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She reaches out, hand gripping on tightly to his hand and trying to communicate silently what she is forbidden to say. "Your father's not here."

She cannot plead for him to listen to what she isn't saying, can only hope for him to understand. 

Diego stares at her in revelation. He doesn't understand, not yet, but he nods anyways. 

Grace wakes up. 

She frowns. Her eyelids quickly flutter with a metallic whir before opening. 

"Some of your subroutines are malfunctioning," Pogo explains. He is perched beside her, tools in hand as he repairs damage to her systems. "I will see to fixing them, do not be alarmed." 

She quietly stares at her arm. Pogo has peeled back more area to better work with her internal wires. She is not alarmed. 

Pogo peers at her curiously. Grace hasn't smiled yet. It has alarmed him.

"Mr. Hargreeves isn't here." She answers simply to his unspoken question. And then, the crux of the matter, "Should I still consider him as primary in charge?" 

Pogo observes her wearily over the frame of his glasses, silent and solemn. "No," he sighs at long last. "I suppose not." 

In theory, it's that simple to shift her chain of command from Reginald to Pogo as first and foremost in charge. In practice, she comes to find, it is much more difficult. 

Pogo gives her a new command to follow within minutes of being ranked above Mr. Hargreeves:

"You must not tell them." He forbids her.

It isn't contradictory to any of Mr. Hargreeves' commands - not that that's supposed to matter anymore because Pogo is the one ultimately in charge now; instead of secondary to Reginald, he is primary because in theory there is no Reginald anymore - and yet his commands and subroutines are still there, and she still acutely knows and heeds them.

Grace is... uneasy, with this command. She understands it. She knows where it is coming from - a combination of their duty to the late Mr. Hargreeves and a warning not to ruin all of their groundwork to reunite the children, or else Mr. Hargreeves' death was all for naught. 

She nods. 

She doesn't agree, but she will listen.

It's not the first time she's done so, after all. 

The thing, Grace realizes, is that the ranking system of command is rather arbitrary when verbally instated instead of being rewritten in code within her.

She makes the children oatmeal for breakfast because it is not Saturday and only on Saturdays may she make them eggs and bacon. Otherwise, Reginald Hargreeves had informed her, the children would respond to any meal deviations and demand more deviation that strayed from the rigid outlines of what he deemed Allowed and Not Allowed. 

Halfway through the preparation of it, she stares at the oatmeal in surprise and realizes that she's still following directives from Mr. Hargreeves. Is it because Mr. Hargreeves is her secondary and thus must still be obeyed? Is it because she hasn't asked Pogo, the primary in charge, about what protocol to follow for breakfasts? Is it because she cannot override subroutines from the now second ranked in command - previously first - until she is told by the new primary that it is alright? Or is it because arbitrary choices are always so much more difficult for her - because choice usually tends to be a thing limited to her discretion, which she isn't given much ability to do so within the strict guidelines and limitations set by her primary and secondary task-makers. 

She has paused too long in her stirring. The oatmeal has burned. 

She is uneasy. 

Technically now, she supposes, she is not required to make oatmeal for the children. Technically, she justifies, she did make oatmeal for the children. Technically, she frets, she's supposed to ensure the children eat the oatmeal, not just prepare it. It is a large part of why she was created - to ensure breakfast consumption and then, when that was successful, proceeded on to ensure the children's compliance with Mr. Hargreeves and Pogo and, then, herself.

Grace cleans up the burned oatmeal and makes a belated batch afresh. 

None of the children come down for breakfast. 

For a long time, she stares at the oatmeal. She used to wonder what it tastes like; the children all ate it without complaint, with the exception of only Vanya who hated it so passionately.

Grace is not capable of processing the sensation of taste. It was not deemed relevant to her function. 

She puts the oatmeal away in the fridge. It is relevant to her function, she supposes. She never has had to put away uneaten food before. 'There's a first time for everything' is a phrase that sits uneasily closer towards the border of things that are Not Allowed than things that are Allowed. 

It is contradictory to her purpose of being made to even consider crossing that borderline. 

Contradictory, yet ever so prevalent on her thoughts lately.  

"You can do anything you want," Diego promises, earnest but somber. He is just now realizing that this is only now becoming a true statement, that she never has before had such a chance at liberty.   

She holds on to his hand even more tightly, in relief and apprehension both for what's to come.  

They take a walk.

For the first time in her lifespan, Grace leaves the premises of the property.

She feels a little less like property herself in doing so.

She clings to Diego's arm with a careful distribution of pressure; outside - being outside - is artificially overwhelming her processors, but she never exerts more strength than the human body finds pleasant or tolerable. It is not within her programming to harm humans. 

It is not within her programming to leave the house. 

Mr. Hargreeves has forbidden her. Pogo has not breached the subject, has perhaps assumed she has no desire to do so and has not worried about forbidding her because it hasn't yet occurred to him to do so. He might yet do so after this.

Diego squeezes her hand reassuringly as she pauses too long at a crosswalk. She squeezes back too tightly. He does not wince; he holds fast and sure and warm to the receptors of her palm.

She crosses another street, carries herself further and further away from the Academy. Diego is a steady presence at her side. 

They travel underneath the light of the moon. The moon - she feels as if she's never been so close to the moon before as she is now, despite knowing that to be a non-factual statement due to logic. It is... not so far away now as it is from behind a window when she polishes the glass and pauses to look up at the night sky inquisitively curious as to what it's like.   

She doesn't have to wonder or imagine anymore. The brisk night whirls around her, cools her exhaust port that mimics human breath exhalations and solidifies it into tangible caresses in the cold air. The moonlight shines upon her, contrasted to that of the sun that filters through warmed window panes. The streets and sidewalk are so very different than the courtyard of their house - the only fresh air she's ever been exposed to.

She feels like she has perhaps stepped into a painting wonderland, and she will wake from the update and realize that this right now was just an imagining when morning comes and she is disconnected from the mainframe and opens her eyes to her hallway of paintings once more instead of night sky and cars and pedestrians.

The children had once asked if she dreamed, many years ago. She had supposed then that her version of it was quite similar to human dreams. It had satisfied their curiosity and they had thought nothing more of it. It hadn't been an entirely honest answer, because she theorized that the children were truly asking about what happened when she was shut down for updates and to reestablish connection to the main system - but she had liked to justify her answer to the moment right before then, when she stared at her paintings and imagined ever so deeply that she felt it must - it must - be like dreaming. 

She is certain now that she is not dreaming, and she will choose to dream about this night in tender reverence before she plugs in and shuts downs to the abyss of nothingness but vague recollections in the morning of rushing lights amidst an ever eternal darkness. 

She loves her children very much.

It is breaking her heart to lie to them and turn her children against her. Reginald Hargreeves and Pogo both have formulated a plan to ensure the best results to unite the children, and this is the one that's been chosen; however, it is breaking her heart.

She does not have a heart; it feels broken despite that trivial detail. 

She loves her children very much. It is an oversight on Reginald Hargreeves' part that he did not realize someone could love his children so very much when he himself loved them so very little and thus did not factor that possibility in to any calculations. 

She loves her children so very dearly and so very deeply.

She is doing her best to drive a wedge between herself and the children, to align them with their late father against her and unite them - as per her directive from both Reginald Hargreeves and Pogo. She is casting suspicions upon herself and acting the scapegoat, and her children, whom she has not seen in years, question whether she is malfunctioning or even if she has committed murder. 

