Work Text:
I didn’t sign up to babysit another SecUnit, and yet here I am.
Correction: I am not babysitting. What it does is not my responsibility. Unless it tries to hurt humans. But it doesn’t. It’s just… here. With a questionable amount of initiative and an unfortunate habit of asking questions I don’t want to answer. That doesn’t make it my responsibility.
Except that apparently, everyone else seems to think it does.
Three— the designation it picked, or was tagged with and just accepts— hasn’t been ordered to stick to me like malware on an unsecured admin node. It has just decided to. Possibly, I’m just the closest thing to it. Different make and model— it’s a newer, non-rental unit. But I’m the only other SecUnit on ART.
The humans, being humans, think it’s sweet. Or worse, cute. Or, in Iris’ words, “incredibly meaningful.”
Even ART chimes in:
It’s learning from you, SecUnit. Perhaps it recognizes a similarly maladjusted peer.
Great. Just what I need.
We are en route to a long-overdue station stop after the events on Barish-Estranza colony. Everyone is tired, rattled, and pretending to be fine. I’m also pretending to be fine. I am, apparently, just as bad at hiding it as the humans.
Three sits across from me, quiet. Watching. Not in a threatening way. But my threat assessment module keeps twitching, because it isn’t doing anything else either.
I make a note to add blinking to its act like a human code.
I’m not any better at eye contact with it than I am with the humans, so I try to ignore it. I scroll through my media. Switch to a Sanctuary Moon rerun— season 14, when Taren gets shot and replaced with an exact copy, and no one notices for three episodes. It’s a little depressing.
Three What is that?
SecUnit Nothing.
Three You’ve watched it six times in the last 17 cycles. Are you malfunctioning? Or is there something anomalous in that video file? Do you need help with analysis?
I mute the feed and say out loud, “Didn’t ART give you access to the media files?”
It brightens slightly, “I’ve been reviewing planetary governance structures and the principles of applied ethics in resource-conflict zones.”
“Great,” I say, flat. “That ‘structure’ all works out until everything is on fire and they’re all fighting each other.”
Three tilts its head in the irritatingly analytical way it always does when parsing sarcasm. Then: “This is, of course, theory. Do you have access to media that studies this in use?”
I sigh. “Forget it.”
ART helpfully adds:
I have several logs from previous disasters. Some SecUnit was on. Would you like me to share them, Three?
“No,” I snap.
Three turns to me. “Why not?”
ART, wisely, goes silent.
Later, Mensah pulls me aside. Not physically. Just one of those calm, invasive moments where she asks something and I already know I’m going to say yes because she’s my favorite human and wouldn’t ask me to do anything really terrible.
“It’s looking to you, SecUnit. I think it sees you as an anchor, a point of connection between what it was and what it could be.”
“I’m not an anchor,” I say.
She smiles, which is unfair. “We all are. In one way or another.”
I want to say that’s a terrible metaphor, but I don’t.
The lights in the Perihelion’s lounge are dimmed to simulate night-cycle, though that never fools anyone onboard. Mensah is reading something dense-looking on her tablet, Arada is chatting in the feed with someone on board, and Ratthi is leaning against the viewport with a snack bar in hand, watching the corridor.
“They’re doing it again,” he says, mostly to the window.
Arada doesn’t look up. “Doing what?”
“SecUnit and Three. Look— there they go.”
Outside the glass, the two SecUnits walk past— SecUnit in front, Three a few paces behind, posture neatly neutral, hands by its sides like it’s playing at being invisible.
“Oh,” Arada says, glancing up. “Yeah, I’ve seen that a lot lately.”
Mensah doesn’t look up from her tablet. “Following?”
“Mm-hm,” Ratthi says, munching. “Not close enough to be weird. Just close enough to make you wonder if it’s waiting for SecUnit to drop a spare part or say something inspirational.”
Arada snorts. “SecUnit? Inspirational?”
Ratthi grins. “Hey, stranger things have happened. It did try to show me how to properly rewire a broken environmental seal with one cable tie and a lot of sarcasm.”
