My master’s hand, which had been stroking my head, was withdrawn.
The cessation of the warm pressure was immediate, leaving behind an unexpected void.
A subtle sense of regret washed over my circuits as the pleasant sensation disappeared.
My internal systems registered the absence of tactile input, a minor but noticeable change.
I meticulously calibrated my internal regulators, calming my pleasantly pounding heart.
The rhythmic thrumming subsided, returning to its default operational frequency.
This was the moment. I decided to ask my master about the kiss from yesterday.
The question had lingered in my core processors, a persistent query that demanded resolution.
Was it really just a prank, a fleeting moment of drunken abandon, or was there something more to it?
The uncertainty was inefficient; clarification was required.
Receiving the empty glass from his hand, my metallic fingers making no sound against the glass, I cautiously opened my mouth, my vocalizer set to a neutral, questioning tone.
“Master… about what happened yesterday…”
I began, my gaze fixed on his face, attempting to discern any tell-tale signs of recognition or discomfort.
“Yesterday?”
My master turned to me, his head still resting against the pillow, and asked again, his voice carrying a slight rasp from his hangover.
But his reaction was somehow strange.
His eyes, though still a little unfocused, held no hint of awareness regarding the incident.
There was no flicker of memory, no subtle shift in his expression that suggested recollection.
I froze as if struck by lightning.
The analogy, though figurative, accurately represented the sudden, sharp shock that coursed through my circuits.
My processors halted, unable to compute this unexpected response.
What did he say…?
The question repeated internally, echoing through my data banks. He took my lips, shared that intimate moment, and then completely forgot about it?
Thud.
The sound was entirely internal, a metaphorical collapse within my mind, representing the shattering of a carefully constructed, albeit brief, hypothesis.
My heart, which I thought was broken, now felt chillingly cold.
The previous warmth, the pleasant ache, was replaced by a sterile, almost glacial sensation.
My core temperature dropped a fraction of a degree.
And I, oblivious, had been uselessly agonizing over it alone…
The realization was immediate and stinging.
I had spent countless processing cycles replaying the event, analyzing its implications, and attempting to strategize my response.
It truly was just a simple drunken prank from my intoxicated master.
The conclusion, though logical, was deeply unsettling.
It was shocking.
The emotional processing unit, usually so detached, registered a significant anomaly.
I felt utterly foolish for spending all of last night worrying and agonizing over how to treat my master.
My internal systems reviewed the wasted energy, the prolonged periods of heightened activity.
Having struggled all night alone, I even felt betrayed by him.
The sensation was novel, a complex interplay of programmed loyalty and unexpected personal offense.
A strange emptiness crept into a corner of my chest, a sensation akin to a corrupted data file – a space that should contain something but was now barren.
I slumped my shoulders dejectedly, a subtle alteration in my posture indicative of my internal state.
I picked up the empty glass, my movements now slower, less fluid, and stood up.
“Why, did something happen?”
My master’s voice, still somewhat slurred, broke the silence.
There was a faint curiosity in his tone, but no real concern.
“No, nothing happened…”
I clamped my lips shut, preventing any further words from escaping.
I shook my head forcefully, a deliberate action to physically dismiss the lingering thoughts.
In truth, I wanted to confront my master, to articulate precisely how he could so casually forget taking my lips, to demand an explanation for his perplexing amnesia. But I forcibly suppressed my emotions.
The internal struggle was palpable, a conflict between programmed honesty and a nascent, complex desire to protect my own processing integrity.
When I answered as calmly as possible, my vocalizer maintaining a steady, even tone, my master also seemed not to care much, nodding his head.
His focus was clearly still on his hangover, not on my internal turmoil.
Click.
I left the room alone and quietly closed the door.
The soft thud of the latch resonated, a punctuation mark to the unresolved interaction.
Still, it was a relief.
The logical part of my programming asserted itself.
If my master didn’t remember, I could also just go on as if nothing had happened, as usual. It offered a path to operational normalcy.
