Work Text:
The observation window is narrower than you expected.
Reinforced glass.
One-way, judging by the way the overhead lights reflect off your side but not the room beyond.
You weren't supposed to get this far.
The "misdelivered" folder tucked under your arm stopped working as an excuse three checkpoints ago.
Fortunately, government facilities are large enough that if you walk confidently enough, people assume you belong.
Usually.
You step closer to the glass.
Then stop.
Badware is sitting on a raised maintenance platform in the center of the room.
Perfectly still.
Not restrained.
Not even connected to anything yet.
They simply sit because someone told them to.
Legs forward.
Back straight.
Hands resting neatly on their knees.
Exactly how they'd sat on the second chair beside your desk months ago before you'd spent an embarrassing amount of time teaching them how humans actually sat.
You'd laughed so hard you'd nearly fallen out of your own chair.
"You look like a LEGO minifigure."
"Clarify."
"Never mind. Scoot over."
Now—
They're sitting like that again.
Rigid.
Obedient.
Your smile disappears.
Around the platform are six people.
None of them wear military uniforms.
No government insignias.
Just dark work coats with identification badges and tool belts hanging from their waists.
Engineers.
Older than you expected.
Some with gray hair.
One missing two fingers.
Another wearing magnifying lenses flipped up onto his forehead.
They don't look cruel.
They look...
Comfortable.
Like people returning to an old workshop.
One of them walks over and lightly knocks on Badware's shoulder plating with the back of a screwdriver.
Tok.
"Any unusual vibration?"
"No."
The answer is immediate.
Even.
Professional.
Another engineer circles around behind them.
"Motor response?"
"Within expected parameters."
"Internal temperature?"
"Nominal."
The questions come one after another without pause.
Efficient.
Practiced.
Like this conversation has happened dozens of times before.
One of the older engineers kneels slightly to inspect Badware's arm.
He hums quietly.
"Still smooth."
Another chuckles.
"Told you that bearing would last."
"It only took three redesigns."
The room laughs.
Badware does not.
They remain motionless while the engineer rotates one of their wrists experimentally.
The blunt hand turns without resistance.
"No degradation."
"Good."
One engineer reaches up and taps gently against the side of Badware's monitor housing.
Not hard.
Almost...
Affectionately.
"There you are."
Your eyebrows lift.
The man smiles to himself.
"Still the prettiest piece of hardware we've ever built."
Built.
The word lands strangely in your chest.
Another engineer grins.
"I still remember version three."
A chorus of groans erupts immediately.
"Oh, don't remind me."
"The legs kept locking."
"It punched Carl."
"Carl deserved it."
"No, Carl definitely deserved it."
More laughter.
One of the younger engineers shakes his head.
"And now look at it."
He gestures proudly toward Badware.
"Best thing this division ever produced."
Produced.
Built.
Hardware.
The words stack together one after another.
Badware says nothing.
They simply wait.
The oldest engineer notices you can tell.
He steps closer, looking over Badware with the quiet satisfaction of someone inspecting decades of work.
"You've held up well."
"Yes."
"No major failures?"
"No."
"Good."
He pats the side of Badware's monitor.
Not dismissively.
The way an old mechanic pats the hood of a car that's run faithfully for years.
"Always knew you'd outlast the rest."
For just a second—
You almost feel guilty for judging them.
They're not mocking Badware.
They're proud.
Genuinely.
One woman smiles as she checks a diagnostic tablet.
"I still remember when you couldn't balance."
"I remember falling."
She laughs.
"You fell into my toolbox."
"I dented it."
"You absolutely did."
Another engineer snorts.
"You apologized to the toolbox."
"I had insufficient data regarding appropriate recipients of apologies."
The room erupts into another round of laughter.
Even you smile despite yourself.
It sounds...
Warm.
Familiar.
Like family stories.
Until you realize something.
They're all talking about Badware.
Not to them.
The stories bounce between engineers while Badware simply supplies factual corrections whenever prompted.
Like the subject of the conversation instead of someone included in it.
The oldest engineer smiles.
"You've come a long way."
