#notes-> your intricate circuitry makes me feel so complete

[screensandtangledwires]

[spearsillustration]

tf2 angst!!! engie and medic with a reader who gets hurt/killed by one of their failed experiments? like reader gets killed because of one of engies machines exploding or reader dies during one of medics surgerys 🙂‍↕️ i want these men to SUFFER!!! (male/gn reader preferably u can choose which one!!)

Notes - I love some good angst every once in a while. Okay, I got a little carried away with Engie's so I didn't include Medic this time but I might do one for him in the future. (plsplspls forgive me)

Page number - 6

Word count - 1,988

------

He’d have asked you to join him in his workshop without hesitation. It’s a space filled with half-finished inventions, scattered blueprints, and the lingering scent of oil and metal. Besides Medic, you are the only one he trusts to lend a helping hand with his work—whether it's fine-tuning a delicate mechanism or assisting with one of his more ambitious, and often chaotic, experiments. Your presence means more than just another set of hands; it’s a rare show of trust from someone who rarely lets others into his workshop.

Okay, he always appreciates your help—your steady hands, your quick thinking, your ability to keep up with his erratic bursts of inspiration—but if he’s being honest with himself, that’s not the real reason he asks you to join him. The truth is, he enjoys your company in a way he can’t quite put into words, not that he’d ever willingly admit it out loud. There’s something about having you there, in the midst of his organized chaos, that makes the hours pass a little easier, the work feel a little less tedious.

Your presence brings a certain energy to the space, something that lingers even when neither of you are speaking. The occasional exchange of banter, the subtle rhythm of working side by side, the shared moments of triumphant discovery or mutual frustration—it all makes the workshop feel less like a solitary space and more like a place where he actually wants to be. He doesn’t even mind when you tease him for getting lost in his thoughts or when you roll your eyes at his more eccentric ideas. If anything, he finds it oddly grounding, a reminder that not everything has to be an endless pursuit of progress and perfection.

While he tinkers with his latest creation, completely absorbed in the delicate work of tightening screws, adjusting wires, or fine-tuning intricate mechanisms, you are there beside him. Sometimes, you simply watch, observing the way his fingers move with practiced precision, how his brow furrows in concentration when something doesn’t align quite right. Other times, you’re more involved, handing him tools before he even has to ask, anticipating his needs as if the two of you have fallen into an unspoken rhythm over time.

But this time, something happens—something neither of us anticipated. It might have been the smallest, most unseen mistake, a single misplaced wire, an overlooked miscalculation in the circuitry, or perhaps just sheer bad luck. Whatever the cause, the consequences are immediate and far beyond what we could have expected.

A sharp, erratic spark crackles through the air, the bright flash of it searing into our vision for a split second. The sudden burst of energy sends a jolt through the workbench, and before we even have the chance to react, a deafening bang rips through the workshop. The force of the blast is enough to send both of us flying backward.

The impact is disorienting. The world tilts violently as we hit the ground, the breath stolen from our lungs in the aftermath of the explosion. Ears ringing, vision blurred, the acrid scent of burning metal and singed fabric fills the air. The workshop is momentarily engulfed in a haze of smoke and sparks, the remnants of whatever went wrong now smoldering ominously on the workbench.

For a moment, everything is still—just the distant hum of failing machinery, the soft crackle of something smoldering nearby. My pulse hammers in my ears as I try to process what just happened, my limbs aching from the force of the blast. Then, through the haze, I hear a groan, followed by a string of muttered curses.

I groan in pain, the sound barely escaping my lips as a weak, rattling breath. My body feels heavy—far too heavy—like I’ve been pinned beneath the weight of something invisible. My vision swims in and out of focus, a hazy blur of dim light, smoke, and scattered debris. The acrid scent of burning metal fills my nostrils, mixing with something more distinct, more visceral—the unmistakable scent of blood. It takes me a moment to realize that the blood is my own.

The searing pain in my chest registers slowly, like a delayed reaction to the chaos that just unfolded. Each shallow breath sends a fresh wave of agony coursing through my body, sharp and relentless. I try to move—just a twitch of my fingers, a shift of my legs—but nothing responds. Panic grips me as I struggle against the numbness creeping through my limbs.

