#hence why dima's archive is so well cared for

[orange-coloredsky-archive]

hi im still here and freaking out about. far harbor. here's my weird 10-going-on-21 year old autistic synth extraordinaire being a catalyst for me infodumping faraday headcanons

tw for a mention of suicide & just. general institute dehumanizing bullshit

"No way you're that old." Shaun laughed halfheartedly, tried to keep his demeanor light. He bit his tongue to prevent himself from completing his thought -- Synths like you don't last that long. Records of decommissions and suicides took up more disk space in the Institute's archive of first-batch synths than anything else. Piles of evidence showing the mass production of self-aware beings was far from sustainable. But after years of hardware review and cognitive recalibration software tests, the gain-to-loss ratio evened out. Shaun recalled the single designation-B synth that was always pacing up and down the hall across from his and Father's dormitory. She was a good worker, Father had said. A sweet girl of fifty-four. Residence maintenance, the best of her crew. Her occasional bouts of hysterics were well worth her steady hands with the plumbing.

The breathy chuckle that came from Faraday was equally grim. "Not the first-first-batch, no. I was a couple years down the line. Maybe early '30s? I don't remember." He tapped a pen on his chin in thought.

"Designation K. Robotics handled me. I tended to work with gen-ones and twos -- stuck fixing busted hydraulics, usually. If I was really lucky, one would come in with a unique software error for me to pick apart." "Some of the human scientists liked to watch me work. You know, back then, we were novelties. But others probably wished I would just mop the floors or something instead."

Electricity thrummed in the background. Terminal upon terminal filled with Institute-proprietary materials: memory and horribly simplified emotional data from a machine older than any being on the whole island, barring Shaun's own mother. The makeshift archive was puny by Institute standards, but a goddamn miracle to anyone else in a 500-mile radius. Acadia's knack for technological innovation started to make sense. "They let you touch software? That was unheard of by my time. I'd get my ass handed to me any time I touched a computer."

"Well, there wasn't much choice back then. The Institute wasn't particularly well staffed. All of the founders were long dead, as were most of their children. Their grandchildren were running out of... options, when it came to reproducing a replacement workforce."

Shaun listened raptly as Faraday spoke, pleasantly surprised by how easily this information was given. His parents had made it sound like all Acadians were some unsolvable enigma -- as guarded against outsiders as their neighbors at the Harbor. Yet here he sat in the private room of one of the colony's three figureheads; and the man was perfectly content to reminisce to a stranger.

To a child. Shaun saw his appearance in the faint reflection the observatory window offered. He took this opportunity to push further while he still could.

"So then you left. Why?"

A despondent exhale. "Why did any of us leave?"