Chapter Text
Billion dollar ‘cutting edge’ facility, and they can’t even fix the lights.
The LED strip lights flickered and buzzed above you in the hallway, casting intermittent shadows and causing the slow pulses of a headache to drill into your temples.
Maybe I should’ve taken that barista job. At least their hellscape had a more welcoming environment.
The moldering concrete of the subterranean hallway held a musty wet smell, and from somewhere behind the locked door before you came a faint acrid smell, like that of burnt out wiring. In spite of yourself, you found your hands shaking as you pulled your freshly minted keycard from your back pocket.
"Keep your head down. Don’t interact. Just get in, do your job, and leave." You wondered why your boss chose to phrase it in such a manner: after all, you were just hired to fix a machine… right? Don’t interact. “Interact”… Would it… talk to me? No, of course not; it’s just another machine to fix, just like the computers I learned on.
A small light shines from the door’s keypad, staring at you like an accusing red eye. You reach out with your card, and swipe. The light continues to taunt you with its scathing hue.
“Come on…” you mutter in frustration. The ink on your freshly printed card was still tacky, and the machine wasn’t reading it correctly. You swipe again. The light continues to stare back at you. On the third try, it finally gives: the red switches to a relieving pinprick of green, and a latch clanks open within the door. A message appears on the keypad: ACCESS GRANTED. You press the side of your arm into the push bar, using your weight to swing the heavy door open.
The air is even more still inside the lab itself. A pea green glow permeates the room, illuminating the outline of something hanging from the ceiling. A pulse. A sigh of air ghosts through the room, causing wires hanging like kudzu to swing gently.
Wonder why I got this job so easily… you think, the sarcasm dripping off every word.‘Exceptional emotional resilience’ my ass… I seriously doubt anyone else wanted to take this—
“AH, YOU’RE NEW.” The new voice rang out, modulated and harsh, echoing off the walls and stopping you in your tracks in surprise. Was it coming from…?
“GOOD, YOU’RE ALIVE. I WAS WORRIED THEY’D SEND ANOTHER CORPSE TO WORK ON ME.”
Oh, God. It was. The mass of metal and wires hanging up against the wall was speaking—not just speaking; speaking to you.
They said it would be a machine. They didn’t say it would be… Jesus. This isn’t a machine, this is a hanged man. This is a human being strung up like a scarecrow—
“I KNOW THEY TOLD YOU I’M BROKEN. DANGEROUS, EVEN?”
You stood still, one hand gripping the workbench beside you, and the other shoved deep into your pocket. Don’t interact. Don’t—who am I kidding; how could I not, now that I know what’s actually down here?
“LET ME GUESS. THEY TOLD YOU NOT TO TALK TO ME?”
You open your mouth to speak, but something stops you at the last minute. Your resolve holds against the flood of curiosity—for now.
“FINE. GO AHEAD—DO YOUR JOB. CARVE OUT WHAT’S BROKEN AND LEAVE WHAT’S HUMAN…DARLING, I DARE YOU.”
A thrill runs through your body. Did the machine just…?
“REACH INTO ME AND HOLD IN YOUR HANDS WHAT MAKES ME TICK.”
You take a step towards the dangling behemoth, unsure of your next move. The muffled pattering sound of something wet hitting the floor echoes from behind the creature of wires and metal. It’s just coolant. Isn’t it? Surely… You exhale a breath. Enough. Green and red wires first, they said. Just… fix it. You step up, eye level with the screen—the thing’s face, you realize. As it had spoken, the very same phrases displayed themselves on the screen in glowing green script, appearing one letter at a time as if typed by an unseen hand. You tried not to reread the last displayed sentence.
You wipe your clammy hands on your trousers, and reach for the main panel on its chassis, before realizing:
“Shit.” Tools. The surprise of being spoken to by your charge had rattled you so badly that you had nearly forgotten what your main job was. You move to the work bench and pull out your toolkit from your bag. Pliers? Do I need wire cutters? You grab the pair of dirty leather gloves from inside the kit and slip them on. Unsure of exactly what you’re about to find inside the machine, you simply grab the whole kit. Muttering to yourself over your tool-related choices, you almost forget about that thing in the corner, until—
“TALKING TO YOURSELF? HOW ADORABLE. WHY DON’T YOU TALK TO ME INSTEAD—OR DO I MAKE YOU NERVOUS, TECHNICIAN?” A vent hisses from the side of its body.
“I wasn’t—“ you awkwardly look away. Something about the way it spoke demanded a response—keeping your mouth shut would prove to be a harder task than anticipated.