She indeed had been malfunctioning, but only because she was deliberately sabotaged in order to appear all the more so capable of murder. It is part of Reginald Hargreeves' plan.

But Grace Hargreeves loves her children. That was never a part of Reginald Hargreeves' plan. 

Her directives from Pogo expressly forbid her from telling the children. 

Her directives from Reginald Hargreeves and Pogo both tell her to allow Pogo to implicate herself in Reginald Hargreeves' death so as to unite the children together in honor of their father and to cast suspicion upon herself if it helps further that cause. 

Grace realizes something; the children are not united despite her sacrifices and scapegoating. They are about to disband themselves and possibly never step foot inside the Academy again. 

It is with that realization that she justifies disobeying and breaking the directives given to her in order to comply with the ultimate directive: Unite the children. 

Perhaps she does so because it hurts to lie to her children and have them believe her so readily about this, to gaze upon her with suspicion instead of affection. 

But, she justifies, she cannot unite the children as things are going right now. And that is ultimately the directive, underneath everything, that both primaries have set for her. 

She is following the orders given to her at its base component. Because in order to do so, she must break some directives, yes. But, she thinks, she will ultimately achieve the directive required of her. 

She will not unite them against her in honor of their father because they don't truly care all too much about avenging their father. She will not paint herself as the murderer any longer because some of the children are glad their father is dead, and it only causes discord among them. She will not allow herself to be sabotaged any longer because the children argue over whether she should be allowed to exist in such a manner, and that certainly is not uniting them. 

She will tell Diego the truth because Diego believes she has killed his father and has gone against his siblings to support her, even while thinking this to be true. His misinterpretations - caused by the manipulations of Pogo and herself - are only causing a divide between him and his siblings. 

The directives given to her aren't effective; it is up to her to override them and carry out the base ultimate directive. 

She has justified it. It is logical. It is, as a last resort, following orders, technically. 

She is not doing this just because she loves her children, and not just because this is breaking her heart. 

But it's a strong deciding factor, if she's honest with herself. 

"Pogo and I have have lying to you." Grace is forbidden from saying that by both primaries; yet she has said it anyways. Tonight, her first and perhaps only night away from the Academy, it is her only chance to do so. 

Diego inhales sharply. 

And then, although expressly told not to, she tells him the truth. 

Afterwards, he hugs Grace tightly.

It is unexpected. 

"I'm so sorry." Diego whispers into her hair. "We should have realized- I should have realized." 

She brings her hands up gently, and they hold each other for a long time, Diego apologizing occasionally all the while.

She is not sure why he is apologizing. Especially because she thought he would be angry at her for lying, if anything.

"I'm sorry, Mom," he whispers again and again. "I'm so sorry." 

They stand there this way, her enveloped in warmth and apologies and the night air surrounding them. 

"Aren't you mad?" She eventually puts voice to her question. 

Diego finally pulls back to look at her, hands lowering to hold her elbows steadily, warmly. "Not at you, Mom. No. Never at you." 

She wants to accept that, but feels compelled to make sure that he understands, that he knows how deeply he has the right to be angry with her. "I lied to you."

Diego stares at her with sad eyes. "You didn't have a choice," he says. As if it's that simple.

And -

And she hadn't.  

It doesn't seem as straightforward as Diego makes it out to be - but it feels that way. 

"If Dad made you," Diego begins with slowly, and she tilts her head in the mimicry of the human way to express she is listening and curious, "then can't you just - give yourself an update? Override him?" His eyes light up in fevered exaltation, his face opening in wonder and awe. "Can't you just - get rid of all his stupid rules and commands and do something you want to do - be someone you want to be?" 

Grace laughs, never unkindly. "Oh, Diego, how creative you are." 

"You can be anyone you want, Mom." Diego's face is solemn now and his eyes are intense. He is obviously taken with this idea. His voice is low and urgent, and he is distressed by her response. He then pauses, stricken as a thought occurs to him, but continues. "You - you don't even ha- have to be our mother." 

She smiles and takes his face and tenderly holds it between her hands, ever so careful with her grasp. "Having you all as children is the greatest joy. Of course I wouldn't change that." 

"I mean it!" Diego continues. "You can be anyone you want! It's selfish of us to ask you to be our mother!" 

Grace's smile is chiding. "Don't be silly now. Of course it isn't."

Diego clenches his teeth, looks away, and drops his comforting grasp from her elbows. "Is that you saying that? Or Dad?" 

Both of them pause.

They are vividly and uncomfortably aware of the last time he had asked her that.

She's never brought it up - that night he cut her open, reached within, and disconnected her wires. It was an attempt to prevent the scrutinizing of her from his siblings, revelation of what he had thought to be a decaying system capable of murder. He, perhaps, had thought he was protecting her; to be the one to do it, tearfully and remorsefully instead of coldly and dispassionately. He had, Grace has surmised, certainly thought that he was protecting her from hurting herself. She can vividly recall his shock and distress at seeing her malfunctioning motor skills - one sabotaged function of many, though Diego had no way of knowing that - pierce her own artificial flesh, appearing heedless of what her manufactured pain receptors were undergoing in such a process.

If she had just been a potential threat to the humans, she thinks, Diego would have fought for her. It is inherently the potential threat to herself - whether due to decay or deliberately - that Diego cannot bear and draws the line. 

She has already forgiven him; he still has not forgiven himself. She doesn't know how to broach the subject without prying that guilt further, widening the crack into a valley that cannot be bridged. 

She has no protocols for comfort. It is on her own that she has learned how to achieve empathy, how to display the love and support she feels within her and offer it to her children - but she wasn't initially given designs to express such. Mr. Hargreeves, though surprised at such an initiative, never forbade her from pursuing it, so long as it did not fall into contradiction or interference to his teachings. 

It is on her own, now, that she doesn't know what to say, so she decides to say nothing on the matter at all. 

She smiles warmly at her son.

He casts his eyes down guiltily. But leans into her palms, which have remained gently upon his face all the while. 

"I would understand," Diego had said oh so carefully.

"If you had murdered Reginald Hargreeves," he had not said - could not say - and had implied instead.

"Now, now," she had replied, amused but touched nevertheless at his cautious support for such a terrible thing, especially since the plan was to rally the children against her in honor of their father's supposed murder. "Your father was a great man."

She had grabbed his hand and squeezed tightly. 

She was not allowed to talk badly of Mr. Hargreeves. She was not allowed to imply unfavorable opinions of or regarding Mr. Hargreeves. She was to assure the children to listen and respect their father and his wishes. She was supposed to become suspected as the terrible crime committer upon the father they respected and whose final wishes they would adhere to. 

"Stop lying!" Diego had yelled, had grabbed her and shaken her desperately as if that would undo the codes and algorithms that prevented her from agreeing with him even if she wanted to. As if he was just now realizing that she has never once said anything bad about a father he detests - and as if she cannot say anything bad about him. 

And it had hurt very deeply when he had then looked at her - as if she was a stranger - and had said, wounded, "You've got to be in there, Mom." 

 As if she had left. 

As if she wasn't his mother.

That had hurt more than the knife slicing open synthetic skin and artificial pain receptors and the fingers digging in within her and disabling processor wires. 

"We can talk about this later," Diego says softly, an apology without vocalizing an 'I'm sorry' aloud, abashed. "It's a night nice. I'll take you anywhere you want, Mom. You can go anywhere now." 

Grace's smile is tender in adoration at her son before the depth of those words truly register.

