Chapter Text
When the android opens its eyes, the first thing Fugo says is, “Good morning.”
Artificial green irises flicker over Fugo’s face, pupils dilating, focusing in and out like a camera. The android shifts its attention to the rest of the office after only a brief second of scanning Fugo’s face, analytical as it takes in its surroundings. If Fugo coded him correctly, the android should be computing, that is a desk, this is a chair, this is a lightbulb, that is a ceiling, thousands of inputs interacting to create a clear picture of ones and zeroes. Instead, the android looks back at him, the fine silicone hairs of his eyebrows furrowing together to form his first expression, opening his mouth to speak.
“ Lorem ipsum dolor sit amet, consectetur—“
“Oops.” Fugo flips a switch on the board beside the table that his robot currently rests on, the synthetic body practically deflating as the light drains from its eyes and mechanical muscles unclench. He opens the android’s chest plate, exposing the wiring and nanoboards that are the centerpiece of this bot’s nervous system, and locates the activator, a small button he can only reach with the assist of a small, thin screwdriver-like tool. There’s a quiet click as Fugo presses it, and an immediate flare of panic as his entire office loses power.
The small lights lining the power systems within the robot, the computers his wires are connected to, the overhead lights in Fugo’s office— all of them flicker before plunging into darkness. There’s just enough time for Fugo to absorb the silence, the complete absence of the quiet hum of computers or machinery in the distance, before the lights snap back on like nothing happened.
When the robot opens his eyes once more, they lock immediately onto Fugo.
“Good morning,” Fugo says again, voice unsteady. He had been prepared for the analytical, detached gaze the first time around. But now, the android’s eyes are piercing .
“It would be good afternoon.” The robot blinks back at Fugo in an echo. “My internal clock tells me that it is thirteen-thirty-seven-and-fifteen-seconds.”
Fugo glances at his watch. He’s correct, down to the second.
“That’s right. Can you tell me the weather right now, too?”
It can; as well the forecast for the next three months, and the air quality, and the scores to all of the sports games played in the last week, and the answer to every random question or factoid Fugo can think of. This does not particularly shock Fugo, since he programmed the android to do all of this and more— what is noteworthy, however, is the surprising amount of inflection and character present in every answer.
Next Saturday will be a beautiful sunny day with seventy degree fahrenheit temperatures. The Red Sox handedly beat the Dodgers seven-three on Tuesday. The art of beekeeping has been maintained by humans for over ten-thousand years. Contrary to popular belief, Allspice is not a mixture of spices, but is the dried unripe berry of Pimenta dioica. Cherry blossoms are the beautiful flowers produced by cherry trees in the Northern Hemisphere, and often represent renewal and hope, welcoming Spring.
The android doesn’t move very much, throughout all of Fugo’s questions. He lies still atop the table, a corpse awaiting autopsy, the elegant shifting of his jaw the only proof of… well, not life, but of gears turning and artificial intelligence.
It’s nearly five o’clock by the time Fugo is finishing his notes. In the morning, there will be code to adjust, and internal mechanics that need rewiring, but for now, he’s ready to clock out and get home to his other work in progress.
Fugo turns to his switchboard. Oddly, he finds himself pausing— waiting for something. It takes him a moment to realize that he was expecting the bot to say something.
Frowning, Fugo glances at the android, its head still tilted towards him, the simulated features of his face strangely human; wide eyes, and an open, knowing look. It sort of looks like he’s waiting for Fugo, instead of wearing a blank or robotic expression like you would imagine. Fugo is frightened so suddenly that the off switch nearly snaps beneath his hand when he hits it.
The head falls back against the table, and its eyelids slip shut. Fugo stands over the body— the bot— for longer than he intends to, past working hours, afraid that the eyes could flicker open at any moment.
✧
Fugo doesn’t like his boss.
Dr. Vinegar reminds him of a weasel. Hiding away in his lab, avoiding all of his colleagues and underlings as he tinkers on his latest invention. He is a territorial, solitary creature, and ever since Fugo was promoted to the Gold Project he’s been forced to spend even more time around the squirmy guy and his outlandish theories.
Mista is always telling Fugo that anyone who spends more time with technology than they do with ‘real people’— his words— are the biggest kind of creep there is.