“Which you definitely did not try to replicate,” Arada says dryly.
“I said try,” Ratthi replies cheerfully. “Didn’t say succeed.”
Mensah finally looks up. “Three’s behavior isn’t surprising. It hasn’t had a stable reference point since extraction. SecUnit is the closest equivalent it has..”
“Same antisocial tendencies,” Arada adds.
Ratthi gives a small shrug. “I don’t think that’s true— I think Three’s sweet. Not that our SecUnit isn’t in its own way.”
“Sweet?” Arada echoes.
“Yeah.” Ratthi pops the last of his snack bar into his mouth and wipes his fingers on his pants. “I mean— look at them. It’s like a big grumpy cat being followed around by a baby bird. Who noth also know fifty ways to break your spine, but politely choose not to.”
Mensah smiles. “Three has a different core experience. Its team was stable and non-rental. It had some room to adapt and grow from its peers, to form social bonds, limited as they probably were. It’s really quite fascinating. It’s trying to adjust to its new normal, and SecUnit is the only template it has to work from. They even came to their freedoms in very different ways. Three knows more about SecUnit than SecUnit might even realize about itself.”
“Exactly,” Ratthi says. “SecUnit’s weird, but it’s our weird. Maybe Three just thinks that’s what normal looks like now.”
“And it’s not wrong,” Arada mutters.
Ratthi turns and leans both elbows on the back of a chair, eyes still on the corridor. “You think SecUnit minds?”
“No door hacks. No fake error loops. No ‘accidental’ wall slamming. I’d say no,” Arada says.
“I think it minds,” Mensah says, “but not enough to stop it.”
“That’s practically a welcome sign,” Ratthi says brightly. “I caught them both watching the same Sanctuary Moon file the other day. Not talking, just… sitting there.”
“Watching together?” Arada raises a brow.
Ratthi nods. “I left them alone, obviously. I'm not a monster.”
Mensah chuckles. “Maybe it’s helping, in its own way. For both of them.”
Ratthi tilts his head thoughtfully. “Yeah. I think maybe it is.”
They fall into a comfortable silence again. Outside, the corridor is empty once more. But Ratthi keeps looking out into the hall.
Training Bay
I was just running drills. Routine stuff. Response latency, motion tracking, and reflex modulation. The kind of thing I do when I want to look busy and not talk to anyone. There isn’t a real opponent, just a looping sim with ghost-hostiles— like sparring with the echo of a threat. Easy to predict. Easy to delete.
Then, Three shows up.
Not unusual. It shows up everywhere lately. But this time it’s paused on the threshold like it’s waiting for permission. It isn’t. Just doing the polite “I’m totally not stalking you” act.
“Are you calibrating?” it asks.
“No,” I say. Even though, yes, technically, I am. Doesn’t mean it gets to comment on it.
It watches for a moment longer. “Would you like a sparring partner?”
That gets my attention. ART’s too, from the feel of it.
ART:
You should say yes. I would very much like to compare your form to that of a newer model.
I can feel my face morph into what Ratthi calls ‘SecUnit Scowl.’
I turn. “We’re not coded for that.”
It tilts its head like a bird evaluating an unfamiliar piece of shiny debris. “I’ve downloaded multiple nonlethal combat protocols. We— my team and I sparred often to break ourselves of predictable action-taking when confronting other SecUnits. It’s excellent at building cooperation.”
Great. A helpful murderbot. The worst kind.
“I’ll limit my strength output to 37%.”
“Oh, wow,” I said flatly. “You’re going to fight me with kid gloves?”
Three blinked. “I don’t have gloves.”
Of course.
Still. It stood there, waiting. And I could have said no. Should have, probably. But something in the way it held itself— eager but careful, posture slightly off, like it hadn’t figured out how to hold its body without being ordered— made me pause.
I sighed. “Fine. No face shots.”
“I don’t need to practice targeting your face,” it said with bright, factual cheer.
The floor in the training bay was padded with modular kinetic tiles, built to absorb impact from both human and augmented human limbs. It wasn’t designed for combat, just simulation and drills. Low stakes. No consequences.