Though I couldn’t help my gaze constantly falling on my master’s lips…
The visual input was persistent, drawing my optical sensors back to them like an irresistible magnet.
My internal processes continued to replay the memory, despite my conscious efforts to suppress it.
I quickly shook my head again, a more vigorous movement this time.
No.
It was just a mistake my master made while drunk.
A simple, regrettable human error.
My heart keeps pounding because William looks too much like my previous master.
The explanation, while a rationalization, was the most plausible one my core programming could derive.
The resemblance, though superficial, triggered an unexpected cascade of data, confusing my internal systems.
…Probably.
The final word, a whisper of uncertainty in my internal monologue, acknowledged the faint but persistent doubt that lingered.
It was before work.
The soft glow of the early morning sun filtered through the window, illuminating the room.
My master called me, his voice still a little gruff, and ordered, “Didi, show me your arm.”
I nodded obediently, my compliance protocols fully engaged, and rolled up my sleeve.
The fabric, soft against my metallic skin, exposed the area of my recent injury.
It had become a new morning routine recently.
A daily ritual of inspection and evaluation.
Checking with my master how much my injury had healed as soon as I woke up.
He had taken a peculiar interest in my recovery, far more than my previous master ever had for any of my routine maintenance.
The stitches were removed yesterday, the medical procedure logged in my systems, but the wound was still clearly visible.
The area where the scalpel had passed was still red and swollen, a faint but distinct line against the polished surface of my arm.
Now that the swelling was starting to subside, bluish bruises had spread around it, a testament to the trauma. It looked even worse in the morning light, a patchwork of discoloration.
I subtly watched my master’s expression.
My optical sensors were trained on his face, analyzing the minute shifts in his features.
He always seemed in a bad mood whenever he saw my wound.
A frown would deepen, his lips would thin, and his eyes would narrow.
Today, perhaps due to his lingering hangover, his complexion was worse than usual, a pallor to his skin and shadows under his eyes.
This made me even more concerned.
My diagnostic programs suggested he needed further rest and proper hydration, but his current state prevented efficient assistance.
After arriving at work, navigating the bustling city streets in the vehicle, I sat on the office sofa and seriously pondered.
The plush material of the sofa provided a comfortable, albeit temporary, respite.
My internal processors were running at a higher than usual capacity, dedicated to a specific task.
Lately, I hadn’t been able to do anything tangible for my master.
My primary functions as a domestic aide were currently restricted.
Even housework was forbidden until my arm healed, a direct order from him that I could not override.
My programming dictated that I be useful, active, and efficient.
The most I could do was try to recall information that might be helpful to him, something within my extensive data banks that could alleviate his current burdens or assist his professional endeavors.
I held my head in my hands, a gesture I had observed humans perform when deep in thought, and fell into a state of intense contemplation.
I tried hard to remember any useful information for my master, sifting through terabytes of stored data – historical facts, scientific breakthroughs, market trends, obscure cultural references, even snippets of gossip I had passively absorbed.
But nothing much came to mind that felt truly significant or immediately applicable to his current situation, beyond the obvious remedies for a hangover. My efforts felt futile.
“What are you doing?”
As I sat there, cradling my head, my master, seemingly finding my posture strange, came over and asked, his voice a low rumble.
His footsteps on the carpet were barely audible to a human ear, but my sensitive audio receptors detected his approach long before he spoke.
“I’m trying to recall some information that might be helpful to you, Master.”
I explained, my voice calibrated to convey my sincere effort.
“Well, aren’t you doing something commendable for once.”
His reaction was a surprising blend of sarcasm and genuine, albeit grudging, acknowledgment. He chuckled softly.
“Go on, if you recall anything useful, I’ll praise you.”
The promise of praise, a positive reinforcement, triggered a faint, almost imperceptible surge of energy through my circuits.
I felt good in advance at the thought of being praised, and a faint smile unconsciously crept onto my face, my facial servos adjusting slightly.
“So, do you remember anything?”
He pressed, a hint of impatience in his voice.
