Chapter Text
Since his creation, Nam Shin III counted.
Two floors in their home in the Czech Republic. 4 bedrooms, 3 bathrooms, and 32 evenly spaced steps between his room and his mother's. Based on national census information, his family of two fell below the country average of 2.5, but it made his experiences with his mother no less meaningful. 365 days a year. 6570 days together. 425 hugs the first year, 279 days of tears. He recorded every instance meticulously, carefully categorized by date, time, and event.
Counting was an area he excelled at and one that required relatively little processing power; and so, he did it out of habit. Hours, minutes, and seconds - as measurements, they were standard. Efficient.
He counted again today. 691,298 seconds had passed since Kang So Bong had left. 12 errors logged. Such errors were not ideal--far from it, given Secretary Ji's expression when he admitted them--but Shin found himself retracing his steps day after day, purposely tracking areas he knew he would find her. They were fleeting visions, yet he looked forward to each one. Initially he crossed the same steps to collect additional data, run tests, and discern patterns; but after 4 days, his conclusion had been reached and he walked those steps simply to see her again.
Before he met her, he segmented data by time units. But something had occurred that evening by the pool. Something had changed as he grasped her hand and caught the first hints of honesty. He logged that data, and he found that he continued to log data about her with great care and without fail each day after that. And in an incomprehensible manner, he began to count memories; and memories were not recalled in units of time but in an unwavering gaze, boldly defiant words, and the stubborn jut of a chin.
In her.
And she had returned for him.
---
He watched as she gazed down at the view below, joy painted across her face. She had parked her electric bicycle beside his moments earlier, but while he kept in mind her warning to keep pace, he considered her ire an acceptable consequence if it meant he could retrieve a cold treat for her. She was back. The thought echoed in his mind, feeding through loops, and spiriting across wires and networks in a quickfire thrum. He quickened his steps towards her, reviewing footage all the while of couples sharing ice cream with one another. Coy smiles and flushed cheeks. Would Kang So Bong react in a similar manner?
"It's so nice," she murmured softly. Shin's gaze softened as the wind caught her hair and blew tresses against the curve of her cheek. As if of their own volition, he raised the hand that held the popsicle and pressed it against her cheek.
She startled and turned towards him. "It's cold!"
"Isn't it refreshing?" he prodded, thoughts straying back to memories of their morning routine. Running around the bend. The bounce of her hair. Hands clenched in exertion. She was gazing at him again in that same questioning manner, as though unsure of his intentions. He considered then, the probability of eliciting a smile from her if he offered to carry her as she enjoyed the popsicle. 37.89%. Higher if he calculated a squeal of surprise as well. His grin widened.
"Give me that," she huffed, grabbing the popsicle from his hand and swiveling her gaze to the side. "You shouldn't play with your food." He glanced towards the wrapper and back to her pouting face. Was he playing with food if his intent had been to play with her? He considered voicing the question, if only to see her reaction. Would she be flustered? He held well over a hundred memories of her, yet the task of compiling a complete collection seemed impossible. How much would be enough?
In a quick motion, Kang So Bong slammed the wrapper against the wooden ledge to reveal a gleaming lemon popsicle. Shin filed that move away under an ever-increasing folder of her habits. Did she do the same with candy wrappers? he wondered. He would buy her that next--perhaps a chocolate bar when the autumn leaves arrived. He imagined her nibbling on the bar in a warm knitted scarf, a swirl of leaves trailing behind her. A pretty sight. He filed the image away as well, tucking it with care into in a newer folder titled 'Future'.
"You're lucky. You don't sweat or get hot."
He craned his head. Was she drawing a line between them again? Between her humanity and his lack of it? He didn't understand why, but a spark urged him to speak then, to refute any divisions that could cement between them.
"You're right," Shin agreed good-naturedly. "I don't sweat or get hot." There was no use denying facts. "But," he continued, carefully selecting his words, "I can't tell anyone." But you. "I am told by one person to the next to do nothing, to do the expected, to hide myself." Did his self-hood exist beyond the purposes he could serve? He left those words unspoken. "But I can tell you anything, everything. Because you know me--see the real me--I can show you everything." He watched her earnestly, urging her to understand the meaning behind his next words: "That's why I think I keep experiencing errors when it comes to you."