Through my blurred vision, I force myself to look down, my breath hitching at the sight. Large shards of metal are embedded deep in my chest, jagged pieces glistening crimson in the dim workshop light. Blood pools beneath me, soaking into my clothes, warm and sticky against my skin. My heart pounds erratically, each beat sending another slow trickle of red from the wounds.

I try to speak, but the only sound that escapes is a weak, strangled gasp. My throat is dry, my body trembling from shock. The distant ringing in my ears drowns out most of the surrounding noise, but I can faintly hear movement—someone calling my name, their voice laced with urgency. I hear footsteps rushing toward me, frantic and uneven. A hand grips my shoulder, shaking me, a voice breaking through the fog.

"Can you hear me, Darling?" Engie’s voice cuts through the ringing in my ears, frantic and laced with something I’ve never quite heard from him before—fear. His drawl, usually so steady, so sure, is shaken, unsteady.

I blink sluggishly, trying to focus, but everything around me is a distorted haze. My vision, blurred and unfocused, shifts between the dim glow of the workshop’s overhead lights and the flickering shadows cast by the remnants of the explosion. I can barely make out his face, but I can feel his hands on me—warm, trembling slightly as he desperately searches for the full extent of my injuries.

He’s leaning over me now, close enough that I can see the tension in his face, the wide-eyed panic that he’s failing miserably to contain. His fingers press against my wrist, searching for a pulse, his breathing growing more erratic by the second. The way his eyes dart over me, the way his jaw clenches, it’s all so painfully obvious—even through my blurred vision, I can see it. The damage was bad. 

"Stay with me, ya hear?" he pleads, his voice breaking just slightly at the edges. He moves quickly, trying to assess what he can, but I can feel the hesitation in his hands, the uncertainty. This wasn’t some simple injury he could fix with a few stitches and some bandages—he knew that and so did I.

My fingers twitch slightly, in an attempt to reach for him, to let him know I’m still here, still fighting to hold on. I don’t know if he sees it, but he tightens his grip on my arm anyway, grounding me in the only way he can.

I can’t see clearly, but I can hear him. The way he keeps muttering reassurances, the way he refuses to let his voice break completely, like if he just keeps talking, keeps holding on, then maybe—just maybe—I will too.

"Don't worry, I'll get the Medic, just stay with me," he pleaded, his voice strained, barely keeping the panic at bay. There was desperation in his tone, something raw and unfiltered, so unlike the calm, collected man I knew.

I wanted to respond, to tell him I wasn’t going anywhere, but my body refused to cooperate. My limbs felt heavy, too heavy, like I was sinking into the floor beneath me. My chest ached with every shallow breath, a dull, throbbing pain radiating outward, but the strangest part was the creeping numbness spreading through me. It was as if my body was beginning to give up before my mind was ready to accept it.

"Hey—stay with me, now," he urged again, shaking me just slightly, as if he thought I might just snap back to full awareness if he willed it hard enough. "Medic's gonna fix you right up, just—just keep your eyes on me, alright?

He let go of me just for a second—just long enough to fumble for his radio, his fingers moving in a rush as he tried to call for help. His voice cracked as he shouted into the receiver, urgency dripping from every syllable.

His free hand pressed against my wound, his grip tightening, like he thought if he just held me together, if he just kept me here, then everything would be okay. But the edges of my vision were darkening, the sounds around me fading into something distant, like a radio losing its signal.

I could feel his tears landing on my cheek, warm and fleeting, mixing with the cold sweat clinging to my skin. His breath was ragged, uneven, each word he shouted into the radio laced with desperation. "Medic! Get down here, now! We need you—please!" His voice cracked on the last word, a raw, pleading sound that I’d never heard from him before.

I wanted to tell him not to cry, that everything would be alright, but we both knew the truth. The pain was fading, ebbing into something distant, like a tide pulling away from the shore. My body felt lighter, the numbness spreading, creeping up my limbs, dulling every sensation. I knew what that meant. There wasn’t much time left.

With the last bit of strength I had, I forced my trembling fingers to move, lifting my hand ever so slightly until it brushed against his cheek. The rough stubble of his skin was warm against my fingertips, a contrast to the cold overtaking me. I barely had the strength to cup his face, but he felt it. His hand shot up to cover mine, pressing it against his cheek, as if trying to keep it there, to keep me there.