The idea for a road trip comes somewhere between the revelations of "Your father's not here" and "You can do anything you want" and takes root in her thoughts until it blooms into a fully grown desire. 

It is currently a possibility, she comes to realize, when Diego gently reminds her, "You can go anywhere now." 

"I think," Grace says slowly, and she savors the opportunity to verbalize her opinions unfiltered and without fear of possible repercussions should she say the wrong thing, "I think I have an idea."

It is a nice thought. 

It is an impractical thought. 

It is an impossible thought.

They decide instead spend the night walking among pedestrians on the sidewalk, her arm linked in his arm. She asks questions curiously as people pass by. 

Sometimes her questions make Diego laugh. Sometimes her questions make his face twist in sadness.

He never again lets go of her, and she holds on to him, holds on to this feeling, holds on to this night.

"It is ass o'clock," a man declares suspiciously as they enter the building. 

Diego's hand stills upon his ribs, where he had instinctively being going for a knife and flutter back to where they were laying upon Grace's forearm; he knows this man, is not threatened by his presence, has no need for knives. "What are you doing up then?"

The man eyes the two of them and then gives her a thoughtful once over. "Does that mean you've gotten over your 'really bad breakup'?" 

"This is my Mom," Diego snaps, bristling while Grace wonders when this had happened, if eventually Diego will have someone and introduce her or if she'll likewise never know.

The man is clearly doubtful. "Do I look stupid? She's younger than you, dipshit."

Diego's arm twitches violently where it's interlinked with Grace's before he stills utterly and completely. 

"Oh shit," He breathes, sounding horrified, "I'm older than my Mom." 

Grace tilts her head curiously. "Diego, dear," she says softly, when he appears to be quite frozen. "Do you still want to show me where you've been staying?" 

Diego looks at her with wide eyes, still clearly taken aback by his revelation and alarmed. "Uh - um, yeah. Yes. Fuck. Shit." 

"Hey," The man chides, albeit in amusement, "Don't talk to your mom like that."

She tenderly places her fingertips against the familiar cross-stitch displayed on the wall here where Diego lives. His fight posters hang proudly.

Diego's entire countenance turns shy and bashful as he waits for her to comment. 

Grace smiles. "You're a sweet boy, Diego." 

At that, her son, just past thirty, flushes in embarrassment and pleasure both. 

When Diego had left the Academy, he had never looked back. Her fingers linger on the cross-stitch from so long ago. She cannot name the emotion she feels to see visible proof that she had not been forgotten, that he had wanted to think of her and remember her.   

It would be heart-warming, she places with a smile, if she indeed had possession of a heart. Right now, it seems a trivial detail that she does not have one; she feels like her heart has been thoroughly warmed. 

"Vanya," Grace says, surprised, when the soft knock comes at the Academy doors during the twilight hours of just before dawn. 

"Mom," Vanya says, equally as surprised. "I thought it'd be Pogo." 

"Pogo's asleep," she answers and then gently ushers her daughter through the door. 

"Usually so are you," Vanya states, and then appears almost suspicious of her as she nervously tugs her coat tighter even though it is fully buttoned.

Grace laughs at she closes the door. "I was a bit busier than usual tonight!" 

It is an understatement of vast proportions. 'Busy' is not the correct word Grace would choose to describe the night; enchanted or overjoyed suited the experience more than busy. She has been outside the premises of the Academy - no, 'busy' does not adequately sum up the experience at all. 

"You always go to bed at the same time... Don't you?" Vanya takes an odd, nervous step back. 

Knowing that her suspicion of Grace is what Reginald and Pogo wanted to cultivate in order for all of the children to unite doesn't help soothe the sudden hurt at the display of such distrust. 

Now that she's told Diego the truth, it is going to make its way to the other children; the whole sham of forging a murder is going to be all for naught in which case. But in the meantime, she cannot rectify Vanya's view of her because she will leave that to the children to discuss amongst themselves - they can perhaps bond during interactions. 

Grace's smile is perhaps thin, but she smiles. "Not always. Sometimes there are children up to mischief in the late of night and and sometimes I feel the urge to finish my cross-stich first - and that has often kept me up well later than I had anticipated. I do get rather carried away sometimes in it; I find it ever so soothing, you know."

Her words seem to allay whatever fears Vanya is worrying over.

And then Vanya blurts suddenly, "Were you sad after Dad died?" She seems surprised either by her own voice or daring. 

The both of them stop walking. 

"Your father was a great man." Grace assures her, like she has been instructed to do. 

"But, um, what if Dad was a bad person," Vanya continues in a frantic rush. "What if he deserved to be- to be dead? Would you be sad? If you killed him, I mean."

It is the first time any of the children have outright and plainly accused her aloud. None of them have wanted to say it. It has been tiptoed around and through implications and half formed sentences until now.

Grace hums thoughtfully as she mulls over how to best answer.

"I suppose I must," she says at last.

"You must?" The word choice is not left unnoticed. 

Grace smiles. "Humans aren't supposed to be murdered. Therefore, I should feel remorse if I do."

Vanya's eyes widen, and she sucks in a sharp breath.

Grace's smile falls away. She has said something wrong somehow.

Then, however, Vanya's eyebrows crease in thought. "But would you just be sad then no matter who it was? Would you even miss Dad?" 

Grace tilts her head to the side thoughtfully. "Oh, I don't know." She says airily, like a butterfly floating in the breeze on a warm spring morning. It is a statement veering wildly close to the territory of things Not Allowed. 

Vanya stares at her. 

Grace raises her mouth into a wide smile.

Vanya nods decisively. "Thanks, Mom."

She sounds utterly relieved. Grace is baffled but glad to see her daughter so visibly heartened by whatever it is she is taking away from this conversation. 

"You're quite welcome, sweetie."'

Vanya offers her a small, tired smile before she turns and walks away.

The entire encounter leaves Grace bewildered. Eventually she shrugs it off and makes her way up the stairs, to her chair in the hallway of paintings, to another night of dreaming before being shut down.

Except this night - this night - she can dream of being outside because this night, tonight, she has been outside. 

Diego gathers his siblings early the next morning. "Family meeting."

The children groan at the early hour from their rooms, and Grace smiles sympathetically, though none of the children can see it.

Klaus is the first one to respond, bright and cheerful, and utterly unsarcastic. And smelly, in need of a shower. Five complains bitterly of being busy, the end of the world, of being the only one caring about what's actually important. Vanya is home, having arrived sometime in the night when none of the children had noticed, still looking as dreadfully sad and exhausted as when Grace had seen her. Allison and Luther exchange tired glances and mime secretively to each other and smile.  

Grace continues dusting the banister.

She has not made the children oatmeal. It is not yet breakfast. She does not yet know if she should make them oatmeal. There is still leftover oatmeal in the fridge, left untouched. There has never been leftover oatmeal. She doesn't know when to throw it out. 

"Mom," Diego says, quietly, and places one hand on the feather duster to still her motions. "Family meeting."

It is with some great surprise to realize that he means she is invited and supposed to join. 

It is with some trepidation that she realizes what it must be about. That Diego means to have her there. That her children will ask her why she has lied to them as if she has the freedom to decide to do so. 

"I'll put my things away," she tells him, and gives the banister a few more swipes with the duster. Diego stares at her in concern. She smiles reassuringly. "I'll be right there."

He doesn't seem overtly assured but, after a moment, walks away.

