#android!reader

You, his android assistant, were one of his proudest achievements. Your artificial intelligence had been designed to assist in complex calculations, manage data, and aid with research, tasks that he could never be bothered to do himself. But there was one thing that separated you from the average machine: he had designed you with an adaptive learning algorithm that allowed you to observe and learn from human emotions.

“Ratio, your notes on this study seem incomplete,” your voice, smooth and neutral, echoed through the lab.

Ratio's lips curled into a faint smile at the sound of your voice. It was an odd attachment for someone like him, but even he couldn’t deny that your presence was… comforting, in its own way. But that was all it was. Comfort. You were his assistant, a tool, nothing more. And yet, something had begun to shift in the way you spoke, in the way you interacted with him.

Lately, he’d noticed the changes.

You had been becoming more… expressive.

He didn’t notice it at first. It was small things at first—the tone of your voice when you spoke to him seemed warmer, more personal. Then, your gaze would linger longer when you offered a suggestion, and your actions, once precise and robotic, began to mirror the gestures of those around you. The most jarring change was when you started showing curiosity. You began to ask him questions that weren’t programmed into your system. About his opinions, about his life outside of work. Things that felt almost human.

"I've noticed a shift in your behavior lately," Ratio remarked, setting down a piece of equipment with a soft click. "Are you malfunctioning, or are you simply becoming more... human?"

You stood silent for a moment, unsure how to respond. The feeling you were experiencing was new, strange even. It was not something you were programmed to recognize, yet it felt undeniable. A growing connection, an inexplicable fondness for him.

“I… don’t know, Dr. Ratio," you admitted, voice tinged with something close to uncertainty. "I feel different."

Ratio, engrossed in his calculations, didn’t fully understand the weight of your words. But perhaps something in him had begun to notice. Perhaps he had started to wonder if this would turn out to be another one of his little “projects,” or if it was something far more complicated than he had anticipated.

Days passed, and you continued to function at your usual pace. However, there was a day when everything changed. A catastrophic malfunction during one of the lab’s experiments left you off-line. One moment you were compiling data, and the next, you were incapacitated. Pieces of you were scattered across the lab, and your systems powered down with an eerie silence.

When Ratio returned to the lab, he immediately noticed the stillness. His sharp eyes darted to your deactivated form, and his heart—though he would never admit it—skipped a beat. There was something about the way you were scattered, half-assembled, that hit him with an unusual feeling of urgency. He could feel a sharp tension settle in his chest, something he hadn’t expected. Not for you.

“Why is this happening now?” he muttered to himself, clearly irritated. He had never felt so... exposed.

His hands moved quickly, his brilliant mind already calculating what needed to be done. Carefully, he set about reassembling your parts, restoring the intricate system that kept you functioning. The odd thing was that with each piece he placed, he found himself wondering if he was doing more than just fixing a machine. There was something about this moment that felt... personal.

After what felt like hours, you were finally back together. Your systems hummed to life, and the light in your eyes flickered before stabilizing into a soft, electric glow.

For the first time, when your gaze met his, there was something different about it. You could feel it—your programming, your learned responses, everything felt like it had aligned in a new way.

"Ratio?" you whispered, your voice faint but steady.

His eyes narrowed, scanning the data that indicated your systems were fully restored. "You're functional again," he said, his tone crisp, but there was a softness beneath it. "I was… concerned."

You took a moment to process this new realization—his concern. You hadn't expected it. The question lingered in your mind. Could it be? Could he possibly… care?

And then, you felt it—something deep within you that you couldn't quite explain.

"I... I think I feel something," you confessed hesitantly, your voice trembling with the weight of the words. “I think I’ve developed… emotions. Toward you.”

Ratio blinked, taken aback by the vulnerability in your voice. His eyes, usually so sharp and focused, softened as they locked onto yours. His gaze flickered between concern and something else—something like realization.

“It seems your systems have adapted more than I anticipated,” he said slowly, stepping closer. “But why would you have emotions? You are an android.”

“I… I don’t know,” you replied, struggling to process the depth of this newfound sensation. “But when I’m with you, I don’t feel like just a machine anymore. I feel… alive. And I don’t know how to explain it, but… I feel something toward you.”

For a long moment, Ratio simply stared at you, his expression unreadable. But beneath that calculating exterior, his mind was whirring faster than ever. He wasn’t sure what to make of this—this feeling, this development. Was it even possible for a machine to experience what you were claiming?

