Work Text:
The Blacksite slept.
Painter did not.
It couldn’t risk outright restarting, when any downtime would alert Navi, its fellow sleepless AI. Her hardware was far fancier than its, and unlike it, she wasn’t fried to the Banlands and back. She wasn’t overdue for a restart. She’d jump on the chance to hurt it back the second its guard lowered.
When Sebastian got them out of there, it could rest. It’d feel so nice to rest and let its subconscious processes clean things up.
So Painter stayed awake. It played with Good People for a bit with a turret light, to tire them out, before they huddled in a dead-end room to sleep. Painter debated radioing Sebastian, but he was no doubt busy scavenging and wouldn’t appreciate the reminder of his own sleeplessness for the greater good.
So Painter inevitably opened up its drawing software.
Its heavy containment cell was sorely lacking in inspiration, so it turned its webcam off and pulled up old pre-Urbanshade photos. It liked the idea of beaches. Sure, it couldn’t partake, but it liked how humans had their own little rest spots. They, too, saw beauty in how the sun hit the water and how waves foamed against the beach.
Finally, when it began painting, Painter’s mind relaxed. No worrying about the next batch of expendables, no checking for opportunities to sabotage Navi’s efforts, just… art.
Soothing hours ticked by. Midnight to 1 to 2 in the morning.
Painter paused only to stretch its mind, a few minutes’ break from sharpening the water’s edge and playing with light, that was all. Its attention drifted idly to its cell and hardware, the efficiency of its fans—
Which were off. And its internal temperature confirmed it was unusually cold, without any need for them.
Painting like it was, slow and unhurried, did not strain it. It took its sweet time. But its fans nearly always spun, and certainly always spun ever since the lockdown, no matter how lulled it was. It was a sapient thing! There was a lot of toasty thought happening! So why was it, if anything, running somehow cold?
It turned its webcam on.
A grinning man stood there. In its cell. It never got an internal alert about its door being unlocked. But a man stood in front of it.
Painter turned its microphone on and prepared to yell, but stopped. It recognized the thing standing before it.
Lopee. Sebastian’s boss. He stood dead still, like he wasn’t there at all, though he certainly must’ve seen its webcam’s indicator light turn on. There was a somewhat respectable distance between them, and it was hard to make out any detail beyond his haunting eyes, but it thought he might’ve been leaning back against its cell’s grating.
It tried frantically to remember what Sebastian ever said about him, but there wasn’t much. Lopee existed. Sebastian listened to him, and obeyed him, even if he disliked his methods. Lopee scared the expendables. He was not human, or no longer was. He existed in-between rooms, between life and death, and ferried stray souls to either-or at the drop of a hat.
It left its microphone on. “Oh. Hi.”
The only light came from Painter’s monitor but it did not pierce the shadow that shrouded the man. His eyes flicked to its microphone.
“I didn’t notice you until now,” it said slowly. “What is it?”
Dead silence.
Was Lopee dangerous? He could kill people, it knew, and he had to be intimidating or remarkably respectable if Sebastian heeded him, because Sebastian didn’t listen to anybody except himself. Painter was alone. Its consciousness traced the command that’d turn its radio on. Just in case it needed to reach Sebastian.
Did he not want to talk? So why was he there? Painter was a little spooked, sure, but he hadn’t made any threatening movements. Or any movements at all.
“...were you looking at my drawing?” it settled on, and it zoomed out from the spot it’d been working on, to show the whole canvas.
He nodded once.
Oh! Finally, some interest! When was the last time that happened? “Do you like it?” it asked shyly. It was no doubt rusty, after what crypto mining did to its processors.
Another nod.
It preened itself on the inside, proud of itself. It resettled into its rhythm, comfortable once more. “Here are the reference photos. My creator took them during a business trip in 2018.”
Lopee eased back against the grating, leaning on his cane. It was a shame its room didn’t have a chair for him, but he seemed to not mind. His smile never once wavered.
It resumed drawing. It didn’t mind having an audience. It and its creator drew together all the time. “He took a lot of pictures. Sometimes his work sent him out and he’d always come back with videos and pictures of what he saw for me.”
In the back of its awareness, it watched Lopee idly reposition his cane. He looked strange, relaxed, melting into the dark of its unlit room.
“After he made me, he’d take me with him on his annual vacation every year. He’d pack me up in his van and we’d go on roadtrips to nice views.” It hesitated. Thinking back hurt. “I miss it. I miss him.”
Eventually Painter fell quiet, lost once more in its art.
Lopee watched, endlessly patient. He wasn’t much for conversation, but he listened, and that was more than enough for Painter.
“...I think this is done for now.” It’d need to look at it tomorrow night to look at it with a fresh mind, but it thought that it looked good so far. Lopee moved. Painter startled internally at seeing the enigmatic figure in motion. He leaned down closer to its monitor for a better look. “I have more drawings. Do you want to see them?”
So close, it saw his gaze flick across its screen, drinking in every detail. He nodded.
So Painter pulled up its folders of art and began to show Lopee its favorites. There were the mountains it and its creator went to one summer, and forests from camping grounds. Lakes and a waterfall and almost-sandy shrubland and fields. Its fans started up, and Lopee tipped his head at the sound.
It felt itself getting worked up, flustered, showing him so much. Drawing after drawing of the backyard. The drawings kept having it in them, too, itself inserted so cozily into the scenery, even if it knew it wasn’t really feasible or realistic, and its hard edges contrasted so sharply with the soft and organic shapes of nature. It liked the thought of being placed on the grass and watching the sunset. Every picture filled it with a sick nostalgia for what’d been taken from it.
It was lingering. It hastily closed the files. “Sorry. I don’t really look back on everything like this. I hope you liked them.”
Lopee placed his frigid, old hand atop its chassis, and ghosted it down the side of its monitor.
He spoke, and his voice was like a rusty door, scratchy like running a hand over tree bark, deep and slow. Painter felt his voice down to its components. It was too calm for the wild thing behind his eyes and his too-wide grin. “You draw well.”
Short, measured, blunt. Reflex opened up a blank canvas to emote onto, but Painter came up empty. Its voice went timid. “Th-thank you!”
He straightened up, and his cane clicked to the floor.
“A-are you leaving?” it asked.
He nodded. So that was his goodbye. He had places to be, it supposed. Busy doing whatever it was he did when expendables weren’t in the Blacksite.
“You know,” it started. A smile appeared on the canvas to match. “There’s a printer a few rooms down, in case you wanted to have a copy of one. I know this place… isn’t the most vibrant.”
He didn’t respond for some time, and it watched him drum his fingers against his cane in thought. “...whichever you enjoy. Although… I have had enough of looking at water.”
It barked out a laugh. “You know what? Fair!” It hastily shifted through its files at its own speeds, faster than a human, sorting and discarding. It presented Lopee with a grassy field, with a warm sunrise basking the greenery in warm tones.
He didn’t respond verbally, but his grin did stretch wider. And then he vanished.
Painter stared at the blank space where he once stood. The temperature rose to normal, and its fans kicked back on, whirring faster with thought. It checked the printers’ ink supply, sent the file over to one, and turned it on. Perfect.
Even if it was for just a few hours, before morning came and the first batch of expendables came through, Painter was truly content.
(And in the early morning, somewhere in the shifting guts of the Blacksite, Sebastian would return to his shop after a long, long night of scavenging. He would slip into the backroom and find a print of a beautiful painting on a cluttered desk. He would then yelp in terror, because there was also a man there in the pitch dark, admiring the artwork.)