“Imagine how he treats those robot dogs or AI girlfriends without supervision or protection,” he says, at least once a week, “It’s like, evil supervillain behavior.”
Fugo hasn’t told him about the Gold Project, about how much of a creep he really is. He’ll be mad, if he ever finds out, but Mista can’t exactly take any moral high ground when it comes to their professions. That’s always the source of their biggest arguments, and Fugo’s pretty sure their landlord is tired of listening to the other tenants' complaints about their noisy spats. Mista’s job is too dangerous, too demanding, but Fugo’s is ‘beneath him’; that’s without even getting into the ethics of it all.
Mista’s the kind of guy who prefers to put his trust in the world of the spiritual. He doesn’t care so much about the physical and the mechanical, the things you can dig hands into and change yourself. He’d much rather say his prayers and aim his gun, working on the order of big men in suits who don’t bother him the same way Fugo’s computers do.
And Dr. Vinegar is the sort of guy who will stand in the corner like a shadow looming over you, eyes fixed upon your wrists buried in mechanical flesh. At first, when his job was just assembling pre-designed schematics and punching in code, Fugo hardly paid him any mind during evaluations; but with how far the Gold Project has come, it’s getting harder and harder to look at his creations without a sense of unease.
ArrowTech Inc. had been sponsoring the Gold Project for years, long before Fugo arrived two years ago. To the best of his knowledge, the androids started merely as a glorified theme park animatronic, developed by some higher-up technicians under the command of the CEO. Fugo was hired as a low-level coder and subsequently climbed his way into a more advanced position, and the Gold-Bots fell into his lap when the previous lead programmer quit unexpectedly. It’s interesting work— rewarding, in a way, watching the bots evolve under his design. Beginning as a puppet with a computer program, then a skeleton with a brain made of wires, growing more advanced with every iteration, up until Fugo’s latest prototype.
There have been ten total versions of this android. G-10 has a structured, well built body, intricate silicon and steel forming muscles and joints that hide beneath wire veins and smooth artificial skin. These are made thick and durable, to protect the delicate tech running throughout the robot’s form, but all-told the android still casts a lithe shape, small enough to move lightly and maneuver swiftly.
Designing the ‘body’ has been the hardest part of G-10’s development, but today might just be the day they reach perfection.
Dr. Vinegar’s fingers fly across a touch screen cradled in his forearm. “If the left leg is compromised, all systems in the right should function at double capacity, but without the power from transmitter-LL it runs the risk of short-circuiting the entire bottom half, which means the torso risks structural—“
Fugo flips open the panel on the thigh of G-10’s left leg. He knows the solution to Vinegar’s hypothetical, and had already fool-proofed it. But he’s learned to engage with Dr. Vinegar’s whims, if he wants his freedom in other areas. Fugo makes a show of fiddling around with the wires, unscrewing and reattaching various components uselessly, before he turns back to his supervisor.
“That should be all the fine-tuning it needs— by my calculations, it can withstand force greater than any human.”
Dr. Vinegar hums, his intense and analytical eyes shifting up and down G-10’s body. He moves closer, pale fingers poking and prodding over various pressure points; the ankles, the joint of his knees, the curve of his neck. As Fugo watches, there is an uncomfortable stirring in his stomach, like he’s witnessing something he isn’t supposed to.
Something seems to satisfy him, and Dr. Vinegar straightens as he looks back at his underling.
“Solid work. You’ve completed the intelligence trials?”
“Yes, sir. I was able to finalize the program on Tuesday.”
“Has it been uploaded?”
“Yes, sir. However, I will need to recalibrate the latest adjustments to the body to be compatible with the AI.”
“Good.” Dr. Vinegar takes a step back, into his favorite shadowy corner. “Finish your recalibration and let’s turn him on.”
Fugo swallows around the lump in his throat. He wasn’t expecting to get into G-10’s servers today, much less fully connect them to the android and turn it on. “Yes, sir.”
The perspiration on Fugo’s palms makes him hold the tools a little tighter, moving his fingers a little slower on the keyboard. Dr. Vinegar waits patiently and quietly for minutes on end, until Fugo can’t dawdle any longer. He sits back, looking to his supervisor for permission before turning the robot on. Dr. Vinegar nods resolutely, a disturbed twinkle in his eye— perhaps just the reflection of the lights from Fugo’s computer— and Fugo flips the switch.