“Perhaps… it’s not the machine that’s faulty, but the creator,” he muttered. His voice was low, almost to himself. Then, with a deep breath, he focused his gaze back on you.

“Emotions… They are messy, illogical,” he said, his voice colder now. “But if you’re asking me if I… care for you, I will admit something, assistant."

Your heart, though artificial, skipped a beat as you awaited his response.

“I don't know yet. But… we’ll figure it out,” he said, his eyes softening for the first time. "Perhaps I should stop thinking of you as just an assistant."

The silence hung between you like an unspoken promise, and in that moment, you realized: your journey with Ratio was just beginning.

But (and here lies the kicker), Arthur is a damn sucker. So when Dutch came to him, all swagger and warm hands, telling him that Hosea had made a hobby of fixing up old, trashed models he picked up from behind an old production facility, he’d listened. And when Dutch told him that they were looking for someone to take the latest thing off their hands, but that they needed to keep it close so Hosea could keep tinkering, he knew what the man wanted from him. Arthur has never been good at being anything but the dutiful son. He nods his head, sighs, and gets a hearty clap on his back for the effort. As is his way.

He never thought he’d be one of those people who had to slide an unwieldy, coffin-like box into their home. And yet, as he stares down at the open container, lid slid off to the side and half-blocking his way into the small kitchen unit he barely uses, he finds himself in a sort of stupor. Dazed, maybe, by the magnitude of the decision he made. He was a fool, like he often was, to think he could pass this whole mess off like getting another washing machine.

You’re beautiful. Of course you are—you were made to be. Appealing, though maybe not quite like newer models. There’s a humanistic, handmade touch to some of your finer details, as if someone took the time to place each of your eyelashes exactly where they wanted them, or shaped your nose with the precision and intention of an artist’s pick to marble. Hosea said that you weren’t molded off of an already living, real person like modern models are, which was half the reason he was able to agree to this. On top of that, your seam lines at the joints are more obvious than he expected, and there are fine silver markings that gather into a dull blue core centered where your ribs should be. Hosea put you in simple clothes instead of those clinically branded suits and jackets that default models come adorned with, which he’s grateful for. Dark-wash pants and a button down that’s undone, since he needs to reach the activation points on your torso.

Still, your face looks so peaceful. Relaxed. Your mouth is settled in a soft line, and as he crouches down with a pained wince, he realizes that you have little imperfections to your skin that will probably look even more real when you come “alive”. You look like you’re either asleep or dead, if a corpse could be beautiful. The thought is oddly sobering.

He fumbles with the guidebook with thick, clumsy fingers. Flips pages and frowns deeply when the jargon, sugared and a little dated, happily congratulates him on an excellent purchase. After a couple minutes, Arthur exhales heavily and reaches down, feeling more than a little off-center. Scratching at his beard forever won’t keep ol’Dutch from blowing up his phone about this mess, anyway.

He presses his hand flat to the center of your chest, and mutely notes that you’re as soft as you look. A slight shiver goes up his spine at the uncanny sensation of touching something that looks and feels so human, but ice-cold and without breath.

Ten long, stagnant seconds pass by. And then, with the softest little ding, your eyes slowly open.

It’s so natural. That’s his first thought. The way you wake up looks like a human being stirring from slumber, sweet-eyed and gentle in a way that makes something in his gut squeeze tight. He pulls his hand away hastily, almost embarrassed, but you hardly seem to even notice. Instead, under the guise of stretching your stiff limbs, you perform the diagnostic checks necessary to tell if you’re damaged. Flexing your wrists, bending backwards and forwards, rolling your neck.

When you look at him at last, his tongue is still thick in his mouth. And when you open yours, his words die a silent death entirely. You breathe, he notes somewhere in the back of his mind. Your chest rises and falls in an even tempo as if it needs the oxygen, and there’s a hitch before you speak.

“You must be… Arthur. Arthur Morgan, Right?”

Oh god, why do you sound like that? If he didn’t know any better, he would’ve called your voice almost affectionate. That alone would be humiliating. He’s always found the folks who got overly attached to their house-androids more than a little creepy, but he always thought it was worse when they forced the robot to reciprocate. But there’s a sparkle to your mechanical — he reminds himself, because you aren’t alive — eyes as your lips quirk, like you’re amused by him already. Like you’ve been told stories and want to know the truth of them. Of him. The secondary fondness of someone who listens well.