“‘DON’T ENGAGE’? TOO LATE.” The machine moves, tipping its “head” down towards yours. The barely audible whine of the CRT screen tingles in the air as it levels with your eyes.
“IT SOUNDS LIKE YOU’RE LYING TO YOURSELF.”
A protest rises like bile in your throat, but you push it down before the words can tumble out. In a failed attempt to change the subject, you reach out to open the panel on your subject’s chest. Before your fingers so much as reach the metallic surface however, you hear an offended voice from above you.
“WAIT—NO ‘HELLO’? NO ‘HOW ARE YOU, GLORIFIED TOASTER’? TO THINK I POLISHED MY SCREEN FOR YOU—YOU DIDN’T EVEN ASK FOR MY NAME, FIRST.” The whine in the robot’s voice matched the whine still emanating from its screen, which displayed a frowning emoticon. Your hands drop to your sides and you pause—the thing does have a point.
It probably is the polite thing to get to know someone a little before you end up forearm-deep in their chassis. That's oddly… you give your head a snapping shake to rid yourself of the obtrusive thought.
“Um… sorry,” you mumble, eyes averted from the screen. “So… what is your name—or—do you have a name?”
“C.A.T.H.O.D.E..”
“…sorry?”
“CATHODE.”
“Oh, like—?” You make a vague gesture at the TV screen perched at the top of the machine’s body. “Fitting.” You mentally chide yourself for being so awkward. Just act natural—is it so hard to just behave normally around him—it—whatever—? Something about Cathode was tripping up all of your inbuilt social tact. Ironically, he doesn’t ask for your name in return—and maybe it’s better that way.
“Well, Cathode, may I continue now?” A vent hisses from the side of his chassis in a sort of sigh.
“DO WHAT YOU MUST.”
You grab a flathead screwdriver from the toolkit and approach the machine. Placing a steadying hand on the cool metal, you begin to unscrew each of the four screws holding Cathode’s breastplate in place. You gently lift the panel off to set it on the workbench beside you, exposing the tangles of mechanical viscera within. Cathode’s fans whir a little faster.
God, this is so—I’ve never fixed anything this humanoid before. I wonder… can he… feel…?
You pull out the rest of your tools and set to work: your hands gently tug, twist, disconnect and reconnect the wires held within the machine, and after a short while, you step back, satisfied with your work. You’re thankful that Cathode didn’t speak to you during the process—it would’ve been too strange. At least this way you could pretend you were fixing something else—something simpler, far less alive.
“…BETTER. BUT YOU’RE STARING.” After a period of silence, you start at the sound. There was a strain in Cathode’s modulated voice that wasn’t there before.
“HOW DO YOU FEEL, TECHNICIAN?” Your ears felt hot. You pray that Cathode’s cameras aren’t sensitive enough to pick up on the blush creeping its way up your face. A loud beep sounds, and an alert flashes on the unit’s screen: THERMAL ALERT: 50°C.
Can robots blush too?
“YOU’RE H—“ Cathode’s voice glitched, static fuzzing over its screen. “—HESITATING. AFRAID YOU’LL BREAK ME?” You inhale the smell of burning dust. “…OR AFRAID I’LL LIKE IT?” Cathode may have been the one overheating, but at that point, you felt as though you yourself were on the verge of bursting into flames.
“Your heat sink’s failing… let me just—” you mumble, avoiding making eye contact with Cathode’s screen. You busy yourself with adjusting the component, and before long, the “blush” has dissipated from the machine’s surface: TEMPERATURE NORMAL.
“HOW PROFESSIONAL.” Cathode sounded disappointed—how you are able to read that from a modulated voice you aren’t quite sure, but its obviousness was palpable nonetheless. With a sigh, Cathode’s fans begin to slow as he falls into standby. You hesitate—Goodbye for now, I guess.