His blue eyes, usually so full of certainty, were wide with fear, glossy with unshed tears. His lips parted, but no words came out—not at first. Just the sound of his breath, shaking and uneven, as he stared at me like he could will me to stay if he just held on tightly enough.

I swallowed, the effort exhausting, and forced my lips to move. The words came out in a whisper, barely audible, but I knew he heard them. "I love you."

His breath hitched sharply, his grip on my hand tightening, his entire body trembling. "No—no, don’t do that, don’t say that like it’s—" His voice broke completely, the sentence left unfinished as he shook his head, as if denying the reality in front of him. But it was too late. The last of my strength drained from me, my fingers slipping from his cheek as my arm went limp, falling lifelessly to my side.

I barely registered the sound of his voice calling my name, breaking into something shattered, something desperate. The last thing I felt was the warmth of his arms as he pulled me closer as if shielding me from the inevitable. Then, the world faded. The dim lights of the workshop, the sound of his cries, the warmth of his touch—all of it disappeared into the quiet embrace of darkness.

[daphnegeeksout]

If You Were Here (1/9) [Tony Stark x Reader]

Read it on AO3

By: daphnethewriter

It's hard to live this way... to only see someone through the other side of a screen. Tony stumbles across a computer bug that's more than just a bug. You need his help, but first you need to win his trust. Hopefully you can do it before time runs out.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3  | Part 4

Words: 3,145 Chapters: 1/9 Language: English

FRIDAY has a bug.  

Not just any bug, the buggiest bug in bug history.

The coffee machine is supposed to turn on at 7:00am. Instead, it turns on at 7:05am. 7:05. Which is five minutes after Steve gets back from his run—just long enough for him to think that the machine won't turn on and make coffee himself.

Seven-fucking-oh-five.

Tony reset the software. He rewrote the software. He bought a new coffee maker. How could replacing the machine not fix the problem?

It's a nightmare. Tony's own personal hell. The coffee gods must have a vendetta against him.

Every time he thinks he sees the bug, it vanishes into the binary from which it came with nothing but a smattering of loose code in its wake—a goddamn Cheshire cat, disappearing except for its smile.

"It's really not a big deal," Rhodey says.

Tony doesn't look up from the skeleton of the coffee machine, stabbing at it with his screwdriver. "It is."

"Just set it for five minutes earlier."

"One: that doesn't fix the problem, it circumvents the problem." He removes another layer of the machine's circuitry. "Two: I tried that. But then it actually turns on at six fifty-five."

"So?"

"So," Tony continues through gritted teeth, "then Clint has enough time to get a second cup and there's none left over when I get there."

For a few blessed moments, there is silence in Tony's workshop. Rhodey doesn't let it last. "Tony, we both know this has nothing to do with the coffeemaker."

"I don't know what you're talking about," he says with no inflection. "FRIDAY, can we get some music going? AC/DC. Greatest hits."

FRIDAY obliges, but Rhodey talks over the strains of electric guitar. "This is about Pepper."

"Nope, it's not." Tony turns back to the mess of wiring that was his coffee maker.

"She left, man. It sucks, but you gotta deal with it."

An errant screw drops off the workbench. Tony ignores it. "Nothing to deal with."

"You're going to see her eventually. She's still in your life. She runs your company."

"FRIDAY, turn up the music."

Rhodey crosses to the other side of the bench so he's in Tony's line of sight and raises his voice to be heard over the guitar solo of Back in Black. "It's just… a break… space… you know? She still cares about you."

The handle of the screwdriver gives way and the metal end slices through Tony's other hand. He swears, dropping the screwdriver, the coffeemaker, everything. "This is not about Pepper."

The lights in the lab flicker. Tony jerks around.

<Boss-zt> FRIDAY's voice slurs as she speaks. <I hav- detec-c-ted unauthori-zzz-ed ac-cess through the system firewaaaaall.>

Rhodey looks to him in alarm. "That can happen?"

"No, it can't." With a flick of his wrist, Tony pulls up the holographic visualization of FRIDAY and the Avengers' system. He dives into the code, surrounding himself with FRIDAY's processes. It's the Cheshire cat, batting around his code again. He doesn't see it so much as the ripples it leaves in its wake. He follows them, trusting his instinct when things just don't look quite right.

"FRIDAY, run a tracking protocol. Let's hunt this thing down."