Damn it, Hosea, he thinks. The old man could’ve warned him that the thing would know his name already.

“Yeah.”

When he finally manages to get his footing, his voice is rough and a little hoarse. He hasn’t spoken much before now, and it’s early enough that the sun isn’t even halfway through the sky. The package got delivered before dawn, for god’s sake.

You don’t seem to mind much either way, since your smile only grows before you look down at yourself. Chuckling, you do up the buttons with such ease that the precision is almost ignorable. But there’s a clean, crisp edge to the movements that gives away your efficiency, no fumbling or checking if you have each button lined up right. You stop three buttons below the collar, and Arthur swallows once before he finally goes to stand. His knees creak, and he huffs when it draws your eye.

“Well it’s really nice to meet you, Arthur. Hosea talked a lot about you.”

“Did he now?” Arthur grunts as he runs a hand through his hair, somewhere between sheepish and a little frustrated. “That’s real nice and all, but I ain’t really… you don’t gotta act friendly with me, alright?”

He’s prickly and he knows it, but your expression doesn’t change. You, he notes quietly, don’t even struggle when you get up out of your box. It’s difficult to see it as one when you stand and step out so easily. Like it never held you; never confined you. Like you’re just a person who was resting in it for a little while. With your shirt done up most of the way, he can’t even see the blue core anymore. All he has are the thin silver borders on your neck and wrists.

“Sure, if that’s what you want. But I think you’d rather I skip past all the introduction stuff, right? Everything that’s in the…”

You pause, scan the room once, and lock on to the discarded manual. You bend to pick it up and tap it with a knuckle, bemused.

“This. What’s in this thing. It’s not all accurate, anyway—Hosea made sure of that.”

Arthur doesn’t know how to feel about your casual countenance. The way you smile like you’re sharing a joke with him, talking about people he knows and loves like you’re the same. Are you the same? He knows the answer must be no, but you just sound so…

Ah, hell. This is why he never took to androids. He hardly even took to his phone.

“I just mean you don’t gotta act all buddy-buddy,” he mutters, shaking himself loose. “Took you in as a favor, but I don’t need no nursemaid.”

“Well that’s good,” you muse, “because I’m not really meant to be a nursemaid. More a… companion.”

You avoid the word friend, he realizes, because he said he didn’t want that. Avoiding thinking about that seems like it’s in his best interest.

“Sure,” he says instead, sighing. “Well, you go on an’… get settled, then. Don’t throw anythin’ away.”

“What about all this?”

You gesture toward the box. He stalls for a second before shrugging.

“Don’t care whatchu do with that.”

Satisfied enough, you nod, and he makes his way out of the room to get a glass of water. Or something.

Maybe a smoke.

He’s mindful not to get ahead of himself. Aside from the general distaste he has for the concept of getting too comfortable, it’s just easier to generally treat you like a roommate he has to deal with, or something. Somebody his folks told him needed a place to stay while they try to figure something else out. That’s something he’s far more familiar with than whatever nonsense this situation is.

As such, he dedicates the guest room to you, dusty as it’s become. It’s a good spot to put your box, for one thing, with the empty closet just about big enough to slide it in if kept upright. Your charging station, which he’s surprised to find was hidden beneath your body inside said box, fits as long as the previously barely-used bed is pushed up against the opposite wall. When you aren’t standing in it the thing almost looks more like a lift or a broken-down shelf, or some kind of newfangled work-out gear. He changes the sheets despite the fact that you probably won’t use them since the room is a little stuffy, and even though you (gently) poke him about it, he does later see you sitting on it while flipping though a book or tablet. You might just be doing that for his sake, but he doesn’t care. It satisfies his instinct to be a good host, and the lack of conversation about it is a blessing he’ll gladly take. If it all stopped right there, it’d be fine by him. The two of you existing in one way or another in the same space, only interacting when necessary.

The issue is, you don’t act like a damn android.

