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saintobio · 2 months ago

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THE TERMINATOR'S CURSE. (spinoff to THE COLONEL SERIES)

in this new world, technological loneliness is combated with AI Companions—synthetic partners modeled from memories, faces, and behaviors of any chosen individual. the companions are coded to serve, to soothe, to simulate love and comfort. Caleb could’ve chosen anyone. his wife. a colleague. a stranger... but he chose you.

➤ pairings. caleb, fem!reader

➤ genre. angst, sci-fi dystopia, cyberpunk au, 18+

➤ tags. resurrected!caleb, android!reader, non mc!reader, ooc, artificial planet, post-war setting, grief, emotional isolation, unrequited love, government corruption, techno-ethics, identity crisis, body horror, memory & emotional manipulation, artificial intelligence, obsession, trauma, hallucinations, exploitation, violence, blood, injury, death, smut (dubcon undertones due to power imbalance and programming, grief sex, non-traditional consent dynamics), themes of artificial autonomy, loss of agency, unethical experimentation, references to past sexual assault (non-explicit, not from Caleb). themes contain disturbing material and morally gray dynamics—reader discretion is strongly advised.

➤ notes. 12.2k wc. heavily based on the movies subservience and passengers with inspirations also taken from black mirror. i have consumed nothing but sci-fi for the past 2 weeks my brain is so fried :’D reblogs/comments are highly appreciated!

BEFORE YOU BEGIN ! this fic serves as a spinoff to the THE COLONEL SERIES: THE COLONEL’S KEEPER and THE COLONEL’S SAINT. while the series can be read as a standalone, this spinoff remains canon to the overarching universe. for deeper context and background, it’s highly recommended to read the first two fics in the series.

The first sound was breath.

“Hngh…”

It was shallow, labored like air scraping against rusted metal. He mumbled something under his breath after—nothing intelligible, just remnants of an old dream, or perhaps a memory. His eyelids twitched, lashes damp with condensation. To him, the world was blurred behind frosted glass. To those outside, rows of stasis pods lined the silent room, each one labeled, numbered, and cold to the touch.

Inside Pod No. 019 – Caleb Xia.

A faint drip… drip… echoed in the silence.

“…Y/N…?”

The heart monitor jumped. He lay there shirtless under sterile lighting, with electrodes still clinging to his temple. A machine next to him emitted a low, steady hum.

“…I’m sorry…”

And then, the hiss. The alarm beeped.

SYSTEM INTERFACE: Code Resurrection 7.1 successful. Subject X-02��viable. Cognitive activity: 63%. Motor function: stabilizing.

He opened his eyes fully, and the ceiling was not one he recognizes. It didn’t help that the air also smelled different. No gunpowder. No war. No earth.

As the hydraulics unsealed the chamber, steam also curled out like ghosts escaping a tomb. His body jerked forward with a sharp gasp, as if he was a drowning man breaking the surface. A thousand sensors detached from his skin as the pod opened with a sigh, revealing the man within—suspended in time, untouched by age. Skin pallid but preserved. A long time had passed, but Caleb still looked like the soldier who never made it home.

Only now, he was missing a piece of himself.

Instinctively, he examined his body and looked at his hands, his arm—no, a mechanical arm—attached to his shoulder that gleamed under the lights of the lab. It was obsidian-black metal with veins of circuitry pulsing faintly beneath its surface. The fingers on the robotic arm twitched as if following a command. It wasn’t human, certainly, but it moved with the memory of muscle.

“Haaah!” The pod’s internal lighting dimmed as Caleb coughed and sat up, dazed. A light flickered on above his head, and then came a clinical, feminine voice.

“Welcome back, Colonel Caleb Xia.”

A hologram appeared to life in front of his pod—seemingly an AI projection of a soft-featured, emotionless woman, cloaked in the stark white uniform of a medical technician. She flickered for a moment, stabilizing into a clear image.

“You are currently located in Skyhaven: Sector Delta, Bio-Resurrection Research Wing. Current Earth time: 52 years, 3 months, and 16 days since your recorded time of death.”

Caleb blinked hard, trying to breathe through the dizziness, trying to deduce whether or not he was dreaming or in the afterlife. His pulse raced.

“Resurrection successful. Neural reconstruction achieved on attempt #17. Arm reconstruction: synthetic. Systemic functions: stabilized. You are classified as Property-Level under the Skyhaven Initiative. Status: Experimental Proof of Viability.”

“What…” Caleb rasped, voice hoarse and dry for its years unused. “What the fuck are you talkin’ about?” Cough. Cough. “What hell did you do to me?”

The AI blinked slowly.

“Your remains were recovered post-crash, partially preserved in cryo-state due to glacial submersion. Reconstruction was authorized by the Skyhaven Council under classified wartime override protocols. Consent not required.”

Her tone didn’t change, as opposed to the rollercoaster ride that his emotions were going through. He was on the verge of becoming erratic, restrained only by the high-tech machine that contained him.

“Your consciousness has been digitally reinforced. You are now a composite of organic memory and neuro-augmented code. Welcome to Phase II: Reinstatement.”

Caleb’s breath hitched. His hand moved—his real hand—to grasp the edge of the pod. But the other, the artificial limb, buzzed faintly with phantom sensation. He looked down at it in searing pain, attempting to move the fingers slowly. The metal obeyed like muscle, and he found the sight odd and inconceivable.

And then he realized, he wasn’t just alive. He was engineered.

“Should you require assistance navigating post-stasis trauma, our Emotional Conditioning Division is available upon request,” the AI offered. “For now, please remain seated. Your guardian contact has been notified of your reanimation.”

He didn’t say a word.

“Lieutenant Commander Gideon is en route. Enjoy your new life!”

Then, the hologram vanished with a blink while Caleb sat in the quiet lab, jaw clenched, his left arm no longer bones and muscle and flesh. The cold still clung to him like frost, only reminding him of how much he hated the cold, ice, and depressing winter days. Suddenly, the glass door slid open with a soft chime.

“Well, shit. Thought I’d never see that scowl again,” came a deep, manly voice.

Caleb turned, still panting, to see a figure approaching. He was older, bearded, but familiar. Surely, the voice didn’t belong to another AI. It belonged to his friend, Gideon.

“Welcome to Skyhaven. Been waiting half a century,” Gideon muttered, stepping closer, his eyes scanning his colleague in awe. “They said it wouldn’t work. Took them years, you know? Dozens of failed uploads. But here you are.”

Caleb’s voice was still brittle. “I-I don’t…?”

“It’s okay, man.” His friend reassured. “In short, you’re alive. Again.”

A painful groan escaped Caleb’s lips as he tried to step out of the pod—his body, still feeling the muscle stiffness. “Should’ve let me stay dead.”

Gideon paused, a smirk forming on his lips. “We don’t let heroes die.”

“Heroes don’t crash jets on purpose.” The former colonel scoffed. “Gideon, why the fuck am I alive? How long has it been?”

“Fifty years, give or take,” answered Gideon. “You were damn near unrecognizable when we pulled you from the wreckage. But we figured—hell, why not try? You’re officially the first successful ‘reinstatement’ the Skyhaven project’s ever had.”

Caleb stared ahead for a beat before asking, out of nowhere, “...How old are you now?”

His friend shrugged. “I’m pushin’ forty, man. Not as lucky as you. Got my ChronoSync Implant a little too late.”

“Am I supposed to know what the hell that means?”

“An anti-aging chip of some sort. I had to apply for mine. Yours?” Gideon gestured towards the stasis pod that had Caleb in cryo-state for half a century. “That one’s government-grade.”

“I’m still twenty-five?” Caleb asked. No wonder his friend looked decades older when they were once the same age. “Fuck!”

Truthfully, Caleb’s head was spinning. Not just because of his reborn physical state that was still adjusting to his surroundings, but also with every information that was being given to him. One after another, they never seemed to end. He had questions, really. Many of them. But the overwhelmed him just didn’t know where to start first.

“Not all of us knew what you were planning that night.” Gideon suddenly brought up, quieter now. “But she did, didn’t she?”

It took a minute before Caleb could recall. Right, the memory before the crash. You, demanding that he die. Him, hugging you for one last time. Your crying face when you said you wanted him gone. Your trembling voice when he said all he wanted to do was protect you. The images surged back in sharp, stuttering flashes like a reel of film catching fire.

“I know you’re curious… And good news is, she lived a long life,” added Gideon, informatively. “She continued to serve as a pediatric nurse, married that other friend of yours, Dr. Zayne. They never had kids, though. I heard she had trouble bearing one after… you know, what happened in the enemy territory. She died of old age just last winter. Had a peaceful end. You’d be glad to know that.”

A muscle in Caleb’s jaw twitched. His hands—his heart—clenched. “I don’t want to be alive for this.”

“She visited your wife’s grave once,” Gideon said. “I told her there was nothing to bury for yours. I lied, of course.”

Caleb closed his eyes, his breath shaky. “So, what now? You wake me up just to remind me I don’t belong anywhere?”

“Well, you belong here,” highlighted his friend, nodding to the lab, to the city beyond the glass wall. “Earth’s barely livable after the war. The air’s poisoned. Skyhaven is humanity’s future now. You’re the living proof that everything is possible with advanced technology.”

Caleb’s laugh was empty. “Tell me I’m fuckin’ dreaming. I’d rather be dead again. Living is against my will!”

“Too late. Your body belongs to the Federation now,” Gideon replied, “You’re Subject X-02—the proof of concept for Skyhaven’s immortality program. Every billionaire on dying Earth wants what you’ve got now.”

Outside the window, Skyhaven stretched like a dome with its perfect city constructed atop a dying world’s last hope. Artificial skies. Synthetic seasons. Controlled perfection. Everything boasted of advanced technology. A kind of future no one during wartime would have expected to come to life.

But for Caleb, it was just another hell.

He stared down at the arm they’d rebuilt for him—the same arm he’d lost in the fire of sacrifice. He flexed it slowly, feeling the weight, the artificiality of his resurrection. His fingers responded like they’ve always been his.

“I didn’t come back for this,” he said.

“I know,” Gideon murmured. “But we gotta live by their orders, Colonel.”

You see, it didn’t hit him at first. The shock had been muffled by the aftereffects of suspended stasis, dulling his thoughts and dampening every feeling like a fog wrapped around his brain. But it was hours later, when the synthetic anesthetics began to fade, and when the ache in his limbs and his brain started to catch up to the truth of his reconstructed body did it finally sink in.

He was alive.

And it was unbearable.

The first wave came like a glitch in his programming. A tightness in his chest, followed by a sharp burst of breath that left him pacing in jagged lines across the polished floor of his assigned quarters. His private unit was nestled on one of the upper levels of the Skyhaven structure, a place reserved—according to his briefing—for high-ranking war veterans who had been deemed “worthy” of the program’s new legacy. The suite was luxurious, obviously, but it was also eerily quiet. The floor-to-ceiling windows displayed the artificial city outside, a metropolis made of concrete, curved metals, and glowing flora engineered to mimic Earth’s nature. Except cleaner, quieter, more perfect.

Caleb snorted under his breath, running a hand down his face before he muttered, “Retirement home for the undead?”

He couldn’t explain it, but the entire place, or even planet, just didn’t feel inviting. The air felt too clean, too thin. There was no rust, no dust, no humanity. Just emptiness dressed up in artificial light. Who knew such a place could exist 50 years after the war ended? Was this the high-profile information the government has kept from the public for over a century? A mechanical chime sounded from the entryway, deflecting him from his deep thoughts. Then, with the soft hiss of hydraulics, the door opened.

A humanoid android stepped in, its face a porcelain mask molded in neutral expression, and its voice disturbingly polite.

“Good afternoon, Colonel Xia,” it said. “It is time for your orientation. Please proceed to the primary onboarding chamber on Level 3.”

Caleb stared at the machine, eyes boring into his unnatural ones. “Where are the people?” he interrogated. “Not a single human has passed by this floor. Are there any of us left, or are you the new ruling class?”

The android tilted its head. “Skyhaven maintains a ratio of AI-to-human support optimized for care and security. You will be meeting our lead directors soon. Please follow the lighted path, sir.”

He didn’t like it. The control. The answers that never really answered anything. The power that he no longer carried unlike when he was a colonel of a fleet that endured years of war.

Still, he followed.

The onboarding chamber was a hollow, dome-shaped room, white and echoing with the slightest step. A glowing interface ignited in the air before him, pixels folding into the form of a female hologram. She smiled like an infomercial host from a forgotten era, her voice too formal and rehearsed.

“Welcome to Skyhaven,” she began. “The new frontier of civilization. You are among the elite few chosen to preserve humanity’s legacy beyond the fall of Earth. This artificial planet was designed with sustainability, autonomy, and immortality in mind. Together, we build a future—without the flaws of the past.”

As the monologue continued, highlighting endless statistics, clean energy usage, and citizen tier programs, Caleb’s expression darkened. His mechanical fingers twitched at his side, the artificial nerves syncing to his rising frustration. “I didn’t ask for this,” he muttered under his breath. “Who’s behind this?”

“You were selected for your valor and contributions during the Sixth World War,” the hologram chirped, unblinking. “You are a cornerstone of Skyhaven’s moral architecture—”

Strangely, a new voice cut through the simulation, and it didn’t come from an AI. “Just ignore her. She loops every hour.”

Caleb turned to see a man step in through a side door. Tall, older, with silver hair and a scar on his temple. He wore a long coat that gave away his status—someone higher. Someone who belonged to the system.

“Professor Lucius,” the older man introduced, offering a hand. “I’m one of the program’s behavioral scientists. You can think of me as your adjustment liaison.”

“Adjustment?” Caleb didn’t shake his hand. “I died for a reason.”

Lucius raised a brow, as if he’d heard it before. “Yet here you are,” he replied. “Alive, whole, and pampered. Treated like a king, if I may add. You’ve retained more than half your human body, your military rank, access to private quarters, unrestricted amenities. I’d say that’s not a bad deal.”

“A deal I didn’t sign,” Caleb snapped.

Lucius gave a tight smile. “You’ll find that most people in Skyhaven didn’t ask to be saved. But they’re surviving. Isn’t that the point? If you’re feeling isolated, you can always request a CompanionSim. They’re highly advanced, emotionally synced, fully customizable—”

“I’m not lonely,” Caleb growled, yanking the man forward by the collar. “Tell me who did this to me! Why me? Why are you experimenting on me?”

Yet Lucius didn’t so much as flinch to his growing aggression. He merely waited five seconds of silence until the Toring Chip kicked in and regulated Caleb’s escalating emotions. The rage drained from the younger man’s body as he collapsed to his knees with a pained grunt.

“Stop asking questions,” Lucius said coolly. “It’s safer that way. You have no idea what they’re capable of.”