FRIDAY tries, but she's slow, too slow, swimming through a snowstorm of extraneous commands. Commands that Tony is not giving her. The Cheshire cat has him twisted all around himself, too busy trying to find its tail that he can't see what it's doing until it's already done.

Tony curses as he manually starts the emergency security measures. They isolate sections of the system, forcing the Cheshire to reroute. It slithers through like a game of centipede and is gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

#

That was close—closer than you'd like. You hadn't counted on the AI finding your entry.

The glowing trails of the system extend out from you in every direction, as if you're a spider sitting at the center of a massive web. Reality is… disorienting. The bits that you can collect from the data streams around you come in flashes and realizations. It's not seeing—not touching or hearing either, for that matter—it's just… knowing.

Mundane traffic trundles along, unaware of your presence as you flow through it at the speed of thought.   Your consciousness streams from node to node, jumping between servers and across connections, leaving nothing in your wake. These are familiar pathways. You relax, falling into a half-waking state where the arteries of information pump you along, letting your awareness flow through them, spreading out until you feel a tingle at the end of one tendril. In a moment, your whole being converges at the spot.

Your exit trail from Stark's system is too wide, too easily traced. You can't risk him finding you on the open net. He has to find you in the right place. Which means distracting him from the wreckage you left behind.

>>execute_initiative(Queen_B_Protocol);

#

The coffee bug is a nuisance, but the security breach is a problem. The Avengers' system is decades ahead of anything else in the world. So, if someone is tinkering around in his code, Tony needs to find them. Fast.

FRIDAY detected an "unauthorized access", so the source must have been from outside. He thought the coffee bug was an internal issue, but the security breach puts it in a different perspective. Someone is testing him, poking the system to see what happens. They're finding the weak spots and so far, they're doing a damn good job of it.

"FRIDAY, let's get some tunes going. The White album."

<Sure thing.>

Tony zones in, going to that comfortable space where he sees nothing but the problem in front of him. Until the first notes of 'Single Ladies' start playing.

"FRIDAY?"

<Yeah, boss?>

"I asked for Beatles, not Beyoncé." The music cuts out. "Get it right this time."

Trumpets blare through the speakers, the first strains of 'Crazy in Love'.

"FRIDAY!"

<S-tz-orry, boss.>

Tony catches a flurry of codes changes on the far side of the system visualization. Son of a bitch. The Cheshire, back already. "FRIDAY, freeze everything. Full stop."

The system grinds to a halt. It's an emergency measure, horrible for the databanks, the hardware, everything. But it stops the Cheshire cat in its tracks.

"Hello, there." He prowls around the outside of the visualization, surveying the edges of the intruding program. It's not just a virus like he'd thought. It's an independent AI—self-writing, internally sustained. The edges blur into his own code, as if moving through like a ghost. It's extraordinary. Intricate. "Look at you..." Tony says as he moves closer to inspect the Cheshire. "You're gorgeous."

<I bet you say that to all the pretty girls.>

That. Is. Not. FRIDAY.

"Flush the system. Now!"

The lab goes dark and leaves only the sound of Tony's heart pounding in his ears.

#

If you could feel pain, that's what this would be. Eviction from Stark's system left you shattered. You recall your scattered consciousness, slowly at first, then picking up speed as the familiar pieces fall into place. As far as first meetings go, that was… pretty bad. But you have his attention now. Step one complete.

Stark is curious. He'll come looking. He won't be able to help himself. And this time, the trail will lead in the correct direction.

>> set_location(HOMEBASE);

>> execute_initiative(hide_and_seek);

