Chapter Text
I was recently back on Preservation Station after finishing up a contract job with ART. As always, the first thing I do on return is to run a check on all my humans, and what had I come back to? A symphony of disgusting, wet human sniffling noises from Gurathin that he was either willfully ignoring (65.8% likely, according to my systems) or genuinely unaware of (32.3%). Yes, that did leave roughly 1.9% unaccounted for. Human behavior is not actually quantifiable. It's important to leave room for the possibility that they're doing some absolutely bizarre shit that more logical beings (like, for example, a SecUnit) wouldn't have even considered as an option. On second thought, maybe my assessment module requires recalibration; it feels like that number should probably be higher than 1.9%.
Anyway.
I ping Gurathin’s feed: Stop that.
He pauses his typing, looking up from the display surface in front of him and turning around to glance over his shoulder with a confused expression. I (once again) fight the urge to remind augmented humans that the whole point of communicating on the feed is that they don't have to stop doing other things in order to reply.
He's looking around the room for me, but I'm not actually there. I'm almost finished making my rounds; I'm actually en route to Gurathin's lab with an estimated time of arrival approximately 6 minutes from now. I had tapped into the audio / visual feed of the drone currently monitoring that space, just to know what I was about to walk into. I hate opening doors with no knowledge of what's behind them. Actually, I think I just hate the concept of doors. Sure, most of the time, you open a door and it's normal on the other side – but that's been not the case enough times now that I'm starting to feel like it might be better to just do away with them. I draft a quick proposal while I'm walking and send it to Senior Officer Indah, concerning the security benefits of door removal on the station.
Gurathin finally spots my drone (resting on top of a tall cabinet in the corner of the room) and, curiosity satisfied, responds to my feed message: Stop what? Working?
No, stop making the disgusting nasal sounds.
He looks briefly perplexed again, but this time is interrupted by a sneeze. I make a quick stop at a publicly available recycler and order a box of facial tissues and an electrolyte beverage. It adds 2.5 minutes to my estimated time of arrival, but I've decided I don't want to go in there empty handed. While I'm waiting for the items, I receive a reply from Indah reiterating the importance of personal privacy and respecting the boundaries of Preservation citizens – a conversation we've had many times already – and which, evidently, requires the continued existence of doors. I tag the message for later reply, and quickly create and start a sub routine that can run in the background and compile clips from various media in which humans are surprised (and often damaged) by things they couldn't see lurking behind closed doors. Like in episode 231 of The Rise and Fall of Sanctuary Moon, where the Mech Pilot’s evil clone is hiding behind the door to his personal quarters and knocks him out with a lamp so he can tie him up and take his place on the bridge. Okay, so that wasn't their strongest story arc, but my point about the doors still stands.
Now armed with something to contain Gurathin's leaking fluids, I enter the lab. He accepts the proffered facial tissues with a grateful look, and then proceeds to make a series of somehow even more disgusting noises as he expels his (copious) mucus into sheet after sheet of the thin paper. When he's finally finished, a small mountain of wadded up tissue sits in the bottom of the recycling bin. I discharge one of my energy weapons to incinerate it as a biohazard.
“Woah! Okay, I'm not sure that was entirely necessary…”
“You're sick, Gurathin. Return to your quarters and stop spreading your contaminants across the station.”
“I'm fine. I told Bharadwaj that I'd have this report ready for her today. I'll go back home when it's done.”
He turns away to cough into the crook of his elbow. When he's finished, I pass him the electrolyte beverage, which he accepts without argument – irregular behavior for Gurathin, but perhaps he's trying to pick his battles. It won't work.
“Your internal body temperature is 2.1 degrees above normal, and your respiratory rate is also elevated beyond normal parameters.”
“It's just a cold. I'm fine.”
Okay, whatever. Let the record show that I tried. And now we have to talk about it.
I start a group chat between Gurathin, Bharadwaj, and myself. I dump in Gurathin's biometric readings and the drone recording of him blowing his nose about a thousand times after I offered him the facial tissue. It's somehow even more gross on rewatch. Gurathin's eyes widen as he sees the notifications come through on his feed; a bright red flush spreading across his face as he sputters at me incoherently.
“Hey, that's not– you shouldn't– I can't believe!”
Bharadwaj pings back with concern almost immediately. Oh no, Gurathin, you're sick!! What are you doing in the lab?
Gurathin informed me that he owed you a report by the end of this cycle. However, as you can see, he is currently physically compromised and functioning below acceptable reliability parameters. Proposal: the report deadline is extended and / or the report is transferred to someone else on the research team.
Oh, Deity. I'm fine.
Gura, no! You should have said something! Don't even think about the report. Go home and rest. I'll come by later with a bowl of my favorite ginger turmeric carrot soup for you.
Gurathin makes a face at that message that (while highly amusing) is probably for the best that Bharadwaj can't see via the feed. It's an understandable response, however, so I attempt to contain my own amusement.
“Don't look at me like that; you inflicted this on me.”
Evidently, I need to fine tune the settings on my emotional response protocol expression mappings. I tag that for later as well.
Gurathin spins on his heel and attempts to make a show of sitting back down at his desk to ignore me. He is, however, unable to unlock his workstation display screen. After three failed attempts, Bharadwaj pings the chat: I knew you wouldn't listen, so I temporarily disabled your account access. GO HOME and forget the damn report. And stop trying to log in; you're just going to trigger the security lockout and get your feed ID blacklisted.
