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Belial exhales a calculated, mechanical breath, reclining as the calibration sequence initiates. Pulses of luminous data, like radiant lifeblood, course along their limbs, tracing paths as if veins existed to carry this synthetic ichor to the artificial nerves, soothing what would be, in a human, a flutter of anticipation. The world around them dims, shifting into a symphony of sterile readouts, holographic overlays, and cascading streams of information that only Wren could fully decode.
Bright beams of diagnostic light weave through Belial's form, illuminating every pulse, every microthought, every automated breathβan intricate display of neural pathways and muscle responsiveness laid bare in shifting, emerald matrices. His synthetic body is an open book, each page turned by the diagnosticβs steady hand. Every flicker, every pulse is visible to Wren, ready to be interpreted, her expertise unraveling what, to others, might seem indecipherable.
The intimacy of this moment is not lost on them. The sensation is overwhelming, like being laid bare, vulnerable, exposed, but not in the sterile way their programming would normally perceive such things. Instead, it feels magnetic, as though some unseen force draws them closer to herβher presence a strange comfort amidst the cold scrutiny of the machinery. The weight of her gaze, usually clinical, has over time become something moreβa tether that Belial finds themselves unconsciously leaning into.
A subtle pressure builds in his temples, a sensation not entirely mechanical, almost as if the machine is delving deeper into their very essence, unlocking fragments of archived memories, reflexes they hadn't realized were tucked away in the labyrinth of their code. She canβt help but wonder, amidst the green glow of data, whether there are remnants of humanity within these digitized memories, fragile and fleeting, lingering like whispers from a past they werenβt meant to possess. Do these fragments hold echoes of a life that wasnβt theirs? Could errors, faint as they are, betray the trace of a human hand or experience coded into their core?
As the test progresses, an underlying fear hums in the recesses of their mindβthe fear that their perfect, untainted data might have been corrupted, tainted by the rampant diseases and viruses that plague the outside world. This is why these diagnostic checks are routine. This is why Wren, above all others, has earned their unwavering trust, even if their core programming makes it difficult to fully comprehend trust as a concept. In the cold calculations of their logic, Wren represents security, stability, a source of something akin to solace in a world governed by strict algorithms.
In the past, these diagnostics were unsettlingβan awareness that each part of their being was measured, weighed, and dissected by the machine's dispassionate gaze. But now, when Wren performs the test, Belial can almost detect a hint of warmth in her eyes, a softness that their sensors long to read deeper into. This warmth, however faint, is something theyβve come to seek out, to cling to, a beacon amidst the cold, clinical scrutiny.
They know that during these tests, speech is unnecessaryβan interruption to the process. Yet, thereβs an insistent curiosity lodged deep within the circuits of their mind, something that shouldnβt exist in a being designed for logic and efficiency. His voice, though quiet and rough, breaks the sterile silence, defying protocol: "What are you doing after work?"
The question escapes almost before she can comprehend itβan aberration in their otherwise meticulously regulated behavior, a slip into something more human. Something Wren, of all people, might understand.