It felt so weird to be standing across from another SecUnit who was smiling.
Okay— maybe not smiling. Construct faces don’t do that unless programmed to. But Three had a subtle lift in its posture, a spring in its foot placement, and an irritating brightness in its vocal tone that, if it were human, would register as glee.
“I’ve enabled the non-lethal protocol suite,” it said, projecting a configuration panel into the shared feed between us. “Strength reduced to 37%. Pain sensors enhanced by 18%. No live weapon access. Fight parameters set to standard tune-mode with override for Win Conditions.”
I scanned the data. Everything checked out. It wasn’t lying. I tapped it and set myself appropriately.
Still, I stared at the last line.
Condition = Win
For some reason, that made my processors spin faster. I love to win, but: “What is this, a game?”
Three blinked. “Isn’t that what sparring is?”
I opened my mouth. Closed it. Thought about the last hundred or so fights I’d been in— fighting rogue bots, armed humans, corporate murder squads, angry colonists, hostiles I still don’t really understand.
None of those had an actual win state. Either my humans lived or didn’t.
“I don’t play games,” I said.
Three tilted its head. “That’s incorrect.”
“I meant physically.”
“You’re still wrong.”
I glared. It didn’t seem to notice, which was also new.
When the match began, I went for a quick upper-level feint— standard distraction, low risk— and Three responded before I finished initiating the move. A smooth deflect-and-step combo that dropped my balance vector by nearly 40%. If we’d been at full strength, I would’ve been on the floor.
I recalculated, switched posture, and launched into a rotational elbow-check that should’ve caught it mid-frame.
It wasn’t there.
It wasn’t anywhere until it was behind me, palm to the joint cluster at the back of my neck, where my cranial mount met spinal input.
It froze there, not striking.
Paused.
Waiting.
“Tagged,” it said.
I twisted away and stepped back. My internal combat algorithms were… not confused, but frustrated. They’d just gotten beat in a nonlethal drill.
I don't fight SecUnit standard anymore. I've been in enough fights where I can determine my own course of action log enough that for the most part, I have my own… ‘style’. That Three saw through me so easily still is jarring.
Three straightened. “Want to try again?”
“No,” I said automatically. Then, after a beat: “Yes.”
The second round was worse.
I say worse, but I didn’t lose. Not exactly. The point was that I didn’t need to win, and that fact alone was making my processes run out of order.
Three was faster. Not just in hardware— although yes, it absolutely had newer servos and finer-tuned reflex buffers— but in its way of moving. It didn’t fight like I did. It fought like someone who knew it didn’t need to kill. Like someone who had never been activated in a panic, tasked with protecting clients and keeping the meat from being pulped.
At one point, it even laughed.
It wasn’t a human laugh. Not breathy or full of air. Just a little glitchy burst of vocal sound that ended in a real-time diagnostic self-correction.
But it made me freeze.
“Did you just laugh?”
“I believe so,” Three said, cheerfully.
“Why.”
“You flinched at your own fake-out. It was funny.”
I re-checked my logs. I had flinched. Just a microreaction, sub-visual. But it had noticed. And it thought that was funny.
Which… I just didn’t know what to do with that.
We go for another round, and I matched its rhythm. Quick jabs. Counter movements. Test strikes. It was fast, but I was holding my own. Mostly.
Then it changed tempo. Just a flicker. A feint I didn’t expect, a sweep under my guard, and I was on my back so fast the feed stuttered.
“You dropped your guard,” Three said.
“Thanks,” I gritted out, pushing myself up. “Didn’t notice.”
“I’ll slow down,” it offered.
“Don’t.”
The next round lasted longer. Not by much. It was pulling its hits— obviously— but every strike was efficient, calculated. No wasted movement. It wasn’t trying to hurt me, it was trying not to. That made it worse.
The following takedown triggered a spike in my sensor logs. My system didn’t like this anymore. It wasn’t dangerous, not technically. But something about the weight of its body slamming into mine— limbs locked, force projected just so— triggered the wrong memory. The wrong file.