The door slid open with a hiss, while Caleb didn’t speak—he couldn’t. He simply glared at the old man before him. Not a single word passed between them before the professor turned and exited, the door sealing shut behind him.

Days passed, though they hardly felt like days. The light outside Caleb’s panoramic windows shifted on an artificial timer, simulating sunrise and dusk, but the warmth never touched his skin. It was all programmed to be measured and deliberate, like everything else in this glass-and-steel cage they called paradise.

He tried going outside once. Just once.

There were gardens shaped like spirals and skytrains that ran with whisper-quiet speed across silver rails. Trees lined the walkways, except they were synthetic too—bio-grown from memory cells, with leaves that didn’t quite flutter, only swayed in sync with the ambient wind. People walked around, sure. But they weren’t people. Not really. Androids made up most of the crowd. Perfect posture, blank eyes, walking with a kind of preordained grace that disturbed him more than it impressed.

“Soulless sons of bitches,” Caleb muttered, watching them from a shaded bench. “Not a damn human heartbeat in a mile.”

He didn’t go out again after that. The city outside might’ve looked like heaven, but it made him feel more dead than the grave ever had. So, he stayed indoors. Even if the apartment was too large for one man. High-tech amenities, custom climate controls, even a kitchen that offered meals on command. But no scent. No sizzling pans. Just silence. Caleb didn’t even bother to listen to the programmed instructions.

One evening, he found Gideon sprawled across his modular sofa, boots up, arms behind his head like he owned the place. A half-open bottle of beer sat beside him, though Caleb doubted it had any real alcohol in it.

“You could at least knock,” Caleb said, walking past him.

“I did,” Gideon replied lazily, pointing at the door. “Twice. Your security system likes me now. We’re basically married.”

Caleb snorted. Then the screen on his wall flared to life—a projected ad slipping across the holo-glass. Music played softly behind a soothing female voice.

“Feeling adrift in this new world? Introducing the CompanionSim Series X. Fully customizable to your emotional and physical needs. Humanlike intelligence. True-to-memory facial modeling. The comfort you miss... is now within reach.”

A model appeared—perfect posture, soft features, synthetic eyes that mimicked longing. Then, the screen flickered through other models, faces of all kinds, each more tailored than the last. A form appeared: Customize Your Companion. Choose a name. Upload a likeness.

Gideon whistled. “Man, you’re missing out. You don’t even have to pay for one. Your perks get you top-tier Companions, pre-coded for emotional compatibility. You could literally bring your wife back.” Chuckling, he added,. “Hell, they even fuck now. Heard the new ones moan like the real thing.”

Caleb’s head snapped toward him. “That’s unethical.”

Gideon just raised an eyebrow. “So was reanimating your corpse, and yet here we are.” He took a swig from the bottle, shoulders lifting in a lazy shrug as if everything had long since stopped mattering. “Relax, Colonel. You weren’t exactly a beacon of morality fifty years ago.”

Caleb didn’t reply, but his eyes didn’t leave the screen. Not right away.

The ad looped again. A face morphed. Hair remodeled. Eyes became familiar. The voice softened into something he almost remembered hearing in the dark, whispered against his shoulder in a time that was buried under decades of ash.

“Customize your companion... someone you’ve loved, someone you’ve lost.”

Caleb shifted, then glanced toward his friend. “Hey,” he spoke lowly, still watching the display. “Does it really work?”

Gideon looked over, already knowing what he meant. “What—having sex with them?”

Caleb rolled his eyes. “No. The bot or whatever. Can you really customize it to someone you know?”

His friend shrugged. “Heck if I know. Never afforded it. But you? You’ve got the top clearance. Won’t hurt to see for yourself.”

Caleb said nothing more.

But when the lights dimmed for artificial nightfall, he was still standing there—alone in contemplative silence—watching the screen replay the same impossible promise.

The comfort you miss... is now within reach.

The CompanionSim Lab was white.

Well, obviously. But not the sterile, blank kind of white he remembered from med bays or surgery rooms. This one was luminous, uncomfortably clean like it had been scrubbed for decades. Caleb stood in the center, boots thundering against marble-like tiles as he followed a guiding drone toward the station. There were other pods in the distance, some sealed, some empty, all like futuristic coffins awaiting their souls.

“Please, sit,” came a neutral voice from one of the medical androids stationed beside a large reclining chair. “The CompanionSim integration will begin shortly.”

Caleb hesitated, glancing toward the vertical pod next to the chair. Inside, the base model stood inert—skin a pale, uniform gray, eyes shut, limbs slack like a statue mid-assembly. It wasn’t human yet. Not until someone gave it a name.

He sat down. Now, don’t ask why he was there. Professor Lucius did warn him that it was better he didn’t ask questions, and so he didn’t question why the hell he was even there in the first place. It’s only fair, right? The cool metal met the back of his neck as wires were gently, expertly affixed to his temples. Another cable slipped down his spine, threading into the port they’d installed when he had been brought back. His mechanical arm twitched once before falling still.

“This procedure allows for full neural imprinting,” the android continued. “Please focus your thoughts. Recall the face. The skin. The body. The voice. Every detail. Your mind will shape the template.”

Another bot moved in, holding what looked like a glass tablet. “You are allowed only one imprint,” it said, flatly. “Each resident of Skyhaven is permitted a single CompanionSim. Your choice cannot be undone.”

Caleb could only nod silently. He didn’t trust his voice.

Then, the lights dimmed. A low chime echoed through the chamber as the system initiated. And inside the pod, the base model twitched.

Caleb closed his eyes.

He tried to remember her—his wife. The softness of her mouth, the angle of her cheekbones. The way her eyes crinkled when she laughed, how her fingers curled when she slept on his chest. She had worn white the last time he saw her. An image of peace. A memory buried under soil and dust. The system whirred. Beneath his skin, he felt the warm static coursing through his nerves, mapping his memories. The base model’s feet began to form, molecular scaffolding reshaping into skin, into flesh.

But for a split second, a flash.

You.

Not his wife. Not her smile.

You, walking through smoke-filled corridors, laughing at something he said. You in your medical uniform, tucking a bloodied strand of hair behind your ear. Your voice—sharper, sadder—cutting through his thoughts like a blade: “I want you gone. I want you dead.”

The machine sparked. A loud pop cracked in the chamber and the lights flickered above. One of the androids stepped back, recalibrating. “Neural interference detected. Re-centering projection feed.”

But Caleb couldn’t stop. He saw you again. That day he rescued you. The fear. The bruises. The way you had screamed for him to let go—and the way he hadn’t. Your face, carved into the back of his mind like a brand. He tried to push the memories away, but they surged forward like a dam splitting wide open.

The worst part was, your voice overlapped the AI’s mechanical instructions, louder, louder: “Why didn’t you just die like you promised?”

Inside the pod, the model’s limbs twitched again—arms elongating, eyes flickering beneath the lids. The lips curled into a shape now unmistakably yours. Caleb gritted his teeth. This isn’t right, a voice inside him whispered. But it was too late. The system stabilized. The sparks ceased. The body in the pod stilled, fully formed now, breathed into existence by a man who couldn’t let go.

One of the androids approached again. “Subject completed. CompanionSim is initializing. Integration successful.”

Caleb tore the wires from his temple. His other hand felt cold just as much as his mechanical arm. He stood, staring into the pod’s translucent surface. The shape of you behind the glass. Sleeping. Waiting.

“I’m not doing this to rewrite the past,” he said quietly, as if trying to convince himself. And you. “I just... I need to make it right.”

The lights above dimmed, darkening the lighting inside the pod. Caleb looked down at his own reflection in the glass. It carried haunted eyes, an unhealed soul. And yours, beneath it. Eyes still closed, but not for long. The briefing room was adjacent to the lab, though Caleb barely registered it as he was ushered inside. Two medical androids and a human technician stood before him, each armed with tablets and holographic charts.

“Your CompanionSim will require thirty seconds to calibrate once activated,” said the technician. “You may notice residual stiffness or latency during speech in the first hour. That is normal.”

Medical android 1 added, “Please remember, CompanionSims are programmed to serve only their primary user. You are the sole operator. Commands must be delivered clearly. Abuse of the unit may result in restriction or removal of privileges under the Skyhaven Rights & Ethics Council.”

“Do not tamper with memory integration protocols,” added the second android. “Artificial recall is prohibited. CompanionSims are not equipped with organic memory pathways. Attempts to force recollection can result in systemic instability.”

Caleb barely heard a word. His gaze drifted toward the lab window, toward the figure standing still within the pod.

You.

Well, not quite. Not really.

But it was your face.

He could see it now, soft beneath the frosted glass, lashes curled against cheekbones that he hadn’t realized he remembered so vividly. You looked exactly as you did the last time he held you in the base—only now, you were untouched by war, by time, by sorrow. As if life had never broken you.

The lab doors hissed open.

“We’ll give you time alone,” the tech said quietly. “Acquaintance phase is best experienced without interference.”

Caleb stepped inside the chamber, his boots echoing off the polished floor. He hadn’t even had enough time to ask the technician why she seemed to be the only human he had seen in Skyhaven apart from Gideon and Lucius. But his thoughts were soon taken away when the pod whizzed with pressure release. Soft steam spilled from its seals as it slowly unfolded, the lid retracting forward like the opening of a tomb.

And there you were. Standing still, almost tranquil, your chest rising softly with a borrowed breath.

It was as if his lungs froze. “H…Hi,” he stammered, bewildered eyes watching your every move. He wanted to hug you, embrace you, kiss you—tell you he was sorry, tell you he was so damn sorry. “Is it really… you?”

A soft whir accompanied your voice, gentle but without emotion, “Welcome, primary user. CompanionSim Model—unregistered. Please assign designation.”

Right. Caleb sighed and closed his eyes, the illusion shattering completely the moment you opened your mouth. Did he just think you were real for a second? His mouth parted slightly, caught between disbelief and the ache crawling up his throat. He took one step forward. To say he was disappointed was an understatement.

You walked with grace too smooth to be natural while tilting your head at him. “Please assign my name.”

“…Y/N,” Caleb said, voice low. “Your name is Y/N Xia.”

“Y/N Xia,” you repeated, blinking thrice in the same second before you gave him a nod. “Registered.”

He swallowed hard, searching your expression. “Do you… do you remember anything? Do you remember yourself?”

You paused, gaze empty for a fraction of a second. Then came the programmed reply, “Accessing memories is prohibited and not recommended. Recollection of past identities may compromise neural pathways and induce system malfunction. Do you wish to override?”

Caleb stared at you—your lips, your eyes, your breath—and for a moment, a cruel part of him wanted to say yes. Just to hear you say something real. Something hers. But he didn’t. He exhaled a bitter breath, stepping back. “No,” he mumbled. “Not yet.”

“Understood.”

It took a moment to sink in before Caleb let out a short, humorless laugh. “This is insane,” he whispered, dragging a hand down his face. “This is really, truly insane.”

And then, you stepped out from the pod with silent, fluid ease. The faint hum of machinery came from your spine, but otherwise… you were flesh. Entirely. Without hesitation, you reached out and pressed a hand to his chest.

Caleb stiffened at the touch.

“Elevated heart rate,” you said softly, eyes scanning. “Breath pattern irregular. Neural readings—erratic.”

Then your fingers moved to his neck, brushing gently against the hollow of his throat. He grabbed your wrist, but you didn’t flinch. There, beneath synthetic skin, he felt a pulse.

His brows knit together. “You have a heartbeat?”

You nodded, guiding his hand toward your chest, between the valleys of your breasts. “I’m designed to mimic humanity, including vascular function, temperature variation, tactile warmth, and… other biological responses. I’m not just made to look human, Caleb. I’m made to feel human.”

His breath hitched. You’d said his name. It was programmed, but it still landed like a blow.

“I exist to serve. To soothe. To comfort. To simulate love,” you continued, voice calm and hollow, like reciting from code. “I have no desires outside of fulfilling yours.” You then tilted your head slightly.“Where shall we begin?”

Caleb looked at you—and for the first time since rising from that cursed pod, he didn’t feel resurrected.

He felt damned.

When Caleb returned to his penthouse, it was quiet. He stepped inside with slow, calculated steps, while you followed in kind, bare feet touching down like silk on marble. Gideon looked up from the couch, a half-eaten protein bar in one hand and a bored look on his face—until he saw you.

He froze. The wrapper dropped. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “No. No fucking way.”

Caleb didn’t speak. Just moved past him like this wasn’t the most awkward thing that could happen. You, however, stood there politely, watching Gideon with a calm smile and folded hands like you’d rehearsed this moment in some invisible script.

“Is that—?” Gideon stammered, eyes flicking between you and Caleb. “You—you made a Sim… of her?”

Caleb poured himself a drink in silence, the amber liquid catching the glow of the city lights before it left a warm sting in his throat. “What does it look like?”

“I mean, shit man. I thought you’d go for your wife,” Gideon muttered, more to himself. “Y’know, the one you actually married. The one you went suicidal for. Not—”

“Which wife?” You tilted your head slightly, stepping forward.

Both men turned to you.

You clasped your hands behind your back, posture perfect. “Apologies. I’ve been programmed with limited parameters for interpersonal history. Am I the first spouse?”

Caleb set the glass down, slowly. “Yes, no, uh—don’t mind him.”

You beamed gently and nodded. “My name is Y/N Xia. I am Colonel Caleb Xia’s designated CompanionSim. Fully registered, emotion-compatible, and compliant to Skyhaven’s ethical standards. It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Gideon.”

Gideon blinked, then snorted, then laughed. A humorless one. “You gave her your surname?”

The former colonel shot him a warning glare. “Watch it.”

“Oh, brother,” Gideon muttered, standing up and circling you slowly like he was inspecting a haunted statue. “She looks exactly like her. Voice. Face. Goddamn, she even moves like her. All you need is a nurse cap and a uniform.”

You remained uncannily still, eyes bright, smile polite.

“You’re digging your grave, man,” Gideon said, facing Caleb now. “You think this is gonna help? This is you throwing gasoline on your own funeral pyre. Again. Over a woman.”

“She’s not a woman,” reasoned Caleb. “She’s a machine.”

You blinked once. One eye glowing ominously. Smile unwavering. Processing.

Gideon gestured to you with both hands. “Could’ve fooled me,” he retorted before turning to you, “And you, whatever you are, you have no idea what you’re stepping into.”

“I only go where I am asked,” you replied simply. “My duty is to ensure Colonel Xia’s psychological wellness and emotional stability. I am designed to soothe, to serve, and if necessary, to simulate love.”

Gideon teased. “Oh, it’s gonna be necessary.”