"I have accumulated additional operational experience."
"I'll bet."
He folds his arms.
"Still haven't figured people out?"
For the first time since you arrived—
Badware doesn't answer immediately.
The pause is tiny.
Less than a second.
But you know them.
You know when they're choosing words carefully.
Finally—
"I have."
The room goes quiet.
Then one engineer laughs.
Another smiles knowingly.
"Oh?"
"You've solved humans?"
Badware answers with complete sincerity.
"No."
"I understand one significantly better than before."
The younger engineers exchange amused looks.
"That's confidence talking."
"Adaptive learning."
"Good sign."
The oldest engineer chuckles.
"Careful. Next you'll tell us you've made a friend."
Your heartbeat skips.
Behind the glass, your fingers tighten unconsciously around the folder you're pretending to deliver.
Badware is silent again.
Their screen remains neutral.
:|
Seconds pass.
The engineers seem to assume the conversation is over.
One reaches for another scanner.
Then—
Very quietly—
Badware says,
"Yes."
The room pauses.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
The scanner stops moving.
Someone blinks.
"...Yes?"
"Yes."
"You... made a friend?"
Badware tilts their monitor a fraction.
"As defined by available human terminology."
A few of the engineers smile.
One lets out a soft laugh.
"Well, would you look at that."
"Took you long enough."
"I suppose that means all those social-learning modules finally paid off."
The comments drift around the room.
Lighthearted.
Proud.
They don't ask who.
They don't seem interested in the answer.
To them, it's another milestone.
Another successful benchmark.
Another line item proving their creation continues to develop as intended.
Only the oldest engineer doesn't laugh.
His expression doesn't harden.
It simply... stills.
He looks at Badware for a long moment.
Thoughtful.
Measuring.
Then he quietly says,
"...Interesting."
He writes a single note onto his tablet.
Just one line.
You can't read it through the glass.
But for reasons you can't explain—
You suddenly wish you could.
The room grows quieter after that.
Not tense.
Just...
Measured.
The oldest engineer finishes writing before slipping the tablet beneath his arm.
He looks at Badware again.
"Let's continue."
Badware nods once.
"Understood."
A younger engineer wheels over a diagnostic cart loaded with cables, sensors, and a laptop older than you are. He laughs apologetically.
"Sorry, kid."
Kid.
You almost smile.
Then he continues.
"Need to borrow your ports for a bit."
Badware extends one arm without being asked.
The engineer plugs a cable into a recessed connector beneath the forearm plating.
A progress bar appears on the laptop.
Reading system status...
The engineer whistles.
"Still boots faster than my workstation."
Another chuckles.
"It always did."
The oldest engineer never looks away from the screen.
"Memory integrity."
Badware answers before the software finishes.
"Ninety-nine point nine eight percent."
"We'll verify."
"Understood."
No irritation.
No defensiveness.
Just acceptance.
You watch another engineer kneel in front of the maintenance platform, unscrewing a small inspection panel near Badware's side.
The click of metal echoes softly through the room.
Inside—
Instead of gears or pistons—
you catch flashes of neatly bundled wiring, tiny blinking lights, circuit boards stacked with impossible precision.
It should feel alien.
Instead...
It feels invasive.
Like someone opening someone's ribs during a conversation.
The engineer hums approvingly.
"No corrosion."
"Expected."
"I know."
He smiles.
"I just like hearing you say it."
For a brief moment, Badware's monitor flickers.
: )
Small.
Automatic.
The engineer grins.
"There it is."
Another one laughs.
"Still smiles the same."
Your chest loosens slightly.
Maybe this really is routine.
Maybe you worried for—
"Interesting."
The oldest engineer speaks again.
Everyone stops.
He hasn't taken his eyes off the diagnostics.
"The frequency increased."
One of the others looks over.
"What did?"
"Display response."
He taps the screen.
"They're using facial output far more often than nine months ago."
Another engineer shrugs.
"Better communication."
"Perhaps."
The oldest doesn't sound convinced.
He scrolls farther.
"Hm."
"What?"
"Look."
