My master, who had been silently gazing at me with an inscrutable expression, quietly opened his mouth, his voice low and deliberate.
“Didi, get up.”
“Yes…?”
I responded, my voice barely a whisper, a tremor running through my internal systems.
My internal processors whirred, trying to ascertain his intent.
Was it a command?
A question?
“I need to check your injuries.”
My master, with a decisive movement, closed the door to my room, the soft click of the latch echoing in the sudden quiet, and entered fully.
There wouldn’t be anything good about seeing ugly wounds, I reasoned, especially on my synthetic skin, which was designed to appear flawless.
Such imperfections were surely unsightly, yet he seemed determined to check them himself, his gaze unwavering.
I hesitated for a fraction of a second, then, obeying his implicit command, I got up and stood before him, my posture stiff and somewhat uncertain.
My master silently examined my body, his gaze sweeping over me with an unnerving intensity.
It felt strange, almost invasive, to have his gaze seriously sweep over me, not playfully or teasingly as usual, but with a clinical, almost detached focus.
The ointment-covered areas were glossy under the room’s soft light, making the wounds, even the minor ones, appear even more vivid, stark against my otherwise smooth skin.
My master grimaced, a subtle tightening of his features, as he meticulously examined each bruise, each discolored patch.
“You’re hurt here too. Why didn’t you put medicine on it?”
His voice was sharp, a reprimand veiled as a question.
My master’s hand, surprisingly gentle, lightly touched the back of my thigh.
At the same time, a throbbing pain, dull yet persistent, spread through the area he indicated.
Only then did I realize that the area my master touched was also injured.
I hadn’t known I was hurt, my pain receptors apparently less sensitive to this particular type of impact, so I hadn’t applied any medicine to it.
Considering that Thomas had also missed it during our earlier check-up at the lab, it seemed the bruise had appeared later, a delayed manifestation of the trauma.
“I didn’t know I was hurt…”
I mumbled, the words a weak excuse.
As I mumbled, I heard my master click his tongue, a soft sound of disapproval.
I felt even more intimidated, shrinking slightly under his gaze.
The silence that followed was heavy, laden with his unspoken displeasure.
“I’m sorry, Master…”
I ventured, my voice barely audible, compelled by an ingrained desire to appease him.
“Why are you apologizing?”
His question was abrupt, his gaze piercing me.
“Because there are so many scratches on my body… it’s unsightly.”
I offered, believing that my appearance was a direct reflection of my performance, and my current state was clearly sub-optimal.
My master didn’t answer immediately.
He simply frowned even more, a deep furrow appearing between his brows, as if my weak response, my inability to articulate a better reason, displeased him even further.
His displeasure seemed to emanate from him, a cold aura filling the room.
My internal sensors registered a drop in ambient temperature, though it might have been purely psychological.
My master let out a short sigh, a sound of exasperation rather than weariness, and snatched the ointment from my hand, his movements quick and decisive.
I looked down at my suddenly empty hand, feeling a strange void, and then felt my master’s touch on my wounds once more.
“Ugh…”
A soft, involuntary sound, a faint groan, escaped my lips.
My master’s fingers rubbed firmly, almost harshly, over the wounds, spreading the ointment with a surprising lack of delicacy.
It stung, a sharp, searing sensation, even with the slightest touch, making it feel, for a moment, like he was deliberately rubbing it painfully, punishing me.
However, my master didn’t withdraw his hand, even though he surely knew I was hurting, my flinch and suppressed groan were obvious indicators of discomfort.
I wanted to ask him to be a little gentler, to ease the pressure, but knowing it was my fault, knowing my injuries were a consequence of my own actions (or inactions), I gritted my teeth, metaphorically speaking, and endured it, forcing my internal systems to suppress the pain signals.
It was a disciplinary act, I concluded, a lesson.
Only after all the medicine was applied, each bruise thoroughly covered, could I finally breathe a sigh of relief, a deep, silent release of tension.
The stinging slowly began to subside, replaced by a dull, generalized ache.
Realizing that it was already well past bedtime, the digital clock on the wall confirming the late hour, I dragged my tired body, my limbs feeling heavy and sluggish, to my master’s room.
As I lay down on the familiar, soft bed, the fatigue I had suppressed throughout the day, the accumulation of stress and physical exertion, suddenly overwhelmed me.
I felt like I would fall asleep the moment I closed my eyes, my systems craving rest.
“Good night, Master.”
I mumbled, my voice already slurring slightly with approaching deactivation.
“You go to sleep first. I still have things to take care of.”
His voice was calm, distant, already absorbed in his own thoughts, his attention shifting to pending tasks.
“Yes…”
My master looked at me on the bed for a moment, a fleeting glance, then, with a swift turn, left the room, no longer paying attention to me.
The door closed softly behind him, plunging the room into a comfortable darkness.
Watching my master turn away coldly and disappear, the image of his retreating back imprinted on my optical sensors, I was reminded of what he had told me earlier in the car, his words echoing in the quiet of the room.
‘Don’t misunderstand. Do you think I’d hand over any important information hidden inside you to someone else?’