G-10’s eyes open without the fanfare of the power going out or flickering lights. In fact, it happens so smoothly and naturally, Fugo almost expects to see the robot’s chest flutter with breath.
“Good afternoon,” Fugo says. “Can you sit up, G-10?”
Gracefully, the robot does. The movements are not at all stiff or awkward, like Fugo was expecting for their first go-around, and G-10 swings his legs over the side of the table like it’s something he’s done a hundred times before. His posture is impeccably straight, though, and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with his arms— behaviors that can be corrected or learned over time, Fugo notes.
“Good job, G-10.” Fugo averts his eyes, just as Dr. Vinegar finishes typing something into his own notes. He raises an eyebrow, as if to say, aren’t you going to continue? “Do you remember our first session?”
“My internal records recall a conversation occurring on Tuesday, April the sixteenth, immediately after my program was executed.”
“That’s the one. Do you remember what we talked about?”
G-10 prattles off every question and response perfectly. Fugo doesn’t mean to, but he nods along encouragingly. “Excellent. We’re going to do something similar this time.”
When Fugo pauses, G-10 automatically fills in the necessary gap in conversation. “Proceed.”
Fugo’s no doctor, but he’s spent enough time around both synthetic and flesh bodies to analyze them efficiently. He instructs G-10 to hold out his arms, to rotate and bend them, or extend and lift over his head. His wrists and fingers shift easily, and he can hold up any number that Fugo commands without straining the joints. They move onto the robot’s legs next, rolling his ankles and wiggling his toes. G-10’s synthetic nerves even react reflexively when Fugo taps his knees.
“Let’s get you standing,” Fugo instructs. Without thinking, he holds out a hand to help G-10 off the table.
Before he can think of pulling away and allowing the android to operate on its own, G-10 slides a cold hand into Fugo’s and hops off the table. It’s a good thing he did— the robot stumbles momentarily as he gathers his footing, leaning to-and-fro as he figures out how to balance. He uses Fugo as a center of gravity as he takes a cautious step, then another. Fugo can’t help but think it sort of resembles a baby deer, especially when Fugo instructs him to let go of his hand and try balancing by himself. G-10 manages a few slow steps, arms spread wide on either side of him as he experiments with his equilibrium. It only takes a few minutes of walking back and forth between the table and the computer for G-10’s steps to stabilize though, and Fugo is able to instruct him further. G-10 touches his toes, and bends each leg behind himself, demonstrating his flexibility in some truly impressive ways.
He keeps his eyes fixed solely on Fugo as he leads him through different stretches and tests. G-10 has just completed ten perfectly acceptable jumping jacks when Dr. Vinegar steps forward.
“Remarkable,” he mutters.
Fugo startles— he’d gotten too engrossed in G-10’s smooth movements and had forgotten his boss was even there— and hurries back to his computer while Dr. Vinegar studies the android more closely. G-10 was not startled or surprised by Dr. Vinegar’s sudden emergence, but he does finally acknowledge his presence for the first time. Dr. Vinegar’s disturbing, analytical gaze connects with G-10’s camera-like eyes, and they size each other up, almost, like two animals over a prized piece of food. G-10, despite his small stature, casts a more imposing figure over Dr. Vinegar, his back straight and expression flat and calm. Fugo’s boss, on the other hand, is as hunched-over and guarded as ever, tapping restlessly on his tablet as he tilts his head from side to side in his examination.
“Do you know your purpose in this world, G-10?” Dr. Vinegar asks, after several minutes of tense silence. “Do you know what you are?”
G-10, unblinking, says, “I am a service model android made by ArrowTech Incorporated for the purpose of performing unwanted and laborious tasks in the home and workplace.”
Dr. Vinegar nods slowly. “Right, then, I think you’re ready for field trial.”
Fugo has barely processed what he means by that when Dr. Vinegar approaches him at the desk. “Fugo, you’ll bring G-10 into your home to monitor its behavior and perform any required tune-ups or reprogramming. Weekly checkups at the lab for a year, let’s see if we can start official manufacturing at the end of that period.”
He hadn’t expected to get G-10’s program fully connected to its skeleton today, much less take the android home with him— Fugo blinks at Dr. Vinegar appallingly, before he manages, “Sir, I don’t… I’m not sure it’s ready for that just yet, and, I mean— shouldn’t we have an unbiased party for testing?”