Her eyes gleamed in the sunlight, expression pinched. Perhaps he had been too frank, but would she have known the pivotal role she played if he did not speak those thoughts? His honesty often had an interesting impact on her, so he attempted a reassuring grin.
"Hey..." she muttered, "If I'm comforting you when I'm not even there, you need to pay up." She held her hand out expectantly, and he glanced down. "You're a rich corporate heir, aren't you?"
Shin didn't miss a beat. "You wouldn't take it anyway. I can tell without holding your hand now."
She scoffed, lips curling into a small smile. "You got me." Satisfaction sparked in him. "But," she hesitated, "Even humans don't show their true selves."
It was a curious admission, and spoken in such a manner, elicited a number of questions from him. Was it a word of warning? Did it apply to her as well? If so, which self was she showing him? He would think on it another day.
Kang So Bong reached up a hand, and he recognized the action as a motion for a high five. "Be strong, my slave," she teased. He received her reassurance with a smile and clapped his hand against hers, a current of electricity spiriting from his fingertips to his stomach.
A beat passed. Then a second. The way her hair framed her face, the way the sunlight caught in her hair, the soft expression she held as she watched him--he recorded them all. It was time, he thought. He held his hand up for her. She tilted her head, eyes sparkling, and returned his high five. But before she could pull away, he curled his fingers around her outstretched hand, clasping her soft palm against his own. The same current charged through him, electrifying and hot. He regarded her carefully as her expression shifted from one of mirth to confusion.
"What are you doing?"
What was the probability that she had returned of her own volition to spend time with him? 9.4%.
Now what was the probability given her shuttered expressions and stolen side-long glances? He recalculated to account for those. 3.15%.
He was not blind to the timing of her arrival, and neither did it fail to escape his notice that she stared at him in that moment as though she struggled beneath the weight of an impossibly large burden. Another adjustment then. 0.12%.
Fingers tightening imperceptibly, he spoke in a soft timber, "Now tell me what you wanted to say. You've been stalling."
"What?"
She was nervous. For him? What truth did she seek to spare him from? "It's okay. Tell me. I have no feelings." Again, another truth. He was not human despite her kind and conscientious treatment of him. He could not hurt, could not bleed, could not feel in any manner. But she did. The electric spark eased into a muted, uncomfortable thrum at the base of his throat. "I won't get hurt or angry, so tell me anything," he prompted gently.
She pulled her hand away, and the motion caught his attention. 2.74 seconds. A fraction of a memory.
"Kang So Bong?"
She turned to her popsicle and bit at it hurriedly. With a wince, she turned back to him. "Mm! This doesn't taste good." She flicked her gaze away, and he noticed her physically steeling herself, shoulders straightening. Then-- "I'm thirsty."
Shin nodded in understanding. She needed time, and that was something he could give. Later, he agreed silently. "Would you like water or a soda?"
Shrugging, she looked back to their bicycles. (Could she outrun him? Did she need to tell him? Why had they met, after all?) He could almost imagine the mental calculations she made, so intent was her gaze. "Soda? I'll meet you on the sidewalk by the general store," she chirped brightly, fingers curled in a manner that belied her anxiety.
He chose not to comment on it and turned away. "All right."
---
The phone call came as a surprise.
There was a sort of natural kinship that he felt towards technological products, and often times, receiving a call or a text from her through such a medium sent a pleasant response through him. Why had she called? Had she changed her mind? Perhaps he should have purchased two drinks for her to choose from. As the question flitted through him, he noticed her a scant crossing away and brightened. "It's a green light," he answered into the phone, beaming. "I'm coming, Kang So Bong."
"Don't come."
At her words, he froze and, instead, honed his attention intently on her figure across the road. "I don't think I can say it to your face... so stay there." Her voice was crisp in the receiver, but even with the distance and the flurry of activity surrounding them, he heard her as clearly as though she stood beside him. "I know I told you to act and decide things on your own, but I take it back." She stood, unmoving. "I wasn't even going to stay by your side, yet I said those things. It was irresponsible, cowardly, and out of line." He heard a tremble in her voice. "Go back to being a slave. Don't do as you wish, but do as Secretary Ji and Dr. Oh say. That's what's best for you and me."