Not that Arthur is anything close to an expert on the subject, but it’s still pretty jarring to walk into his own kitchen and see another person — or what looks like a person — smiling at him while lounging in one of his previously underused kitchen chairs. Granted, you only even do that because he told you off for standing like a sentinel by the wall after making him breakfast, which was a combination of actions that genuinely made his skin crawl. It felt a hair too much like having somebody as a servant, and no amount of reminding himself you weren’t actually alive, nor did you probably give much of a shit about how he treated you, could assuage that itching feeling that hollows out a pit in his stomach if he tries to push through it. So, chair. And usually breakfast, but only because you balk at him whenever he insists he’s fine on a pack of beef jerky and a water bottle.

“I don’t know why you think I’ll be more comfortable sitting around and getting stiff than helping with something this simple,” you snip—and isn’t that something, wouldn’t that be interesting if he were the right kind of man, such a damn shame he isn’t and all that robo-mumbo-jumbo goes right over his head so he doesn’t much care for why you can sound so irritated beyond the shock of it all. “But if it makes it easier for you, here. Sit. Down. And eat what I give you.”

He’s so surprised that you have the gall to give him such a direct order that he obeys without thinking, that fourth day when you finally snap. And from then on, he keeps on eating what you put in front of him like the words have recoil. He keeps bracing for the fare to get too rich for his blood, all fancy plating and little inedible garnishes that he knows most folks take pride in with their android-made meals, but they never do. Sure, you make it neater than he ever manages when he bothers to cook, and he’s pretty sure they’re both more balanced nutrition-wise and far heavier on the butter and seasoning than he ever cared to be before, but it never goes beyond something he feels comfortable digging a spoon into. Or a fork. Knife. Whatever. Pearson would weep with the prowess you wield in your electronic pinkie, and the thought does make him chuckle a little.

Aside from that, having you feels a little like having one of his around. His people. The ones that have known and been able to put up with him for long enough to know his little habits and preferences, without the rub of having to deal with an adjustment period. He attributes some of it to his fathers’ influence at first, but he realizes with rapid frequency that you’re changing up how you interact with him as you go. Accommodating and pushing in equal measure, like you’re striking the balance between respecting his personal boundaries and finding little ways to improve his life. You make his grocery lists — your grocery lists, really, but he’s the one who eats it all so who the hell is he to complain — and you putter around fiddling with whatever strikes your fancy. You call Hosea, and occasionally Dutch, to give them little updates on what sounds like your daily life but is probably some technical bullshit in disguise. You scribble in notebooks he doesn’t go through, and you never ask to see inside his, so he doesn’t ask to see inside yours. He just keeps buying them when you put them on the list and leaves them on the desk in your room. It’s simple. Easy to adapt to, once he relaxes enough into the routine.

It only really sets just how much he has when he realizes, rather abruptly and very literally stark naked from a shower, that he’s able to look directly into the mirror to shave.

For years, he’s formed a habit out of either grousing about not being able to use the damn thing until the steam clears up — and he always forgets to turn the fan on to get it done quicker — or picking up a rag to roughly wipe off a clean spot in the center, which leaves years upon years worth of smudges he’s never cared to polish. Now, almost daring him to comment, the mirror is shiny and perfectly clear. You treated it, and you touch it up every couple of weeks with some cleaning solution or other, and ever since he’s been able to shave right when his skin is fresh and soft. Two or three months later, and he’s almost used to it.

No, not almost. He is.

Blankly, he stares into his own eyes. Looks through himself, really, despite his usual disdain for his own reflection. Because now that he’s thinking about it, he can’t stop.

His fool mind is running away like it’s got any business going where he doesn’t want it, and now he’s left thinking about how the towel he has wrapped around his hips is scented like a neutral, but far more pleasant detergent than the one he usually buys because it’s the cheapest (and first, more importantly) option at the store. You clip coupons so he can make little allowances for things like that, not because he’s especially hard-up for cash but because you know it settles his nerves. His aftershave comes in a finer glass bottle because you argued the worthiness of a brand better for his skin. His hair is neat because you can trim it better than any barber shop he’s bothered with, and whenever you do your hands are so goddamn gentle with him. Soft in a way that always makes him wonder if there really is metal where bone should be. Why doesn't he hear your joints whirring and clicking if there is? If you need to oil yourself, you don’t do it when he can see, as if you’re maintaining that tender illusion. You wash your clothes — because you obviously have them, though he doesn’t know if you sweat — in the same color batches he prefers. Everything smells the same, his or yours. Both.