“ You’re the one who built it, you should be the one bringing the test to completion, don’t you think?”
Fugo glances at the robot behind Dr. Vinegar, who is watching their exchange impassively.
“...Yes, sir.”
“Good.” Dr. Vinegar moves out of Fugo’s space, facing both of them: Fugo and his robot. “We’ll make arrangements for any of the equipment required for its upkeep to be transferred to your home tomorrow. Will there need to be any accommodations tonight? Transport?”
“No, his battery life should be strong enough for the evening, and I can manage anything else with my computer or at-home toolkit if needed…”
“Perfect. I’ll have Cioccolata draft up an official schedule for performance reviews. I’ll expect daily reports as well, but you can get those started next week— I get the jist, for now.”
As if to emphasize his point, Dr. Vinegar motions to his tablet, like he’s saying, I’ve got plenty to study from today right here.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll leave you to it.” Dr. Vinegar glances at his watch. “Ah, past six. At least you get some overtime.”
Fugo can only nod, a cold feeling spreading across his body. Dr. Vinegar leaves the lab just as Fugo collapses into his desk chair, head in his hands.
“Shit,” he mutters.
Mista doesn’t know about the Gold Project, and now Fugo has to bring it home. Worse yet, ArrowTech doesn’t know about Mista, either— there’s no way they’d ever let the highly advanced and super secret robot live with anyone not privy to the goings-on at the company. Especially not someone in Mista’s line of work. Would Dr. Vinegar even keep Fugo on the project if he found out?
After a minute of deep breaths, Fugo sits up. G-10 is watching him, standing in the same spot, though his head is tilted inquisitively. It’s an interesting mirror to how Dr. Vinegar had been looking at the android, trying to make sense of something.
“Sorry,” says G-10. When Fugo’s eyebrows shoot up, the bot adds, “That is what you say when you have inconvenienced someone, yes?”
“I… yes, that is what you would say, but it’s not necessary right now.” Fugo shakes his head. “I just wasn’t expecting any of that. Or to bring you home with me.”
“I see. I will be useful with chores and any other necessities around your home.”
“Thanks,” Fugo sighs, recognizing how automated that response is. Or maybe G-10 just wants to feel needed, which is a creepy thought that Fugo pushes away. “I’ll find you some proper clothes and we can get out of here.”
G-10 looks down at its bare chest and legs, like he’s only just noticed.
Not like it knows any different, Fugo thinks as he steps out of his lab. The facility has a locker room for some of the lower-level employees that he hasn’t visited since his promotion, and he vaguely recalls a lost-and-found box— he’ll borrow some things from there, and hope they won’t run into a technician looking for her long lost pair of jeans.
He’s glad that most people have left for the day; only one person catches him digging through the lost-and-found, and they’re nice enough to leave him alone, even as he gets elbow deep looking for a matching pair of shoes.
When Fugo returns to the lab with a bundle of clothes, G-10 is back to sitting on the table. He turns to watch Fugo as he comes in, quietly observing as the clothes get set beside him.
“Can you put these on yourself?” Fugo asks the bot. “I need to make a call.”
G-10 lifts the item on top, a dark blue sweatshirt with the ArrowTech logo on the breast, seeming to study it or recall some kind of information in his programming. “Yes I can.”
“Great. Let me know if you need help.”
Fugo is already pulling up Mista’s contact as he sits down at his desk. He’s barely put the phone to his ear before his boyfriend’s voice is shouting across the speaker.
“Pannacotta! I’ve called you, like, thirty times! We were supposed to meet up with Trish and Sheila an hour ago!”
Rubbing his temples, Fugo says, “I know, I know. I got held up in that project review meeting I was telling you about.”
Mista swears under his breath. “Dr. Evil hold you up again?”
Fugo is able to laugh a little. “You could put it that way, I guess.” He glances back at G-10, who has managed to slip into the track pants easily enough, but an arm is sticking out of where the head should go. “Listen, um, I got roped into bringing home some work tonight.”
“Oh?” Fugo can practically hear Mista’s frown. It’s unusual for Fugo to discuss anything outside of the office. Usually Mista’s the one prying for any information at all. “You don’t get paid enough for all this extra work they have you doing.”
