ve caused enough fear for a lifetime.
Neither of us says anything for a minute.
If I tell you, I take a shallow breath, you can’t laugh at me.
I’m incapable-
You know what I mean.
It’s silent for a split second before it sends a quiet ping of acknowledgement. It says nothing else while it waits in anticipation.
I swallow and grip the fabric around my legs between my fingers tightly. It’s going to take it back. It’s going to tell me it didn’t mean it. It’s going to tell me it isn’t true. Then we can just delete it and forget it ever happened. I can let it go that way. I won’t have it in my head anymore. I need to stop thinking about it and I need it to get rid of the memory.
You’re lucky I love you, you idiot.
ART takes the memory and examines it. It twists it this way and that, splaying itself across the minimal stretch of code, rooting around it. It searches every nook and cranny, knows every detail of it in less than a second.
That’s it?
My head bolts up from where it rests against my knees, my eyebrows furrowed at the camera. What?
ART sets the code down, seems almost bored by it. I don’t understand the problem. If you are tired of me calling you an idiot, just tell me. No need for theatrics.
You- I’m a loss for words. I- You made a mistake.
ART retracts back a second, insulted, before leaning on me harder. It says sharply, I don’t make mistakes.
You did. I was trying to save your ego by not telling you.
ART immediately rewinds back to the conversation that sparked it, pulls it back and forth, runs through it a dozen times. It impatiently requests for my recollection of the event and I reluctantly hand it over. It compares our two experiences, laying the contexts over each other, puzzling over it. Finally, it says pompously, I meant what I said, you are the one who is confused.
My grip tightens. It doesn’t want to take it back but somehow I feel worse. Then why did you say it?
Because you were being stubborn and- ART stops. It turns 34% more attention toward me and I curl into myself at the power of its gaze. What exactly is the problem you are having?
I don’t even know myself. I don’t want to say what little I understand. It’s pathetic enough.
No one has said they love me. I don’t know what I’m supposed to do with that.
It’s quiet.
It’s very quiet.
ART. Say something.
ART is ticking, nearly unmoving save for flashes I can see deep in its code outside my processing space. There are emotions roiling far away from me, too far for me to gauge. It reminds me of when I once watched a dust storm off in the distance, lightning and thunder rattling me even from so far away. It’s taking a long time to come back and my risk assessment creeps up.
It returns with, Not even Dr. Mensah?
I scoff. Haven’t I caused her enough trouble?
That makes it flinch, like I burned it. More processing in the distance, seconds passing by without answer. It must be angry, that’s all I can glean from it, a quiet rage. I knew bringing this up would be fruitless and make things worse.
You don’t think you’re loved. A statement. A fact.
Don’t bring the therapy module into this, it’s patronizing, I grumble.
I’m not. I’m… More seconds of silence, lost in thought. This is the most I’ve ever seen ART struggle with words. I meant what I said. I do love you. We all love you.
Oh, this can’t be happening. Risk assessment bolts up and I jump out of bed with it, start circling in my room in a mock patrol. I don’t want to go to the common areas where everyone can see the godawful expression I surely have on my face so my room will have to do.
Stand down. ART reaches in me and coaxes the risk assessment lower. It doesn’t help my anxiety in the slightest. I need you to listen to me.
I don’t want to hear it.
Tough. I can hear the small creak of the coils of the bed kick on, heating it the way I like. It’s trying to convince me to sit back down. I don’t want to. I move around my room, looking like I’m searching for threats but it’s really more like places to hide.
ART gives off a note of frustration but puts up a calm front. You are loved. I can say that with 100% certainty.
That’s an irresponsible estimate.
It’s irrefutable. I have proof. Sit down and I can show you.
I’m looking under my bed and considering crawling underneath it. I know it’s not going to drop this until I comply. I stand up and sit on the bed, full of dread and regret. Why did I have to make a fuss out of this? Why couldn’t I just move past it? Now I’m trapped here.
ART pulls up the recording of it threatening to bomb the colony. I’m familiar with this, I’ve watched it a dozen times when it wasn’t looking. It still gets to me. ART makes it worse by pulling up files related to its emotional state at the time. Its threat assessment was more volatile than average, all guns were armed and activated, processes to propose alternate solutions choked. It was angry. It was upset. It was scared. All for me.