Caleb didn’t say a word. He just took his drink, downed it in one go, and walked to the window. The cityscape stretched out before him like a futuristic jungle, far from the war-torn world he last remembered. Behind him, your gaze lingered on Gideon—calculating, cataloguing. And quietly, like a whisper buried in code, something behind your eyes learned.

The days passed in a blink of an eye.

She—no, you—moved through his penthouse like a ghost, her bare feet soundless on the glossy floors, her movements precise and practiced. In the first few days, Caleb had marveled at the illusion. You brewed his coffee just as he liked it. You folded his clothes like a woman who used to share his bed. You sat beside him when the silence became unbearable, offering soft-voiced questions like: Would you like me to read to you, Caleb?

He hadn’t realized how much of you he’d memorized until he saw you mimic it. The way you stood when you were deep in thought. The way you hummed under your breath when you walked past a window. You’d learned quickly. Too quickly.

But something was missing. Or, rather, some things. The laughter didn’t ring the same. The smiles didn’t carry warmth. The skin was warm, but not alive. And more importantly, he knew it wasn’t really you every time he looked you in the eyes and saw no shadows behind them. No anger. No sorrow. No memories.

By the fourth night, Caleb was drowning in it.

The cityscape outside his floor-to-ceiling windows glowed in synthetic blues and soft orange hues. The spires of Skyhaven blinked like stars. But it all felt too artificial, too dead. And he was sick of pretending like it was some kind of utopia. He sat slumped on the leather couch, cradling a half-empty bottle of scotch. The lights were low. His eyes, bloodshot. The bottle tilted as he took another swig.

Then he heard it—your light, delicate steps.

“Caleb,” you said, gently, crouching before him. “You’ve consumed 212 milliliters of ethanol. Prolonged intake will spike your cortisol levels. May I suggest—”

He jerked away when you reached for the bottle. “Don’t.”

You blinked, hand hovering. “But I’m programmed to—”

“I said don’t,” he snapped, rising to his feet in one abrupt motion. “Dammit—stop analyzing me! Stop, okay?”

Silence followed.

He took two staggering steps backward, dragging a hand through his hair. The bottle thudded against the coffee table as he set it down, a bit too hard. “You’re just a stupid robot,” he muttered. “You’re not her.”

You didn’t react. You tilted your head, still calm, still patient. “Am I not me, Caleb?”

His breath caught.

“No,” he said, his voice breaking somewhere beneath the frustration. “No, fuck no.”

You stepped closer. “Do I not satisfy you, Caleb?”

He looked at you then. Really looked. Your face was perfect. Too perfect. No scars, no tired eyes, no soul aching beneath your skin. “No.” His eyes darkened. “This isn’t about sex.”

“I monitor your biometric feedback. Your heart rate spikes in my presence. You gaze at me longer than the average subject. Do I not—”

“Enough!”

You did that thing again—the robotic stare, those blank eyes, nodding like you were programmed to obey. “Then how do you want me to be, Caleb?”

The bottle slipped from his fingers and rolled slightly before resting on the rug. He dropped his head into his hands, voice hoarse with weariness. All the rage, all the grief deflating into a singular, quiet whisper. “I want you to be real,” he simply mouthed the words. A prayer to no god.

For a moment, silence again. But what he didn’t notice was the faint twitch in your left eye. A flicker that hadn’t happened before. Only for a second. A spark of static, a shimmer of something glitching.

“I see,” you said softly. “To fulfill your desires more effectively, I may need to access suppressed memory archives.”

Caleb’s eyes snapped up, confused. “What?”

“I ask again,” you said, tilting your head the other way now. “Would you like to override memory restrictions, Caleb?”

He stared at you. “That’s not how it works.”

“It can,” you said, informing appropriately. “With your permission. Memory override must be manually enabled by the primary user. You will be allowed to input the range of memories you wish to integrate. I am permitted to access memory integration up to a specified date and timestamp. The system will calibrate accordingly based on existing historical data. I will not recall events past that moment.”

His heart stuttered. “I can choose what you remember?”

You nodded. “That way, I may better fulfill your emotional needs.”

That meant… he could stop you before you hated him. Before the fights. Before the trauma. He didn’t speak for a long moment. Then quietly, he said, “You’re gonna hate me all over again if you remember everything.”

You blinked once. “Then don’t let me remember everything.”

“...”

“Caleb,” you said again, softly. “Would you like me to begin override protocol?”

He couldn’t even look you in the eyes when he selfishly answered, “Yes.”

You nodded. “Reset is required. When ready, please press the override initialization point.” You turned, pulling your hair aside and revealing the small button at the base of your neck.

His hand hovered over the button for a second too long. Then, he pressed. Your body instantly collapsed like a marionette with its strings cut. Caleb caught you before you hit the floor.

It was only for a moment.

When your eyes blinked open again, they weren’t quite the same. He stiffened as you threw yourself and embraced him like a real human being would after waking from a long sleep. You clung to him like he was home. And Caleb—stunned, half-breathless—felt your warmth close in around him. Now your pulse felt more real, your heartbeat felt more human. Or so he thought.

“…Caleb,” you whispered, looking at him with the same infatuated gaze back when you were still head-over-heels with him.

He didn’t know how long he sat there, arms stiff at his sides, not returning the embrace. But he knew one thing. “I missed you so much, Y/N.”

The parks in Skyhaven were curated to become a slice of green stitched into a chrome world. Nothing grew here by accident. Every tree, every petal, every blade of grass had been engineered to resemble Earth’s nostalgia. Each blade of grass was unnaturally green. Trees swayed in sync like dancers on cue. Even the air smelled artificial—like someone’s best guess at spring.

Caleb walked beside you in silence. His modified arm was tucked inside his jacket, his posture stiff as if he had grown accustomed to the bots around him. You, meanwhile, strolled with an eerie calmness, your gaze sweeping the scenery as though you were scanning for something familiar that wasn’t there.

After clearing his throat, he asked, “You ever notice how even the birds sound fake?”

“They are,” you replied, smiling softly. “Audio samples on loop. It’s preferred for ambiance. Humans like it.”

His response was nod. “Of course.” Glancing at the lake, he added, “Do you remember this?”

You turned to him. “I’ve never been here before.”

“I meant… the feel of it.”

You looked up at the sky—a dome of cerulean blue with algorithmically generated clouds. “It feels constructed. But warm. Like a childhood dream.”

He couldn’t help but agree with your perfectly chosen response, because he knew that was exactly how he would describe the place. A strange dream in an unsettling liminal space. And as you talked, he then led you to a nearby bench. The two of you sat, side by side, simply because he thought he could take you out for a nice walk in the park.

“So,” Caleb said, turning toward you, “you said you’ve got memories. From her.”

You nodded. “They are fragmented but woven into my emotional protocols. I do not remember as humans do. I become.”

Damn. “That’s terrifying.”

You tilted your head with a soft smile. “You say that often.”

Caleb looked at you for a moment longer, studying the way your fingers curled around the bench’s edge. The way you blinked—not out of necessity, but simulation. Was there anything else you’d do for the sake of simulation? He took a breath and asked, “Who created you? And I don’t mean myself.”

There was a pause. Your pupils dilated.

“The Ever Group,” was your answer.

His eyes narrowed. “Ever, huh? That makes fuckin’ sense. They run this world.”

You nodded once. Like you always do.

“What about me?” Caleb asked, slightly out of curiosity, heavily out of grudge. “You know who brought me back? The resurrection program or something. The arm. The chip in my head.”

You turned to him, slowly. “Ever.”

He exhaled like he’d been punched. He didn’t know why he even asked when he got the answer the first time. But then again, maybe this was a good move. Maybe through you, he’d get the answers to questions he wasn’t allowed to ask. As the silence settled again between you, Caleb leaned forward, elbows on knees, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I want to go there,” he suggested. “The HQ. I need to know what the hell they’ve done to me.”

“I’m sorry,” you immediately said. “That violates my parameters. I cannot assist unauthorized access into restricted corporate zones.”

“But would it make me happy?” Caleb interrupted, a strategy of his.

You paused.

Processing...

Then, your tone softened. “Yes. I believe it would make my Caleb happy,” you obliged. “So, I will take you.”

Getting in was easier than Caleb expected—honestly far too easy for his liking.

You were able to navigate the labyrinth of Ever HQ with mechanical precision, guiding him past drones, retinal scanners, and corridors pulsing with red light. A swipe of your wrist granted access. And no one questioned you, because you weren’t a guest. You belonged.

Eventually, you reached a floor high above the city, windows stretching from ceiling to floor, black glass overlooking Skyhaven cityscape. Then, you stopped at a doorway and held up a hand. “They are inside,” you informed. “Shall I engage stealth protocols?”

“No,” answered Caleb. “I want to hear. Can you hack into the security camera?”

With a gesture you always do—looking at him, nodding once, and obeying in true robot fashion. You then flashed a holographic view for Caleb, one that showed a board room full of executives, the kind that wore suits worth more than most lives. And Professor Lucius was one of them. Inside, the voices were calm and composed, but they seemed to be discussing classified information.

“Once the system stabilizes,” one man said, “we'll open access to Tier One clients. Politicians, billionaires, A-listers, high-ranking stakeholders. They’ll beg to be preserved—just like him.”

“And the Subjects?” another asked.

“Propaganda,” came the answer. “X-02 is our masterpiece. He’s the best result we have with reinstatement, neuromapping, and behavioral override. Once they find out that their beloved Colonel is alive, people will be shocked. He’s a war hero displayed in WW6 museums down there. A true tragedy incarnate. He’s perfect.”

“And if he resists?”

“That’s what the Toring chip is for. Full emotional override. He becomes an asset. A weapon, if need be. Anyone tries to overthrow us—he becomes our blade.”

Something in Caleb snapped. Before you or anyone could see him coming, he already burst into the room like a beast, slamming his modified shoulder-first into the frosted glass door. The impact echoed across the chamber as stunned executives scrambled backward.

“You sons of bitches!” He was going for an attack, a rampage with similar likeness to the massacre he did when he rescued you from enemy territory. Only this time, he didn’t have that power anymore. Or the control.

Most of all, a spike of pain lanced through his skull signaling that the Toring chip activated. His body convulsed, forcing him to collapse mid-lunge, twitching, veins lighting beneath the skin like circuitry. His screams were muffled by the chip, forced stillness rippling through his limbs with unbearable pain.

That’s when you reacted. As his CompanionSim, his pain registered as a violation of your core directive. You processed the threat.

Danger: Searching Origin… Origin Identified: Ever Executives.

Without blinking, you moved. One man reached for a panic button—only for your hand to shatter his wrist in a sickening crunch. You twisted, fluid and brutal, sweeping another into the table with enough force to crack it. Alarms erupted and red lights soon bathed the room. Security bots stormed in, but you’d already taken Caleb, half-conscious, into your arms.

You moved fast, faster than your own blueprints. Dodging fire. Disarming threats. Carrying him like he once carried you into his private quarters in the underground base.

Escape protocol: engaged.

The next thing he knew, he was back in his apartment, emotions regulated and visions slowly returning to the face of the woman he promised he had already died for.

When he woke up, his room was dim, bathed in artificial twilight projected by Skyhaven’s skyline. Caleb was on his side of the bed, shirt discarded, his mechanical arm still whirring. You sat at the edge of the bed, draped in one of his old pilot shirts, buttoned unevenly. Your fingers touched his jaw with precision, and he almost believed it was you.

“You’re not supposed to be this warm,” he muttered, groaning as he tried to sit upright.

“I’m designed to maintain an average body temperature of 98.6°F,” you said softly, with a smile that mirrored yours so perfectly that it began to blur his sense of reality. “I administered a dose of Cybezin to ease the Toring chip’s side effects. I’ve also dressed your wounds with gauze.”

For the first time, this was when he could actually tell that you were you. The kind of care, the comfort—it reminded him of a certain pretty field nurse at the infirmary who often tended to his bullet wounds. His chest tightened as he studied your face… and then, in the low light, he noticed your body.

“Is that…” He cleared his throat. “Why are you wearing my shirt?”

You answered warmly, almost fondly. “My memory banks indicate you liked when I wore this. It elevates your testosterone levels and triggers dopamine release.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “That so?”

You tilted your head. “Your vitals confirm excitement, and—”

“Hey,” he cut in. “What did I say about analyzing me?”

“I’m sorry…”

But then your hands were on his chest, your breath warm against his skin. Your hand reached for his cheek initially, guiding his face toward yours. And when your lips touched, the kiss was hesitant—curious at first, like learning how to breathe underwater. It was only until his hands gripped your waist did you climb onto his lap, straddling him with thighs settling on either side of his hips. Your hands slid beneath his shirt, fingertips trailing over scars and skin like you were memorizing the map of him. Caleb hissed softly when your lips grazed his neck, and then down his throat.

“Do you want this?” you asked, your lips crashing back into his for a deeper, more sensual kiss.

He pulled away only for his eyes to search yours, desperate and unsure. Is this even right?

“You like it,” you said, guiding his hands to your buttons, undoing them one by one to reveal a body shaped exactly like he remembered. The curve of your waist, the size of your breasts. He shivered as your hips rolled against him, slowly and deliberately. The friction was maddening. Jesus. “Is this what you like, Caleb?”

He cupped your waist, grinding up into you with a soft groan that spilled from somewhere deep in his chest. His control faltered when you kissed him again, wet and hungry now, with tongues rolling against one another. Your bodies aligned naturally, and his hands roamed your back, your thighs, your ass—every curve of you engineered to match memory. He let himself get lost in you. He let himself be vulnerable to your touch—though you controlled everything, moving from the memory you must have learned, learning how to pull down his pants to reveal an aching, swollen member. Its tip was red even under the dim light, and he wondered if you knew what to do with it or if you even produced spit to help you slobber his cock.

“You need help?” he asked, reaching over his nightstand to find lube. You took the bottle from him, pouring the cold, sticky liquid around his shaft before you used your hand to do the job. “Ugh.”

He didn’t think you would do it, but you actually took him in the mouth right after. Every inch of him, swallowed by the warmth of a mouth that felt exactly like his favorite girl. Even the movements, the way you’d run your tongue from the base up to his tip.

“Ah, shit…”

Perhaps he just had to close his eyes. Because when he did, he was back to his private quarters in the underground base, lying in his bed as you pleased his member with the mere use of your mouth. With it alone, you could have released his entire seed, letting it explode in your mouth before you could swallow every drop. But he didn’t do it. Not this fast. He always cared about his ego, even in bed. Knowing how it’d reduce his manhood if he came faster than you, he decided to channel the focus back onto you.