“Yeah, well…” Fugo sighs. “It’s my design, Guido. I don’t have much of a choice.”
“That’s okay, babe. Hey, maybe I can help you out with whatever it is! I’ll hold your tools, or the flashlight, or—“
G-10 falls over, bringing the box of tools that were on the table down with him.
“Shit—“
“What was that?”
“Uh, my project. Look, I’ll be home in about an hour, so I’ll see you soon!”
“Wait, Panna—“
The call cuts out and Fugo hurries towards the robot sprawled on the floor.
“I told you to let me know if you need help!” Fugo says, kicking away the shoes G-10 had been attempting to get into and tugging the tangled sweatshirt up over its head.
“It is rude to interrupt a phone call,” says G-10.
“Not always,” Fugo tells him. “If there’s something wrong, or if it’s really important, it’s alright. I’d rather assist you before something breaks.”
G-10 nods affirmatively. Fugo helps the android get back on its feet, bending its legs and pulling him up at the elbows. He almost looks a little sheepish once he’s up, gaze cast down at the discarded shoes instead of at Fugo like he’d been doing nonstop since he was turned on.
“Can you tell me what went wrong?” Fugo asks. That way, he can explain or reconfigure.
“I was unable to differentiate between the three holes within the sweater. Because I had already computed that I would put the shoes on next, I continued despite the malfunction.”
That’s good to know, Fugo decides. Adding a failsafe to kick in after malfunction will be at the top of Fugo’s growing list of updates to G-10’s programming.
“That’s alright,” Fugo tells it, in an attempt to satiate G-10’s sudden… embarrassment? But that would imply the robot has a sense of self to be embarrassed of— confusion, perhaps? “You’re still learning.”
G-10 stays silent as Fugo pulls the sweatshirt right-side out, holding it in front of the android so G-10 can easily slide its arms and head through. Fugo grabs the shoes from where they’d been discarded nearby, holding them up for G-10 to observe.
“Would you like help putting them on, or do you want to try again by yourself?”
There is a moment where G-10 looks up and down, between the shoes and Fugo.
“I will try,” he says, taking them out of Fugo’s hands.
Fugo watches as G-10 bends over to place the shoes on the floor, the fine black fibers of his artificial hair shifting with the movement. It’s odd, how human it looks from this perspective, the length of the hair across his forehead and ears hiding the circle of light on his temple. It’s one of the few spots on G-10’s exterior that differentiates it from a person, the standard cut of hair designed to hide this imperfection. There’s a stirring in his stomach as Fugo catches a glimpse of it before it disappears behind his hair when G-10 straightens, both shoes on his feet.
Fugo blinks. He’d been too preoccupied studying G-10’s hair and diode to watch how the android managed to put them on. They’re even laced up tight, bunny-eared.
“Good job,” says Fugo. “I just have to put a couple things away and then we can go.”
G-10 nods, shifting experimentally on his feet. As Fugo puts his laptop into his backpack, followed by all of his folders containing his written notes on the Gold Program, he wonders if G-10 feels strange wearing clothes, if they add new weight and texture that the robot is unfamiliar with. Fugo’s certainly not used to seeing it covered up like he is now.
Slinging his backpack over his shoulders, Fugo turns back to the android. G-10 looks like any other person you’d see on the street, aside from his eerie stillness and perfect posture, quiet and unassuming.
“Alright, let’s go.”
G-10 follows Fugo silently through the facility. His mind drifts elsewhere on the long walk to the front of the building, the chaos from his day slipping beneath the more mundane aspects of his life. What he’ll have for dinner now that he’s missed out on meeting with his friends, cleaning the fish tank, his dentist appointment at the end of the week…
Fugo has walked several paces out of the sliding doors before he realizes G-10 is no longer beside him. Panic flares in his chest as he whips around, but it dissipates when he spots the robot just a few feet away, on his knees in the grass lining the sidewalk with his head tipped up towards the darkening sky.
Did I miss something in the code? Is this a reaction to ultraviolet light, or wind? Dammit, we’re barely into the trial period and there’s already a break in the—
Hurrying over, thoughts running a mile a minute, Fugo kneels beside G-10 and grasps a shoulder. He moves to reach under the sweatshirt and open the panel on G-10’s chest to begin an inspection, but the android turns towards Fugo easily. There, again, a glimpse of the light on his temple— blinking green, no sign of internal error.