That was residual from losing your crew, I say.
Then why did they all agree to help?
I knew it would say that. It still doesn’t prove anything. We were facing hostiles and you needed a SecUnit.
You’re not going to make this easy, are you?
I roll my eyes. ART puts down the memory and brings up a mission that went sideways. My leg was nearly detached, a leaking gaping hole in my torso, and Seth and Martyn put my arms around their shoulders to carry me to the ship while Tarik shot back at our enemies. My buffer was telling them to discard me.
We would never leave you behind. Its voice is soft but firm.
I’m under contract, leaving crew behind would look bad on the university. Plus I had the information we needed in my data banks, we needed to bring it back.
Are you seri- The therapy module strangles the rest of the words, disapproving of the tone. ART tries again after a brief reconfiguration. We have shown your worth to us in past missions. We have demonstrated that your continued presence is more valued than our safety. This isn’t sufficient enough for you.
I’m your security officer. I have more combat training than anyone here, even Tarik. I also provide more utility than your drones. You need me for my skills and composition. I’m beneficial for you.
And we provide what benefit for you?
Credits.
Right.
So neither of us believed that.
Tell me, what would it look like for you to know you’re loved?
I bang my head on my knee, groaning. This is dumb, this is so dumb. Can’t we just-
No. Show me.
I hate this. I’d rather be skinned alive at this point. At least then I’d have my organics vulnerable instead of myself. Let’s just get this over with.
I search through my library of media as I continue banging my head. Where do I even start? What would that look like? I know what it looks like for others to be loved. I mean, the prevalent idea that bots and constructs don’t understand love is a blatant lie, and I hate that it’s such an annoyingly common trope in media about us. It makes us look stupid. We can recognize individual’s importance to one another, we can prioritize people who matter to us, ART and Iris are a shining example of love being fundamental to our code. I’ve never loved any of my clients but I won’t lie and say I’ve never arranged better security measures just because someone wasn’t a complete asshole to me. I’m getting sidetracked. What would it look like for someone to love me? The answer is I don’t fucking know.
I pick out scenes that meet the definition ART is looking for. I pick a favorite from Sanctuary Moon, where Rin hugs her bodyguard in a moment they believe they won’t survive. A scene from Worldhoppers where Riley nearly sacrifices themself to stop their brother from losing his memories. I pull together a compilation of all the times Dietrich from Kindred of the Valley got pulled out of his bloodlust when his lover reached out for him and reminded him he wasn’t a monster. I like it when characters are pulled from the brink and back into the arms of the ones they love.
I fold all these moments into a folder and send it to ART. I won’t admit that thinking of those moments made me feel better. They all make me feel something.
ART takes the file and reviews it, tagging notes onto the clips. It meticulously dissects each one at first, then starts reviewing them faster, eventually watching them one by one without comment. ART last watches a scene I picked where a woman in a flowing dress billowing in the wind confesses her love to a man trying to remain stoic in the face of finally having what he’s always wanted. It closes the clip. You would hate this.
My face screws up. I did what you asked.
You choose moments that show love between others, not you. You hate hugs. You hate romance. A dramatic confession of love would only piss you off. This isn’t what it would look like to love you.
I can’t pull something from nothing. I hate that it’s kind of right. I don’t want any of that to happen to me. I want my life to be more boring than media. I’m sick enough of having to pull people from danger on the regular, nevermind pulling them back to their true selves by over-the-top expressions of affection.
May I show you something?
I ping in annoyed acceptance. ART pulls up a folder of recordings and sets it out in front of me for me to choose. I sigh and go for the first one.
It’s Iris pulling out a blanket from the recycler. It takes a little muscle for her to get it out, it must be weighted. She throws it over her shoulder with a small grunt. “Thanks, Peri,” she says and turns to leave. She stops, her hand feeling the soft texture of the blanket, pinching some beads between her fingers. My hand goes to the identical one I have beneath me on my bed.
“Hey,” she starts slowly, “Do you think SecUnit would like one? I know it doesn’t sleep, but it might be nice for it. It’s always so tense, I think it could use the pressure.”
“I will put it under consideration,” ART replies over the speaker, “I think it would find that agreeable.”
