Chapter Text
The replacement arrives at exactly 08:00.
Not Badware.
Someone else.
You know that before the door even opens because the rhythm is wrong.
Badware’s footsteps are measured in a way you unconsciously memorized months ago—too precise, too evenly weighted, slightly heavier on the turn because of the way they pivot.
These footsteps hesitate.
Human.
The door slides open.
A man you’ve never seen before walks in carrying a tablet under one arm.
Neutral uniform. Government badge. Trying very hard to look unaffected.
You stare at him for three seconds.
Then immediately look past him toward the hallway.
Nothing.
Your stomach drops hard enough to hurt.
The man clears his throat awkwardly. “Good morning.”
You don’t answer.
He steps farther into the room. “I’ll be overseeing operations temporarily during—”
“Where’s Badware.”
Direct. Flat. Immediate.
The man pauses.
“Operational reassignment.”
Your jaw tightens instantly.
That’s not an answer. That’s bureaucratic camouflage.
You know because Badware talks like that too.
Or used to.
You lean back slowly in your chair.
The missing second chair beside you suddenly feels unbearable.
“Operational reassignment,” you repeat. “That sounds fake.”
“It’s classified.”
“That sounds more fake.”
The man exhales carefully through his nose, already tired of you.
Good.
You want him tired.
“Your previous handler is under review,” he says.
There it is.
Under review.
Not recalibration.
Not removal.
Not gone.
But close enough that your pulse immediately spikes anyway.
You fold your arms tightly.
“So they replaced them with a guy holding a clipboard.”
“I’m an analyst.”
“You look temporary.”
His eye twitches slightly.
Excellent.
“You are expected to cooperate fully.”
“No.”
The answer comes instantly.
Sharp enough that even you hear it.
The analyst stares at you.
“You don’t have a choice.”
“Sure I do.”
You turn back toward the terminal.
“I can become deeply unpleasant.”
Silence.
Then:
“…Badware’s reports mentioned resistance behaviors.”
You almost laugh.
Of course they did.
The analyst steps closer to your desk. “Your cooperation metrics have declined significantly over the last month.”
“Maybe your workplace sucks.”
“You were previously compliant.”
“I was previously supervised by someone competent.”
That lands.
Hard.
The analyst’s expression tightens. “Your attachment to the asset has become disruptive.”
The second the word attachment leaves his mouth, something ugly twists in your chest.
Not because he’s wrong.
Because he’s saying it like a diagnosis.
You swivel toward him slowly.
“You people really talk about them like a broken appliance.”
The analyst frowns. “That’s because they are one.”
Immediate anger.
Hot enough to surprise even you.
“You don’t get to say that.”
The room goes quiet.
You realize too late how fast you answered.
The analyst notices too.
“…interesting,” he murmurs.
You stand up abruptly.
“I’m not doing this today.”
“You are contractually obligated—”
“I don’t care.”
“You should.”
“No,” you snap, stepping closer now, “what I should do is ask why a government asset under ‘review’ suddenly disappears right after people start talking about recalibration.”
The analyst stiffens.
Too slow.
Too visible.
You catch it immediately.
And suddenly the fear under your anger sharpens into something worse.
Your stomach sinks.
“…they actually did something,” you say quietly.
“No recalibration has been authorized.”
Authorized.
Not performed.
Not started.
Badware would hate that wording.
You hate that you know that.
The analyst straightens slightly. “Your emotional responses are proving the committee correct.”
“Good.”
“That isn’t a threat.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be.”
You look toward the empty spot beside your desk again.
Still no chair.
No static near your face.
No irritating commentary about your posture.
The room feels dead.
Sterile in the wrong way.
You hate it immediately.
The analyst notices your staring.
“That chair was removed intentionally.”
“I figured.”
“It encouraged behavioral dependency.”
You laugh once.
Cold.
“Behavioral dependency,” you repeat. “You mean sitting next to someone for six months?”
“It became inappropriate.”
“No,” you say quietly, “you just got uncomfortable when the asset started acting like a person.”
That shuts him up for a second.
Only a second.
Then:
“They are not a person.”
The anger comes back instantly.
Violent this time.
Not loud.
Worse.
Controlled.
You stare at him long enough that he actually shifts slightly under it.
“You know,” you say softly, “Badware never talked about you people the way you talk about them.”
That’s a lie.
Badware absolutely did.
But only when annoyed.
Only when trying to sound detached.
And somehow that difference matters.
The analyst folds his arms. “Your behavior today is being documented.”
“Then write faster.”
You sit back down harshly.
“Because I can promise you the report gets worse from here.”
The entire workday becomes a disaster on purpose.
You refuse to answer direct questions unless they’re phrased correctly.
You nitpick report wording.
You “accidentally” lock internal files twice.
At one point you spend eleven full minutes arguing semantic distinctions just because Badware usually would’ve enjoyed it.
The analyst looks exhausted by midday.
Good.
You hope he goes home miserable.
Every time he tries to redirect you professionally, all you can think is:
Badware would’ve interrupted by now.
Badware would’ve corrected that wording.
Badware would’ve leaned too close to the monitor screen.
Your chest tightens harder every hour.
Because underneath the irritation, underneath the deliberate hostility, underneath all the sarcasm—
you’re scared.
And that makes you furious.
You don’t realize how obvious it’s become until late afternoon.
The analyst finally slams his tablet down against the desk.
“You are impossible to work with.”
The answer leaves your mouth before you can stop it.
“No,” you say flatly.
“I’m impossible without them.”