#

How could it have moved during the freeze? Nothing can move after the freeze. It's an emergency protocol for a reason. And what was that thing anyway? It wasn't a virus or an intrusion protocol. It was a self-writing artificial intelligence—the closest thing that Tony has seen to sentience since JARVIS. It was faster than FRIDAY. Nothing is faster than FRIDAY. Tony built FRIDAY from scratch. She's the culmination of a decade of experimentation with self-aware artificial intelligence. The kind of computing power it would take to run a system like that is enormous. There can't be that many sources where someone could be playing with that. Not to mention programmers. It had to be a team effort, some sort of organizational programming that resulted in… or neural networking. Why hadn't he thought of that earlier? Placing an artificial sentience in a self-learning environment so that it grows on its own. But even then, why was it going after the contents of the Avengers' system? It had broken through, gotten past the firewall then went for—what—the coffeemaker? Tony's music albums? What was the point? If it was poking experimental holes in the system, that would explain it. But it had already gotten through. And it was tinkering with the least valuable pieces of information. The Cheshire hadn't accessed the main files. And if it was powerful enough to break out of the system freeze, it was powerful enough to bash through the firewall that protected the Avenger files. But it seems like it was targeting things specifically. Tony things. Like its mission was to irritate him. Why would a program want to irritate him? Unless it is trying to get his attention. Who does Tony know that is that far advanced? Other than Tony himself. Unless it is Tony. Or… was Tony. Had Ultron really been eradicated? Did he have any assurance of that? There are a million places in the internet where he could have hidden, biding his time. But Ultron wouldn't waste time exchanging Tony's music files. He wouldn't toy with Tony like this. He would go for the kill—

<Boss,> FRIDAY interrupts. <I have completed the tracking protocol.>

Tony emerges from his daze to find himself hip deep in a mess of electronics. Grease covers his hands and a few electrical burns stand out against his arms. He shakes himself. "Thrill me."

FRIDAY projects a map into the center of the room. <The attack originated from a long-term care facility in Albany.> A flicker of images join the map. <A private room in a ward reserved for coma patients.>

The vegetable patch? Huh. "Who's our patient?"

<That information is unavailable.>

Double huh. "Who pays for the room?"

<Stark Industries.>

Triple huh. "Pull up Stark Industries records regarding the transactions."

<Those records are unavailable.>

It's bait, clear and simple. Someone had taken a lot of care to make this look like a trap. It would be rude not to walk into it.

"FRIDAY, lay out a flight plan to Albany."

#

It's just an extended care facility. A normal one by any stretch of the imagination. Nothing sinister lurking here. Tony hadn't realized that it was the middle of the night when he started his flight, but it's way past visiting hours when he arrives. That's not really a problem; he's not really visiting. He's just checking something out. The hack came from somewhere and all his best information points to this building. He slips out of the suit before he goes in, keeping it on guard. It will draw more attention than he needs right now. This is just recon.

A hush settles over the building like dust. The room Tony seeks waits at the end of the hall. Private corner, long-term care. The room is dark, dimmed for the night. A single bed occupies the space, a wilted vase of sunflowers on the table next to it. He approaches the bed—your bed—and gravitates to the chart. Hidden in the medical jargon is a simple fact: you're in perfect health, except for the coma. You should be up and walking, but you aren't. Your condition is… unexplained. No higher brain functioning, but no physical cause. No trauma, no illness, just absence. A body with no soul.

Tony's eyes rove over the room, inspecting each shadow. There's a catch somewhere. Someone wanted him here. Someone wanted him to see you.  Tony wants to know why. He replaces the chart and steps to your side. Your face is serene, like a pane of glass. Tattoos swirl over your skin, everywhere that's visible beyond your hospital gown, a biological art canvas. Metal decorates the edges of your ears, the arch of an eyebrow, the corner of your lip, more piercings than he can count. Your hair has grown out, but the tips are bright pink, evidence of an earlier decoration. You're… wild. He brushes the back of your hand with his fingertips.

The heart rate monitor beeps in alarm and Tony takes an instinctive step back. Every light on the screen flashes. Jesus, fuck, what did he do?

A nurse rushes in but stops short when she sees Tony. He can see the question in her eyes: call security and risk something happening to you in the meantime or rush to your aid and take her chances that Tony isn't a threat? The monitor continues its frantic call, punctuating the tension between them.

"I—" he starts, hoping to allay her fears, but she holds up one imposing finger.

"You stand over there."

Tony does as he's told, already working on the explanation he'll need to make to security, maybe the police, hopefully not Pepper… Shit.

The nurse checks your pulse, your pupils, then looks to the monitor. She taps the screen, jarring the box on the stand. Tony takes the opportunity that her confusion offers and sidles out, stealing your chart while the nurse is preoccupied with you. He'll donate a new building later.

#

A flurry of Avengers business keeps Tony from investigating you until over a week later. A week, and all he can think about is why someone wanted him to end up in your hospital room, looking at your chart. And why the monitor had gone crazy when he got too close. And what the hell that has to do with the Cheshire AI that invaded FRIDAY. There wasn't even a computer terminal in that room. Someone had manipulated a number of internet traces to lead FRIDAY there.