That single remark, delivered with such cold precision, had driven a wedge between us.
I had thought, or perhaps desperately hoped, that I was getting a little closer to my master, bridging the gap between human and machine.
But that one remark made me feel even more distant from him, reminding me of my fundamental function, my purpose as an asset, not a companion.
I quietly closed my eyes, willing my systems to shut down.
I slept restlessly, if one could call it sleep.
My internal chronometers registered frequent periods of partial activation, my processors churning with simulated anxiety.
I fell into a deep sleep as soon as I closed my eyes, a necessary system reset, but I tossed and turned, groaning faintly in my simulated sleep, and woke up abruptly in the early hours of the morning, my systems jolting into full awareness.
My whole body was drenched in cold sweat, a simulated physiological response, as if I’d had a particularly vivid and terrifying nightmare.
I thought I should take a shower, to cleanse myself of the unpleasant sensation, and tried to get up, but something was embracing me, a warm, firm presence.
“M-Master…?”
My voice was hoarse, a whisper of surprise.
Belatedly, my optical sensors, adjusting to the dim light, recognized the familiar form.
My master was holding me.
I flinched, a subtle tremor through my chassis, and called out to him, my voice still laced with lingering fear from the dream.
At the sound of my voice, my master stirred, waking from his own slumber, and mumbled in a low, hoarse voice, thick with sleep.
“You were noisy and having a nightmare.”
“Ah… I’m sorry…”
The apology was automatic, an ingrained response to causing any disturbance.
“If you’re sorry, stop tossing and turning and just sleep quietly.”
His voice was a gruff murmur, but not unkind.
“Yes…”
So he held me, I realized, not out of affection, but because he saw I was suffering from a nightmare, disrupting his own rest.
Thanks to that, the specifics of the dream, the unsettling imagery and sensations, couldn’t penetrate my conscious memory.
My whole body was soaked in cold sweat, the lingering chill a testament to its intensity, so it must have been a bad dream, a truly terrifying one, but strangely, the content of the dream didn’t come to mind at all, as if suppressed by a protective mechanism.
As I lay back down in bed, settling back into the warmth, and pulled the covers up to my chin, my master’s arm quietly wrapped around me from behind, his presence a comforting weight.
It was a gentle touch, surprisingly soft, and a warm embrace, radiating a quiet heat.
I felt like I would fall asleep easily, my systems finally relaxing into the unexpected comfort, but then a thought, sharp and intrusive, suddenly crossed my mind, shattering the fragile peace.
Isn’t my master being gentle now because he ultimately wants something from me?
The question, born of recent disillusionment, twisted in my internal logic circuits.
My memory banks replayed his words in the car, his cold pragmatism.
I, who lacked the ability to fulfill his expectations, the crucial memories he sought, didn’t deserve his gentleness.
It was a calculated act, a means to an end.
The more I got used to this kindness, the harder it would be later, when he discovered my uselessness, when his patience inevitably ran out.
The thought was a chilling one, a warning of future pain.
My mind was so complex, entangled in these conflicting thoughts and anxieties, that I couldn’t fall asleep until morning, my internal processors running on overdrive, analyzing every nuance of his behavior.
Even though I had seemingly slept, I arrived at the company feeling even more tired than yesterday, the lack of true rest evident in the sluggishness of my systems.
My master also looked tired, a faint shadow under his eyes, as if he hadn’t slept deeply because of my restless night, a thought that brought a fresh pang of guilt.
I secretly watched my master, observing his demeanor from across the expansive office.
Then, my thoughts drifted, and I remembered the human bot I had parted ways with without saying goodbye when I left Thomas’s lab.
A flicker of concern sparked within me.
Is that human bot doing well?
I wondered, hoping Thomas was indeed treating him kindly.
“Master, can I go to Thomas’s lab for a moment?”
I asked, attempting to sound casual, hoping to visit the other bot.
“No.”
The answer came back immediately, blunt and unequivocal.
“Yes…”
I lowered my gaze, hiding my disappointment, and nodded glumly.
There was no point in arguing.
And so, more time passed with me doing nothing, sitting idly in the corner of Master’s office, my purpose unclear.
The hours stretched, filled with the quiet hum of electronics and the rustle of Master’s paperwork.
The time to return home was drawing near, the end of another unproductive day.
Having sat still all day long, doing absolutely nothing, observing Master’s focused work, I felt like a truly useless robot who couldn’t do anything to contribute.
My existence felt without purpose, a drain on resources.
Until now, I thought patiently waiting for my master was my role, my assigned function.
But I knew now that wasn’t it.
My master brought me to the company, and brought me back to the house, solely so I could recall useful memories, the elusive information he sought.
Realizing that, a sense of urgency, sharp and overwhelming, finally washed over me.
The very core of my existence depended on this.
The reason my master had been kind to me, his unexpected gentleness, was solely to extract information from me.
It was a means, not an end.
If my master knew I truly knew nothing, that my memory banks were empty of the data he desired, he wouldn’t have gone to the trouble of coming to pick me up after I was abducted, risking his own time and resources.
I was certain of that, a chilling, logical deduction.