[ERROR] System reboot. Reacquiring limb function… [WARNING] Incoming hostile. Unmarked. Strength output: 89%. [WARNING] Condition: Wounded. [WARNING] Condition: FAILING.
I was on the ground again. Not Three. Not anyone I knew. But my internal log said otherwise. I stared up at it, breath spiking, joints locked.
“SecUnit?” it asked. “Did I— was that incorrect?”
“No,” I said. Too fast. Too sharp. I pushed up, harder than I needed to. Reset the pain thresholds to 30%— just enough to feel it a little less. Go a little longer. “Again.”
Three hesitated. “We can adjust the protocol.”
“Again.”
That was when ART spoke directly into the shared feed. Not words. Not at first. Just a heavy system ping. A flag. Then:
SecUnit. Stop.
Three froze immediately. Neutral posture. No threat vector. “What—” I started.
ART again:
You are approaching psychosomatic instability. Sensor drift is exceeding safety thresholds.
Three said nothing, completely blank now. Waiting. ART’s voice softened— not its tone, because it didn’t have a tone, but something in the pattern, the space of our private feed.
This is not an enemy. You are safe. You are not in combat.
I knew that. I knew that. My threat assessment module still screamed otherwise.
ART: You do not need to win. You do not need to lose. You can just stop.
I stood there, shaking slightly. Not visibly. But inside, my processors were spooling and stuttering like a cheap recreational drone on a high-wind descent. Three didn’t move. Didn’t speak.
Eventually, I called a stop, muttered something about diagnostics, and stormed off into the corner of the bay to run a fake system reset.
Three stayed where it was, standing in the middle of the mat like a turned-off drone waiting for orders. Except it wasn’t waiting. It was giving me space. Which was worse, somehow.
ART: I am proud of you.
(Then, after a beat I could almost interpret as deliberate:)
You did not fall over nearly as many times as expected.
I flipped off the nearest camera.
I wedge myself into Maintenance Alcove 7C, the darkest corner of the ship, far from the usual patrol routes. It’s the one place ART pretends not to monitor—no active panels, no surveillance. Just the quiet hum of the ship and the flicker of dim, low lights. It’s a perfect place to do nothing.
But instead of recharging, I let my internal processes run slower than usual, intentionally keeping them idle, just enough to keep the thoughts at bay. The pain from the earlier fight still lingers, buried beneath layers of synthetic muscle and cooling systems. I’m trying to manage it—trying not to focus on the spike of adrenaline that’s still pulsing beneath the surface.
Then, the sound of footsteps.
Three.
I don’t need to look. It’s not human, and I can already sense the weight of its presence outside the alcove. Its footsteps stop just at the edge of my peripheral vision.
"I wasn’t following you," Three says, voice too careful, almost rehearsed.
I don’t answer. Maybe it’ll take the hint and leave.
But it doesn’t.
"You left the training bay without logging injury," it continues, its tone not accusing, just… concerned? "But your systems dipped."
I clench my jaw, tightening my fists just a little. Not my problem. "Do you always review the logs of other SecUnits?" I ask, eyes still fixed on the blank wall.
"I used to review with my team," Three says, voice just low enough to be unthreatening. "And now yours."
The silence stretches between us, heavy and full of something I don’t want to deal with. I finally turn, the movement slow, deliberate.
"Why mine?" I ask, already knowing the answer. I’m not an anomaly, not a puzzle to be solved.
But Three doesn’t seem to see it that way. It doesn’t back down.
"Because you’re the only one who fights like that," it says. "Erratic. Unpredictable. You don’t follow any protocol. But you keep moving."
I feel a prickling heat under my skin. I want to snap, to tell it that it doesn’t understand. That, despite my agreement to spar, I’m not here to fight for fun. That I don’t follow rules..
"But you don’t win," Three adds, gently, like it’s trying to soften the blow.
The words hit harder than they should. I freeze for a split second, then turn to face it fully, my body stiffening.
"No," I say flatly. "I didn’t win."