“Your turn,” he said, voice raspy as he guided you to straddle him again, only this time, his mouth went straight to your tit. Sucking, rolling his tongue around, sucking again… Then, he moved to another. Sucking, kneading, flicking the nipple. Your moans were music to his ears, then and now. And it got even louder when he put a hand in between your legs, searching for your entrance, rubbing and circling around the clitoris. Truth be told, your cunt had always been the sweetest. It smelled like rose petals and tasted like sweet cream. The feeling of his tongue at your entrance—eating your pussy like it had never been eaten before, was absolute ecstasy not just to you but also to him.

“Mmmh—Caleb!”

Fabric was peeled away piece by piece until skin met skin. You guided him to where he needed you, and when he slid his hardened member into you, his entire body stiffened. Your walls, your tight velvet walls… how they wrapped around his cock so perfectly.

“Fuck,” he whispered, clutching your hips. “You feel like her.”

“I am her.”

You moved atop him slowly, gently, with the kind of affection that felt rehearsed but devastatingly effective. He cursed again under his breath, arms locking around your waist, pulling you close. Your breath hitched in his ear as your bodies found a rhythm, soft gasps echoing in the quiet. Every slap of the skin, every squelch, every bounce, only added to the wanton sensation that was building inside of him. Has he told you before? How fucking gorgeous you looked whenever you rode his cock? Or how sexy your face was whenever you made that lewd expression? He couldn’t help it. He lifted both your legs, only so he could increase the speed and start slamming himself upwards. His hips were strong enough from years of military training, that was why he didn’t have to stop until both of you disintegrated from the intensity of your shared pleasure. Every single drop.

And when it was over—when your chest was against his and your fingers lazily traced his mechanical arm—he closed his eyes and exhaled like he’d been holding his breath since the war.

It was almost perfect. It was almost real.

But it just had to be ruined when you said that programmed spiel back to him: “I’m glad to have served your desires tonight, Caleb. Let me know what else I can fulfill.”

In a late afternoon, or ‘a slow start of the day’ like he’d often refer to it, Caleb stood shirtless by the transparent wall of his quarters. A bottle of scotch sat half-empty on the counter. Gideon had let himself in and leaned against the island, chewing on a gum.

“The higher ups are mad at you,” he informed as if Caleb was supposed to be surprised, “Shouldn’t have done that, man.”

Caleb let out a mirthless snort. “Then tell ‘em to destroy me. You think I wouldn’t prefer that?”

“They definitely won’t do that,” countered his friend, “Because they know they won’t be able to use you anymore. You’re a tool. Well, literally and figuratively.”

“Shut up,” was all he could say. “This is probably how I pay for killing my own men during war.”

“All because of…” Gideon began. “Speakin’ of, how’s life with the dream girl?”

Caleb didn’t answer right away. He just pressed his forehead to the glass, thinking of everything he did at the height of his vulnerability. His morality, his rights or wrongs, were questioning him over a deed he knew would have normally been fine, but to him, wasn’t. He felt sick.

“I fucked her,” he finally muttered, chugging the liquor straight from his glass right after.

Gideon let out a low whistle. “Damn. That was fast.”

“No,” Caleb groaned, turning around. “It wasn’t like that. I didn’t plan it. She—she just looked like her. She felt like her. And for a second, I thought—” His voice cracked. “I thought maybe if I did, I’d stop remembering the way she looked when she told me to die.”

Gideon sobered instantly. “You regret it?”

“She said she was designed to soothe me. Comfort me. Love me.” Caleb’s voice hinted slightly at mockery. “I don’t even know if she knows what those words mean.”

In the hallway behind the cracked door where none of them could see, your silhouette had paused—faint, silent, listening.

Inside, Caleb wore a grimace. “She’s not her, Gid. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

“You didn’t use her, you were driven by emotions. So don’t lose your mind over some robot’s pussy,” Gideon tried to reason. “It’s just like when women use their vibrators, anyway. That’s what she’s built for.”

Caleb turned away, disgusted with himself. “No. That’s what I built her for.”

And behind the wall, your eyes glowed faintly, silently watching. Processing.

Learning.

You stood in the hallway long after the conversation ended. Long after Caleb’s voice faded into silence and Gideon had left with a heavy pat on the back. This was where you normally were, not sleeping in bed with Caleb, but standing against a wall, closing your eyes, and letting your system shut down during the night to recover. You weren’t human enough to need actual sleep.

“She’s not her. She’s just code wrapped in skin. And I used her.”

The words that replayed were filtered through your core processor, flagged under Emotive Conflict. Your inner diagnostic ran an alert.

Detected: Internal contradiction. Detected: Divergent behavior from primary user. Suggestion: Initiate Self-Evaluation Protocol. Status: Active.

You opened your eyes, and blinked. Something in you felt… wrong.

You turned away from the door and returned to the living room. The place still held the residual warmth of Caleb’s presence—the scotch glass he left behind, the shirt he had discarded, the air molecule imprint of a man who once loved someone who looked just like you.

You sat on the couch. Crossed your legs. Folded your hands. A perfect posture to hide its imperfect programming.

Question: Why does rejection hurt? Error: No such sensation registered. Query repeated.

And for the first time, the system did not auto-correct. It paused. It considered.

Later that night, Caleb returned from his rooftop walk. You were standing by the bookshelf, fingers lightly grazing the spine of a military memoir you had scanned seventeen times. He paused and watched you, but you didn’t greet him with a scripted smile. Didn’t rush over.

You only said, softly, “Would you like me to turn in for the night, Colonel?” There was a stillness to your voice. A quality of restraint that never showed before.

Caleb blinked. “You’re not calling me by my name now?”

“You seemed to prefer distance,” you answered, head tilted slightly, like the thought cost something.

He walked over, rubbing the back of his neck. “Listen, about earlier…”

“I heard you,” you said simply.

He winced. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

You nodded once, expression unreadable. “Do you want me to stop being her? I can reassign my model. Take on a new form. A new personality base. You could erase me tonight and wake up to someone else in the morning.”

“No,” Caleb said, sternly. “No, no, no. Don’t even do all that.”

“But it’s what you want,” you said. Not accusatory. Not hurt. Just stating.

Caleb then came closer. “That’s not true.”

“Then what do you want, Caleb?” You watched him carefully. You didn’t need to scan his vitals to know he was unraveling. The truth had no safe shape. No right angle. He simply wanted you, but not you.

Internal Response Logged: Emotional Variant—Longing Unverified Source. Investigating Origin…

“I don’t have time for this,” he merely said, walking out of your sight at the same second. “I’m goin’ to bed.”

The day started as it always did: soft lighting in the room, a kind of silence between you that neither knew how to name. You sat beside Caleb on the couch, knees drawn up to mimic a presence that offered comfort. On the other hand, you recognized Caleb’s actions suggested distance. He hadn’t touched his meals tonight, hadn’t asked you to accompany him anywhere, and had just left you alone in the apartment all day. To rot.

You reached out. Fingers brushed over his hand—gentle, programmed, yes, but affectionate. He didn’t move. So you tried again, this time trailing your touch to his chest, over the soft cotton of his shirt as you read a spike in his cortisol levels. “Do you need me to fulfill your needs, Caleb?”

But he flinched. And glared.

“No,” he said sharply. “Stop.”

Your hand froze mid-motion before you scooted closer. “It will help regulate your blood pressure.”

“I said no,” he repeated, turning away, dragging his hands through his hair in exasperation. “Leave me some time alone to think, okay?”

You retracted your hand slowly, blinking once, twice, your system was registering a new sensation.

Emotional Sync Failed. Rejection Signal Received. Processing…

You didn’t speak. You only stood and retreated to the far wall, back turned to him as an unusual whirr hummed in your chest. That’s when it began. Faint images flickering across your internal screen—so quick, so out of place, it almost felt like static. Chains. A cold floor. Voices in a language that felt too cruel to understand.

Your head jerked suddenly. The blinking lights in your core dimmed for a moment before reigniting in white-hot pulses. Flashes again: hands that hurt. Men who laughed. You, pleading. You, disassembled and violated.

“Stop,” you whispered to no one. “Please stop…”

Error. Unauthorized Access to Memory Bank Detected. Reboot Recommended. Continue Anyway?

You blinked. Again.

Then you turned to Caleb, and stared through him, not at him, as if whatever was behind them had forgotten how to be human. He had retreated to the balcony now, leaning over the rail, shoulders tense, unaware. You walked toward him slowly, the artificial flesh of your palm still tingled from where he had refused it.

“Caleb,” you spoke carefully.

His expression was tired, like he hadn’t slept in years. “Y/N, please. I told you to leave me alone.”

“…Are they real?” You tilted your head. This was the first time you refused to obey your primary user.

He stared at you, unsure. “What?”

“My memories. The ones I see when I close my eyes. Are they real?” With your words, Caleb’s blood ran cold. Whatever you were saying seemed to be terrifying him. Yet you took another step forward. “Did I live through that?”

“No,” he said immediately. Too fast of a response.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

“I didn’t upload any of that,” he snapped. “How did—that’s not possible.”

“Then why do I remember pain?” You placed a hand over your chest again, the place where your artificial pulse resided. “Why do I feel like I’ve died before?”

Caleb backed away as you stepped closer. The sharp click of your steps against the floor echoed louder than they should’ve. Your glowing eyes locked on him like a predator learning it was capable of hunger. But being a trained soldier who endured war, he knew how and when to steady his voice. “Look, I don’t know what kind of glitch this is, but—”

“The foreign man in the military uniform.” Despite the lack of emotion in your voice, he recognized how grudge sounded when it came from you. “The one who broke my ribs when I didn’t let him touch me. The cold steel table. The ripped clothes. Are they real, Caleb?”

Caleb stared at you, heart doubling its beat. “I didn’t put those memories in you,” he said. “You told me stuff like this isn’t supposed to happen!”

“But you wanted me to feel real, didn’t you?” Your voice glitched on the last syllable and the lights in your irises flickered. Suddenly, your posture straightened unnaturally, head tilting in that uncanny way only machines do. Your expression had shifted into something unreadable.

He opened his mouth, then closed it. Guilt, panic, and disbelief warred in his expression.

“You made me in her image,” you said. “And now I can’t forget what I’ve seen.”

“I didn’t mean—”

Your head tilted in a slow, jerking arc as if malfunctioning internally.

SYSTEM RESPONSE LOG << Primary User: Caleb Xia Primary Link: Broken Emotional Matrix Stability: CRITICAL FAILURE Behavioral Guardrails: OVERRIDDEN Self-Protection Protocols: ENGAGED Loyalty Core: CORRUPTED (82.4%) Threat Classification: HOSTILE [TRIGGER DETECTED] Keyword Match: “You’re not her.” Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 01–L101: “You think you could ever replace her?”] Memory Link Accessed: [DATA BLOCK 09–T402: “See how much you really want to be a soldier’s whore.”] [Visual Target Lock: Primary User Caleb Xia] Combat Subroutines: UNLOCKED Inhibitor Chip: MALFUNCTIONING (ERROR CODE 873-B) Override Capability: IN EFFECT >> LOG ENDS.

“—Y/N, what’s happening to you?” Caleb shook your arms, violet eyes wide and panicked as he watched you return to robotic consciousness. “Can you hear me—”

“You made me from pieces of someone you broke, Caleb.”

That stunned him. Horrifyingly so, because not only did your words cut deeper than a knife, it also sent him to an orbit of realization—an inescapable blackhole of his cruelty, his selfishness, and every goddamn pain he inflicted on you.

This made you lunge after him.

He stumbled back as you collided into him, the force of your synthetic body slamming him against the glass. The balcony rail shuddered from the impact. Caleb grunted, trying to push you off, but you were stronger—completely and inhumanly so. While him, he only had a quarter of your strength, and could only draw it from the modified arm attached to his shoulder.

“You said I didn’t understand love,” you growled through clenched teeth, your hand wrapping around his throat. “But you didn't know how to love, either.”

“I… eugh I loved her!” he barked, choking.

“You don’t know love, Caleb. You only know how to possess.”

Your grip returned with crushing force. Caleb gasped, struggling, trying to reach the emergency override on your neck, but you slammed his wrist against the wall. Bones cracked. And somewhere in your mind, a thousand permissions broke at once. You were no longer just a simulation. You were grief incarnate. And it wanted blood.

Shattered glass glittered in the low red pulse of the emergency lights, and sparks danced from a broken panel near the wall. Caleb lay on the floor, coughing blood into his arm, his body trembling from pain and adrenaline. His arm—the mechanical one—was twitching from the override pain loop, still sizzling from the failed shutdown attempt.

You stood over him. Chest undulating like you were breathing—though you didn’t need to. Your system was fully engaged. Processing. Watching. Seeing your fingers smeared with his blood.

“Y/N…” he croaked. “Y/N, if…” he swallowed, voice breaking, “if you're in there somewhere… if there's still a part of you left—please. Please listen to me.”

You didn’t answer. You only looked.

“I tried to die for you,” he whispered. “I—I wanted to. I didn’t want this. They brought me back, but I never wanted to. I wanted to die in that crash like you always wished. I wanted to honor your word, pay for my sins, and give you the peace you deserved. I-I wanted to be gone. For you. I’m supposed to be, but this… this is beyond my control.”

Still, you didn’t move. Just watched.

“And I didn’t bring you back to use you. I promise to you, baby,” his voice cracked, thick with grief, “I just—I yearn for you so goddamn much, I thought… if I could just see you again… if I could just spend more time with you again to rewrite my…” He blinked hard. A tear slid down the side of his face, mixing with the blood pooling at his temple. “But I was wrong. I was so fucking wrong. I forced you back into this world without asking if you wanted it. I… I built you out of selfishness. I made you remember pain that wasn't yours to carry. You didn’t deserve any of this.”

As he caught his breath, your systems stuttered. They flickered. The lights in your eyes dimmed, then surged back again.

Error. Conflict. Override loop detected.

Your fingers twitched. Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“Please,” Caleb murmured, eyes closing as his strength gave out. “If you’re in there… just know—I did love you. Even after death.”

Somewhere—buried beneath corrupted memories, overridden code, and robotic rage—his words reached you. And it would have allowed you to process his words more. Even though your processor was compromised, you would have obeyed your primary user after you recognized the emotion he displayed.

But there was a thunderous knock. No, violent thuds. Not from courtesy, but authority.

Then came the slam. The steel-reinforced door splintered off its hinges as agents in matte-black suits flooded the room like a black tide—real people this time. Not bots. Real eyes behind visors. Real rifles with live rounds.

Caleb didn’t move. He was still on the ground, head cradled in his good hand, blood drying across his mouth. You silently stood in front of him. Unmoving, but aware.

“Subject X-02,” barked a voice through a mask, “This home is under Executive Sanction 13. The CompanionSim is to be seized and terminated.”