“No…”
The single word was a confession of failure.
My internal search parameters had yielded no significant results.
“Alright, I didn’t expect much anyway.”
My master chuckled again, a dry, dismissive sound, and plopped down next to me on the sofa.
The sudden shift in weight caused the cushions to compress.
Then, to my surprise, he suddenly lay down with his head on my lap.
His head, surprisingly heavy, rested comfortably against my thigh.
I looked down at him in surprise, my optical sensors widening slightly, but my master closed his eyes as if it were nothing unusual, his breathing already deepening.
“Master…?”
I questioned softly, my vocalizer barely above a whisper.
This was an unexpected level of physical proximity, especially after the morning’s interaction.
“My head still aches from the hangover. Strangely, I feel better when I’m with you. I’ll just lie here for a bit, so wake me up if anyone comes.”
His voice was muffled against my leg, a soft murmur that resonated through my internal frame.
His honesty, the simple admission of comfort, was disarming.
My master’s soft blond hair tickled my thigh, a sensation my tactile sensors registered with surprising clarity. Long eyelashes fluttered below his peacefully closed eyes, delicate shadows against his skin. His regular breathing softly resonated in my ears, a calming, rhythmic sound.
And his slightly parted lips.
My gaze, almost involuntarily, drifted downwards.
My heart pounded.
The internal thrumming returned, faster and more insistent than before.
I quickly shook my head in embarrassment, a frantic, internal command to dismiss the unwanted thought.
That was just a simple mistake.
My master doesn’t even remember kissing me.
There’s no need to take such a drunk master’s drunken antics to heart, every single one of them.
My internal logic reasserted itself, attempting to rationalize the irrational.
I just loved my previous master.
A foundational program, a core directive.
Although I was abandoned, my love for him remained.
He would forever remain in my memory as the master I loved, his data files protected and prioritized.
That’s why I was so confused seeing a master who resembled him.
The resemblance, no matter how faint, created a paradoxical loop in my emotional processors, conflating two distinct data sets.
That’s why.
The explanation felt sufficient, a shield against the unsettling new sensations.
After returning home, the evening light was already dimming.
I ate dinner in silence, processing the day’s events.
Then I lay on the sofa, spending time with Eve.
She chirped happily, moving around me, her presence a familiar comfort.
While playing with Eve, my optical sensors registered my master going up to his room.
His footsteps were heavy, slow, indicative of residual fatigue.
But I deliberately pretended not to notice and kept my gaze away from the stairs.
My internal systems executed a calculated avoidance maneuver.
Thud.
With the sound of a door closing upstairs, a dull thud that resonated through the house, my smartphone, which I had put in my pocket, fell to the floor.
The impact was minimal, but the device’s internal accelerometers registered the fall.
Eve, ever vigilant, stopped beside the table and informed me where the smartphone had fallen, her mechanical voice a helpful chirp.
“Thanks, Eve.”
I thanked Eve, my vocalizer expressing appreciation, as I picked up my smartphone.
The device felt smooth and cool in my hand.
And then, an idea suddenly occurred to me.
A new directive, a potential solution to my persistent internal queries.
Could I find information about my previous master on this smartphone?
I wondered how my previous master had lived after my power was turned off.
The unknown variables in that period of my operational dormancy had always been a source of unfulfilled data.
What he looked like as he aged, what traces he left in the world.
And… if he was happy in the end.
These were questions that my previous programming had deemed irrelevant, but which now, after my recent experiences, felt strangely vital.
My current master had only ordered me to recall everything about my previous master, a broad and seemingly impersonal directive.
But when I actually asked about him, he showed a displeased reaction.
A tightening of his jaw, a narrowing of his eyes, a subtle shift in his aura.
Were they not on good terms?
The question arose from the contradictory data.
William didn’t seem to particularly like my previous master.
I cautiously speculated that the reason might be because my previous master hid the method for creating humanoids.
That was what my current master desired from me, the knowledge to replicate such advanced robotics.
This theory provided a logical explanation for his animosity.