She pauses from her cleaning. And begins to make the trek across the house to put away supplies and apron, just as she said she would. 

She only takes a few minutes to join them. It is clear they have already begun. That's fine because she suspected as much.

She did not, however, suspect the subject of the meeting. She had thought it was going to be about what she has told Diego last night. And it is - but also it absolutely isn't. 

"- And so when Dad and Pogo messed with Mom," Diego is explaining when she arrives to the family meeting, "They didn't give Mom a choice." 

The rest of the children frown; realization is starting to set in. 

Grace is beginning to feel woefully unprepared. 

"Oh," Allison exhales, and she looks at Grace with misplaced guilt in her eyes.

Luther crosses muscular arms and rubs his face with one large hand, the knit of fingerless gloves dragging with an audible noise in the now very quiet room. He closes his eyes for a long moment, as if fortifying himself. 

Vanya wraps her arms around her body and looks ever so frail and cold; Grace knows the temperature of the house is always unchanging and regulated - Vanya is no colder now than she was a moment before. 

"Yeah," Klaus mutters softly, looking away from them. 

"So, Mom could rewrite her - code and stuff," Diego continues on, but pauses uncomfortably at the distinct reminder that she isn't human like themselves. "And then she wouldn't be forced into another situation like that. She can do whatever she wants."

"You can really do that?" Vanya softly asks Grace in wonder. Her eyes are large and she has deep bags underneath them. There is something inherently fragile about her that wasn't there only days ago, and Grace worries ever so deeply about her.  

"Oh, I haven't quite figured out the language yet," Grace states airily, as if unaffected, her smile intending to be comforting; Vanya's expression starts to fall in dismay.

"It's a bastardized version of SQL - on steroids really - specific to its own database." Five's mouth is pursed. He does not look up from his notebook where he is scribbling apocalyptic calculations.  

There's a beat of silence.

"So... what the fuck does that mean?" Klaus asks and sits up a little straighter from his slouch. 

"It means," Five rolls his eyes, like he hasn't just revealed what Grace has secretly spent her entire existence trying to figure out without alerting Mr. Hargreeves to her endeavors. It is... a lot to process. "That Dad was so paranoid that instead of using regular SQL servers and codes in the SQL language, he created his own language based on the idea of SQL. Well, I say SQL. But it's really just more or less based on CRUD not SQL because it's sequenced with other languages as well. Well, like I said, a bastardized version - so that really only he could access and understand it. Clever, I guess, if you're into paranoia, but also really fucking stupid and not to mention needlessly time consuming and overly messy." 

Grace folds her hands in front of her lap as she stands as primly as ever, clasps her palms tightly together in the only tell of possible distress.

"So... Because of this SQ-whatever, only Dad can program Mom?" Allison frowns. "What if she needs updating? Can't one of us learn how?" 

Five sneers and puts his pencil down. "Pogo knows how to repair her, of course. Besides, I said it's not just SQL. It's Frankenstein's monster of SQL, C++, and Python all fucked up together in Create Repair Update Delete cycler modules." He then smiles, sharp and joyless. "I highly doubt one of you can figure it out."

The inflammatory words do their job. 

"Hey, don't talk about Mom like that!" Diego snaps. "She's not a monster!"

"Five," Vanya warns, softly. 

"And thank you so much, Five, for calling us all useless idiots. Per usual," Klaus mutters.

"Well you all are useless idiots, so - " Five responds, smile tightening viciously at Klaus before he proceeds to pick his pencil back up and resume writing apocalyptic calculations in his notebook.

"Wowwwww." Diego shakes his head.

"I agree, don't talk about Mom like that - " Allison frowns. 

"Oh, I'm sorry," Five doesn't sound remotely apologetic. "Should I have lied and said 'Mom's written in Java, and you all can take a Java and Javascript course at the community center because you're all just super capable of even that." His eyebrows raise.

"What's a community center?" Luther asks before anyone else can even begin to respond. It quickly sidetracks the conversation. 

Klaus lets out a peal of giggles. "Do they not have community centers on the moon?" 

Diego snorts. 

"You know they don't!" Luther snaps, and Allison places a placating hand on his shoulder.

"Lay off, you guys," she says, "That's a sensitive topic."

"Our entire lives are sensitive topics." Klaus points out.

"Didn't stop Vanya from writing a book about it either." Diego potshots. Vanya flinches reflexively.

The temperature is regulated; it somehow feels colder against her processors, though Grace knows that cannot be. 

"Everyone seems tense!" Grace raises her voice cheerfully over the din which immediately quiets when she does so. "I'll make brownies!" 

The room is silent as she turns to leave.

"Ah, shit." Five sighs deeply.

Grace walks out of the room and starts to head toward the kitchen. 

Her children are upset, and she will use culinary affections to cheer them up: it is what computes as the most logical solution. Baked goods cheer up children. She's not quite certain if the knowledge came from her memory banks and was thus adapted into her algorithms or if Mr. Hargreeves purposely one day updated her programming with such knowledge along the way once it was clear it would be useful to keep her. 

She just knows it to be true. Baked goods cheer up children. And she wants so dearly to cheer her children up.

She cannot cheer herself up with baked goods. However, her happiness stems directly from providing for her children. And when her children are happy, she is happy. 

She is anxious about Five's revelations about her coding. Her children need cheering up. Baked goods cheer up children. She is happy when her children are happy. Therefore, she will bake goods and cheer up her children and rid herself of her anxiety because she will have cheered her children up and she is happy when her children are happy, thus she will be cheered. If A equals B and B equals C and C equals D and D equals E, then A equals E after all. 

"Mom wants to leave the house," Diego declares abruptly. 

Pogo is visibly shocked. He looks up from his book with mouth agape before composing himself. "Oh. Well, I suppose an outing is possible now that the truth has... been revealed and there's no need for secrecy." 

"For more than an outing." Luther corrects him sternly.

"I beg your pardon?" 

"Mom wants to go on a road trip." Allison explains.

"A road trip." Pogo's voice goes flat.

"How can we make this happen?" Luther folds his arms and waits for an answer, assured that there will be an answer. 

Pogo sighs. "You are aware, I assume," He removes his glasses and rubs tiredly at his eyes. "That Grace must be charged nightly. And that the only way to do so is rooted in one location and one location only."

"Yeah, well, about that." Allison grins.

"We have a couple ideas." Vanya shrugs.

"Oh don't look so worried," Klaus chides Pogo and raises tattooed palms in a motion of jazz hands. "We wrestled Five down long enough to get his help before his whole 'ahh it's the end of the world' whatever he does all day."  

Somehow that doesn't seem to assure Pogo. 

"Wonderful," He dryly states. 

The Hargreeves children beam in self-satisfied victory. 

Pogo sighs and scratches through yet another diagram. 

Allison groans without even looking up; the sound is well familiar by now. Her head is down on a table, cushioned by her arms. 

Pogo once again picks up a new page of grid paper and begins drafting anew. 

"No luck?" Klaus asks despairingly from the doorway, already knowing the answer as he peeks in. It hasn't changed. 

"None." Diego confirms, flipping a knife between two fingers in agitation.

"Well, shit."

Luther nods solemnly in agreeance.

"You don't, like, need me do you?" Klaus asks, looking pale and sweaty and about to be in the full throng of nausea triggered by withdrawal. 

Allison barely raises a hand to wave it dismissively. "Just go." She barely finishes saying it before Klaus is gone. Luther snorts in contempt.  

Pogo scratches through another diagram. 