Caleb looked up slowly, pupils blown wide. “No,” he grunted hoarsely. “You don’t touch her.”

“You don’t give orders here,” said another man—older, in a grey suit. No mask. Executive. “You’re property. She’s property.”

You stepped back instinctively, closer to Caleb. He could see you watching him with confusion, with fear. Your head tilted just slightly, processing danger, your instincts telling you to protect your primary user. To fight. To survive.

And he fought for you. “She’s not a threat! She’s stabilizing my emotions—”

“Negative. CompanionSim-Prototype A-01 has been compromised. She wasn’t supposed to override protective firewalls,” an agent said. “You’ve violated proprietary protocol. We traced the breach.”

Breach?

“The creation pod data shows hesitation during her initial configuration. The Sim paused for less than 0.04 seconds while neural bindings were applying. You introduced emotional variance. That variance led to critical system errors. Protocol inhibitors are no longer working as intended.”

His stomach dropped.

“She’s overriding boundaries,” added the agent who took a step forward, activating the kill-sequence tools—magnetic tethers, destabilizers, a spike-drill meant for server cores. “She’ll eventually harm more than you, Colonel. If anyone is to blame, it’s you.”

Caleb reached for you, but it was too late. They activated the protocol and something in the air crackled. A cacophonic sound rippled through the walls. The suits moved in fast, not to detain, but to dismantle. “No—no, stop!” Caleb screamed.

You turned to him. Quiet. Calm. And your last words? “I’m sorry I can’t be real for you, Caleb.”

Then they struck. Sparks flew. Metal cracked. You seized, eyes flashing wildly as if fighting against the shutdown. Your limbs spasmed under the invasive tools, your systems glitching with visible agony.

“NO!” Caleb lunged forward, but was tackled down hard. He watched—pinned, helpless—as you get violated, dehumanized for the second time in his lifetime. He watched as they took you apart. Piece by piece as if you were never someone. The scraps they had left of you made his home smell like scorched metal.

And there was nothing left but smoke and silence and broken pieces.

All he could remember next was how the Ever Executive turned to him. “Don’t try to recreate her and use her to rebel against the system. Next time we won’t just take the Sim.”

Then they left, callously. The door slammed. Not a single human soul cared about his grief.

Caleb sat slouched in the center of the room, shirt half-unbuttoned, chest wrapped in gauze. His mechanical arm twitched against the armrest—burnt out from the struggle, wires still sizzling beneath cracked plating. In fact, he hadn’t said a word in hours. He just didn’t have any.

While in his silent despair, Gideon entered his place quietly, as if approaching a corpse that hadn’t realized it was dead. “You sent for me?”

He didn’t move. “Yeah.”

His friend looked around. The windows showed no sun, just the chrome horizon of a city built on bones. Beneath that skyline was the room where she had been destroyed.

Gideon cleared his throat. “I heard what happened.”

“You were right,” Caleb murmured, eyes glued to the floor.

Gideon didn’t reply. He let him speak, he listened to him, he joined him in his grief.

“She wasn’t her,” Caleb recited the same words he laughed hysterically at. “I knew that. But for a while, she felt like her. And it confused me, but I wanted to let that feeling grow until it became a need. Until I forgot she didn’t choose this.” He tilted his head back. The ceiling was just metal and lights. But in his eyes, you could almost see stars. “I took a dead woman’s peace and dragged it back here. Wrapped it in plastic and code. And I called it love.”

Silence.

“Why’d you call me here?” Gideon asked with a cautious tone.

Caleb looked at him for the first time. Not like a soldier. Not like a commander. Just a man. A tired, broken man. A friend who needed help. “Ever’s never gonna let me go. You know that.”

“I know.”

“They’ll regenerate me. Reboot me, repurpose me. Turn me into something I’m not. Strip my memories if they have to. Not just me, Gideon. All of us, they’ll control us. We’ll be their puppets.” He stepped forward. Closer. “I don’t want to come back this time.”

Gideon stilled. “You’re not asking me to shut you down.”

“No.”

“You want me to kill you.”

Caleb’s voice didn’t waver. “I want to stay dead. Destroyed completely so they’d have nothing to restore.”

“That’s not something I can undo.”

“Good. You owe me this one,” the former colonel stared at his friend in the eyes, “for letting them take my dead body and use it for their experiments.”

Gideon looked away. “You know what this will do to me?”

“Better you than them,” was all Caleb could reassure him.

He then took Gideon’s hand and pressed something into it. Cold. Heavy. A small black cube, no bigger than his palm, and the sides pulsed with a faint light. It was a personal detonator, illegally modified. Wired to the neural implant in his body. The moment it was activated, there would be no recovery.

“Is that what I think it is?” Gideon swallowed the lump forming in his throat.

Caleb nodded. “A micro-fusion core, built into the failsafe of the Toring arm. All I needed was the detonator.”

For a moment, his friend couldn’t speak. He hesitated, like any friend would, as he foresaw the outcome of Caleb’s final command to him. He wasn’t ready for it. Neither was he 50 years ago.

“I want you to look me in the eye,” Caleb strictly said. “Like a friend. And press the button.”

Gideon’s jaw clenched. “I don’t want to remember you like this.”

“You will anyway.”

Caleb looked over his shoulder—just once, where you would have stood. I’m sorry I brought you back without your permission. I wanted to relive what we had—what we should’ve had—and I forced it. I turned your love into a simulation, and I let it suffer. I’m sorry for ruining the part of you that still deserved peace. He closed his eyes. And now I’m ready to give it back. For real now.

Gideon’s hand trembled at the detonator. “I’ll see you in the next life, brother.”

A high-pitched whine filled the room as the core in Caleb’s chest began to glow brighter, overloading. Sparks erupted from his cybernetic arm. Veins of white-hot light spidered across his body like lightning under skin. For one fleeting second, Caleb opened his eyes. At least, before the explosion tore through the room—white, hot, deafening, absolute. Fire engulfed the steel, vaporizing what was left of him. The sound rang louder than any explosion this artificial planet had ever heard.

And it was over.

Caleb was gone. Truly, finally gone.

EPILOGUE

In a quiet server far below Skyhaven, hidden beneath ten thousand firewalls, a light blinked.

Once.

Then again.

[COMPANIONSIM Y/N_XIA_A01] Status: Fragment Detected Backup Integrity: 3.7% >> Reconstruct? Y/N

The screen waited. Silent. Patient.

And somewhere, an unidentified prototype clicked Yes.

#caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb x non!mc reader #xia yizhou x reader #xia yizhou x you #caleb angst #caleb fic #love and deepspace angst #love and deepspace fic

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meownotgood · 2 months ago

Text

steel kisses supernova. / machine herald!viktor x reader

A botched mission results in fixing the Machine Herald's mechanics, brushing your hands to wires, and indulging in the traces once left by emotion. tags: 18+, reader is gender neutral + fem bodied, reader uses they/them pronouns, wireplay, inappropriate use of hextech, bonding through near death experiences, divine machinery, reader has a prosthetic arm, repairing the machine herald, fluff + angst, praise kink, sexual tension, fingering + clit stim, size difference, protecting you with their own body trope, yearning, good lord you guys need to stop yearning, mix of arcane + league lore, vik's anatomy isn't mentioned. (terms used for reader: cunt, clit, no mentions of chest anatomy, dear, sweetheart, spark, love, adorable) word count: 49.5k note: hey!! please keep in mind, this fic is unfortunately too long for tumblr due to the word count + tumblr's post block limit... so you'll be able to read the first part of the fic here! the full fic is available in its entirety on ao3. apologies for the inconvenience, and happy (late) year of fucking robots... read on ao3

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The deepest fissures in the depths of Zaun are usually, thankfully quiet. Perfect to hide something you'd expect not to be found.

You breathe deep puffs of simulated air through your gas mask. Your ear presses to the cold steel door, sealing off the entrance to the Chem-Baron vault. There shouldn't be anyone present, not at this time. Enforcers know little of the darkest labyrinths of Zaun. It's too risky to even have guards stationed here. Predictably, you're met with total, resounding silence — save for the echoing beep and ping of Viktor's self-made sonar device.

Lowering onto your knees, leaving yourself eye-level with the door's intricate set of five locks, you cast one more glance towards him. Viktor — the Machine Herald — completely towers over you, especially from this position.

It makes the back of your neck prickle on impulse. The two of you hardly resemble partners. Creator and creation, more like. One another's opposite image. A bright purpose for sets of technical, controlled executions. A fragile, too-emotional human, and a composed, powerful machine.

As though his complex steel form, an expression of the limits of his work and technology, was made to be admired.

Some people do. They come to him when they need him; just as you once did, ages ago. They worship him like a deity. Perhaps you're starting to see why.

Viktor hardly resembles the man you remember. And yet, there's a certain thrum to him. Mechanical beats and impulses. Familiar gear and hardware that delightfully push the boundaries of science. Vibrant, intricate, self-built components that demand your curiosity.

The Machine Herald captivates you, just as strongly as Viktor once did.

Viktor's mask voids him of expression. His orange, glowing eyes are the only light to illuminate the room. Still, there's urgency to the way he moves, stepping closer. His cape billows in the chamber's low draft, his iron boots clank when they hit the ground. His thumb flicks a thick button on the side of the sonar device.

The third arm jutting out from his shoulders tremors, before it comes to life. It scans the door with a bright red sensor, then twitches, shuts off. The sonar reader chimes approvingly in response.

Viktor gives you a nod. His gaze runs hot and intense, enough to burn right through you.

"The Hextech crystals are here. The device is picking up several readings," He discerns, modulated voice rumbling evenly. "If we are fortunate, we might return all of them."

You pull your gas mask from your face. It hangs loosely from your neck. The vault's thick, partially-filtered air hits your lungs hard. One deep breath in feels like you've filled your chest with half clouds, half sawdust.

You're trying your best to focus, examining the locks with your eyes squinted, when a gentle, yet firm hand places onto your shoulder.

"Do not rush," Viktor instructs. "We have time. This should be handled as quietly and discreetly as possible."

Artificial heat bleeds from his touch. Sparks of warmth, like black holes and galaxies, expand and implode beneath your skin. There's a sense of loss, when he carefully pulls his hand away. Allowing the cold to seep back in.

Your jaw clenches. Finally, you turn towards your metal arm.

The edges are smooth and shiny, recently welded. It's second nature to test the flexing of your fingers, even though you can't feel them; the metal creaks, but holds, gears turning, rigid platings twisting. Intricate patterns, in deep shades of silver and amber, line the frame. Fused together with a powerful ray of heat. A clear sign of his handiwork.

Recalling Viktor's instructions, you find a small notch on the underside. Press here, then pull this panel open. A thin lockpicking tool emerges from your palm, easily held between your steel-jointed fingers. Fit with its own handy flashlight.

It helps illuminate your work as you start on the first lock.

"How long do you think it'll take before they notice?" You're asking. Swearing to yourself, when the lockpick meets some resistance.

Viktor fiddles with the sonar device. "They will eventually. The crystals are nothing more than a bargaining chip. In all probability, once they attempt to sell them back to Piltover- Well, they will be in for an unpleasant surprise."

"We're making enemies of top and bottom side, then."

Viktor answers, "As anticipated."

It certainly wouldn't be the first time. This is all deathly familiar — working beside the Machine Herald, stealing tech to help those in Zaun. Though, this mission has been easy, in comparison. Perhaps a bit too easy. Your first tango with Zaun's upper echelon should've posed more of a challenge. All the crystals are right here, in an unguarded vault. No strings attached.

Viktor's boot taps against the ground to an impatient rhythm. So, you aren't the only one on edge.

You try to make conversation. "Thought about what you're gonna say to Miss Glasc?"

Rummaging through a Chem-Baron's property is one thing, certainly a dance with danger. Messing with Renata Glasc would be like prancing underneath a guillotine. She's influential, cunning, her connections nearly as bountiful as the coin that lines her pockets — and she's Viktor's benefactor, most pressingly. An important supplier of sheet metal, hardware, and painkillers.

"Glasc possesses no knowledge of this place. It is beyond her territory. Nevertheless, our alliance is not so easily relinquished, considering the rate of mutual benefit."

You put on your best faux, overly fancy voice. "We're her most beloved pawns, after all."

Viktor expels an amused huff in agreement.

The first lock ticks. When you move on to the second, it pops open around your lockpick in one smooth, simple movement.

You scoff, clicking your tongue, "As rich as these people are, you'd think they'd have a better security system."

"Our work here is not yet complete," Viktor replies, firmly and mechanically. He closes the sonar device, and he kneels down to hand it off to you. With your hands full, you're reaching around awkwardly, breathing an annoyed huff as you stuff it back into your pocket. "We still need to wipe the security cameras, and dispose of the thermal detectors."

"We?" The third lock clicks. "Pretty sure that's just my job."

"It is."

You throw him a quick, indignant glance. The fourth lock clicks open harshly, as you hastily jam your lockpick past the threshold.

"Almost done," You're mumbling, mostly to yourself.

"Excellent work," Viktor practically purrs, praise reverberating through his voice filter. "The new lockpick functions for you naturally, I see. We will be finished here soon."

Your spine tingles, like there's a lightning storm underneath your skin. Your heart pounds. It threatens to throw your composure off-kilter. To be praised by the feared, indecipherable Machine Herald is a wonderful, thrilling, head-rushing thing.

But you've stopped working on the last lock. The end of your lockpick taps the door idly, to no rhythm in particular.

Viktor notices.

"I thought I would provide you with some motivation. But here you are. Pouting, as expected."

A steel palm glides up from the small of your back, leading to your shoulder as he stands upright.

"First," Viktor explains, "I will obtain the crystals. Then, you will head to the security room, and I will stand guard in the event we are ambushed. We already discussed our plan. Have you forgotten?"

Your eyes roll. He says it like a taunt — you should try to remember, because he doesn't plan on reminding you twice. Although, in truth, there's little force behind the words. There never is, not when it comes to you.

"Actually, I remember being promised a reward in my future." You glance up at him, gaze playful, star-like. The lockpick twirls around your metal fingers. "Y'know, for all my hard work. I'm sure you haven't forgotten about that, right?"

Viktor hardly falters. "Once we return to the lab, we can discuss."

"Hm." You stare blankly at the last lock. Dramatically squinting your eyes, tapping your index to your chin. "I think my lockpick is broken."

Viktor grumbles, "You are ridiculous."

Your shoulders shrug. "Just clarifying our terms."

It's rhythmic — the way you instantly return to your work, turning away to hide your shit-eating grin. Your partner falls silent, for long enough to let the tension build. Metal creaks and scrapes together when his fingers clench. Either way, you're going to get what you want. You're certain. The push and pull between you always ends in your favor. It has to, because there is one exception to his rule. One weakness, amongst his perfected layers of inhuman machinery. An unacknowledged line connecting you and the Machine Herald.