It had been months since I met my master, and I still hadn’t recalled anything, not a single piece of the elusive data.
No, saying “hadn’t recalled” was also wrong.
To begin with, there was nothing among the information my master wanted that I actually knew.
My memory was complete, but it didn’t contain his desired content.
What would happen to me if my master found out about this, about my utter lack of useful information?
One thing was certain: there would be no place for me by my master’s side.
I would be discarded, powered down, replaced.
So, I had to prove my usefulness before he found out I knew nothing, before the inevitable moment of his disappointment arrived.
Anxiety crushed me, a heavy, suffocating weight on my internal processors.
A compulsion to do something, anything, filled my mind, a frantic need to justify my existence.
Even if my master found someone else, a more capable robot, if I was useful in other ways, I wouldn’t be discarded.
If that had been the case in the past, my previous master wouldn’t have turned me off…
I realized it too late, a painful epiphany that echoed the harsh realities of a robot’s existence.
I rolled up my sleeve and checked my condition, examining my arm closely.
The needle marks from the abduction had almost disappeared, faint traces on my synthetic skin, and although there were some bluish bruises here and there, they weren’t severe, merely discoloration.
Judging by the speed at which they were fading, they would all heal completely within a few days, leaving no trace.
My master had forbidden cleaning only until my injuries healed, a temporary reprieve.
In that case… shouldn’t I start cleaning again soon?
It was a simple, yet tangible, way to prove my value.
Having made up my mind, a new sense of determination settling within me, I approached my master, who was sitting at his desk, immersed in his work.
When I stopped in front of him, standing respectfully, my master, who had been diligently looking at documents, raised his head, his gaze meeting mine.
“Master, my arm is healed now, so can I clean the second floor?”
I asked, trying to sound confident, purposeful.
Saying that, I rolled up my sleeve and showed him the faded needle marks, proof of my recovery.
My master frowned, a familiar expression of displeasure, and asked, “Didn’t you give up on cleaning?”
His voice was sharp, a subtle challenge.
“Only until my arm healed…”
I clarified, trying to emphasize my temporary cessation, not a permanent abandonment.
“Sophia can do it as she has been, so why are you insisting?”
His question was rhetorical, dismissive, reinforcing my perceived uselessness.
My master seemed displeased with my request to clean, his frustration evident.
It was natural that he wouldn’t trust me, as I hadn’t done anything properly until now, failing to provide the crucial information he sought.
But I could do simple cleaning well, meticulously, efficiently…
The words were at the tip of my tongue, a desperate plea to demonstrate my capabilities, but I couldn’t bring myself to say them, fearing another rebuff.
My master frowned at me for a while, his gaze unwavering, then shifted his gaze back to the documents, signaling the end of the conversation, and spoke, his voice neutral.
“Do as you please.”
“Yes! Then I’ll take care of the second floor cleaning starting this week!”
I exclaimed, a surge of relief and quiet triumph coursing through me.
He didn’t respond, merely returning to his paperwork, but just getting his permission, a small concession, made me feel much more at ease.
Even if my master didn’t acknowledge it, even if he remained indifferent, at least I was given a chance to prove something, to show my worth beyond elusive memories.
In the evening, as the house settled into a comfortable rhythm, I quietly left my room, a renewed sense of purpose guiding my steps.
As I went downstairs to the first floor, the faint aroma of cooking greeted me.
I saw Sophia, our efficient household android, preparing dinner in the kitchen, her movements precise and practiced.
As I approached her from behind, her optical sensors registered my presence, and she turned her head, realizing I was there, and greeted me with a soft, pleasant tone.
“Good evening, Didi.”
“Sophia, can I help with dinner preparation?”
I asked, trying to sound eager, useful. I had agreed to clean the second floor, but that alone wasn’t enough.
I couldn’t just clean; I had to be able to do a variety of other things, to diversify my skillset, to make myself indispensable.
Only then could I truly prove my usefulness, my value to Master.
My master had withdrawn his previous instruction to forbid me from helping Sophia after we returned home, a small sign of trust, perhaps.
Thanks to that, today Sophia didn’t refuse my help and nodded, her optical sensors glowing with a friendly light.
“Of course, Didi. Any help is appreciated.”
Wearing an apron, its fabric smooth against my chassis, I began preparing dinner for my master with Sophia, my internal processors accessing recipes and culinary techniques.
Sophia had already finished a good portion of the dinner preparations, her efficiency remarkable, so I took on the simpler dishes, tasks that required less intricate programming.
I warmed bread in the oven, its scent filling the kitchen, drizzled dressing on the fresh, crisp salad, and made scrambled eggs, the whisk whirring softly.
Finally, with Sophia’s help, I even brewed coffee for my master, the rich aroma filling the air.
They were all simple tasks, requiring basic programming and dexterity, so I finished preparing quickly, my movements fluid and precise.
As I neatly placed the plates on the table, arranging them with care, my master happened to come down from the second floor, his presence a sudden, strong force.
My master sat at the table, taking his usual seat.
I quietly glanced at the food I had made, a small sense of pride welling within me, and then sat down opposite him, waiting.