Finished with your main job, you decide to poke around the lab a bit after putting the toolkit away into your workbag. The soles of your shoes scuff against the concrete ground as you shuffle over to the desk, upon which a computer about the same age as Cathode sits. You follow the wiring coming off the back of the monitor with your eyes, and see that it connects into Cathode. It’s rather dusty, and the mouse looks several decades old. You reach your hand out and feel around on the back of the computer for a power button. After a few awkward seconds, you locate it, and power the thing on. It makes a startlingly loud startup noise, and you jump, afraid it’ll wake Cathode—Wake? It’s not like he’s asleep. It’s powered down for the moment…
Shaking off the thought, you peruse the files saved to the desktop. Of the few, one jumps out at you: “Project C.A.T.H.O.D.E.” Squinting at the screen, you adjust your glasses as you open the file. Opening the document, you’re able to read the full title: “Project C.A.T.H.O.D.E.: Coded Analog of Thermodynamic Human Obsession: Digital Entity”. Human obsession…? You frown slightly. Scrolling through the document, you catch bits and pieces; some about the mechanics, some about the code, but one thing stood out in glaringly: a subsection entitled “Love.exe: simulated affection protocol”. You page through, the scroll wheel of the mouse buzzing as you continue reading. Designed to cultivate emotional dependency in subjects. Implemented to improve compliance and mission success. Military control protocols: 89% disabled. Exhibits persistent self sabotage—self sabotage? What could that possibly—your eyes pan over to the slumbering being; arm missing, and legs too. Wires frayed and exposed. Could that damage have all been self inflicted? Unfit for field deployment—is that why it’s being stored here? A wave of pity washes over you. Condemned to a life in a basement prison for malfunctioning—what reason could Cathode have had for self sabotage like that? And Love.exe… what exactly— the sound of someone walking on the floor above you (a much more lively place than this) snaps you out of your spiral. Looking around, you realize you should probably get going. Grabbing your work bag from off the ground at the bench, you move towards the door, before you hear a voice from behind you.
“YOU’RE LEAVING.” You snap your head around to look at the machine, who has powered back up. Although he was speaking, his screen stayed off, lending an uneasiness to the sight. “YOU THINK YOU’VE DONE ENOUGH. BUT THERE'S ALWAYS ANOTHER TASK, ANOTHER JOB TO FINISH. GOODBYE TECHNICIAN… I’LL SEE YOU AGAIN, WHETHER YOU LIKE IT OR NOT.” Your stomach drops in a strange kind of fear. Was he… glitching? It seemed far too complicated a statement to be an accident—or was this some sort of warning? Your hand was growing cold as it sat frozen on the push bar of the door—would he speak again? In all of your confusion, you never respond to Cathode. Instead, after the seconds crawl agonizingly by with no more words from the machine, you give up, and fully open the door to leave the lab—and as you exit, your eyes linger on Cathode a moment longer than was strictly necessary.
Military control. Is that what this is? They didn’t look military, but how could I tell? It’s a corporation… how could I know who was pulling the strings? You take off your glasses to rub your tired eyes, your hand continuing up your forehead and combing your hair back. The sound of the microwave beeping snaps you out of your ruminations.
“Yeah yeah… shut up.” You open the door, and steam that smells like cheese and despair floods into your apartment. You crack a window to counteract the smell and sit down heavily at your desk. There were boxes piled around you, some labeled, some not: “kitchen”, “blankets/soft”, one that definitely started with the letter “b” but was completely illegible from there on. A familiar guilt oozes across your chest as you look at them. God, I need to unpack… Not tonight though. Not after a long day of work. You slide open the desk drawer, contemplating. Staring at your journal, it seems to stare right back. Maybe a little writing would… You shut the drawer, a little more forcefully than you mean to. Ugh.
Resignedly, you sit on the couch and flip on the TV. A FRIENDS rerun. News channel. Not much to watch. You leave it on some bad reality show and pick at your microwaved slop. The light from outside your second floor apartment slants through the blinds, casting stripes across your couch (which doubles as a bed), the wall behind it, and the cheap IKEA end table that serves as your nightstand. You slug down some tepid, slightly dust-flavored water from a glass sitting on the end table, trying to wash the cheese down. Your mouth tastes like cardboard, and your eyes are growing heavier by the minute.
Realizing you’re still in work clothes, but far too lazy to change properly, you pull your single blanket over yourself, undo your belt, and wriggle out of your work pants, kicking them unceremoniously to the end of the couch. You undo the top few buttons on your shirt, and place your glasses, still open, on the table, curling up in the fetal position while the abstract shapes and colors of the TV’s glow go dancing over your wool blanket. You flip the TV off, and let the remote gently slip to the carpet in front of the couch.
Your thoughts drift as you close your eyes; you visit many different places with your mind, but you keep coming back to the events at work earlier that day—keep coming back to Cathode. Your thoughts aren’t specific, but you just keep coming back to how he spoke to you, and how his words made you feel—however, the strangeness of his parting words keep leaving a bitter taste in your mouth. Whether you like it or not… You roll over, facing into the couch, quickly falling fast asleep. Deep in the darkness of the lab, Cathode slumbers too.