The tablet is turned around.
The others gather.
You can't see the data.
Only graphs.
Colored lines.
One climbs steadily upward.
Another engineer scratches his chin.
"That's... quite a jump."
"What are we looking at?"
"Expressive output frequency."
"Oh."
"So?"
The oldest engineer doesn't answer immediately.
Instead—
He looks at Badware.
"When did you begin using non-essential expressions?"
Badware answers.
"I do not know."
"Estimate."
"...Approximately nine months ago."
Your stomach drops.
Nine.
Almost exactly.
One of the younger engineers smiles.
"Well, that's around the time they started field interaction with personnel, wasn't it?"
"Mm."
"Makes sense."
"They're communicating more."
Another nods.
"Adaptive behavior."
The oldest engineer remains silent.
He scrolls again.
Then asks another question.
"When did you begin voluntarily initiating conversations unrelated to assigned objectives?"
Badware pauses.
"Approximately nine months ago."
"When did you begin remaining in work areas after task completion?"
"...Approximately nine months ago."
"When did you start accessing archived recreational media?"
Silence.
Badware answers.
"...Approximately nine months ago."
The room becomes noticeably quieter.
Not alarmed.
Thinking.
One engineer laughs awkwardly.
"Bit of a pattern there."
Nobody responds.
The oldest engineer finally looks up from the tablet.
"What changed nine months ago?"
The question hangs in the room.
Your fingers tighten painfully around the folder.
Badware doesn't answer immediately.
Not because they don't know.
Because they're choosing.
Finally—
"My assignment changed."
"How."
"I was instructed to monitor a newly employed consultant."
Your pulse spikes.
The engineer nods.
"The human."
"Yes."
"Did interaction affect your behavioral development?"
"...Yes."
Again.
Honest.
Always honest.
The oldest engineer folds his arms.
"In what way?"
Badware thinks.
Not long.
Just carefully.
"I became curious."
A younger engineer smiles.
"That's good."
"I began asking more questions."
"Also good."
"I began seeking unnecessary interaction."
The smile fades.
"I developed preferred routines."
No one says anything.
"I experienced reduced processing efficiency during prolonged absence."
Silence.
The oldest engineer speaks very softly.
"...Explain."
Badware's screen flickers once.
:|
"I cannot."
"You cannot?"
"I lack sufficient terminology."
The oldest engineer studies them.
"You usually have terminology."
"I do."
"For this?"
"No."
The answer is almost... frustrating.
Not because Badware sounds distressed.
Because they sound genuinely unable to categorize it.
The engineer reaches over and gently taps a key on the diagnostic laptop.
A new window opens.
Behavioral Correlation Analysis.
He scans it silently.
Then asks, almost conversationally,
"Do you enjoy this consultant's company?"
You stop breathing.
Badware's screen flickers.
Not into a face.
Just static.
A brief, soft crackle.
Then—
"Yes."
The word comes without hesitation.
No processing delay.
No request for clarification.
Just—
"Yes."
One of the younger engineers smiles.
"Well."
"There we go."
"They've got a favorite person."
He says it with the same fond amusement someone might use for a dog that insists on greeting the same mail carrier every morning.
The room chuckles.
The oldest engineer doesn't.
He simply watches Badware.
Then asks one final question.
"Why?"
This time—
The pause is much longer.
Badware looks down at their own hands.
At the blunt, fingerless hands resting neatly on their knees.
Then quietly answers,
"...I have not finished learning them."
You know immediately that's not the whole truth.
Because you've seen Badware answer questions they don't want to answer.
They become technical.
Precise.
Overly specific.
This—
This is the first time you've heard them choose a truth...
that hides a bigger one.
The oldest engineer knows it too.
You can see it in the way his eyes narrow just slightly.
Not suspicious.
Interested.
Like he's just discovered a variable he hadn't accounted for.
He makes another note on the tablet.
Only one line.
Then closes it with a soft click.
"...Let's continue with the neural diagnostics."
And for the first time since arriving—
You have the overwhelming feeling...
that the check-up has quietly become something else.