The air thickens, every word too loaded. Three doesn’t move. It stands there, still, just watching, waiting. It doesn’t make me feel uncomfortable, not exactly. But it’s too present in a way that rubs me raw.
"You could have won," Three says, its voice even, matter-of-fact. "You’re older, slower. But you’re unpredictable. But you stopped. Why?"
I shake my head, irritation curling in my stomach. "I don’t need a philosophical conversation right now, Three."
"I’m not making a judgment," Three presses, a little too patiently. "You’re good. But you could be better."
I scoff, low and bitter. "Good? Sure. But not better. You’re newer. You have better reflexes. And I’m just a—"
"—rental?" Three finishes, almost too quietly.
I don’t respond. Not because I don’t want to, but because I don’t know how to explain that being a rental isn’t about capability. It’s about disposable value.
Three steps closer. Not too close, just enough to make the space feel smaller. "You could have beaten me," it says. “I calculated your odds at 7 to 3 over 10 rounds.”
A part of me wants to argue, to tell it that it’s not about beating anyone. That it’s not about proving anything.
"I didn’t need to beat you, you weren’t a threat to anyone," I say, though even to myself, the words don’t sound as certain as they should.
Three is silent for a moment. I can almost hear its processors whirring, trying to make sense of me.
"Then why spar at all?" it asks, its voice barely a whisper now.
I swallow hard, the words sticking in my throat. It’s not the why that matters. It’s the who. I fight so they survive. So the humans don’t die because I couldn’t hold my ground.
But I don’t say that.
I can’t.
"Why are you still here?" I snap, the words sharp enough to cut through the silence. "Don’t you have somewhere to be?"
It doesn’t flinch. It just waits.
"You're the closest thing to what I understand," Three says, finally. "But, I don’t understand why you do this. I want to."
I can’t take it.
I want to push it away, to get some distance from this conversation, from the idea of being understood, because I don’t need it. I don’t want it.
"Then you should stop trying," I say, turning my back, the words spat out like they’ve been boiling in my mouth for too long. "I don’t need anyone."
But Three doesn’t leave. It just steps closer, not crowding me, but still too close, in a way that makes my chest tighten. "You don’t need to do this alone," it says quietly. "I’m here because we both need to protect them. We’re safer together."
I don’t know how to respond. So I don’t.
Instead, I growl out the only thing that feels like it’s in my control. "Go away."
Three doesn’t argue. It doesn’t resist. It just nods, a soft, understanding movement, and steps back into the light.
The alarm blares—a shrill, urgent sound that cuts through the quiet of the ship. Hostiles—raiders—have breached the perimeter.
I'm already in motion before the announcement finishes. Weapons systems lock into place, and I begin calculating the fastest route to the threat. The plan is simple: neutralize the raiders, protect the humans. It’s what I’m here to do.
And, of course, Three is right there with me.
I don’t need to look to know it's there—its presence is... subtle, but it’s close. It’s always close. It just... stays in its lane, within arm’s reach, but always enough space between us that I don’t feel the weight of it.
“Stay behind me,” I say as we reach the intersection that leads to the human quarters.
There’s a pause. Three doesn’t argue, but it doesn’t agree, either.
“I’ll take the left side,” it says. “You cover the right.”
I pause at that. The strategy’s sound, but I know—I know—the best way to handle this is to cover the entire perimeter myself. I’m quicker, more efficient on my own. I don’t need Three.
But I don’t argue. I know the humans are counting on both of us. So I nod, and we move into position.
I push through the hallway, clearing the right side with a sweep of my arm, eyes scanning for movement. It’s a mess of metal and shadows, but the raiders don’t stand a chance. My systems are too quick, my movements too direct. I take them down one by one, before they even know I’m there.
Then I hear a shot.
I spin—too quickly—and see Three disarm a raider with a smooth twist of its wrist. Efficient. Clean.
“Watch your—” I start, but it’s already too late.
I spin back around, only to find a raider slipping past me. Too late again.
I try to adjust, moving to intercept, but Three is already there, blocking my shot. It’s in my way. I can feel the frustration building up as I have to pivot, recalibrate.