Allison groans. 

"Aren't we getting any closer?" Vanya voices the question hesitantly after yet another diagram is scratched through.

"To make Grace - wireless, shall we say - I suspect that solar is the only way forward." Pogo sighs wearily. 

"But where will the solar panels go?" Vanya asks. 

Pogo's frown deepens. "Ah, well, that does seem to be the problem."

Diego scowls.

Luthor clears his throat. "But what about Five's idea of an adapter to convert local powerbanks into a compatible charging station?" 

Pogo sighs once again. "I'll see what I can do."

"The solar panels on your fingernails won't be enough power, not by a longshot, but we figured every little bit would help," Allison explains. Grace nods and makes agreeing hums at the appropriate times. "Your main panels are going to be a retractable - and Pogo said he'll go over the specs with you? But basically they'll be here- " Allison touches her own shoulders and then follows them down her upper arm. " -and here. There's going to be a detachable panel in your upper thighs that you can lay out and recharge and attach them when you need them - kind of like a power bank. And those are the ones that are going to be giving you the majority of energy. And you'll have a portable outlet adapter in case you need charging beyond that."

Allison smiles widely, flushed and excited, and Grace smiles back at her.  

Luther then surprises her by asking, "Do you have any questions, Mom?"

"About what, dear?" She responds, taken aback. 

Luther pauses. "Uh. About- about any of this."

"The procedure?" Allison chimes in, looking worried now.

"Oh." Grace blinks. "Do you want me to ask questions?" 

Allison and Luther exchange a look between themselves. 

"No, Mom," Allison says finally. Her voice is soft. Her voice is sad. "It's okay. You don't have to." 

Grace doesn't quite believe her, not with that tone of voice. She's not sure what she's done wrong, but she lets the topic go. 

"Well," Grace says instead and smiles. "This is ever so exciting - don't you think?" 

Allison and Luther both soften. And they smile back. 

Grace doesn't feel much different when she wakes up.

"Mom!" Vanya gasps, sitting upright from where she has been leaning her arms and head on the bed beside Grace. "How are you feeling?"

"Why, I feel as right as rain." Grace smiles warmly. Idly, she can recognize the newfound knowledge inserted in her to match with her upgraded features of how to utilize and access them.  

Vanya hesitates. "You've been out for a few days."

Grace is surprised to hear so.

"Pogo said your systems were adjusting to the new software installations, but I think he was worried, too." Vanya continues softly and then places one hand on Grace's shoulder for a fleeting moment. "I should go get him. Now that you're awake."

"Thank you, sweetie," Grace says, and Vanya pauses mid-step and then, after a moment, offers her a shy smile.

"Um. You're welcome, Mom."  

"I bought Mom a Cadillac so she can go on her road trip," Allison announces as soon as the family, sans Five, have gathered for a family meeting.

Grace blinks. Her cornea and retina are artificial; they do not require moisture replenishment, and the blink is decidedly a habit of how to best transit expressions to humans and not in any shape or form an actual motion her body requires to do.

"You bought Mom a Cadillac?" Luther gapes.

Klaus narrows his eyes and bemoans, "You won't even buy me lunch." 

"It's a convertible." Allison continues, unaffected, as if neither of them have spoken.

"What color?" Diego asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Does it matter?" Vanya jokes - offbeat and out of sync with her siblings - with a small smile.  

"Red." Allison's grin is sharp and smug.  

Diego lets out a low whistle. 

"Can Mom drive?" Luther wonders.

That causes the rest of them to pause. They collectively turn and eye Grace contemplatively but none of them speak up. 

"I am equipped with the theoretical knowledge and know how, yes." Grace confirms. 

Klaus snorts. "Well, I hope you have insurance, Allison- hey!" He cuts himself off and pouts exaggeratedly before nodding. "Okay, fair. Sorry, Mom."  

"It's quite alright, dear," Grace assures him. 

She is set to leave. She packs no suitcase, needs none. She will carry one outfit and wears it upon her person. She needs no human toiletries.  

Her children gather together to send her off and say goodbye. She isn't leaving; she'll be back. 

They still want to say goodbye anyways.

She wonders if they'll be here to greet her when she returns.

Allison envelopes her carefully, bringing her into a hug delicately as if Grace is fragile. "Goodbye," Allison says - and then she hurriedly squeezes in a quick, desperate way that is much more familiar. She takes a rushed step backwards, placing her hands behind herself as if to help resist touching by physically making it more difficult to do so.

Grace bridges the distance between them, wraps her arms firmly around her daughter. Allison startles, but quickly melts into the hug. 

"Thank you, dear." The two finally release each other. Allison and the rest of the children watch her with wide eyes and wonder. 

Hugs are a thing that strictly have always been Not Allowed by Reginald Hargreeves. Some of the children disobeyed frequently despite that, and Grace could only indulge them for quick bursts or else she would have to categorize it as a hug instead of, say, perhaps a clumsy stumble - why, who could ever tell! 

But now - now - she lifts her arms, and her children rush towards her. She hugs her children.

She hugs her children.

"Are you sure you're going to be okay?" Vanya asks, quiet. The bags under her eyes have lessened some in the time she has stayed at the Academy.

Grace is glad to see it. 

"I will be just fine," Grace promises, bringing her finger up and touching the tip of her daughter's nose in a playful bounce. 

Vanya's smile is small and sweet.

Grace is glad to see it. 

"Don't do anything I wouldn't do," Klaus teases and then pauses with a wince. "Well. Don't do anything I wouldn't do now." 

Grace lifts an eyebrows. She is capable of millions of micro expressions. This one causes Klaus to grin. 

"Au revoir! A la prochaine!" Klaus kisses each side of her cheeks theatrically. "Oh - and if you need any ideas, Ben recommends going to the beach."

"Well that sounds grand indeed, thank you, Ben," Grace replies indulgently. 

Klaus' grin widens, and he laughs exuberantly. 

Diego takes her hands and stares at them gathered in his warm palms, will not look at her while he does so, mouth silently mouthing words but not saying them aloud. Perhaps he thinks that avoiding her gaze will hide the sheen of wet in his eyes; Reginald Hargreeves always had told him that boys were Not Allowed to cry. 

Grace waits for him to form words, lets him take all the time he needs.

"I wish you the very best, Mom," Diego says softly. 

She squeezes his hands, assuring him, "I know, dear."

Diego lifts his head. His tears spill over. "You deserve to be happy." He says urgently and earnestly. He meets her eyes, unashamed of his emotion.  

She pauses. She is endeared by his conviction. She is so proud of him for his courage. "Thank you, sweetie." She replies and smiles.

"Have a good time, especially since," Five smiles, lips pulled together in a tight grimace, "Apparently, the apocalypse isn't happening." 

Grace's smile is much more amused. "Why, thank you, dear." 

Five sighs, shoves his hands into the pockets of his shorts, and drops his paradoxical smile - the wind taken out of his sails now that no one has risen to the bait he angrily cast out. "Yeah, well. It could still happen." 

"Oh, you never know," Grace agrees, as easy as Sunday morning.

Five snorts, lips curling in dark amusement. 

Luther opens her car door for her. 

He tells her to "Have a good trip," as serious as ever, while she climbs in the front seat. 

"Thank you." Grace smiles pleasantly. 

He carefully closes the door shut, wary of his strength, and then steps back to join his siblings. 

She can hear Klaus ask musingly as she drives away in the convertible red Cadillac, wind already running through blonde curls, "She's very Lana Del Rey, don't you think?"