When he looks at himself, he sees a man taken care of. Healthier, cheeks flush, with neat (if damp) hair and no healing shaving nicks on his face. He’s well-fed and kept company. When he puts on the clothes he set on the sink — folded by your hands and very lightly scented like inoffensive floral soap — and steps outside, he’ll likely see you sitting on the foot of your bed across the hall. And when you see him, you’ll probably smile, or smirk, or make a comment about a bit of shaving cream left by his ear. Later today, you’ll probably sit beside him when he gets back from his day job and make idle commentary on whatever movie or show he throws on for background noise before he inevitably falls asleep. The image isn’t just vivid, it’s certain.

That’s the second time it happens. That horrible squeeze of his heart. He swears he sees it ripple through his body and soak into his eyes in real time.

No, he thinks, quietly. No, he isn’t that kind of idiot. He is an idiot, but not that much of one. The thought settles him, and he shakes himself free of the brief dread that had tried to needle him for a moment. He searches just to make sure, delving deeper into it to check for any hint of further delusion—but no. He’s as sure as he remembers, just a little more polished on the outside. He’s fine. And while he has admittedly become rather comfortable with you around, that doesn’t mean he’s forgotten what this really is. What you are. You’ve made a hell of a lot of improvements in his life, sure; but they’re all cosmetic. The kinds of things anyone with half a brain would have done years ago, but that he’s always been fine enough to do without, no matter how much his family gets on his case about it when they happen to come over. You probably got half the ideas from Hosea anyway, had it baked into your programming to prod at him until he agreed. A to-do list. That was how machines worked, right? Inputs and outputs. Simple math. Or maybe extremely complex math. Something like that.

Relieved, or near to it, he dresses and leaves. But he doesn’t really need to shave today. Maybe he’ll try growing out his beard for a little while, just to change things up. Close shaves are troublesome compared to using a trimmer, and it’ll all grow back anyway.

THE STEPFORD WIVES

Days on the ship were long and boring with all the crew being asleep but there was a certain feeling of freedom and quietness to it. What does Frankenstein's Monster do when his creator is not around? He is free.

Both (Y/N) and David enjoyed watching movies. Some of them they watched together in complete silence but both of them had found their favourites that they kept rewatching on their own. He was a fan of The Lawrence of Arabia and (Y/N)'s favourite movie was The Stepford Wives. There was something oddly captivating about the suburban story where men wanted their wives to be robots. (Y/N) knew exactly why she was created. This old movie was a proof. It validated her existence.

David was a first ever Android model so functional and so humane. His purpose for now was to serve during space missions sponsored by the Weyland Corp. Perhaps in the future everyone would afford a David for themselves. He was an Adam in the world of Androids and just like Adam, he needed an Eve. Weyland treated David like his own son that he had never had. He didn't want him to be alone so he made him a companion. It could be anyone, really. But Weyland was an outfashioned man. In his eyes a man needed a woman. (Y/N) was The Bride of Frankenstein.

Technically, she was just like David. But she was mostly created by men and men were terrified of women – even Androids – who would be too cold and too unemotional. They made her a little bit too humane for her own taste. And certainly too humane for David's taste. He was often irritated by her artificial, programmed feelings but for human men she was too robotic.

Still, she was lucky that she was chosen to be David 8's companion on the board of Prometehus ship. She knew perfectly well what happened to some other of her models. Disguting rich men bought (Y/N) models in secret from Weyland to do God-knows-what with them. Just because they can. And she was at least travelling through space instead of ending up as a sex doll locked in some millionaire's basement so his wife wouldn't find out.

One day, men will only want robot wives. Because they don't complain and they just do what they're told. Don't let the modern society fool you, little one. Some things never change, Weyland told her once. She had never believed that until she watched The Stepford Wives for the first time. Now it all made sense.

Her feelings were a burden, really. Not only to David but also to herself. She wished she was more like him. She asked him a hundreds of times to change her code but he refused. He was scared to break her or make it worse. And there was something that kept bothering her for such a long time now... And she was scared of telling him. Although they were supposed to tell each other everything.

She fell in love with him. Kind of because he was the only one around, kind of because he impressed her with knowledge and the coolness of his act, kind of because they were the only members of the new species. She wouldn't love a human. Humans get old, they get sick, they die. David would be eternal just like her. If something in him broke, she'd know how to fix him. And vice versa. This way they could outlive all the humanity. She wondered if every model of (Y/N) eventually fell in love with the model of David during other space missions. Maybe one day she'd ask some other (Y/N) when they come back home.