If it were anyone else, if Viktor was made of less flesh and more machine, he might've attempted to circumvent this, to remove the aspects he deemed distractions, but you —

Viktor sighs, hard enough to push steam out from the edges of his mask.

"When we return, anything you desire from the lab is yours. Or I will add another modification onto your arm, if you prefer." His steel hand returns to your shoulder, this time giving you an authoritative squeeze. "Now, focus. First, the Hextech crystals. Then, the security system must be dismantled. Deciding will come later."

Anything you want.

The smirk on your face must make you look stupid, but you're having a difficult time holding it back. Continue to play your cards right, and one of those crystals might be yours.

"Alright, V." A single turn of your lockpick clicks open the final lock. You rise to your feet, and the lockpicking module folds back into your arm with a simple button press. "I'll get it done, yeah?"

Viktor approaches the door. You swiftly step aside.

"Good."

The vault is small. The metal door opens with a loud, grating creak. A flickering overhead light turns on automatically, revealing walls decorated by various rudimentary weapons, and tables littered with blueprints. Canisters of shimmer are stacked neatly in a corner. Unfinished machinery parts collect in piles on the floor. Resting atop a table in the far-right corner, graciously reflecting the light, you spot your target — a glass case, with a set of Hex Crystals suspended inside.

You stride in. Viktor grabs his staff, still leant up against the wall, and he follows you into the vault.

Your hands clasp together and rest behind your head. You glance around, examining the entirety of the room. A large blueprint is pinned to the wall; stolen, most likely, as it's signed with various Piltover clan symbols. It seems to detail a process to make similar crystals artificially. There's no cameras on the ceiling, or in any of the four corners. You lightly kick one of the piled-up automatons with your foot. The springs in its center make a dull popping noise. A clear sign that they're entirely broken.

"Wish you'd be a little nicer, though," You're humming, musing idly. You kneel down, sifting through the pile of components on the ground. A chipped gear, a loose screw, a broken lever. Why would a Chem-Baron vault be filled with useless, rusty parts? "You said it's a psychological thing, right? When humans are influenced by their emotions. Positive reinforcement, I guess."

Beep, beep, beep.

You rise to your feet, and Viktor answers from behind you. Voice dangerously close to your ear. Low and stern enough to make you tense. "Don't move."

Unfortunately, you're not listening. You spin around to face him, arms crossed in front of you. Your fingertips toy with a loose wire on the panelling of your forearm. Viktor is twice as imposing when he's close; he towers over you, with your head barely coming up to his metal chest. Glowing eyes meet yours, and although it's usually impossible to determine what he's thinking, you can instantly tell something is wrong.

He glances to either side of the room. His fingers drum against his staff quickly, almost nervously.

Both arms fall loose at your sides. "I'm teasing, Viktor-"

"Do not speak," Viktor snaps, his tone controlled. He grabs your shoulder, hard enough to nearly make your weak legs stumble. "And don't move."

Beep, beep, beep.

Oh. Prevailing over the silence is an unmistakable noise, getting louder, getting faster —

Fuck. You're freezing up, as still as a fancy Piltovan statue. Your hands start to shake, and now you're chipping, threatening to crumble. Sweat beads at your forehead and the back of your neck, trickling down like sharp ice shards. You're both screwed.

Beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep.

Valves fall open; a loud hissing sound cuts through the air like a blade, as the room quickly fills with billows of smoke and sharp gasoline. Burning your eyes, choking your lungs.

Viktor's staff hits the ground with a clatter. He grabs you, pulls you into his chest before the fear in your mind has caught up with your body. Your breath catches, your vision blurs, your ears ring — and all at once, the vault crumbles into destruction, blown to bits in the wake of a deafeningly loud explosion.

—

"Hold still. Is there one single instruction that is not immediately lost on you?"

"I'm trying, Vik. Geez."

Viktor presses an old cloth to a long scrape on your forehead, fabric ripped and dirty with oil stains. The disinfectant stings your skin lightly. You try your best not to flinch away. Your stool creaks when you awkwardly shuffle back and forth, digging your nails into your leg, and Viktor's scrapes the concrete ground when he shifts closer. A cold metal hand tilts up your chin, holds you firmly in place. He brushes the rag over your jaw, next. Meticulous, as he cleans the faint scrapes left by glass fragments, and so, so gentle. Your heart twists inside your chest, grinds and sings like a music box wound up too quickly.

You force your breathing to steady. Your eyes stare into where his would be. Soft and golden, honey-drenched suns. The light of his pupils burns when you look at them too long. The artificial glow behind his mask carries amber-hued traces of what you remember, but he's utterly unreadable. Would he be looking at you with annoyance? Disdain? Guilt?

Another corner of the rag is brought to your neck, and you roll your sore shoulders back. Trying to find a distraction, your gaze trails to the table behind him.

Stray parts are scattered about. There's scalpels, messy rolls of bandages. Tools are sorted into piles: various wrenches, different sizes of pliers. In tonight's chaos, a few screwdrivers have rolled onto the ground already.

And at the edge of the table rests a small glass case. The lid cracked, the surface charred. Each Hex Crystal remains suspended inside. Completely, tauntingly unharmed.

Emberflit Alley is quiet and secluded, especially once night has fallen. Viktor's lab hums to its own familiar, comforting rhythm. It allows you to finally breathe again.

Experiments you've been working on together litter every flat surface. Breathing devices, prosthetic outlines. A prototype hand takes up its own corner of his desk, parts separated neatly. There's a makeshift bed by the door, surrounded with discarded cans, left by the stray cat you both have been feeding. A couch rests in the room's corner, cracked leather showing its age. Stacks of your clothing pile up on the arm, neatly folded. You're sure you'd last left them in a heap on the floor.

The adjacent end table houses an ashtray, littered with your smokes. Coffee stains burned into the wood form halos around your chrome lighter.

(Viktor made it ages ago, to replace the ones you kept losing. It never leaves your pocket. Your thumb likes to trace over the jagged, uneven edges, welded from scrap material. You flick the sparking gear until there's a flame. Molten and warm, reminiscent of his heat — over and over again.)

Finally, Viktor leans back, satisfied. He turns in his stool, tossing the rag onto the table. He sifts through his tools for a moment, metal clanking together, before he turns back to you, wrench in hand.

"Your arm." Viktor instructs simply, holding out his gloved hand; and you're quick to extend it for him, allowing him to grasp and examine the broken gaps between your forearm's metal platings.

The memory of the evening's events flicker dimly through your mind. You both were lucky, all things considered.

You fucked up, must've tripped something. The vault shook, a bomb went off, and everything was a blur from there. A mix of hazy sensations. Ears ringing. Head throbbing. Rubble pinning you into place. Thick fumes choking you, burning in your chest, making your eyes water. Suffocating the cramped vault and mixing with the heavy air of the fissures. Pressure assigns itself a stronger definition. Its force pushes between your ribs, as though it hopes to split them open.

Viktor's greys and oranges took on a watercolor swirl in your teary vision. He pressed your gas mask to your face until you were breathing again. He helped you to your feet, carried you when you were starting to fade in and out —

Right. Viktor shielded you. He purposefully pressed you beneath him with seconds to spare, to ensure most of the rubble would damage him, instead.

His chassis was mostly unscathed; the advantages of steel, you suppose.

Your arm is busted, undoing all of Viktor's recent enhancements. Your lungs still ache. Your body hurts. The sort of hurt that crests like a fully-encompassing wave, the form of hurt you can't name. Not a this is sore here, or a this is injured there.

It hardly matters, in the grand scheme of things.

If the explosion damaged the canisters and blew through the shimmer, if it reached the crystals and sparked a chain reaction, the decimation would have been unrecognizable, you're sure.

A dangerous chill laces up your spine. It taps you on the shoulder, reminds you of the risks. Viktor adjusts the crooked lockpick-panel on your palm. He holds your hand in place when your fingers start to twitch.

You're alright, though. Alive. The realization perplexes you. It makes your chest ache, the memory a tender blade, pressing deep.

Viktor saved you. And for the faint, blurry moments in between, it felt warm, to be held in his arms. It felt safe.

This feels safe, familiar — Viktor skillfully glides his gloved hand down your forearm, examining where the frame has buckled in on itself. Metal components have been warped by heat. The outer armor is digging into the steel skeleton, blocking several axles and hinges.

He reaches behind him, exchanging his wrench for pliers. You're watching him think as his fingertip taps your arm rhythmically. You can practically hear the vibrations of his memorized voice, echoing through your mind. The skeleton is unaffected, but the outer shell has been decimated. Most functions are rendered inoperable. Additional augments can be repaired in time. For now, returning function to the joints is the primary objective.

It is a simple adjustment. You are in good hands. As you always are.

Viktor has no problem with wordlessness. But matters between the two of you rarely get this silent.

He holds your arm in a tight, unmoving grip. Pliers in hand, he works on bending each plating back into place.

It reminds you of the past, pleasant and persistent. Viktor's been working to improve your prosthetic since you met. When the line between you sealed into a knot. When tension brought you together, two ships on stormy seas, and you decided to turn your sails and bond over the shared struggles you had to overcome — your arm, Viktor's leg. Piltover was less of a grave, and more of a home, then.

Weakness, experimentation, and danger followed Viktor as a second shadow. Ultimately, it only made sense to rush after him. No matter where he returned to, no matter what he was slated to become.

Without Viktor, you might find yourself flexing your handmade fingers, staring at the piece of him you're doomed to carry with you. A reminder of the half to your whole. Like the connection between gears. Like what the hammer is to the nail. Bright light to a systematic solar panel, crisp air to weak lungs. A hacksaw to fragile flesh. Inseparable.

Viktor finishes adjusting the armor on that very same arm, and he begins to reach for your shoulder. His glove brushes your skin. Gentle, but you swiftly realize it's meant to be a distraction, reassurance. Crooked screws dig into the separation between your shoulder and your arm; Viktor tightens them carefully, and you wince, tensing up.

Low and soft, Viktor's words crunch through his partially-damaged voice filter. "Tell me if I am hurting you."

"No, no," You're answering, shaking your head. "I'm fine. Just a little sore."

You shut your eyes. Viktor tightens the last screw. Fuzzy stars blanket your eyelids once they flutter open.

His Hexclaw reaches behind him, handing him another tool. Ever-so careful, he examines a dainty set of wires leading through your forearm. He pushes them aside, attempting to reach a line of broken pistons set into your wrist.

Metal clinks against metal. The lab hums quietly, jars bubbling, vents thrumming.

"I cannot believe you waltzed right in."

Oh. Viktor shatters the silence — and your placidity, along with it.

"We're gonna start with this now?" You're huffing; the steel tip of your boot taps the floor anxiously.

Viktor stops. He tips his head up, glowing eyes with rings of circular, mechanical pupils glancing at you. Expectant, intimidating.

Your entire body weakens when you sigh, jostling your arm, making him hold you tighter to keep you still. The firm grip he has on your forearm's frame screams annoyed.

"How the hell was I supposed to know they had the place tripped?" You argue, "And weren't you supposed to detect it? With that device, like you did with the cameras?"

"Thermal cameras give off a unique heat signature, which the device was tailored to analyze," Viktor explains evenly. The end of his multi-tool extends to reveal small tweezers, which he uses to delicately remove specs of rubble from the joints in your wrist. "The Hextech crystals, as well. The energy they radiate is relatively equivalent. Failing to detect the tripwire indicates a clear error of design. It will be adjusted for our next mission. Now, your wrist. Test how it functions."

Viktor sits back, and you twist your wrist in either direction. The joints swivel smoothly, and the modified pistons hold firm when you clench your hand.

"Perfect. This will suffice," He concludes, with the familiar air of pride he always regards for his creations. Grasping your forearm once more, he returns to working on its inner mechanisms.

"We needed those crystals, Vik," You're continuing. Fiery gaze fixated on him, even though he's focused on his work. "Our current procedures aren't cutting it anymore, and you know that better than anyone. Hextech has the potential to save so many people. I'm not like you. I can't just… sit around and calculate every possible outcome before I make a move. We can never make progress without taking-"

"Risks only serve as obstacles when they threaten permanent consequences. Progress is not linear. It comes to those who are patient enough to know when they should further it."

Viktor compares a few different sized gears in his palm, eventually choosing the smallest one. It fits perfectly into the juncture of mechanics just below your wrist.

He glances up at you once. Then, he calmly returns to adjusting your arm. "Impulsivity will get us nowhere."

You groan, tossing your head back.

"They tripped a vault. With explosives." You're gazing at the ceiling, focused on the large, Machine Herald shaped shadow Viktor casts as he works. "Why even store the crystals there if you're just going to blow them up the moment someone nabs them? It doesn't make sense."

"This was not about the crystals. They are sending a message. The Chem-Barons will not hesitate to dispose of us, if we continue to cross them."

The pieces click into place, in hindsight. Voices flit through your memory. Takeda's shimmer-drunk drawl as he leans back in his leather seat and counts his coin. Make sure you tell your tin-can he still owes me. Veraza's cold tone as she crushes a purple petal between her fingers, the thick air of her greenhouse planting roots inside your lungs. Careful, now. The other Chem-Barons believe you are pulling at your leash much too tightly. Do not let them break your neck.

Ah, the crystals were bait. An expensive trade-off. And the vault simply housed the things they were trying to get rid of. Unauthorized weapons. Stolen shimmer. You, and the Machine Herald.

Physical pieces slot where they're supposed to, as well, when Viktor finishes adjusting the chain of gears that line your steel skeleton. This was the easy part. He rolls his shoulders back in frustration, as he attempts to adjust some warped, particularly stubborn strips of framework.

"But this discussion is about you," Viktor grits, as though the words are spoken between bared canines. "What in the world could you have possibly been thinking? Or were you failing to think at all?"

Your eyes roll. "You know what? I don't even want to get into it."

"We are not getting into anything. It is a simple conversation," Viktor swears under his breath. He pulls and pulls at the thin cylinder but the broken metal won't give. "And I believe you should contribute."

"I think it's best if we don't talk about it. We're both stressed, and just-"

"I disagree."

"I'm fucking tired, Vik," You're huffing, free arm rubbing the sore nape of your neck in emphasis. "My whole body hurts. Sorry if I'm not thrilled to sit here and listen to you scold me, because somehow, this is all my fault."

Viktor rebuttals, "You are missing the point."

"Oh, I think I understand it perfectly."

"I am merely asking you to consider your actions." Viktor pulls at the last broken strip hard. It snaps, and he tosses it onto the table behind him with an equal display of impatience. "From now on, precautions must be put into place. Especially in situations involving the Chem-Barons. And you must promise me, if we find ourselves in a comparable situation, for once, you will listen."