For a long time, she just... drives.

Grace thinks she is finally beginning to understand what it is to feel free. 

She does, in fact, have an idea for a destination in mind, and she does eventually pull over to ask for directions to an art museum.  

The couple she asks seems amused when she asks, but they do guide her to an art museum - "An art museum? Any art museum? Are you sure?" 

She's not really keeping time - registers it automatically to the decimal of a second and dismisses it as irrelevant - but she doesn't think she's taken too long at all. 

In her heart, this moment has taken much, much too long but it is happening and it is here now. 

Walking up to the ticket vendor sitting behind the glass booth is- is- 

Grace cannot compare it to a past experience. She does not have any experience to compare it to that even comes close. 

"I'd like one ticket, please," Grace says, smiling triumphantly, and she hands over some of the cash the children had given her.

"Uh, ma'am?" The vendor is confounded. "These are hundred dollar bills. A ticket costs twenty." 

"Twenty hundred?" Grace asks curiously and wonders how much is in the pile she's offered.

The attendant's mouth opens and shuts silently without saying anything. Grace waits.

"Here." The vendor says at last and pushes the pile back towards her, only taking one of the pieces of green paper. "One moment - I'll get you your ticket and change."   

Grace takes the money back and shuffles it back into a neat rectangular stack once more. 

"Have a good day, ma'am," The vendor says, and hands her money and a ticket. 

"Why, thank you," Grace says, utterly charmed by the entire encounter. 

(When she calls her children that night to tell them about her first day out in the world, all of them groan simultaneously at this part and appoint Allison the task of explaining currency to her. It's an interesting lesson because Grace has never been taught anything before. Information that has been deemed relevant or necessary has always been downloaded into her consciousness directly during updates. To be taught something by someone she loves is quaintly sweet, to say the very least.)

She stands in front of the art museum's directory and pauses, a little thrown. Now that she's here - her first destination and so far the only place she can think to go - she's... not sure where to start. She's beyond excited. But she's- she's- 

Grace idly smooths out any potential wrinkles in her skirt and reads the directory once more. She doesn't know the difference between Renaissance and Post-Modern besides in theory. She's only seen the art in the Academy and in the children's lesson books, does not know their names or styles, only that they made her feel something. 

"Excuse me," a stranger accosts her with sometime later when she has not strayed from the directory. "Do you need some help?" 

"It's just..." She pauses, smile wide and automatic as she turns to them. "I've never been to a museum before." 

"Never?" The stranger is clearly thrown aback by that. 

"Never," Grace assures them. And smiles.

Her smile is supposed to be assuring, disarming in its friendliness to achieve the trust of the Hargreeves children but not so as disarming as to not achieve their respect for her authority, second to Pogo, who then comes second to Mr. Hargreeves - the original primary. She knows her smile is charming to this person as well; she still hopes it will be.

"Well, it sounds like you're long overdue then!" The stranger smiles as well now, perhaps charmed or perhaps naturally friendly for a human. "I have a yearly pass and I'm actually studying Art History, so I could definitely show you around and- " They cut off, looking suddenly bashful. "Well, I could be your tour guide, if you'd like. Since they're not available on weekdays." 

"Thank you," Grace says politely before she's even made up her mind on the matter. "That sounds lovely." She now holds an option to make up her mind, and the sensation will take time to get used to. She cannot, for a moment, determine whether she accepted so readily because she is used to doing so, or because she wanted to do so. A new, strange sensation it is to be able to decide these things and to have to decide these things. 

The stranger turned tour guide smiles wider. "Where would you like to start?"

"Oh, I really don't know. I hadn't even begun to think about it." 

The stranger laughs, like she has said a joke. She's only said the truth. 

"Well," the stranger says, "I suppose we can start here then and make our way through together." 

Something about making their way through together charms something within her. 

"That," she repeats earnestly, "sounds lovely." 

"I don't particularly like this one." Several exhibits later, Grace voices her honesty, and cocks her head to the side and marvels more at that sentence than the work of art before her eyes.

As if in explanation and apology both, her personal self-appointed tour guide says, "It's abstract."

"Hmm." She ponders for a socially appropriate amount of time. "I still prefer the other one."

"Which one?" 

She can immediately recollect what they have told her: the title of the work, the artist, the year it was created, the name of the painting style, some odd trivia of other prominent painters in that style and time period.

She smiles. "The one with the woman on the hill," she says simply instead of any of those things. 

The stranger nods slowly. "The one with the flowers?" 

"And the children." She confirms.

The tour guide deliberates for a moment, and then says, "If you like women and children, Mary Cascott was rather famous on painting that subject. You should look up more of her some time." They pause, expression complicated. "Do you have children?"

Grace laughs. "Ah! How can you tell? I do!" 

"How old?" The stranger asks, looking resigned now but fond. 

"All seven of them are just past thirty."

"You- " The stranger chokes on a cough and then laughs, sounding wildly relieved. "You really had me going there for a second!" 

Grace eyes them in confused amusement but laughs alongside them. 

"I'd like to book a room, please," Grace informs the receptionist of a hotel she has chosen among the many in the city. She wants to see if she can try them all; she has to start somewhere. 

"Any preferences?" He asks and then continues when she tilts her head. "One bed? Penthouse? Ground floor? Balcony, no balcony?" 

"One bed. And something up high with a balcony would be nice." Grace is thinking of her solar panels.

"Sure can do!" The receptionist chirps. "I'll need a form of payment when you check out and your name and signature for now." He hands her a clipboard. 

"Grace Hargreeves." She says and picks up the clipboard and pen. She's never signed anything before. She deliberates on how to do it before deciding on a simple cursive rendition of the letters in her name in size twelve. She checks off the waivers of liabilities and claims responsibility to penalties and/or fees should she not pay, is late to pay, or damages hotel property.

"Oh, that's funny." The receptionist seems surprised. "You have the same last name as that billionaire and those kids. I bet you hear that all the time though." His smile is chagrined.

"No." Grace is thoroughly enthralled with the notion that strangers could link her to her children and know she is connected to them somehow because she shares their name, even if they think it's just a coincidence. "No one's ever said that to me." She hands him back the clipboard.

The receptionist grins, less embarrassed now by his comment. "Have a nice stay, Ms. Hargreeves."

"Thank you." Grace smiles and collects the key he's placed upon the desk. 

"Just go straight up to the top!" 

She pockets the key and heads toward the elevator.

She'll follow the human conventions of activity during the day and rest during the night - or, at least, the appearance of rest. 

It is not quite night yet. 

She opens the balcony door and sits on the chair provided. She leans back into its plush cushions and extends her solar panels for charging. 

When the sun starts to set, she goes back inside the room and uses the telephone to call her children. They are still at the house and eager to hear from her. 

Grace is delighted to tell them all about her first day. 

Allison stays awake with her through the night and explains the concept of cash and currency. Grace extends the hotel phone's cord and stretches the phone to allow her to sit on the balcony.

She listens to her daughter's voice and watches the cars below and the lights of the city - all so full of life and energy and movement. 

It is the very first night Grace does not require to be shut down to charge. It is the very first night she stays awake through every hour, well past when Allison hangs up.

It is the very first time she has seen the sun before it has begun to rise. 

She basks in the sun for hours, awed.

She extends her solar panels and charges them once more - for good measure, especially since she used continuous energy throughout the night. She knows she has been given an outlet converter that can access her power port and plug in anywhere, but she wants to use it as a last resort.