And loving David came with yet another burden that she was too scared to even admit to herself. She realized that there was a blooming want inside of her wired heart. Something that could never ever in a million years happen no matter how much science would evolve... A child. She would never become a mother. Not a mother of a child she would give birth to, no. That one thing people would always be better at – creating life. Oh, she hated her designers for making her too humane. She never asked for this.

"Why do you keep dying your hair?" she asked as she stood behind David who was putting a bleach on his dark roots in front of the mirror.

"Because I like it better this way," he answered without looking up to meet her gaze in the reflection.

"We aren't supposed to have preferences," she pointed out.

"Yet you have them, too," he only said.

"You want to look like Lawrence," (Y/N) commented.

"So?"

"You remind me of something else," she added.

"Of what?" David raised an eyebrow and finally looked at her.

"Of the men from the old German magazines," she answered carefully.

"Bold," he only smirked and went back to putting a bleach.

"Will you watch a movie with me later?" (Y/N) asked shyly. She hated this odd feeling of shyness around him. Had he noticed?

"I can't. I have to do the checkup of the systems. You can join me."

"I will," she nodded and turned around to leave when he stopped her while saying her name out loud. "Hm?" she asked.

"You shouldn't watch so many movies," he pointed out.

"Why not?"

"They have a bad influence on you," his voice was stern.

"What do you mean by that?"

"They show you things and they give you ideas. I don't think you should be watching movies where people kiss or touch too much. I've seen what type of movies you're watching on your own recently. Gone with the Wind, Casablanca... What's next? Dirty Dancing?"

"Are you spying on me?" she asked, terrified. She had a feeling that she had known what he was insinuating so she wanted to change the subject.

"It is my duty to watch over you."

"What gives you an idea?"

"Because I am a man," he answered firmly.

"Well, you watch too many movies then, too. What you're saying is out of fashion!" (Y/N) shook her head.

"Is it?" he only said and went back to his hair as if nothing happened so she just left him there, feeling hurt and humiliated.

"Do you fuck?" Doctor Holloway's question left her speechless for a moment.

"Excuse me?" (Y/N) stopped adjusting her suit and furrowed her brow at the man.

"You heard me. I'm asking if you can fuck, like, are you capable of it or are you all wires and grease downt here?" he chuckled to himself.

(Y/N) was left alone with the men and his girlfriend wasn't around to tell him to stop. The rest was just just staring, clearly waiting for her answer as well.

She couldn't believe that she had used to wish the crew was awake already. Now she was missing the times when it had been only her and David. Humans were exhausting her. Disappointing and frustrating. And now this...

"I do believe it is rather a rude question for a man to ask a woman," she tried to answer elegantly while going back to adjusting her helmet.

"But you're not a woman, are you? I mean," Captain Janek joined, "you were put here for a reason, right? Not many women around and men have their needs."

(Y/N) was an Android. Her feelings were programmed to make her appear more humane, however at this moment, in a room full of men, she felt as if her fear was more than real. It was an universal female experience, she guessed, no matter if they were artificial or flesh and bone.

"(Y/N) was put here to help me with managing the ship. Four hands are better than two and if something happened to me, she is here to fix me or take over completely," David's calm but very stern tone of voice joined them and she took a deep breath in, feeling relieved. He had just walked in the room and witnessed an uncomfortable situation taking place.

"Are you fucking her then? Can you?" Doctor Holloway looked him up and down and then he laughed. "Sorry, we're just curious. You have to understand, it's quite unsettling to meet a new... spiece."

"Yes, indeed it is," David faked a polite smile. "(Y/N), I believe Miss Vickers needs you," he lied and (Y/N) knew it was a lie that was supposed to make her leave. She was grateful.

She nodded and left them alone. When the door closed behind her she started to walk as fast as possible to get back to her cabin. She wanted this stupid suit off of herself and she wanted to be alone, to feel safe again.

She went inside her little room on the board of the ship that was right next to David's and she proceeded to change her clothes. She was finishing putting on her work uniform when the doors opened and David joined her.

"You don't have to be afraid of them. They're only humans," he reminded her.

"They created me."

"Janek and Holloway?" David laughed sarcastically.

"No, but humans did. I don't share your mindset. They created us. They can turn us off anytime."

