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Some things were easy.
One might think that adjusting to the many biological needs of this chassis would be difficult, but BT found it helped if he thought of them as secondary protocols. His old chassis had needed refueling, cleaning, periodic recharging; eating, maintaining his personal hygiene, and sleeping weren’t that different. Interacting with humans as though he were one of them became easier after the first week. He even enjoyed a few things about this body (mostly, spending more time with Cooper and getting the opportunity to see locations he had been denied access to previously due to his size).
Some things were more difficult.
The new size, while it opened up new socialization and exploration possibilities, still didn’t feel right after two months. He felt too small, too light, even when he weighed himself down with heavy clothes and armor. The inability to follow some of his protocols worried away at his mind for most of his waking moments. He didn’t like how difficult the new chassis could be to control; growing suddenly exhausted and starting to go into sleep mode without meaning to was definitely unwelcome. Most biological processes he had resigned himself to, but the fact that he could bleed now was disconcerting.
And then there were emotions.
BT felt something like emotions in his old chassis—negative reactions to certain stimuli and situations, positive reactions to others, concern and affection for his pilot. Many were more like rough approximations, things he gave human names to in order to simplify explanations. For example: he could say he felt pain, but his version of pain had no physical component. It was merely a persistent error message, the prolonged awareness that his chassis was damaged and needed repairs as soon as possible. It didn’t hurt, not in the way that humans thought of hurt, but it was a close enough sensation.
The chassis BT currently occupied wasn’t entirely human. It was a hybrid of alien biomechanical technology and segments of Cooper’s genes, enough that they could pass as relatives. He was, in that respect, more like a highly advanced simulacrum than a human. But the “brain” that they’re merged with the information in his data core was very human, especially in how it processed situations to generate an emotional response.
BT had no idea that human emotions were so intense.
He had seen the effect they had on others, mostly on Cooper and Lastimosa. But witnessing and experiencing were two different things. It wasn’t all bad; the thrill he’d gotten the first time he’d felt real happiness was a fond memory, one he hoped he would be able to re-live properly when he was back in his old chassis. But others were less welcome. Anger, for instance, the few times he’d felt it, set his heart racing and left him feeling weakened afterwards. Sorrow he’d only experienced briefly, during a conversation about Lastimosa that had turned melancholy, but he would never forget how close it felt to physical pain.
Then there was fear.
BT had felt fear, or a version of it, in his old chassis. Negative reaction to an unfavorable situation, an incentive to remove himself and his pilot from any danger. It was muted, logical, calm, nothing like human fear. The first few times he’d felt human fear in the new chassis—while being attacked by the Howler not long after waking up, when Cooper had accidentally startled him one morning, during those first few nights when he wasn’t sure what would happen to him or how he would adjust—it had seemed tolerable. Unpleasant, but something he could learn to live with.
In hindsight, he realized he only thought that because he hadn’t experienced real fear.
His first encounter with real fear came when the Militia base they were stationed in had to go into blackout during an IMC flyby. He’d been through blackout before—all power off, Titans on low power, everyone away from doors or windows, everyone quiet—but in those days, he’d had a direct neural link to his pilot. In those days, he’d been running on partial awareness, enough to be sure that Lastimosa was safe but not so much that he felt any aversion to the situation.
This time, as everyone crouched in their corners, hands on their weapons, shoulders tense as they braced themselves to run for it, he was aware of everything. And he had no link to tell him where Cooper was.
If Cooper was even alive.
Protocol Three dictated that he protect his pilot. If the IMC had spotted their base, they would likely drop troops, other Titans, maybe bombs if they wanted to end things quickly. BT would have to protect Cooper in the event of an attack, but Cooper wasn’t anywhere in BT’s line of sight. BT had been told to stay where he was, to stay down until the all-clear was given, but the longer he crouched with his back pressed to a wall, desperately scanning the room for any sign of his pilot, the stronger the painful feeling in his chest became. It became even stronger when he heard the sound of explosions in the distance. They were close, but not in the base proper. Likely, the IMC was trying to provoke a response. Flush them out. It meant they didn’t know for sure where the Militia was. He knew this, objectively, but his fear didn’t fade.
He needed to find Cooper. He needed to protect Cooper. He couldn’t find his pilot. He wasn’t sure what good he’d be in a form that was a fraction of his previous size, weak and easily damaged.
He had no idea how long it was until the explosions stopped and the all-clear was given. It seemed like a very long time.
BT was on his feet and searching as soon as possible.
He tried to remember what direction Cooper had gone, but couldn’t. The persistent error message—that something had happened to Cooper, that he hadn’t been there to protect his pilot, that he’d failed his protocols, failed his friend—took up too much computing power. He couldn’t remember where Cooper said he’d gone, just that he would be back soon. The more he looked, the more difficult it was to see. The room seemed to blur around him, his visual processors misfiring and his chest continuing to ache. He wanted to call Cooper’s name, but he couldn’t make his voice work. Nothing was working—well, not nothing. His ability to feel fear was still working.