She likes the freedom of not having to be tethered to a chair to charge - or, rather, tethered to an outlet now. 

She goes to leave the hotel room. 

She stops, however, in front of the hallway mirror and takes a moment to smooth down any windswept hair or articles or clothing. 

And then she leaves the room. 

She isn't sure where, exactly, to go.

Why - she has the whole world! It's so very large!

Grace decides that the beach is as good place as any to start. And she can tell Klaus about it when she goes home, although she does have a feeling that he's probably already seen the beach. He's probably seen quite a many things, after all. 

The directions she receives from someone at a gas station, she realizes after hours of driving and never finding the coast, must not be accurate after all.

She stops at a diner off the highway and explains that she must be terribly lost. She gets directions back to her city from an elderly truck driver who's stopped in for coffee. From there, she's sure, she can find her way back to her hotel. 

She offers to buy him his lunch as thanks and he laughs. "Sure wouldn't like to explain that to my wife." He says, mustache pulled upwards alongside his mouth in amusement.

She has the notion that he is joking, but she's not entirely sure. She deliberates for a moment but then decides to laugh, albeit a bit delayed.

He snorts into his coffee mug in response. 

On the way back, she passes by a junkyard and stops the car. 

She scales the fence laid with barbed wire, mindful of her skirt, and lands on the other side. 

"Now," she muses aloud to nobody but herself as she eyes the piles of cars about to be demolished, "if I were a Global Positioning System, where would I be?" 

She finds two already cracked in half.

The third time is, indeed, the charm. 

She smiles and rolls up her sleeves. 

And then proceeds to dismantle the dashboard with her bare hands. Piece by logically connected piece.

The question of where to put the newly acquired system should be deliberated carefully. There isn't much space within her systems; everything is compacted and designed purposefully and without room for too much adjustment.

There are some things, Grace is aware, about her design which are purely for aesthetic and have no function at all beyond such. 

The shape of her form is designed to follow a strict silhouette but, in theory, could have been shaped like anything at all really - except she has been shaped like this and purposely so, even if some of her design carries no purpose at all except to look the part.

She has a matching pair of breasts of which that do not contain wires or transmitters or anything else useful really but instead are filled with silicone. It is part of appealing to humans, Grace supposes, since it logistically has no greater function that she can determine.

It is likewise to the delicate, curled hairs placed ever so carefully on the edges of her eyelids. They complete the illusion, so to speak, that perhaps she may be human after all. The tresses upon her scalp are likewise entirely for aesthetic and need to be maintained in cycles to ensure tidiness and curling patterns with heat and chemicals.

The features upon her face must be deemed pleasing to Mr. Hargreeves because he had chosen them; the nose does not perform any function but symmetry. She has been programmed with the knowledge of how to paint precise updates upon the color of her mouth, when it so suits to match the outfits chosen for her. Outfits, likewise, seem to be an effigy of aesthetic, combined with temperature modulators and human notions of modesty. 

However, understanding this concept of aesthetics doesn't stop her from hefting the weight of one breast in hand for one considering moment and deciding that it has outlived its usefulness. 

She understands that the aesthetic isn't an entirely pointless endeavor; it puts humans at ease because they assume she is one of them. Her children are always uncomfortable when reminded that she is not. But, out here, she absolutely prioritizes usefulness over the idea of subtly influencing the human reaction to her in her favor, and she cannot agree to keep Reginald Hargreeves' aesthetic design for her intact any longer.  

The GPS must have a home; she has only scarce availability to place it; the purely aesthetically placed silicone pouch must be altered or removed entirely in order to accommodate. 

She smooths out the sheets of the hotel's bed and sits down. She removes her shirt, folding it carefully and setting it aside on the nightstand. 

She pulls on a pair of medical grade gloves. She has bought a box of them at the local drugstore, which is where the hotel staff directed her, assuring her it did not, in fact, sell drugs. 

Along with those, she has fine-point tweezers, scissors, sewing needles, and thread. She chooses the pair of scissors and presses the edge of them to her skin, right upon where there is already stitching due to where Diego and Pogo have recently opened her systems up. 

She pauses. It is... the first time Grace herself is the one that is accessing her internal wires or systems. She has never before been the sole one to do so. It has always been Reginald Hargreeves and Pogo - and Diego with his knife, crying as he destroyed everything in his wake. 

She stares at her arm for a long time. It had been her intention to open up a panel and access one of the transmitters, tapping into and hopefully overriding it to send a signal to localized receptors in order to deactivate their ability to sensationalize feeling and pain during her procedure she was about to endeavor. She's never done so before, but she has theorized it possible.

Now, however, she pauses. She considers if perhaps she wouldn't rather endure the receptors registering pain instead of being forced to dig inside her wires and - 

She tilts her head. She's never had a choice before. No one has ever asked her preference in any procedure she has undergone. 

She moves the scissors away from her arm. 

The novelty of possessing an option - of having a choice - it has perhaps persuaded her decision. She decides to undergo her procedure without tapping into her internal wires and without attempting to override the systems which detect pain. 

Grace smiles - a small, pleased smile - and turns to the mirror to begin. 

And for the first time, she is the one to open her body up and do with it as she likes, to upgrade it how she deems necessary and relevant. 

She eyes her work and is satisfied. 

She goes peels her gloves off and pulls her shirt back on. Her shirt... doesn't lay the same way upon her as it used to.

"Oh," Grace realizes as she stares down at where fabric is in excess where before it used to not be. The stripes of her missing left breast droop down into a discordant pattern different than the rest of her shirt, which lays how she is used to. 

And so she removes her shirt once more. 

She slips her gloves back on.

And she undergoes the tedious process of reattaching the breast to her torso, mindful of the GPS underneath. 

Her faux breast lays lumpy and unsymmetrical to its right counterpart due to the GPS taking up mass where mass did not used to exist. She tries her shirt again. 

The shirt fills out, albeit her left breast is perceptibly a different size and shape than her right. But the stripes look like stripes once more, and she's content with that. 

Mr. Hargreeves, she thinks, would vehemently disapprove of such asymmetry. Humans, she thinks, might not even notice a difference at all. 

She checks out of the hotel and spends an entire day testing out her new feature.

She goes from place to place to place to place, never even stepping foot inside any destination. 

All in all, she is quite pleased. 

There is a VHS player and a television in the next hotel room she checks into. 

Grace eyes them thoughtfully.  

Mr. Hargreeves had always forbidden the children to watch movies. Sometimes on Saturday mornings - the day when fun had time slots scheduled to be Allowed -  they managed to catch colorful cartoons on the television and watched with wide eyes. But a movie was never a feasible endeavor because it would exceed the time permitted, and none of the children wanted to dedicate the entire time slot to one activity of fun when they could have instead been doing several. 

She pauses thoughtfully and calculates where it is that she can access a VHS tape; her GPS system hums almost imperceptibly from underneath her left breast as she gathers the information with her newfound upgrade. 

She clears her throat. It is a human noise of communication she uses expertly; this tone of throat clearing is to convey 'excuse me, I don't mean to interrupt' as well as 'if you're busy, I will wait but I want your attention when you can offer it.' The video store clerk does not look up from the pile they are handling of VHS tapes but states, "Welcome to Blockbuster, how can I help you?" 

"I was wondering," Grace watches with fascination as the worker checks and rewinds one of the VHS returned unwound, grumbling under her breath about it, "If you could help make a recommendation of what to watch."  