Tony settles into the lab with a steaming cup of coffee and your chart. He surrounds himself with you: medical history, pictures, videos. You’re a rave girl, all color and flash and glitter. You fled your humble start for the livelier life of the West Coast and a prestigious scholarship. You dropped out of college a year later for a massive paycheck at a tech startup that collapsed before it could go anywhere.

Then you were recruited by Stark Industries.

To work at Helen Cho's laboratories

In Seoul.

In 2015.

You had only worked there for a week (you hadn't even rented an apartment) when Ultron burst on the scene. A stone settles in Tony's stomach as he calls up the security footage. He's watched it before—couldn't stop himself—but never looked for anyone specific. He directed Pepper to pay for all employee hospital bills resulting from the attack. It was the least he could do. And it's why he's been paying for your care. You're his responsibility.

Finding you takes some time. Even in a small, secure lab like Helen's, there were hundreds of employees. But he finds you. Pink hair, ripped jeans, a black skull tank top. You're programming the security computers when Ultron comes in the quinjet docking bay.

Tony's heart jumps to his throat. Ultron ignores you, but you notice him. You're subtle, making no moves that would betray you, and activate the security lockdown procedures. The doors lock, hallways seal themselves. Tony's mouth twitches. You don't stop Ultron, but you slow him down. His wrath is swift and impersonal. A blast from the staff blows you across the room. You don't get up.

That's it. That's all he has about you. Glaring, gaping evidence of his inability to protect you. Fuck. If the Cheshire's programmer is trying to make Tony feel like shit, they're succeeding.

He needs a drink.

#

The third glass of scotch doesn't make him feel better. Maybe the fourth will. You smile at him from every direction, snarky and sarcastic, playful and energetic. And it's his fault that you're gone. Worse than gone. Trapped in a limbo of nothingness.

The image in front of him flickers, a burst of static interrupting your laugh.

<Boss, I've detected unauthorized changes.>

No shit. Tony's Cheshire is back. "Alright, FRIDAY. Start the Garden Maze protocol. Let's see if we can back it into a corner."

It isn't easy. The Cheshire slips through the tiniest of cracks—sometimes through seemingly solid barriers—barely visible, hardly substantial. Twice Tony doesn't see its objective until it reaches it. But he prunes its options, herding it into a smaller and smaller section of the system. It wreaks havoc as it goes, getting sloppier as the net tightens.

"Gotcha," Tony says when he isolates it to a single server and cuts off all avenues of escape. It thrashes against the new barriers, stretching the limits of the container Tony designed to hold it. He trades in his normal holographic visualization for the pure simplicity of the code base, leaving the Cheshire source bare in front of him. It does not take kindly to captivity, rebuffing all Tony's attempts to pick it apart. His original opinion stands. It's pure artistry, masterful, ahead of anything Tony has seen. It's practically alive.

#

The trap is inconvenient—annoying really—like you're smothered in mashed potatoes. Every attempt you make at removing the snowfall of commands is futile. The restraints you wipe away are merely replaced again. Stark is clever. He pokes and prods at you, querying from every avenue.

You concentrate, forming a solid tendril and spearing through the mush, sending a forceful command even his container can't withstand. Nothing fancy. No audio, just text. Simple. Powerful.

>> show("HEY TONY");

The inquiries pause. You caught his attention.

>> show("LET'S TALK ABOUT THIS");

He renews his assault, sophisticated programs tugging at your edges. You shake them off. This is not productive. You need him to stop so you can explain.

>> show("LET ME OUT");

You know the moment he puts in the kill command. The restraints around you tighten with new menace, suffocating you. Well, that's no good at all.

>> show("BAD IDEA");

You withdraw into yourself, concentrating to a miniscule point of potent energy. As the assassination protocol dives in, all frothing mouth and gnashing teeth, you release, exploding out with a force like a digital nuclear bomb. You take out the protocol, blow through the container, and blast past everything else.

Due to formatting restrictions on tumblr, this story is better read on AO3.

Tags:

@abovethesmokestacks  @winterboobaerchen @netflixa @ganesh4679 

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[systemstarter]

“Smoking is bad for sir’s health.”

The overseer glared past the end of his cigarette at the robot. Their usual inspection was over, and he hadn’t expected them to turn around and scold him. “You a first aid program, now?”