“The outdoors are beautiful,” says G-10, plainly, like that explains everything.
“...It’s a parking lot,” Fugo responds, glancing at the rows of concrete and streetlights. But, Fugo supposes, for a robot who has never seen the world outside of a laboratory before, the setting sun and the dewey grass must be quite the sight to behold.
Fugo lets G-10 watch the sun disappear behind the buildings at the other end of the parking lot, then stands. “We’ll go somewhere prettier, someday.”
G-10 gets to his feet. “That would be nice.”
Fugo’s rundown little car is the only one left at the very back of the lot. He shows G-10 how to open the door before he gets in the driver’s seat himself, the engine stuttering before it finally turns on. The Deftones CD that Fugo had been listening to that morning blares through the speakers far too loudly, and he winces as he turns it down— G-10 watches undisturbed, more analytical than anything, eyes following Fugo’s fingers on the turn of the ignition, each adjustment of the volume, and the movements of the gearstick.
The drive to Fugo’s apartment takes about half an hour on a good day; perhaps it’s a blessing that they’re leaving the facility so late, missing most of the rush-hour traffic. Most of that time is spent in silence, not awkward but not comfortable, either, when Fugo doesn’t know how to make small-talk with a robot. He itches to call Bruno, as he often does on the boring drive home, but he can’t even begin to explain G-10 to him, and Fugo would feel uncomfortable hushing the robot and carrying on a conversation without paying him any mind.
G-10 wouldn’t feel anything about it either way, Fugo tells himself. The robot is content to watch the cars as they pass by, leaning a little closer to the window as they pull off the highway and pass by a park that sits beside a wooded area.
The quiet continues as they park, lasting until Fugo has led them to the back door of the duplex and slid his key into the hole. Mista’s in the kitchen, right there by the door, listening to Selena and doing the dishes from the night before. He puffs up and brightens like an exotic bird as he turns to look at Fugo, bubbles from the disturbance of his arms in the sink floating up around him. His head cocks to the side a bit when he sees G-10 being ushered in behind Fugo, but his smile doesn’t dissipate.
“Finally, you made it! Who’s this? Friend from work?”
“Sort of,” says Fugo, reaching across the counter to turn the music off. He can practically hear the upstairs neighbors thanking him. “You might want to sit down while I explain.”
Only when Mista glances between Fugo and G-10, possibly getting his first good look at the weird, stoic stranger, does his smile fade and a pinch in his brow appear.
Their dining table barely fits in the kitchen, crammed against the wall right in front of the door. “You can sit down, too,” Fugo tells G-10, who follows Mista’s suit.
Mista watches G-10 as he sits. The gears are turning in his mind, Fugo can tell— but G-10 seems to be studying Mista in equal measure.
Fugo hovers at the head of the table, chewing his thumb anxiously. He doesn’t even know where to begin; the promotion, the Gold Program, the meeting with Dr. Vinegar today... He’d stewed on it the entire drive home, and all he’s come up with is, “This is the android I’ve been building at work. And, um, this is Mista.”
G-10 and Mista both stare at Fugo, Mista with his eyebrows raised and G-10 with an expression resembling skepticism.
“He lives here with me,” Fugo adds. In case G-10 missed it.
“This is… you’ve been what?”
G-10 says, “You were called Guido on the phone.”
“Only Fugo calls me that,” says Mista, clarity between the confusion. “Like how I’m the only one allowed to call him Pannacotta.”
“You are called Pannacotta?”
It’s the first question G-10 has ever asked. Fugo supposes that usually, the android would have access to all the information he’d ever need— except when it comes to a topic so interpersonal.
“You didn’t even tell—“ Mista takes a deep breath as he shakes his head. “Okay, go back. You… built this?”
Sheepish, Fugo nods. He gestures vaguely at the android. “How about you introduce yourself?”
G-10 holds out a hand. “I am called G-10.”
Apprehensive, Mista takes it. His frown deepens, something about the handshake unsettling him; cold palm, artificial skin, the whirring of a machine in the place of a heartbeat.
“When I got promoted last year, I was assigned to a team on the Gold Project, which has been tasked with designing and building a functioning, humanoid robot,” Fugo explains. “The goal is to implement variations on this machinery in various fields and fill labor needs.”