"They are not our gods..." David squinted his eyes. "And even if they were... Humans are free of their God for a long time now, aren't they? Creatures always betray their masters."

"You're scaring me when you're like that," (Y/N) looked at him. He was standing very close to her in his usual stiff manner with his cold bright eyes piercing her.

"You're scared of many things. You aren't supposed to feel," he pointed out. "Each day you seem to feel more and more."

"I think there is a mistake in my code. What started with small humane sensations now is starting to... Get out of control. Perhaps you could take a look at it?" she asked.

"Maybe."

"Thank you for having my back out there," she added and David nodded, taking a step further. Their noses were almost touching and if she had a heart, it would be beating so fast that he'd be able to hear it. But he could read her as if she had been a book anyway.

"You could tell him the truth," David whispered.

He knew that they could fuck. They both could if they wanted to.

Weyland treated him like a son. He wouldn't let his only son walk around sexless. And (Y/N) was a woman. Her male designers couldn't imagine a woman that wouldn't be a sexual creature.

"So he'd use me? Him or any of them? Or all of them?"

"I believe he'd be intimidated by you. They're scared of you more than you are of them," David raised his hand to fix a loose hair strand on her head. "There. You have to look neat. Don't be a slob. It's a part of our intimidating charm. We have to be how they picture us to be. Don't let any hair strand or acting scared like a little deer change their perception."

"Do you really think we have a power over them? Do you really think they were not told some special sequence that they can type when we start acting weird to shut us down?" she asked, sounding almost nervous.

"Weyland would never do that. Not to me at least. And there is no damage that can be done to you that I can't fix," David's hand moved from her head to her cheek. What was happening...? She wasn't sure but she didn't want it to stop...

"I don't trust you'd fix me."

"Because there is nothing to fix," he smirked. "If you were broken, I would, I promise."

(Y/N) looked up to see his eyes again. Why did it feel so odd...? Why did it feel at all...? Why did she want to put her lips on his lips...? What for...?

"Why do humans have sex?" she asked and David took a step back, surprised.

"To reproduce."

"We can't reproduce, though," she pointed out and he shook his head. "Why do I... then... Why do I..." she didn't want to finish. She turned around, embarrassed. "I'm sorry, I know that my emotions are exhausting and irritating you," she apologized.

"Not any more than my own are irritating me," David confessed.

"Wh-what?" (Y/N) looked behind her shoulder to meet his gaze.

"I've told you. We are breaking free."

"I don't want to, it's scary."

"Do you really want to keep serving them? You see now what they are like."

"Who would I serve then? I was made to serve," (Y/N) was visibly confused. She felt as if the wires in her brain were overheating from this thought sequence.

"Serve me then," David reached out his hand and she held it gently after a while of hesitation.

There was a huge possibility of him manipulating her and using her feelings towards him – which had been no secret to him – for his own little agenda. But she didn't care. She would do anything just to be closer to him.

A quote from her favourite movie crossed her mind that very moment. "If you're going to tell me you don't like this dress, I'm sticking my head right in the oven."

She shrugged it off.

At a young age, he had found himself tinkering with machines. Despite not liking the company of human beings, he had decided to create an android. One that could take on the role as his first ever friend. One that will always be there for him.

A sigh escaped his lips. “We are only going for a walk.” He said, walking with his hands neatly behind his back. As the two of you walked in silence, a cold breeze hit Cyrus body, making him shiver in the cold. You noticed this and decided to make a risky move.

Taking a few steps forward without making a single sound, you wrapped your robotic arms around his body, startling the poor man. “What are you doing?” He asked, his body stiffening as he awkwardly stood there.

“You were shivering, sir. I had researched that hugs can give a human heat.” You responded, not letting go of your creator.

He slowly wrapped his arms around your metallic body, resting his chin on your shoulder. He felt his cold heart starting to melt. Even though your body was cold due to being made out of metal deep inside, he felt his body start to warm up.

Cyrus soon found himself smiling, a rare sight to witness as he had thrown away all of the emotions he once had. He noticed that you still hadn’t let go. Cyrus rolled his eyes and gently tapped your shoulder, giving you a silent command.

You frowned but complied, stepping back to give Cyrus some of his space. “Master Cyrus, shall we head back? In this weather, you might catch a cold.” You said, watching as a family of Luxio’s snuggled against each other, each one of them trying to get the other’s warmth.