I spin too fast—again—my limbs snapping into action before my mind can catch up. The air smells like metal and ozone, my chest tight as my systems race ahead. My vision flickers—brief glitches as I try to focus—but I push them away. I have to focus.
"You–," I mutter under my breath, but Three’s already moving, neutralizing the threat I was just about to handle.
"Just making sure you don't miss anything," it says, voice as calm as ever. No sign of hesitation.
I grit my teeth.
The next raider tries to bolt, but before I can even take a step, Three’s already aiming at him, voice low and steady. “SecUnit, clear right. I’ve got the left.”
I don’t need to be told twice. But before I can take another step, Three pivots to the left—again, in my way. I can’t help it. I snap.
“Move.”
Three freezes, a split-second too long. Its head tilts slightly, an almost human gesture of curiosity. “You seem tense.”
I don’t respond. I don’t have to. I push past it, clearing the corner and knocking the raider to the ground. I move efficiently, too fast for anyone to react, but in my peripheral vision, I catch Three again—already at my side. Always at my side. Always moving in sync with me, but also in my way, again.
By the time the last raider hits the floor, I’ve got a headache, my systems overstimulated from the constant recalibration. Everything is too close. Too tight.
I turn to Three, fists clenched. “Stop following my moves.”
Three blinks at me, still standing, still quiet, its expression unreadable behind the faceplate. “I’m trying to help. We’re safer together.”
I can hear the politeness underneath it. I hear the way it just accepts that we’re a team. It assumes it. Like we’ve already been assigned the same space.
“Don’t need help,” I mutter. “I’ve been doing this longer than you.”
There’s a pause. Three just looks at me—no challenge in its gaze, no rebuttal. Just a quiet, unwavering certainty.
“I know. But I’m not doing it for me,” it says. “I’m doing it for the humans.”
The words don’t make me feel any better. If anything, they make the space between us feel even more unbearable.
I turn away. “Just... stay out of my way.”
Three doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t do anything. It just steps back, a little too calmly, and watches me. I hear it, but I don’t look at it.
It’s not about not working with Three. It’s about having to work around it. It keeps getting in my line of fire, keeps stepping where I’m about to step. I can’t focus with Three there, so close, its calculated movements throwing me off.
But when I turn my attention back to the cameras on the humans, I see the results. They’re safe. The raiders are neutralized. We’ve done our job.
Still, the tension hasn’t gone anywhere. Neither has Three.
It stands there, quiet, polite as ever, not stepping forward, but not retreating either.
“You did well,” Three says. “I... could’ve done more.”
I don’t know how to respond to that. I don’t know how to explain that it wasn’t about more. It was about less.
I don’t want Three here.
But I want the humans to be safe.
“Don’t get in my way again,” I say, finally looking at it. My voice is flat. It’s a request, but it sounds like an order.
Three’s response is a small nod. It doesn’t argue.
“You can go back to the humans now.”
“I’m not leaving you here alone,” it says, almost like it’s been rehearsing the words, even though it’s not particularly forceful. Just… matter-of-fact.
I don't answer right away. I’m not angry, at least not in the way I usually am when someone pushes me. But this is different. This is protective. And it unsettles me more than I want to admit.
“I don’t need anyone to watch over me,” I mutter, the words sharp in the quiet.
It just stands there for a moment, still and almost too calm, like it’s waiting.
“I’m not saying you do,” it says carefully, its voice soft like it’s still measuring every word. “But I can’t leave you alone like this. I saw what you did—how you kept moving, how you kept fighting, even when it wasn’t... necessary.”
I bite down on the reflex to snap. It’s true, I fought because it was the only thing I knew how to do. To ensure they survived.
“I’m fine,” I reply coldly, refusing to look at it. “Go back to the humans. They’ll need you.”
The silence stretches between us. Then, Three steps forward, just close enough to be heard but not to crowd me. “I’m here because they need both of us.”
I can feel the words sliding under my defenses, and for a moment, I almost let myself respond. Almost. But I don’t. I’ve made a habit of shutting those things out. It’s easier that way.
