ArtByBai

(Set sometime after the events of Chapter 141/main storyline)

That day, Genos returned to the flat with Saitama, but his tools remained untouched. He made dinner for them both like it was any other day. Cleaned the bathtub after Saitama freshened up, did a load of laundry to wash his apron, and Saitama’s hero suit, then submitted a report to the Hero Association website as he always did.

Genos took his usual corner of the room, kneeling, hands on his knees, now dressed in something other than the ripped tank top and irreparable skinny jeans he’d worn earlier that day. Unsettled, Saitama paused before he turned out the light, then came over to Genos’s side, and sat on his futon, an eyebrow raised as he looked the cyborg up and down.

“You good, Genos?” Saitama asked, a hint of caution to his tone.

“Yes,” Genos answered flatly, his gaze static as his remaining optic stared straight ahead at the floor.

“Ah… If you say so,” Saitama blinked, and gave a brief nod. He took a deep breath, then let it out in a quiet sigh. The alarm clock next to his futon, on the hardwood floor, ticked quietly, but it seemed to echo through the one-room flat. The faucet in the bathroom dripped once.

Saitama shifted restlessly in place, turning to the side as he crossed his legs. His pajamas rustled quietly, and he pulled his blanket over his lap to keep the cold away.

Genos sat motionless in his corner, like a statue, in that same pose he always took whenever he powered down to recalibrate his systems overnight. Only now, there were a few soft clicks and whines from his… Processors? Saitama wasn’t exactly the most tech-savvy, but he figured that’s what they were. Probably.

From the corner of his eye, Saitama caught the erratic flicker of the golden glow Genos’s optics usually gave off; his face-plate-thingy twitched before it finally settled to a neutral expression once more. Looking back to Genos with a slight frown, he spoke again.

“Did you already send in your report stuff for the Association…?”

Genos raised his head to meet Saitama’s gaze, his movement subtly stuttering until their eyes were level. “Yes, Sensei. I submitted your daily report, as well,” He explained, his voice even. He sounded like a TV going slightly staticky during a bad rainstorm.

Saitama swallowed, and blinked at Genos. “Uh… Did you ask them to help you with repairs, tomorrow?”

“No.”

“Aha… So you’re just gonna work on fixing yourself up tomorrow, right?” Saitama laughed nervously, raising a hand to scratch the back of his head, but Genos’s expression never changed. “We did have a pretty long day today. I bet you’re tired. Or… Whatever the robot equivalent of tired, is. Backed-up?”

Genos made no move. He didn’t even blink, or move like he was breathing, like normal. Saitama’s hand trembled as he brought it back down to rest in his lap.

“I do not… Get “tired”, Sensei,” Genos answered, his voice crackling in the pause between his words, and his optic flickered again. A bright blue spark flew from the ragged slash across his face, where synthetic skin had been ripped away during their last encounter with a stray monster. Genos let out a low hiss, his body stuttering again like a janky animatronic at a theme park, partially bowing forward with something resembling a sigh, before sitting himself back upright.

“Jeez,” Saitama muttered, eyes widening at the sight. “You’re looking a little worse for wear, there, Genos-“

“I’m fine,” Genos cut in, his tone a little more clear than before. The bridge of his nose scrunched into a scowl, before relaxing again. “…My apologies, Sensei.”

“Uh… No, you’re fine,” Saitama reassured him. He swallowed again. “Are you okay, Genos?”

The cyborg stared ahead silently, but this time, his singular optic jittered like he was thinking deeply. Another quiet whine of gears, or processors, or internal fans or whatever escaped him, before he finally blinked, and glanced up at Saitama properly. He looked tired.

“I would… Like to continue this conversation, tomorrow, Sensei. Please.”

Saitama nodded. “Alright. You rest,” He conceded, then, he reached out, and gently patted Genos’s shoulder, letting his hand rest there for a few seconds longer.

Genos looked to Saitama’s hand on his shoulder, then back up to his face. “…Thank you.”

“No problem.” Saitama removed his hand from Genos’s shoulder, then turned, and scooted forward on his futon, before lying back on the cushy material, and settling in for the night. He pulled the blanket up to his chin, and shimmied to have his arms rest at his sides.

After a moment of hesitation, Genos spoke again. “Goodnight, Sensei.”

Saitama angled his head back to look up at Genos again, and gave a small smile. “Goodnight,” he answered, before turning his head to one side on his pillow, and closing his eyes.

Genos sat there beside Saitama for a long night, his internal clock ticking in time with the alarm clock on the floor. He didn’t power down for a long time, letting his memory sort itself automatically as he logged the day, his stats, his performance, and measured out adjustments to his technique and combat programs. Then, his gaze slowly drifted down towards himself:

The metal plating of his arms stuck out at odd angles, twisted off by heat and sheer force, jagged and sharp.

His clothes rested unevenly over his thighs, where more plating had been stripped from him; his hydraulics kept him perfectly balanced even though his left foot was missing. A few fingers were missing, too, his third and pinky on his right hand, missing at the second and third knuckles.

Half his vision was dark, the blurred divide between them emblazoned with a [WARNING! SYSTEMS DAMAGED] notification that he had to dismiss for the tenth time that evening.

Genos slowly gripped his hands into tight fists, where they rested on his damaged knee joints.

He would request the necessary parts to repair himself from a nearby shop down the street. There was a sale; he saw the ad online earlier that day. Then, he’d work on repairs, once the parts were delivered to their apartment. He hoped the delivery drones would arrive faster than they did last time.

Before powering down, Genos checked his contacts list once more with his internal systems. Doctor Kuseno’s name was still grayed out, with a red X by his name. The number, the link, still was rendered inactive, and it would remain inactive.

Genos’s hands rattled quietly, before they stilled.