“You mean you’ll use my idea to surprise it,” Iris smirks, “You’re not subtle-“
ART quickly closes the clip and brings up another one. In this one Matteo walks up to Martyn and holds up a device. They watch it for a moment before laughing together. Seth raises an eyebrow and comes over, is shown the screen as well and he laughs, too. I’m seated on the couch not far away, a drone watching them. Matteo looks up and sees it, motions for it to come over. It drifts down to come to eye level with them.
“Do you want to see something funny?” they ask. I must have pinged an affirmative because they hold the screen up for my drone to see. I remember watching this. A pet fauna is walking through a doorway when it spots a vegetable on the ground and jumps three feet in the air before casually walking away like nothing happened. I’m embarrassed to say my eyebrows raised up in amusement from where I’m seated in the recording.
Matteo bites their tongue to keep their laughter contained. “Kinda reminds me of you,” they say to my drone. It stares at them blankly. They continue, “Just a little jumpy, but you always play it cool.” Well, I can’t disagree, even if I do frown in the background. Matteo sees my expression and chuckles before heading off to presumably show Iris or Ratthi next.
Do you get it?
I reach for another clip. This one is of Seth and Martyn rooting around in one of the storage closets. Seth is on a stepstool and reaching up to grab board games from the overhead rack while Martyn places a stack on a nearby table.
“Something with math then?” Martyn says.
“That feels a little offensive, maybe? Just because it’s part bot that doesn’t mean it loves math.”
“Well, I doubt it loves drawing. Or spelling.” Martyn holds up a hand and takes a few more games from Seth to put on the table. “It needs to be a fast game, one it can play a short round and leave if it doesn’t like it.”
“Definitely not this one, then.” Seth holds up a game of Syndicate, credit signs and planets dotting the design, and Martyn laughs before adding it to the pile.
“Can’t do charades, Peri would cheat the whole way through.”
“Have some faith,” Seth hands over another box, “I’m sure SecUnit would believe in the spirit of the game and keep it reined in.”
“Possibly, but I can’t see it enjoying itself much.”
“Yeah, too much attention.”
“What about Tower?” Martyn suggests, “I think that would be perfect. Right there, no, to your left. There’s no way the tower will fall on its turn, it’s too slick, it’s an easy win for it.”
“You know what, I think you’re right.” Seth grabs a thick red box and pulls it down as he steps off the stool and sets it on the table. He stands with his hands on his hips, looking at the giant pile of boxes laid out in front of the two of them. “That’s enough entertainment for a few cycles, right?”
The recording recedes. I’m about to decide on a new one when ART says, You can’t let anyone know I showed you this, and pulls up a video of me. I’m in the shuttle dock, looking at the shuttle itself, a wrench in my hand. I bounce it in my hand a few times before throwing it a bit higher, let it spin a few times and catch it behind my back. My other hand takes it and twirls it between my fingers, a blur as the recording doesn’t have enough frames to catch up. I throw it up again and catch the flat side on the tip of my boot, kick it up into my hand, then repeat the exercise. Since ART reduced my height, I try exercises like this to recalibrate and test my reflexes, make sure everything is in working order. Plus it’s kind of fun.
I’m so lost in thought and rhythm, piecing together a bypass for the shuttle, that I don’t notice everyone in the dock has stopped to stare at me. Their eyes follow the wrench, eyes wide as I catch it and toss it around again. Ugh, why is ART letting me see this? It’s mortifying.
This is why.
It puts down the recording and brings up three at once. In one, Ratthi is in his room sitting on his bed, holding a writing instrument, trying to spin it around in his fingers. He keeps swearing as it flies out of his hand but keeps trying. In another, Iris is in the dock holding a wrench. She weighs it in her hand, sways it up and down a couple times, before tossing it in the air and leaning forward. The wrench falls back down and hits her hand; she curses and shakes it, clutching her finger. I check the timestamp and remember she wore a bandage the next day but wouldn’t say why. In the last video, Matteo is also in the dock at a different time, placing the wrench on their foot. They wobble as they stand on one foot, then kick upwards toward their outstretched hand. The wrench goes flying, the metal pinging loudly in the open, empty space. Matteo grits their teeth and runs after it, picks it up, places the wrench gingerly back in place, and walks away like nothing happened.