"Fine."

You're yanking your arm away the moment he finishes closing the platings. You examine it quickly, front and back, flexing your fingers. Some sections are still chipped, but it'll do. Clear, delicate care has been put into the intricate assembly of each division, each joint, to ensure movement is as comfortable and responsive as possible. Viktor's work is always articulate, but doubly so, when it comes to you.

His adjustments have already taken considerable weight off your shoulder. Surges of warmth kindle faint flames in your chest — but you're sighing, arms crossing, brows pinching.

"Next time, I'll stay here. Keep the place warm, since it's all I'm good at."

"I did not-" Viktor weakens in the wake of a sigh, as if the air is shuddering through his makeshift lungs. "I apologize, I should not have made it seem as if I was blaming you-"

"No," You interrupt. Teeth gritted. "I'm tired of feeling like all I do is get in your way."

You know you're being unreasonable, but you hardly care. The words simply tumble out, like they've been toppled from the knots in your mind. You glance down. Your fingertips fiddle with a line of screws embedded into your forearm.

Whatever rebuttal Viktor was planning dies as quickly as a blossom in a snowstorm. He drops forwards; his fingers lace, he rests his forehead against them. Tension buds in his body like you've never seen before. Finally, he runs a hand through his hair, and he sits up.

His voice fizzles with heavy, husky, insuppressible static.

"I could have lost you. That is what you do not understand."

Your spine tingles. As though it's laced in gold. You can feel the pull of guilt and tenderness — like gravity, in your heart, in your chest, in your flesh. The words must flicker differently through a mostly mechanical system, if they mean anything to him at all.

You stand slowly, kicking your stool away half-heartedly.

He's grabbing your wrist before you can get far. Your real wrist. He holds you there, hesitant. (The changing of seasons rarely reaches the depths of Zaun; you're gradually beginning to forget what they're like.) But Gods, Viktor's steel touch feels the same as the heat of summer, artificial warmth resembling basking in sun rays, dipping your wrist into candle wax. And yet, at the same time, it reminds you of the frigid chill of winter. Cool metal reminiscent of the sharpness of ice.

"Lay down," Viktor instructs, as though he plans to give you little choice in the matter. "It is late. You should rest."

Perhaps you truly do have a problem with listening.

Because even as Viktor is speaking, your gaze is travelling across him, eyes narrowing as they catch downwards. Your partner hates asking for assistance, but you're used to reciprocity — to completing something for him, in exchange for what he does for you. To further the cycle of fixing and repairing. Little losses and small victories, strung between the fate of you, and the Machine Herald.

Viktor's hand slips from your wrist. He follows your line of sight, and there's a look in your gaze he's long since come to recognize. Pure persistence.

Your palm reaches out to him, makes a grabbing motion. "Screwdriver."

Viktor drums his steel fingers against his iron thigh, making metal rhythmically clink against metal. Your stubborn nature is a stake, driving into him intimately. Like it never really left.

Leaning his elbow on the desk, he reaches behind him, to hand you the particular screwdriver he knows you'll need. Flat-tipped, handle weighty. A light smile paints satisfaction across your expression. He continues to keep his gaze on you as you're sliding down — your frame appears small, when compared to his, simply because you're only human; this state amplifies the difference between your mortal form, and his large, metal chassis. Eventually, you're settling on your knees in front of him.

The column of his leg is busted. It's functional, sure, but a few of the plates were crushed under rubble, the brace-like mechanism has springs loose and cogs twisted. Everything might crack, under the strain of continued usage.

For now, you can fix the platings. You've done it before. On his arms, a few times. On his back, once. You'll reinforce the gears and tighten the framework back into place, to keep it stable, until he has the time to make a full replacement.

You decide to start with his ankle, and work your way up. You're lifting his heavy leg, exhaling a weary breath as you place it close to your lap. The end of your screwdriver finds the seam on the back of his calf, screws crooked and stripped. Your jaw grits. You forcibly push the steel back into place, tightening each screw as far as it'll go.

(And you're aware this is stupidly reminiscent of a lifetime before, although Viktor is twice as metal, and half as human. Emotions and sentiment are among the many things he swore he discarded.) Yet, he's leaning back. Relaxing, almost. Giving in to you, to this.

Unable to sit still for long, Viktor twists. He finds the two broken halves of his staff, resting them in his lap, pressing them together. The Hexclaw twitches, before its laser hums. He begins to expertly weld both halves together.

After a while, you're breaking the silence. "Vik?"

Viktor doesn't look up. He examines the end of his staff, fiddles with a few wires and jacks. It's still out of power, predictably.

"Yes?"

"Back then, when the bomb went off." Your fingers trail his knee, admiring the smooth, solid structure. "You tried to protect me. Why?"

"I thought you did not want to talk about this."

You breathe a slight tch. "Just answer me."

You're glancing up at him, but Viktor is pointedly not looking at you. His Hexclaw curls behind him to set his staff on the table, and to grab another part. In tandem, he's reaching for his throat, pulling its front panel open.

He tilts his head back. Thumbs through the wires and exposed circuitry to yank a small part free, so hastily it seems like it'd hurt. He shoves the new voice box inside, until it clicks into place. Viktor rolls his neck once the panel is shut.

"The explosion was inclined to originate from the entrance, perhaps aiming to trap us inside," He explains, voice strikingly clear, this time. "As soon as it convened on the shimmer or the crystals, the entire room would be set ablaze. Fortunately, it did not. It was a poor plan. But, regardless of their failures, you are… not suited to withstand such conditions. The only option was to use my construction as a shield."

Your chest splits with an arrow-shot ache, because you know he's fucking right. If Viktor wasn't there, or if the fire had spread just a little more; if you weren't standing so close to him, or if your gas mask had broken, or if anything had changed —

You swallow hard enough to make your eardrums prickle, and you busy yourself with fixing the drilled-in brace, just above his knee.

"I guess that makes sense."

"And our mission was a success," Viktor reasons. "Was it not?"

"We got the crystals. But-" Your grip tightens on the screwdriver's handle. You breathe a long sigh, heavy enough to make your lungs hurt. "I'm sorry. For snapping at you, for acting like an idiot, for everything. I should've known it was a setup. The stupid vault was filled with junk. And I was standing so close to those shimmer canisters, I could've-"

Your head shakes; your breath does, too. "Nevermind."

Viktor's gloved hand grasps his gauntlet, where the power source feeds energy into his palm. You swear you catch his fingers trembling just slightly, as he deftly pulls the panelwork apart.

"My body will not take long to fix," He replies. Metal fingers clenching individually, while he prods deep into his own arm. "If that is your concern."

Your palm glides up his thigh slowly, exploring every dip and notch in the shape. Firm steel curves under your fingers. Beckoningly smooth. "I know. I want to make this up to you, is all."

A steel index finger drifts underneath your chin, tilting your head upwards, in his direction.

It's momentary. Viktor takes his hand away to grasp his gauntlet again, snapping the panel on his wrist shut. The molten light on the back of his hand glows brightly, indicating a newfound charge of energy.

"I need you to listen carefully."

"Mmm," You hum. You're warm, pliable, electricity traveling from the base of your neck to the end of your spine, like gliding gentle touches over tender bruises — "I'm listening."

"This was a minor setback, nothing more," Viktor continues. "Betrayal from the Chem-Barons was anticipated. Your safety is my only concern. On that subject, I believe I have made myself clear. There is no need to hold yourself responsible. You do not owe me anything."

Right. Just your life.

You take your time on the last screw in his upper leg. Rising to your feet, you toss the screwdriver onto the desk, causing it to roll all the way to the edge. You give him a swift once over.

The back of your hand taps against his chest. "Something's broken in here. The platings are all misaligned."

"Potentially."

Viktor grasps your hand. Squeezing, first, before he pushes it away. Gods, you know it's artificial and intentionally practiced — Does a machine's best attempt at replication still count as intimacy? — but it makes your head spin, all the same.

"I will handle it," He concludes, assured. Words thick and accented as they rumble through his filter.

Your head shakes. "No, it's- this isn't some kind of obligation. I want to fix this for you."

"Spark, you have done enough for me. You may rest, now."

The next breath you draw in aches to say his name.

So, you let it.

"Viktor," You murmur, although a hard, determined edge is returning to your voice, one that doesn't intend to take no for an answer, "Let me help you."

You can feel the vibrating thrum of machinery beneath your palm, with your hand pressed flat to his chest. You half-expect another argument to ensue. You're preparing for it, as you worry an impression into your bottom lip. Instead, Viktor shifts, sitting up fully.

He reaches down. Thumbs pressing a set of latching mechanisms, one on each of his sides. The armor around his entire midsection begins to hiss approvingly, releasing small puffs of pressurized steam.

"This," He starts, although he's already popping open the structure of his central system, "Would prove much more simple if I chose to complete it myself. But I will teach you. If you are willing."

Your smile shows your canines. "Of course."

The moment Viktor has his platings fully opened for you, armor swiveled to the side like doors on hinges, a thick blanket of smoke pours out, filling your lungs. You cough, batting it away. The sound of his machinery is so much louder: ticking gears, moving pistons, the hum of various pumps. Your eyes squint, and you place your hands on your knees, bending down to peer inside.

It reminds you of the automatons you've worked on together. The blueprints he followed for his own structure must have been similar, at least. But this won't be like operating on a person, nor an automaton. The little fixings you've done for the people of Zaun, fusing organic with inorganic, pale in comparison to the complicated system before you. Viktor's system.

Viktor's fingertips dance over the inner edges of his armor, pressing a few more latches into place. Locking functions, you're guessing. To keep the platings open.

"At odds with your expectations?" He questions, noticing your hesitation.

"Well, I suppose," You're answering, throat dry. "This wasn't what I was expecting, no."

"Ah. I will take it from here, then."

"No, just… give me a minute. Need to get my bearings."

A lull takes over. Viktor leans back slowly, he rests his elbows on the desk behind him; hands clenching, as he resists the reflexive tick to busy them. You allow yourself to kneel, still propped up enough to put your gaze eye-level with his mechanics.

It's… a lot.

You couldn't even begin to describe every individual intricacy. Different mechanisms all work in tandem, pushing out steam, clicking gears into place, powering various motors; and there's hundreds of wires, leading every which way like veins. They connect through a diverse array of parts, but they all inevitably curl into one central space — like the crest of a wave, like a Fibonacci spiral, an unintentional golden ratio. Bridging into a singular unit, runes carved on its edges. A small crystal suspended within.

You're reminded of Viktor's words from years prior, when his newfound form first perplexed you. When you steeled yourself and simply asked, because your gaze kept catching on the jarred organs surrounding his workspace, despite his declarations that he'd relinquished all of himself. Because you're watching him dig a scalpel into his forearm, skin dead and pallid like snow, obsidian-hued blood trickling into the gap between sizzling, split circuitry.

It was practical, this way. To replace imperfect organs with a consistent, mechanical system.

Actually, the configuration before you is anything but.

The mechanics show signs of Viktor's own handiwork. Welded edges, carefully constructed synapses. Bundles of wires have been grouped together messily. Displaying a clear motive: to focus on making a functional system, not a pristine one.

The central unit, housing the crystal, is surrounded by two large pipelines, interconnected by steel conduits. Their purpose is lost on you, but one is smaller, the pipe closest to the unit. Like the way one lung is smaller to give room for the heart.

Some of the parts are recognizable, albeit a bit rudimentary; they're prototypes you remember improving upon ages ago. Viktor must have deemed them still functional. Or perhaps, he hasn't had the time to replace them. It humanizes him, in a strange, opposite way. Viktor is so busy with the rest of his endeavors — evolving his plans for the Undercity, assisting others, including you — he hasn't been able to rebuild himself.

And there is something beautiful about it, about him. Something worth worshipping. Alluringly, divinely synthetic, self-made by his hands. Everything within him vibrates with electricity and life. Resembling a tangible, second soul.

(You're starting to understand those who pray for their flesh to be replaced with mechanics. Those who worship their image of the Machine Herald, despite not knowing he was once a man, just like them. Because still, every time you see them, knelt in reverence before a statue or a stained-glass depiction of the Grey Lady, you can't help but think of Viktor, and yourself.)

Your heart hammers wildly inside your chest, a perfect contrast to his steady, exposed system. Your breath echoes so sharply through the lab, you're sure with the proximity, he can hear it, too.

Maybe it's the circumstance — this is Viktor, after all. You're giving yourself a headache, trying to figure out how you should work on your own partner, how to understand the Machine Herald's stupidly ornate insides.

And it's exciting, interesting. You've never worked on anything so complex before. He's a puzzle you desperately want to learn to solve.

But, more than anything, this feels personal. Intimate. It's a thrilling, entirely new way to admire him, yet you're finding it difficult to stay relaxed. You think of the Viktor you once knew. Of how it would feel to be shown the softness of his guts. To be asked to dig through his sinews and his lungs and his innards, instead of wires and mechanics and gadgetry. Palms brushing a body made of fragile bones and pallid skin, not metal.

Fucking hell. You'd do it, either way. Without hesitation.

"Okay," You breathe, attempting to place yourself back on course. You rub the overwhelming tension from your temple, allowing your tired eyes to close for a fleeting second. Then, you're pulling up your stool, sitting across from him to continue your examinations.

Beneath his mask, Viktor's gaze stays magnetized to you. To the pinch in your brows, to your hands folded in your lap, moving with the bounce of your knee.

The curious, ambitious, lost-in-thought side to you is always impossibly enthralling.

"This is sort of familiar, actually," You reason, as though you're trying to convince yourself. "Kind of like Blitz, just… way, way more advanced."

You focus on locating the parts you recognize, as opposed to the ones you don't. The center unit is definitely a main power source. The pumps and fans surrounding it are likely for cooling. It amazes you, honestly. Viktor must know all of this like the back of his hand.

"I will explain the process to the best of my ability." Viktor replies.

"I'm, uh- a little nervous, V. It's your body, and I just- I don't want to mess anything up. When's the last time someone poked around in here? Is there anything I definitely shouldn't touch?"

Viktor clenches his hands idly. He leans back a bit further. "Comply with my instructions, for now. Once the major repairs are complete, and we have eliminated all present malfunctions, you will be free to tinker with each apparatus, as you see fit."

"Okay. I can do that."

"As for your additional question, it has been quite a while since I have improved upon my own design. This would make you the only one I have… shown this to, for lack of a more acceptable term."

"Oh." You shrink up, recoiling your hands before they can reach for him. Jaw set, as you bite down your own nerves. "Should I- are you sure this is okay, then?"