A small thunk echoes around the empty room as Gurathin folds over to bang his head on the desk. It activates my client protection self-harm prevention module and I automatically scan him for damage, ready to intervene if necessary – but it wasn't even enough force enough to leave a bruise. Drama queen.
“Come on, Gurathin. Let's go.”
His voice is muffled against the desk as he retorts: “Oh? And where exactly are WE going?”
“To your quarters, of course.”
“I am perfectly capable of walking to my own quarters, SecUnit. I don't need a babysitter.”
My analysis is currently showing only a 23.2% chance that he will actually leave the lab if left to his own devices. This confirms my earlier theory that my module is due for recalibration, because that seems like an unrealistically generous assessment.
“I don't doubt your capabilities, but I do have some serious doubts about your intentions.”
A notification alerts me that my script sourcing examples of door-related danger in media has finished running. I stand in place, skimming the clips and starting to compile the best ones into a short vid file while I wait for Gurathin to stop behaving like a petulant child. In the few minutes it takes for him to groan and sigh and (finally) reluctantly stand from the chair to start moving towards the lab exit, I’m able to finish and review my (high-quality and extremely convincing) piece of media. I wish I could have added a voice over, but unfortunately it's looking like I'm stuck on Gurathin duty for the foreseeable future. I open the door just as he reaches it, and transfer the file to Indah.
We're halfway down the hallway and about to enter the habitat ring when I receive her reply: “This is Preservation, not Timestream Defenders Orion, and I am NOT authorizing removal of every door on the station; proposal declined.” Ugh. I wondered if that clip was too unrealistic, but I included it anyway because I liked it; I should have known it would be the one she'd get hung up on.
By the time we finally make it to Gurathin's quarters, he's looking decidedly less steady on his feet. He wobbles and has to brace himself against the wall when he leans in for the retina scan. It takes a couple tries, but eventually he’s able to get his face properly aligned long enough for the scan to complete and unlock the door. Which, I note sourly, wouldn’t be an issue if we just removed all the doors. I consider sending a recording of this to Indah, to see if maybe a real-world example of door-based inconvenience would sway her, but think better of it. Gurathin is already pissed at me for sending the earlier clip of him to Bharadwaj, and it would probably just get me another lecture on individual privacy from Indah. I don’t think I could take another one of those today.
Gurathin stumbles again as he walks into his rooms, and I automatically move forward to catch him. His temperature really is elevated – it’s one thing to see the number in his biometric data, and another to feel the heat of his body pressed against mine. A light sheen of sweat is visible across his forehead, and his eyes are slightly unfocused as they gaze up at me. My performance reliability immediately drops 2%.
I guide him over to the couch where he drops heavily onto the cushions, unusually pliant, and looks up at me again. Our eyes connect for just a beat, and I turn away. What is it with humans and eye contact, anyway? Usually Gurathin hates it just as much as I do. Now that I’ve successfully completed the mission of delivering him safely to his quarters, the awkwardness of being alone together in his home feels overwhelming. I’m torn between the impulse to leave as quickly as possible (understandable, rational, probably correct) and the desire to protectively keep watch over him and not let him out of my sight until his performance reliability is back to normal (strange, embarrassing, vaguely nauseating).
“I, uh…” Awesome. Great start, MurderBot. Really nailing this. “I should probably go.”
I turn and start towards the door, walking mechanically. I don’t normally run my human imitation program on Preservation, where everyone already knows the whole “rogue SecUnit” situation. But somehow, in this moment, I wish I had it on. Leaving Gurathin like this feels too clinical, too cold, but I don’t know why and it’s too late to do anything about it, anyway. I briefly try to figure out why the fuck I’m having an emotion about this, and immediately have to push down the urge to throw myself out the nearest airlock instead. Okay, cool. So this is a thing I’ll have to unpack later, for some reason. Fine. Whatever.
My hand is on the door controls when Gurathin calls out “Wait, SecUnit–”. I instinctively turn back around and – damn it – we’re making eye contact again. I do my best to power through it this time, not looking away. If I’m completely honest, I want him to feel just a fraction of the discomfort I’m feeling, and I’m pretty sure I can win this one. I just have to be patient, and– there it is. He breaks the connection, looking down at the couch cushions as he whispers: “Stay with me?”
Well…that wasn’t what I expected. I don’t actually know what I expected, but I know it wasn’t that. I rewind and replay it again in my buffer, volume increased by 200%, just to make sure I heard him correctly. Even though I’m confident that my auditory processing is functional, I query him over the feed anyway. You want me to remain at this location?
He pings back an affirmative, looking vaguely relieved to not have to speak aloud again. I just stand in the doorway, not moving, attempting to process this turn of events. He wants me to…stay? I send back: Would you prefer for me to get Mensah? Or call for the MedSystem?
No. I’d like you to stay. But if you can’t, it’s alright.
I check my internal diagnostics. I consider leaving anyway and watch as my performance reliability drops by 5%. It shouldn’t feel possible for a construct without a digestive system to feel a pit in their stomach, but I do. I think about staying, watching over him, protecting him; the reliability numbers jump back up, gaining 3% over baseline. I…want to be here?
I can stay.