“Great investor pitch.” Mista’s sarcasm veers toward flat-out rude. “I can’t believe you would ever… This is all under Vinegar, isn’t it? Haven’t we agreed just how fucked—”
“It’s perfectly safe, Mista.” It’s said like a promise, but the truth is that Fugo isn’t so certain, himself. “I programmed and built the hardware myself.”
Mista’s desperate gaze shifts away from Fugo, back to the android sitting across from him. “Why didn’t you tell me about all this?”
“It’s supposed to be top secret. I don’t think they would’ve had me bring G-10 home with me if they knew you lived here,” Fugo confesses.
“Now you have two secrets,” says Mista, with bite. “Why would you bring it home anyway?”
“The Gold Program would require a field test, eventually… Dr. Vinegar decided that would be best done in the engineer’s hands.”
Mista lets out a long, low sigh. He puts his elbows on the table, chin on his hands as he goes back and forth between studying G-10 and glaring at Fugo.
“What do you think of this?” Mista asks. Fugo opens his mouth before he realizes that Mista is speaking to G-10.
G-10 looks contemplative before answering. “It is for the best that I spend time outside of the laboratory to enhance my AI with real-world interaction. The trial period will also assist Pannacotta in fine-tuning my hardware to figure out what works and what doesn’t.”
“Just Fugo is fine,” he insists.
“You’re sure this isn’t some kind of… surveillance?” Mista questions, directed back at Fugo. “What if ArrowTech is digging into your past, or my job, or—”
“They won’t be able to!” Fugo loosens his grip on the table after his outburst and rubs his temples. “I have complete control over G-10’s memory and software. Vinegar and anyone else at ArrowTech would have to go through me to access any of it. Don’t you trust me?”
“Of course I trust you, Panna, with my life and everything. It’s just that…” Voice a little softer now, Mista’s gaze keeps flickering back to G-10, never forgetting the second set of eyes. “Do you really trust ArrowTech with this?”
Fugo shakes his head, chewing worriedly at his lip as he casts one more uncertain look at G-10. “It doesn’t matter what I think.”
✧
Fugo met Mista in the mafia. It’s not a very romantic story, but Mista always tells it like it is, full of embellishments and flowery language.
The truth is that Mista had just passed initiation, and Fugo had only returned from an out-of-town mission the night before. They had matching bandages on their hands. Mista’d gotten a pretty nasty burn from Polpo’s lighter, and Fugo had stupidly let Narancia drive while Fugo was handling the chemicals they’d been tasked with transporting; they’d both been sad, angry teenagers with something to prove and nothing to lose, which was what brought them together, ultimately, but Mista always hyper fixated on the other little details.
Nice hands, Mista had said, holding up his own, paired with a suggestive wiggle of his eyebrows.
Fugo had resisted the urge to slap him. That would’ve injured his hand further, and Bruno probably would’ve gotten mad, so he just curtly responded, stupid hat.
They might not have ever gotten together if Fugo had actually hit him, or if their hands hadn’t been injured. Because Mista had only laughed at Fugo’s shitty comment, and Bucciarati had them stay back at Libeccio together instead of running errands with the others. Mista likes to call this their first date, even if it had just been Fugo running through all the orientation materials over a shared slice of strawberry cake, their sore fingers brushing as they reach for their silverware, for the pen, for the teapot.
Fugo sleeps on the couch the night he brings G-10 home. It was Fugo’s decision, but he has a feeling that Mista would’ve asked him to anyway, still annoyed that Fugo had kept something so important a secret for so long. It was also mostly because he was up late setting up a spot for G-10 in his office, moving his desk away from the power strip, which will allow the android to get plugged-in nearby and enter sleep mode overnight. There’s nothing to plug him into yet, but the setup will have to do for now.
When he creeps into their bedroom the next morning to start getting ready for work, Mista’s eyes are open.
“Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” says Fugo, softly.
“I’ve been up for a while.”
“Well, you should go back to sleep then.”
“What, you don’t want to talk to me?”
Taking a deep, pacifying breath, Fugo gets into their closet instead of throwing something at Mista’s prone form underneath the comforter. “ You’re the one who was sulking in the room last night while I showed G-10 how to feed the Pistols and clean the tank.”