It was all he could do.
BT was so trapped in the endless feedback loop of fear making itself worse and worse with every second that he didn’t hear his name being called. He didn’t realize someone was trying to speak to him until he felt a hand on his shoulder. He didn’t realize it was Cooper until after he’d flinched away, one hand reaching for his weapon.
Cooper is alive. Cooper is alive.
What happened next was a blur. Many of his sensory processes were still malfunctioning, his field of vision reduced to too many lights and too many colors as he was lead out of the mess hall and somewhere else, somewhere darker and quieter. It wasn’t until they were in that silence that he realized he was breathing so loudly and quickly. Something was pounding in his ears—a pulse? His heartbeat? Was it normal to hear your own heart, or had he suffered damage and not realized?
The room was spinning. Something wasn’t right.
“BT? BT. Hey.”
Someone—Cooper, his pilot, his pilot was alive—made him sit down. He felt a hand on the back of his neck, an anchoring touch that tilted his head down until his forehead was pressed against Cooper’s. “It’s okay. It’s okay, buddy, shh, shh. Hey. Look at me, hey.”
Cooper had dark eyes. BT’s were similar in this chassis, dark on the surface, with bits of blue poking through like the minerals in opalized wood. He didn’t like those streaks; they reminded him too much of his old chassis, a chassis he tried not to think about. He would’ve given anything in that moment to be back in it, heavy and calm with emotional processors that would have shut down by now. Cooper was alive, he was alive, so why was BT struggling to breathe?
“You’re okay. You’re okay, you’ll be okay.” Cooper took one of BT’s hands and rested it against his chest. “Can you feel me breathing?” BT nodded. “Okay, what I need you to do is try to breathe with me. Just follow my breathing.”
Cooper’s breathing was calm, regular, like the constant movement of a machine; if BT focused, he could match it, and the more he breathed, the less afraid he felt. His other processes began to correct themselves. Vision sharpened, hearing grew less hollow, and the room no longer spun around him. He still felt shaken, weak, and he realized that his face was sticky with something wet. Tears. Had he been crying? When had he started crying?
“I’ve got you. I’ve got you. I’m here. You’re okay.”
“What happened?” Strange—he had more or less grown used to his new voice by now (it was similar to his old one, but not as deep, more organic), but in that moment, it sounded as alien to him as it had the first time he’d spoken. “Am I damaged?”
“No, no, not physically. This was…I think you had a bit of a panic attack, BT.”
Cooper had spoken about those. He’d had them before, and they always seemed distressing. BT was starting to realize why Cooper had spent so many nights after Typhon sleeping in the cockpit instead of his own bed. Whatever it took to feel safe. “Did something happen?” Cooper continued. His hand squeezed BT’s gently. BT felt very tired; he wanted to lean against Cooper’s shoulder and sleep for at least eight hours. “Was it the bombs?”
BT shook his head. “I couldn’t find you. I was in violation of Protocol Three.”
“You still-?”
“I do. For all of them.” They hadn’t discussed how much of BT was still BT; whenever the discussion of differences in programming, it was about the things that had been added. Not the things left over. “They changed what I looked like. They didn’t change what I am. Maybe-”
He cut himself off as the thought finished itself in his mind: Maybe it would’ve been better if they had. If they’d scrubbed his mind free of his protocols, of any programming that tied him to his old chassis, his old station in life. But then, who would he be without them? He didn’t think he’d be himself anymore, not even in his mind.
That made his heart stutter and his breathing pick up again. Cooper noticed almost immediately; sometimes BT wondered if there was still some remnant of the neural link intact, for how quickly Cooper seemed to notice BT’s mood swings. “You’re okay,” Cooper said softly. “I know this is tough. I know. And I’m sorry. But…I’m here. For whatever that’s worth.”
BT frowned. He was just as tuned in to his pilot’s moods as Cooper was to his, so he heard the hints of self-deprecation in those words. He thinks that’s not enough. Not enough to make me feel safe. “It means everything,” BT said. “I wouldn’t be able to handle this if you weren’t here.”
He was sure of that. Only a handful of people knew about his current condition, and of those few, only Cooper had been able to help BT make sense of these things. Of emotions. Of how to handle a weapon with smaller hands, how to use his body for maximum efficiency on a battlefield, what foods and drinks were best, how best to sequester himself from the world when things became too much. Early in their relationship, BT had always been the one to help Cooper. Now, the tables had turned, and despite everything, BT felt safe with his pilot there.
That meant everything.
“We’re still partners, Cooper. We help each other.” Then, quietly, he added, “Thank you.”
Cooper smiled. “Of course.” He pulled BT into an embrace. Hugs, BT had decided, he enjoyed, especially in moments like this. They made him feel heavier. More secure. “I’m not going anywhere. You know that, right?”
BT sighed. The fear and anxiety seemed to leave him along with the air. “I know,” he said. He returned the embrace, his hands gripping the straps on Cooper’s vest. “I trust you.”
He could go through anything, he was sure, as long as he had that trust.