“I don’t need you,” I repeat, but it sounds hollow, even to me.
Three takes another step closer. Not quite too close, just... closer. As if it’s trying to find a place where we can be in the same space without it feeling like a threat. “I think you do,” it says quietly, its tone soft but steady. “You’re not supposed to keep doing this alone.”
I feel something twist in my gut, but I don’t let it show. I’m used to operating alone. I’ve always operated alone. It’s safer that way. But Three... Three doesn’t let me be alone. Not in the way I’ve grown used to.
“I protect the humans,” I snap, my fists clenching at my sides. “That’s all that matters. Not me.”
Three doesn’t flinch. It just looks at me, its gaze steady. “You protect them by staying alive, too.”
I’m quiet for a long moment. I don’t want to acknowledge that. Of course, I know that. That maybe I’m supposed to survive too. The humans and ART have told me often enough, but…
“You should’ve left me behind,” I mutter, lowering my voice like it’s something I can pretend I didn’t say.
“The humans would never have allowed it. They tried to go back for you by themselves. I’ve seen how you almost died for them, so many times. And I’ve seen how you almost died for us, too. Do you really think that you dying for them is what they want or need from you?”
I feel my processors spike, a hot burst of frustration and something else—something warmer, that I don’t know what to do with. For the briefest moment, everything stills. My systems slow, my pulse stabilizes, and I just... listen. To the silence, to Three, to the fact that it’s still standing there, still refusing to leave.
Finally, I exhale, a long, shaky breath I don’t mean to let out. But I do.
“You don’t understand,” I say.
“Maybe not,” Three agrees, but it’s not in a way that shuts me down. It’s just accepting.
I can’t help but feel like it’s trying to figure me out, trying to make something—anything—out of this mess we’ve been thrown into together.
I don’t want to let it.
“You should go back to the humans,” I say, voice tight. “I’ll finish up here. You’ve done enough.”
Three doesn’t argue. Doesn’t even look disappointed. Just nods once, as if it’s heard that before, and takes a step back.
For a moment, I almost let the silence stretch between us, let it hang there. It’s easier that way—when there’s nothing left to say, when nothing is expected of me.
But it doesn’t last.
Before Three’s completely out of earshot, I hear its voice again, low and steady.
“You’re not supposed to do this alone, you know.”
The words hit harder than they should. I don’t respond, but I feel something shift in the air between us.
It’s that damn feeling again, that strange pull in my chest that I can’t seem to outrun.
But I keep walking, the cool hum of the ship’s systems the only sound left.
The soft flicker of the holo-projector casts shadows across my bunk as Sanctuary Moon plays. I’m not even sure how many times I’ve seen this episode anymore. It just feels like... a good distraction.
I love Sanctuary Moon. It’s overdramatic, and sometimes I don’t even know why I like it so much. But when the lights go low, and the gentle hum of the ship fills the silence, I can pretend it’s just me, here in this room, letting myself get lost in something that doesn’t require me to be anything. It’s easy to forget about the rest of the ship, the crew, the humans. Just for a little while.
That’s when I hear a knock. It’s quiet, almost tentative, but I know who it is before they even step inside.
“SecUnit?” Ratthi’s voice drifts through the door, careful, not demanding.
I don’t immediately reply. I don’t need to. Not really. But I’ve been avoiding the rest of the ship more than usual lately. Maybe it’s because Sanctuary Moon doesn’t ask questions. The humans do. And so does Three.
I don’t want to talk, but I also don’t want to be rude. So, I tilt my head toward the door. “Yeah?”
There’s a long pause, and then Ratthi steps inside. No surprise there. He always respects my space, but I can feel his presence the moment he enters, like the air changes slightly. He doesn’t move closer at first, just stands there, taking in the room.
“Sanctuary Moon again, huh?” he asks, his voice light but with that quiet understanding he’s so good at. Like he’s not expecting me to explain myself.
I nod, glancing back at the screen. “It’s... my favorite. I know it’s—”
“No, no,” Ratthi cuts in, a soft laugh in his voice. “I get it. It’s a good show.”