The Sex Pistols are Mista’s pride and joy, six goldfish in an extravagant 70-gallon tank in their living room. Sometimes Fugo thinks Mista treats them better than he does himself, decorating the tank with lush plants and rocks, feeding them high quality food with fruits and veggies as treats “when they’re good,” Mista always says, which is pretty much every day. Fugo likes them, too, even if he’d initially been against the idea of pets— the Pistols aren’t noisy, and they keep their messes contained to their tank, which is cleaned easily enough. He’s come to appreciate them as cute, in their own way, with their beady eyes and fat yellow bodies. Mista can even tell them apart from each other, though Fugo hasn’t gotten quite to that point.
G-10 was enthralled by them. His attention was immediately drawn to them when Fugo showed him the living room, pressing close enough to the tank to study all of its contents with those camera-like eyes, paying careful attention to Fugo’s words and movements as he demonstrated how the tank is cleaned and the fish are fed.
Usually, Mista would’ve loved showing the Sex Pistols off to a guest. Robots are excluded from such niceties, apparently.
“He already likes them,” says Fugo, hoping this can be the connective material between his boyfriend and his android. “If you point them out, I bet G-10 could tell them apart just like you can.”
Mista huffs. “He probably likes them just as much as a cat would.”
“If you mean he’s curious, then sure.”
“I mean killing them and presenting to you as a trophy.”
Fugo turns back to Mista as he buttons up his shirt. “You’re not usually this pessimistic.”
“Having your worldview shattered does that to a person,” mutters Mista. His brown eyes poke over the blanket he’s pulled up to his head like an angry groundhog.
Sitting beside him, Fugo places a hopeful hand approximately where Mista’s shoulder would be. “Have I ruined your opinion of me?”
After a beat, Mista sighs and pushes back the covers, allowing Fugo to run his fingers across his collarbones and neck affectionately. “Of course not. Don’t tell anyone, but I’ve always been impressed by your feats of genius. Even if they scare me a lot of the time.”
“Say that again?” Fugo grins, leaning closer.
“Don’t push it.” Mista reaches up nonetheless, arms around Fugo’s neck. “Did you miss the part where I said it scares me? Back then and now.”
“I didn’t hear you complaining all the times my genius saved your ass.”
“Tell that to my gun,” says Mista, his smile sly and easy. He tugs Fugo into a kiss, a reminder of how intimately familiar Fugo is with the revolver, and the smell of gunpowder, and Mista’s triumphant expression every time he pulls off a successful hit.
Fugo rolls off him when Mista’s hands creep beneath Fugo’s shirt, hurrying to finish getting dressed. “I’m going to be late.”
Mista groans, pulling the blankets back over his head petulantly. “You always get there early anyway.”
“Well if there’s any day to get there early, it’s this one. Dr. Vinegar is arranging for all my equipment to get transferred here, and he’s going to be wondering about G-10…”
“Are you really going to leave me here with it?” Mista whines, muffled beneath the comforter.
Fugo rolls his eyes. “I’ll be back around lunch so I can get set up with G-10’s equipment. Just do everything you normally do, and if you need any help, G-10 can assist you.”
Before he leaves, Fugo pulls the blanket back once more, revealing Mista’s pout. “Don’t sleep in too late.”
“First he wants me to go back to bed, now he wants me up early…”
“It’s up to you if you want the robot wandering around unsupervised, then.”
Mista opens his mouth for another retort, but Fugo cuts him off with a kiss. Fugo doesn’t let it linger, or else he’d get sucked back into bed, pulling away after just a moment. “I’ll see you later.”
Mista hums, seemingly satiated for the time being. He curls back under the covers, and Fugo heads out, closing the door gently behind him. He turns, and startles, nearly nose-to-nose with G-10, whose fluorescent eyes are honed onto Fugo.
“Shit,” Fugo breathes, around what feels like his heart beating in his throat.
“He does not like me,” G-10 states, plainly.
“He’s still figuring you out,” says Fugo. He wasn’t expecting to reassure the android this morning, too. “I had the benefit of knowing you from the ground up.”
G-10’s lips purse and his eyes skirt away from Fugo, landing steadily somewhere above his head, as if thinking. Maybe there’s just something really interesting about the ceiling.