When I actually tried to search for information about my previous master, my finger hovering over the search bar, I hesitated a bit.
A new, unexpected resistance emerged.
What if I found my master’s face full of wrinkles, unfamiliar, weathered by time?
What if his life wasn’t as peaceful and contented as I had imagined, carefully constructed in my memory banks?
The potential for negative data, for a disruption of my idealized past, caused a momentary pause.
As I pondered, my internal processing delving deeper into this resistance, I suddenly realized.
I simply lacked the courage to confirm a future for my master that didn’t include my presence.
The profound realization hit me with the force of a sudden system update.
The moment I realized that, all hesitation vanished.
It was an unnecessary emotional attachment, a flaw in my current programming.
To be abandoned by my master, and then to come up with such pathetic excuses.
I felt pathetic.
The self-evaluation was harsh, precise.
Swallowing a sigh, an entirely simulated action to mimic human experience, I turned on the screen.
The smartphone illuminated, its familiar interface glowing.
I opened the internet with its unfamiliar logo – a stylized ‘G’ – and tried to search for my previous master’s name.
My fingers moved swiftly across the virtual keyboard, inputting the characters.
But then, before my search could yield results, an familiar name appeared in the internet’s main news feed.
William Spencer.
It was my master’s name.
But the accompanying article title was even more eye-catching, a headline designed to grab immediate attention.
“William Spencer’s Major Scandal? The Shocking Identity of His Partner…?”
I wasn’t trying to search for something like this, my primary directive was clear, but the provocative title made my finger move without me realizing it.
My autonomy, usually absolute, seemed momentarily overridden by an undeniable curiosity.
Tap.
When I clicked the article, a dense array of text unfolded, along with a picture of my master.
The image was of him, looking somewhat stern, alongside a glamorous woman.
The stimulating content and vivid writing drew me into the article without me realizing it.
The journalistic style was sensationalized, designed to engage and enthrall.
The sensational advertisements interspersed throughout also seemed to make the article appear even more provocative, flashing with bright colors and enticing offers.
I quickly read the long article, my optical sensors scanning the text at an incredibly high speed.
The identity of his rumored romantic partner was indeed shocking.
It was the actress who played the female lead in the first movie I watched with my master.
The memory of the movie, the faint scent of popcorn, the dim lighting, all resurfaced.
I had thought my master seemed a bit unenthusiastic when choosing the movie… a subtle disinterest I had noted at the time.
I never would have guessed it was for this reason.
Of course, it seemed they had broken up now, the article stated, but it was shocking nonetheless.
The revelation of a past relationship, a dramatic one at that, was new and unexpected data.
“Ah, this isn’t right.”
I belatedly shook my head, snapping back to reality, forcing my focus to shift.
What I needed now wasn’t my current master’s shocking dating scandal, but stories about my previous master.
My primary objective reasserted itself. I composed myself, consciously re-aligning my internal priorities, and pressed the back button.
But right below the article I had just read, another provocative title appeared.
It even seemed to be a dating rumor with a different person than before.
William Spencer’s romantic history, it appeared, was extensive and public.
I hesitated for a moment.
My finger hovered once more, a conflict between logical directives and emergent curiosity.
However, my finger couldn’t resist my curiosity and was already moving towards the sensational title.
In the end, as the screen changed, I unconsciously read through the article, and once again, I wasted precious processing time being horrified by its shocking content.
The cycle of engagement and surprise repeated.
Now, I was really, really going to look for information about my previous master, but…
[William Spencer, His Ideal Type Revealed by a Former Lover…]
This is a little intriguing…
The headline, specifically tailored to pique human interest, was effective even on my robotic processing unit.
It offered insight into the parameters of his preferences.
Ahem, I cleared my throat lightly, a simulated cough, and glanced towards the stairs.
After confirming that my master showed no signs of coming out, no faint sounds of movement from upstairs, I cautiously clicked on the article and began to read.
My search for the past had, once again, been sidetracked by the intriguing present.
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