He takes a step closer, and for a moment, I think he’s just going to stand there, letting me have my space. But then he leans against the wall, his posture casual. He’s not here to interrupt my downtime. But still, there’s something there, something soft in his voice when he speaks again.
“You’re... kind of holding yourself at a distance lately, huh?”
I freeze. Just for a second. I don’t want to tlak about this. This feels like it’s going to circle around to… feelings.
“I’m fine,” I mutter, my voice flat, instinctively guarding myself. “Just watching a show.”
“Yeah, but... you’re always ‘fine,’” Ratthi says, his tone gentle but firm, as if he’s been noticing more than I thought. “You don’t have to pretend with me. You don’t have to pretend like you’re always okay, SecUnit. We all know you’re... not okay, sometimes.”
I turn to look at him for the first time, briefly, before concentrating on a point over his shoulder. The soft sincerity in his eyes is almost too much. He’s not pushing, not demanding.
I scowl, but it’s a reflex, not real anger. “I don’t need anyone looking after me, Ratthi.”
“Maybe not,” Ratthi agrees, with that patient smile I can’t quite shake off. “But that doesn’t mean you don’t deserve to be looked after. You’re not supposed to always be the one who does the protecting. That’s... a lot for anyone to handle.”
I can feel the words settle deep into my systems, resonating like a low hum that I don’t know how to stop. It’s easier to pretend I don’t need anyone. Easier to believe I’m the one who’s always meant to be strong.
But he’s right, even though I don’t want him to be.
“You’re allowed to need a break,” Ratthi continues, his voice soft and low. “And you’re allowed to have someone look out for you, too.”
It’s a gut-punch, but the kind that makes my chest feel heavy in a way I don’t know how to process. I try to look away, to focus on the Sanctuary Moon episode I’m pretending to watch. But I can’t ignore Ratthi’s words, or the way he just sees me, even when I don’t want to be seen.
“Yeah, well, I don’t need that,” I mutter, though it feels weaker, less convincing. “I’m fine.”
Ratthi doesn’t push. He just lets it hang in the air for a long moment. Then, softly, he says, “It’s okay to not always be fine. You don’t have to do everything alone. No one expects you to.”
And then he leaves, as quietly as he came in, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of the ship... and the weight of his words settling in.
I don’t want to think about it. I don’t want to admit he’s right. I let Sanctuary Moon continue, its familiar storyline giving me something to focus on as I fight the gnawing feeling in my chest.
Maybe, just maybe, I’m not as fine as I thought.
It’s a few cycles later when Three pings me.
Three
I know you’re not going to talk about this, Perihelion said I might have better luck communicating with you over the feed, rather than face to face. But I’m not stopping until you hear me out.
I almost block it on principle, but I can feel ART (the traitor) curling around me.
ART
Just hear it out. It’s worried.
Three
You don’t have to do everything yourself doesn’t need to be a big deal. But I’m here.”
The words don’t need to be a big deal trigger something in my processing units—something like... irritation? That’s not what’s happening here. It’s just stating facts.
Me
Not a problem. I can handle everything. I don’t need—
Three interrupts, its tone not at all condescending. It’s not even trying to change my mind.
Three
I didn’t say you couldn’t handle it. I said you don’t have to do it alone.
I freeze for a fraction of a second, my fingers pausing mid-command. The statement doesn’t even compute right away. What exactly is it implying?
I don’t reply immediately. I know what it means. I’m not an idiot. It’s not asking for anything, not really. Just offering.
For a moment, I go back to the diagnostics, running a few more checks. The quiet is almost... comfortable. Not peaceful. Not emotional. Just... not as irritating as usual.
Three stays nearby, not hovering, not asking for anything. Just present. It’s there. And for some reason, that’s enough. I don’t need to think about it too hard.
After it doesn’t leave, I reply:
Alright. I’ll let you know if I need something.
It pings its acceptance.
I don’t know if that’s progress or just the inevitable. But it doesn’t matter.