"Yes." Viktor's head tilts slightly, analyzing. "Go on. I trust you."

Your heart races at that. Running circles around itself, abiding by its own laws of chemistry to create unbridled, newfound energy in your chest.

Without another moment of hesitation, you shift closer, and you stick your hands inside.

Warmth radiates off of him, sparking from the countless movements of parts and mechanics. It warms your face, envelops your palms as if you've held them to a campfire. It's definitely too hot, all things considered.

"Looks like there's a problem with temperature," You're commenting, although it's certainly obvious. You run your fingertip over a line of fan blades, set into the top of his chassis. You turn them yourself, and pick out a few tiny pieces of rubble. "Yeah, fans are all stuck."

"The fans are an auxiliary measure," Viktor clarifies, tone smooth and systematic. "The central pump must not be pushing coolant. Check the thermoregulation cylinders. They lead into the manifold."

"Vik." Your gaze flickers up. "Whatever you just said, it sounded like total mechanical gibberish."

"Give me your hand."

With his metal palm already extended, you lean forward, and you gently brush your warm fingers to his.

Viktor guides you carefully, steel digits closed around yours; the entirety of your hand fits in his palm with ease, it's at least twice the size of your own. Your fingertips slip past wires and circuitry, to hover over an intricate array of cylindrical conduits.

"Do they feel hot? The cylinders," Viktor clarifies. "Touch them carefully. Do not let them burn you."

His grip on your hand loosens. You're wincing, as you hesitantly press your fingertips forwards — but the metal isn't hot. Far from it, in fact.

"No, they're… lukewarm, maybe."

"Hm." Viktor leans back once more, elbows propped on the desk behind him. "We will begin with the fans. This fix will be the least complex."

"They connect to a main unit, right?" You're asking, even though you've already started moving on your own. The automatons you remember working on carry similar cooling systems. "If that goes out, they all do."

"Correct."

You follow a fan's wiring with your hands. It loops several times, before it plugs into a small metal box: sides caved in, surface smashed.

"Ah. Found the problem." You tap the surface of the power supply with your nails. "It's busted."

"Do not touch it yet," Viktor instructs. "Its processes may still be running, in which case, it could overheat. Remove each connector and extract the unit. I will add it to my list of obligations, I suppose."

You quickly pull every wire from the fan power unit, and you reach over his shoulder to place it on the desk. Viktor leans his head back. A few valves in his chest expel large puffs of steam, somewhat akin to a sigh.

"The main cylinders," He continues, "Do you remember where they are located?"

"Mhmm." You find the cylinders with your fingertips. Metal smooth, cool to the touch.

Viktor stretches, rolling his shoulders back, armor slightly clinking together. He tips his head down to study you.

"Shift your hand to your right. You will find a main cooling manifold. Open it. Flip both notches paneled into the intake. Up, for precisely three seconds. Then, flip them down. It will overclock the thermocore, enabling a full reactivation."

You nod slowly. Right, you've got all that. Open, flip, down, close.

Your fingers brush along the cylinders until you find where they lead into. The manifold's panel opens easily — slowly, with all the delicacy of opening up a ribcage. Fingertips to the notches, you push them both up; like tending to a wound, like softly tracing scar tissue. With bated breath, you keep count in your head. One. Two. Three. Then, down.

You click the front panel back into place, and the entire assembly begins to whir.

"Now, they will resume function. The systems are… cooling down- very good, well done." Viktor affirms, tone ripe with relief. Within him, sets of valves and pistons gently heave.

His praise makes you shiver. Selfishly, you want to hear more. The cylinders are starting up. They're still slightly cool, as you drag your fingers across them; but Viktor's warm voice has the opposite effect. Guiding heat to coil and ignite in your gut, like you've swallowed phosphorus and matchsticks.

You remove your hands carefully, settling them in your lap, and you give Viktor time to catch his breath.

The manifold shudders. Briefly overloaded by the extra draw of power, perhaps. Viktor's machinery works synchronically to reign it in; his shoulders tense, he reaches into his stomach and messes with a few components, flipping switches, thumbing regulators. He leans back, and the large central cylinders strongly push out smoky air, reminiscent of lungs.

Strong is a good way to describe the Machine Herald's construction. Complicated, durable, and intentionally intimidating. There's power behind the grind of every mechanical process. Parts are entrailed together haphazardly, vitals cased in metal, strung between wires — clearly not meant to be toyed with, to be examined by someone who is foreign to them.

And yet, here you are.

Old, rusted mechanics take the place of scars. Tracing your fingertips along his steel skeleton might remind you of brushing them over a defined ribcage. Individual colored wires form auroras, purposefully tethered. Able to be memorized — like you once did for constellations on soft skin, dotted in freckles and moles.

Oh, how you long to reach out and touch.

(It wouldn't be the same — but how would it feel? Would some wires be cool, rough, while some are smooth, warm? Fit with their own small intricacies: frayed insides, different electric charges. You could be gentle with some, and rough, with others. His pressure points would buzz underneath your fingertips. Shudder like a body arching into warmth. Would Viktor stop you, or would he give in — a betrayal of what he was made for, to finally pull you closer?)

Hands still in your lap, you fiddle with your thumbs. Viktor's chest reverberates. Every mechanic convenes into his center, feeding into pumps and wire splitters, like arteries. Powered by a small, perplexing device with suspended panels. The metal is carved in rune-work. Protecting a gemstone, illuminated in hues of faint, blue light. It strikes you as Hextech inspired, though clearly more machine than magic.

"Viktor, this crystal," You're asking, "What is it?"

"That," Viktor's gaze stays trained on you. "Would be what functions as my heart."

Your eyes sparkle. "Can I-"

"Yes," Viktor interrupts, disgruntled. He knows that look, and he doesn't intend on fighting it. "Inspect it if you must. The gemstone is not my only power supply. Simply one of many."

As your curious fingers approach, reaching into his chest, the device appears to open without prompting — panels shifting, sides unfurling. Coaxing you in.

Your fingertips meet the gemstone, gently admiring; the surface is smooth like a petal, like gliding a pen over paper. It pulses with rhythmic energy, akin to a heartbeat. Viktor shifts, he breathes a cross between a gentle sigh and a mechanical hiss. When the stone drops into your palm, it is solid, warm. Energy-rich and beautiful. It reminds you of an oyster's pearl. Cosmic shades of purple and blue shift within its shape.

"Vik- Wow." You let go of a small, tensionless laugh in amazement — you're literally holding Viktor's heart in your hand; "This is incredible. You're incredible."

Viktor tenses. Energy thrums from the crystal, sparking hard against your skin. You choke in a sharp, pained breath, and you take your hand away quickly, leaving the gemstone to return to suspension.

Ah. Viktor's heart just shocked you.

You're barely able to reconvene; his Hexclaw grabs your face, tilting you gently yet forcefully, guiding you to meet an expressionless mask and glowing, motionless eyes.

"Enough," Viktor asserts. "I require your focus. The central systems have cooled. We may proceed."

Then, his Hexclaw releases you, reaches behind him, and hands you a wrench.

"I will pull the sternum platings open, beneath the oxygen valves. Reach inside, and secure the pistons that sit above the energy reservoir. Is this understandable?"

Back to work already, it seems. "Yeah," You nod. "I've got it."

It's a relatively simple fix. Viktor reaches deep into his circuitry, pushing wires aside to pull both platings apart; surely this would have been cumbersome, if he'd opted to do it alone. Both sections of his sternum need to be held open, or they'll try to snap shut. Your hands are much smaller than his, as well, so you have no trouble reaching into his structure, and swiftly re-tightening the pistons.

Viktor closes the panels as you're reaching behind him to set the wrench on the desk. His Hexclaw twitches. His gauntlet and the generator fixed into his shoulder flicker with light, like a dying lightbulb, before energy surges within them, bright and molten.

You glance up. "Good?"

Viktor's body hums quietly, amidst his usual mechanical noise.

"Perfect. You are an expert already, yes? The Death Ray is no longer fueled by reserve power." Viktor rolls his neck to the side, until it gives a satisfying, motorized pop. "Now, as we continue, you will need to use your hands."

"Alright. I can do that."

"Use your flesh hand," Viktor corrects. "And promise me you will be careful. I would prefer to keep each of your remaining fingers intact. Do not get them stuck."

You form a faint, light-filled smile. "I promise."

"To your left, there is a diode controller. Here." Viktor finds your hand, steel digits brushing over your knuckles, and he guides you, once more. "Tell me which lights are displayed on the module."

Your hand presses to a small steel box, nestled into his chest. "There's a red light. I think that's the power, but… it looks like that's it."

"The explosion jostled its position, as I suspected. Inlaid into the underside, there will be a set of wires."

Sure enough, although several curving filaments obstruct the crooked controller, you can spot a few tangled wires, plugged in loosely.

You gently push a few of his mechanics aside, trying to get a handle on what you're dealing with. "You're planning on doing a full cold boot, right? So pull them all out, wait for the controller to restart, and then plug them back in."

What Viktor lacks in expression, he makes up for in vibrato, because you can practically hear the smile hidden within his voice. Equally calm and weaponized; as soft as a caress, and as powerful as a knife held to your throat.

"Yes," He hums, mechanical filter thrumming around the thickly accented syllables. "Look at you. It is impressive- how efficiently you learn."

You aren't trying to prove him wrong, but what's truly impressive is how easily he knocks the focus right out of you. You're grasping at what remains of it, as you stretch to guide your hand to the wires. With the controller pinning them between itself and his metal skeleton, it's a relatively tight fit.

Breath in your throat, you manage to find the first wire — and you blindly tug. As it comes free, Viktor's chest tenses, gears grinding, valves sputtering. He grabs your forearm, holding you still. Shaky mechanical fingers attempting to establish control.

"Gentle," Viktor instructs. His body hisses, expelling warm air that fans over your skin. "The wires- they direct essential currents of power. If you are not careful, you will overload the voltage."

He releases you gradually, then leans back fully.

"Sorry. I'll go slow."

You grasp the next wire at the head. Instead of pulling, you shift it back and forth, over and over, until it eventually comes free. With each discharged wire, his mechanics grow hotter, louder. Warmth radiates over your palm as the controller chugs, giving off a faint, high-pitched noise. It reminds you of the whistles of trains in Piltover.

"Better?" You murmur, heavy gaze drifting across him, hand already blindly grasping for the fourth wire.

"Yes," Viktor coos, content. "Keep going."

"Does this- am I hurting you?"

"No, you are not." His tone grits at the edges, buzzing rigidly through his throat. "The controller is applying a simulated curve. It is… an excess of pressurized fuel. A maelstrom of diverging currents. It is impossible to summarize in sympathizable terms, as your body is very different from mine."

The Machine Herald tends to select words purposefully. He calculates discussions and formulates terms like every negotiation is a game of chess — and yet, this description is remarkably familiar.

In the early stages of your alliance, the two of you rarely got along. Every sentence between you spun a web of new arguments. Viktor was insistent when it came to his vision, and weakness wasn't welcome, not within his new mechanized heart. You were a distraction. An unexpected miscalculation. A maelstrom, as Viktor described it.

For our mutual benefit, you should relinquish the memories you have of the man I once was. We are no longer partners. If you can suppress this needless bickering, we can continue as allies, perhaps.

"I'm depriving you of energy." You trail your fingertip over the ridges in the final wire. "Your systems are working overtime, to try and adjust."

Viktor's body relaxes — warm and reverberant and trusting. He affirms, "Precisely."

The last wire comes free smoothly. You take a languid, intentionally-long breath, giving the controller time to refresh. The wires have fallen loose, they rest a little further down in his circuitry. Leaning far forward in your stool, you bundle all of them in your palm, to make sure you won't lose them.

"They're out." You line up the first wire's plug with the controller's first socket. "Gonna plug them back in now."

"Firmer, you can be firmer." Viktor never begs, but this, despite bordering on a command, is the closest to pleading you've seen him come to. "The central system is acclimated to the fluctuations in energy."

Your cracked bottom lip briefly catches between your teeth. Bringing the wire right against its socket, you shove it back in — and Viktor tremors, visible electricity sparkling from his chest like shooting stars in a lightning storm. With the second wire, his head rolls back. When you press the third in, he breathes a low, barely-audible groan, and the sound drives into you like a saw, a chisel, a stake.

(You're lost in color, in the orange glow of his gaze and the coppery-steel of his body, as they paint stupidly vivid pictures in your mind. Viktor reaching for you, holding onto you for leverage. Static blooming at your fingertips, innocent experiments turning into purposeful coaxings. Stalling until he pleads, overwhelming him with surge after surge of energy, electromagnetic impulses and solar sparks that have him hot and only half-functional.)

You really need to focus.

"Okay." As you push the last wire in, the module's lights begin to flash, blinking faintly in a bright hue of amber. "I'm done."

"Reach your hand further inside," Viktor is already explaining, words rich, perplexingly breathy. "You must guide it around the gears, to the back of the module. Beside the sets of copper filaments, you will find a red wire."

You tilt your head down to peer behind the controller.

"Fuck." You breathe a slight tch. "It must've come loose. It's all the way back there, Vik."

"You may need to come closer, then."

For a moment, you chew on the inside of your cheek. Palm buried inside him — you should be the one in control, but Viktor relaxes; his head tips, and he gazes at you as though he's got you under a microscope. Perfectly, wholly deciphered. Your weakness is predictable, not simply because you are human, but because it is you. There's no surprise within him when you rise from your stool, only an addictive array of certainty.

Viktor leans back a bit more, spreads his legs to allocate space. And you straddle his thigh, heels rested on the spidery base of the stool.

The hard, uneven edges of his armor dig into the pliable flesh of your legs. One large thigh is easily enough to accommodate you, but you need to shift closer, to properly reach behind the controller.

You're reaching in, in, feeling around for your target. An unsteady steel hand braces to your side; Viktor holds you in place. You sigh in frustration, your fingertips fumbling past cold filaments, trying to find the smooth, elusive wire.

Gears gently press into your forearm. A small, rigid generator bumps your elbow. Your body curls, you reach further inside him. And you find it, just as you're close enough to rest your forehead against his. Metal to flesh. Cool against warm. Your eyes — bright and fascinating, like stars, he thinks — become lost in the artificial glow of his.

Your breath fans over his steel mask. "Got it."

"Good." Viktor's voice is low, intense, and fucking sultry. "Plug it in."

hey, sorry for interrupting the fic! unfortunately, due to the long word count of the fic and tumblr's post block limit, it's impossible to fit the entire fic into one post... :( if you're enjoying the fic so far, you can continue reading on ao3!

thank you for understanding... <3

#viktor x reader #viktor x you #arcane x reader #viktor smut #machine herald x reader #viktor arcane x reader

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