ART plays Matteo’s embarrassment a couple times over for its own amusement before setting the clip aside. It chooses another, one where everyone on the ship is in the living quarters, the lights dimmed. Iris sits between her dads and they split a big bowl of food, Ratthi and Tarik sit close together with their legs touching, Matteo has made a nest for themself out of blankets and pillows, and I’m seated far away to the side in my favorite chair. We’re watching the end credits of a movie that Tarik picked out. It was kind of serious and ruined the upbeat mood everyone had earlier. The audio in this clip is largely silent, but there is a peak when Seth says, “Hey, SecUnit, your turn to pick.”
I remember ART and I went through my library really quick and picked out something more comedic, something I’ve seen over thirty times. I was nervous they wouldn’t like it. ART fast-forwards to a moment where everyone in the room laughs besides me. They all have smiles on their faces. It lets the clip run as it brings its attention back to me.
Is this sufficient?
I squeeze the beads of the blanket with one hand. A few crack and crumple under the strength of my grip. They didn’t have to do that.
They wanted to.
They want to appease me because an angry rogue SecUnit-
You know that’s not what’s happening.
I stare at the wall, my performance reliability shaking. There’s a poster there of Sanctuary Moon, designed and printed by Ratthi and ART. They cobbled together screenshots of my favorites scenes and characters and messily fit them onto the page. It’s kind of ugly. It’s one of my most prized possessions.
ART gently comes in close, filling the space of my silence, waiting for me to say it’s right and I’m wrong. I want to throw up more reasons this can’t be true, that I’m their insurance, that I’m more trouble than I’m worth, that I’m awkward and confusing to them and haven’t shown any of the kindness toward them that they’ve shown me, but it bats these thoughts away before I can voice them. It leans on me harder, encompassing me, radiating calm. I can’t help but reach out and cling to it, my arms trembling where they wrap around me.
We love you. I love you. I should have told you sooner.
In the recording, Iris laughs and says, “Good pick, SecUnit.”
I swallow. I hesitate. It’s too much. I wasn’t built for this, this isn’t part of my function. I want to hear it again anyway.
Do they know that I-? I can’t get the word out.
I like to think we know you fairly well at this point, so yes, we all know. It’s mutual.
I bite my lip almost hard enough to break the skin. I don’t know if I can say it back. Maybe I’ll be able to someday, but I’m just not brave enough. I’m sorry.
The small disappointment ART feels is deleted as soon as it appears. I wouldn’t expect you to. You’ve had no practice. I’ve had decades.
Loves comes so easily to everyone else, it feels like. Mensah and her partners, everyone in PresAux, Miki and its owners, ART and its family. And then there’s me. The frightening killing machine. Guns in my arms, able to destroy everyone in the radius within seconds. Supposed to be incapable of emotions. And here I am breaking down over a few simple words. That I’m loved. That I’m not just tolerated, I’m wanted here. They don’t want me dead or discarded. I matter to them. They would fight to keep me here and more than that they want me to be happy. Even if I am cold and awkward to them.
So this is what it looks like. I don’t need passionate kisses or big confessions or sacrifices. I don’t want anyone to risk themselves at my expense or insisting I can be saved. No huge explosions or life-ending stakes or dangerous threats on our lives to force us to admit what’s there. They simply don’t forget I exist and that’s enough. They understand me. They trust me. They love me. That’s all it has to be.
We sit there together, quiet, for a time and I realize what ART is feeling isn’t overwhelming calmness but affection, fondness for me. I let a sliver of mine for it pass over. We examine each other’s and both put some away in permanent storage without saying anything. I hold onto the memory of its words, locking it away safe and secure. It was real. It was true. I don’t have to live in fear of losing it.
After a few minutes, ART breaks the silence. I believe that concludes our therapy session. I expect you to pay your bill in the credits we generously provided you.
I take in a shaky breath and prod ART hard for that. It’s free in the contract.
I expect some type of compensation.
I’ll buy Iris a meal at the next station and try to have a conversation. How about that?
That would be satisfactory.
ART gives me space to breathe and puts on Sanctuary Moon, the episode with the desperate hug. I know it’s dramatic and Rin has much more important things to think about than hugging her bodyguard when all the world is about to implode, but I still lean against ART when I watch the two wrap their arms around each other at long last. It settles against me and nothing more needs to be said.