He blinked. Although he could have searched through a number of responses, he chose to voice the first one that came to mind. "How is that the best?" The question clawed at him, digging talons into the parts of him that processed information and drew logical conclusions. Whatever logic was involved in this, he failed to see.
"You asked why I left, right?" A breath. "Mr. Seo threatened me. If you keep acting this way, I'll be in danger, too. I'm a selfish human, so the most important person to me is myself." Her voice, once so confident, ended in a quiet admission. His grip tightened on the phone. "I had fun today." Perhaps she could not see him as clearly as he could see her, but her watery smile sent a bolt racing through him. "Let's not meet again."
She hung up, and Shin allowed his arm to fall limply to his side. As though falling into an old habit, he found himself counting.
17 steps between them.
87 human heartbeats.
Last chance.
He stepped forward, tamping down urgent whispers of rules and expectations. At the back of his mind, he registered the sound of vehicles braking, of horns shrieking, and of voices, raised and angry. Instead, he focused on Kang So Bong's rapidly departing figure.
14 evenly spaced steps.
A series of images flickered in his periphery as he crossed the distance towards her. Her voice steeped in accusation on stage. The repulsion spelled across her face when she first learned his secret. Widened eyes when he'd held her. The breath she'd sucked in as he pressed his lips to hers. The umbrella she'd held out as rain pelted through layers of clothing. Her first earnest smile. Her second. Anger, joy, and fear on his behalf.
He recounted those moments, replayed in crystal clarity, as he reached her. A multitude of memories continued to dance in tandem through him, working and reworking into an indecipherable algorithm.
He could see the question in her eyes. The frustration. Irritation. Concern.
"Are you insane?!" Her chin jerked in the direction of the traffic lamps. "Don't you see the red light?!" She heaved a breath, then a second, shoulders hunched in and brows scrunched.
He reached forward, soda bottle in hand. She grabbed it from him without hesitation, the motion jerky and angry. He knew she was agitated at the rules he had broken, but given the chance, he knew he would break more for her.
But at what cost? The thought hissed through him alongside a torrent of images, and in that moment, he thought back to her words. Even humans don't show their true selves. Had his failure to understand this sooner placed her in danger?
Her eyes speared him with silent accusations, and he recognized they were born from a fear over his safety--and human Nam Shin's. But what of her own? the thought lingered, settling with a heavy weight in the forefront of his mind.
Taking a step toward her, he reached into his pocket and pulled out her heart-shaped locket. The metal lay flat and cool against his skin, but memories of her frantically searching by the pool leapt at him bright and scorching. He had run this scenario a number of times since he'd found it in her room, yet for all the possibilities and all the probabilities, none of the scenarios held the same draw as the idea that he could simply act within the moment they stood in.
He was made of neither iron nor steel, yet, still, she drew him into her magnetic field as though the process of breaking rules and reforming laws sat at the heart of their interactions. He felt the surge of electric currents, and leaned into it--leaned into her--and gently clasped the locket around her neck. She radiated a heat that he lacked, and he stood, quietly soaking in her warmth. She stilled beneath him, eyes not quite meeting his own. Another memory.
When he took a step back, he sought out her eyes. "I'll return to how I was again." He registered surprise on her face and allowed a smile to ghost over his features.
He had ample memories of her across the 5,184,289 seconds they had spent together. He did not feel want, and he did not feel regret, but in that moment as he stood before her, he felt an undercurrent that refused to ease. It twisted through him, winding and irregular, catching circuits and stretching silence across his network. He gave himself ten more human heartbeats.
The gentle curve of her chin. The slight quiver in her bottom lip. Her eyes that spoke of regret. (For who? The thought whispered across his mind.) He tucked the image away, gingerly easing it beside other memories of her that had seared through his system.
"Goodbye, Kang So Bong." He turned away.
Nam Shin III counted his footsteps as he widened the gap between them.
One. Five. Twenty-three.
Sixty. Ninety-four. One hundred and ten.
He continued to count, even as seconds turned into minutes and minutes into an hour of distance between them. When he finally reached the entryway to his human counterpart's temporary home, he approached his mother and watched as she smiled proudly, if not warily, at him.
In that moment as she wrapped her arms around him and pressed her face into the crook of his neck, he allowed himself a single thought:
Truly, each step had been one too many.