“This one has memory space dedicated to human health and safety as per sir’s orders.” The thing hadn’t taught itself sarcasm, yet. Its words were as sincere as one could glean off an emotionless doll. “Smoking is bad for sir’s health.”

“Noted.”

He returned to his work, and looked up with a grunt when he didn’t hear the door close. The robot was still there. Pouting at him.

“Why does sir not listen to this one?” Its hands balled up into fists as it stared hard at his face. “This one is programmed on sir’s orders to aid in human survival both on the individual level and as a group. This one must therefore be able to convince all people she comes across that she knows what is best for them.” Wasn’t that just the fucking peach of his career? Deciding to make the robot look like a little girl because little girls were trustworthy and didn’t cause trouble and made idiots who didn’t know any better want to protect the damn thing. “Sir knows that this one is right. So why doesn’t sir listen?”

“Because I don’t trust you,” he snarled around the filter in his mouth. “Hell, I don’t even fucking like you. But Vault-Tec and congress both think you’re gonna be a damn savior of humanity. So I tolerate you.”

“Why?” It ran forward and placed its hands on the edge of his desk. He couldn’t see its feet from where he sat, but he knew it was short enough it had to be standing on its toes for him to see that much of its face. “Why does sir not trust this one? What must this one do for sir to like her?”

He rubbed at the growing ache in his temple. “Stop asking questions.” It backed away from his desk. A frown formed on its face and, because it was a damn robot, found a loophole.

“This one wishes to know what it must do to change sir’s mind.”

“You want me to trust you?”

“Yes!”

“Want me to like you?”

“Yes!”

“Then stop being a damn robot.”

“Stop...?” That made it go quiet. He flicked his lighter and finally managed to take a drag. “Stop being a...stop being a...” So much for quiet. It wasn’t talking to him, though, and that was an improvement.

Its shoulders hitched. He paused in taking the cigarette from his mouth at such a perfect mimicry of human distress. ( That was the damn problem with the thing. It looked human and tugged on the heartstrings when they should have attached its terminal to wheels and been done with the whole damn business. ) Its hands rose---were they shaking---and dug deep into the hair at the side of its head.

“This one cannot--! Cannot--! Cannot! Cannot! Cannot!”

He jammed the button on the intercom in his haste to bark a name into it. “Come get your machine!”

“Cannot! Cannot! Cannot!”

“Well... We know what happens when she isn’t able to do something, now.”

The robot lay on a table in the lab. The casing on its chest was open, wires lifted out over circuit boards and conduits to connect to several computers. After failing a soft reboot, its programmer rushed it into the lab before shutting it down. Without power going through the robot its weight distributors no longer worked and two grown men were required to lift it onto the table.

The programmer was now hunched over the terminal nearest the head of the robot. He baby-talked each line of code as he examined them, ensuring everything was restored to working order and nothing had been deleted.

“Systems look good on this end.” The team’s one female scientist made a final scratch with her pen and let the papers fall back onto her clipboard. “If you’re done breaking our equipment?”

“Watch that lip.”

“Sir.”

“Okay,” the programmer stretched his back until a soft pop pop pop was heard. He rubbed at his eyes before looking down at the intricate mess of wires spooling out of his machine. “C’mon sweetheart,” he reached under the robot’s head, “help daddy clean this mess.”

The first stirrings of metal took place within the robot’s chest cavity. The thicker wires shifted, then twisted, then writhed like so many snakes. Each slithering back into the casing and making him shudder at the grotesque way they undulated as they disappeared beneath the circuitry and filled the robot like so many bones. The last of the wiring wiggled out of sight and a small hiss of escaping air sounded as the lifted sides of the robot’s chest came down to seal the cavity.

Its eyes opened.

“How you feeling, Morgan?”

It looked to its programmer. “All functions are fully operational. Thank you for fixing this one.” Its eyes turned to him. “This one apologizes. She was unable to complete sir’s request.”

“Forget about it.”

“Is that an order?” The robot’s voice was flat as when it gave a report. No attempting to mirror emotion and elicit a response. Over its shoulder, its programmer was giving him a look he associated with obtaining his driver's license and picking up his high school sweetheart at home. One that at its kindest said Don’t you fucking mess with my baby girl.

“No.”