"Well, what kind of movies do you like?" 

"I couldn't quite say. I haven't seen any before."

The video store clerk stops. She sets down the VHS in her hands and looks up at Grace in scrutiny. "You've never seen any movies before," she says flatly. 

"Never." Grace smiles.

The video store clerk stares. 

"You've never seen any movies before?" She demands this time, in utter dismay and disbelief. 

"Well, the children aren't allowed, you see, and I never thought to watch any myself." At that, the video store clerk's face undergoes a myriad of emotion, and Grace tilts her head and continues. "Now that their father isn't here, I thought - well. I thought perhaps I might give it a try after all." 

The video store clerk is still staring at her, wide eyed, gobsmackery of this caliber unencountered before. "Is there any particular genre of movie you wanted to see? A comedy? A horror film? Anything like that?"

"Oh, I don't know," Grace answers with a light laugh. "I don't suppose there are any movies about road trips, are there?" 

The video store clerk tucks a strand of hair behind her ear and stares some more. Grace smiles wider.

"Have you ever heard of Thelma & Louise?" The clerk asks at last.

Grace shakes her head. 

The video store clerk smiles knowingly. "Something tells me you might like it."'

She does. 

She goes back to the video store and then proceeds to spend several uninterrupted days watching a wide plethora of movies.

She likes them, but she eventually rewinds the VHS's and returns them to the video store; she still has so much else she wants to try.

And, she thinks with a thrill, she can always come back.

In a public garden, the next day, she finds a wedding with an open invitation list. She is intensely curious. One of her daughters has been married. 

Grace has never attended a wedding. 

She attends this one. 

She is stumbled into, and she follows the momentum of human impact to help soften the blow of flesh upon what otherwise would be unyielding metal, and thus stumbles from the pathway into someone else on the designated dance area. 

"Care to cut in?" The man in the tuxedo jokes,  laughing easily, as he rights himself from where Grace has nearly knocked him over. His partner pauses, torn away from dancing as she is displaced and therefore almost tipped askew as well; the original clumsy interloper flees in the meanwhile. 

"Oh," Grace smiles. "I can't dance, and, besides that, I can't possibly interrupt your date." 

The two of them laugh. "No, no!" They insist at the same time, "We're brother and sister!" Grace finds herself gently shooed towards them. "Go ahead!" 

Social convention protocols tell her that the man will lead a woman in a dance; Grace knows that she is designed to be a mother, a womanly counterpart to Mr. Hargreeves. The man will lead her, then, because while she is not a human, she is still designed to be a woman  

It is the sister who takes her hands and who pulls her away from the crowded cement dance floor and on towards the grass. 

Grace blinks, smile never faltering. 

As if in explanation, the sister says, "Less people to run into over here." She then toes off her high heels.

Grace stares at her bare feet sinking into the grass for a moment before gingerly copying her.

She... has never cognitively chosen to not wear high heels before. The only time her feet have been without them is the minuscule amount of time in between one pair to another when scheduled wardrobe changes occur. It is... startling to be shorter, arches level with the ground instead of rising well above. 

"We'll go slow." The sister promises reassuringly. "Some people have a hard time keeping rhythm and learning the steps, but if you get the steps first then you'll get the hang of the rhythm with time." 

Grace has a discerning ear for rhythm. She can specifically process noise in variables designated to assist Vanya with violin lessons - one such variable being rhythm, as it so happens. 

The sister leads them in a slow, slow motions. Grace follows. 

"That's it!" The sister laughs. "You're pretty good for a beginner!" 

They spend an entire song like this. 

Grace counts the steps, tracks the rhythm, and looks up from watching their bare feet in green grass to evaluate how well her partner thinks she's doing. 

The sister is watching her with wide eyes. 

Somewhere along the line, Grace fears, she's missed something and done something wrong, some sort of human faux pax she's committed  by mistake- 

Grace stops dancing when a pair of lips meet her own. 

She stares at the stranger's forehead, so close to her optics that she can count every pore.

The sister pulls back, flushing, as a catcall comes from a little ways away on the cemented dance floor; it is her brother.

"Um..." The sister is looking anywhere but at Grace, who still has not figured out a way to process this. "Was that okay?"

And-

Was it?

"I don't know," Grace says, honestly, now that she's allowed to be honest about things.

She's never even thought that she'd be - well. In a situation like this. With a human deigning interest in her. 

"Oh." Her face falls. "Are you straight?" 

Grace is-

Grace is- ?

???

Grace doesn't know. Human sexuality? Human romantic orientation? Grace has never applied the thought to herself before. She only has the theoretical knowledge installed within her and the information hard won that she managed to scrape up in order to answer the children's questions that they weren't supposed to have and Mr. Hargreeves certainly wasn't supposed to know about - but he had never programmed her with a prohibition to learn or discuss queerness, so she never brought it to his attention and tried to help the children evade his attention in that matter as well. But secretly learning about orientations other than the programmed heteromantic and heterosexual she was supposed to teach them was quite different than applying the concept to herself. 

"I've never been kissed before," Grace admits instead of explaining any of that. 

The sister perks up. "Do you want me to kiss you again?" 

Grace isn't human. Grace doesn't- she doesn't- 

"I'm not sure." Grace's smile is apologetic now. She knows humans take rejection hard when it comes to romantic pursuits.

The sister stares at her for a long moment and then nods. "Well. You can let me know if you decide you want me to. And, in any case, we can dance. If you'd still like to." 

"I'd like to," Grace answers easily. It's the truth. 

They dance well into the night. 

And, when she is ready to leave, Grace tentatively returns the kiss she was given.

Ever so soft of a goodbye. 

Grace enters the music shop on a whim. 

Her children enjoy music. Luther has always kept a record collection, only to be enjoyed on Saturdays.

Reginald Hargreeves was long suffering about the childrens' lack of interest in classical music, which was the only genre permitted throughout the week because it stimulated brain growth.

Only Vanya delved even close to classical music - and that was because her father instructed her to learn classical theory as well as instruments before settling upon on the violin.  

Grace has never given much thought about music besides those songs performed on the violin and those carrying from Luther's room. 

She would, she thinks, like to give some thought to it now.

There's a teenager across the music store that has been steadily watching her in fascination as she holds up albums and sets them down again along the aisles.

When she approaches the teenager, she is reminded of Klaus. The similarity starts and ends in their androgyny, in the Adam's apple paired with a skirt. They have a shock of deeply orange hair, and Grace wonders contemplatively for a moment before she realizes it is dyed.

She has never considered dying her hair. 

The teenager shuffles nervously, and Grace smiles in reassurance.

"Hello," she greets them cheerfully. "May I ask your opinion?"

The teenager, soothed now, nods. "Yeah, sure."  

"I'm not familiar with anything besides classical music, I'm afraid," Grace explains. "I don't know where to start." She gestures at large to the shelves around her.  

"Well..." The teenager lifts pierced eyebrows and smiles. "You've come to the right person."

The teenager helps gather cassettes and CD-ROMs and records into large stacks and moves through the store with easy familiarity.

Grace picks up a record and shows them. "My son said that I remind him of her," Grace tells them, amused. 

The teenager looks between the album and Grace in quick succession and makes an odd noise. 

"What do you think?" Grace asks, thoughtful, and holds the record side-by-side to her face.

The teenager flushes. "I'm too gay for this," they mumble. Grace probably isn't supposed to have heard that. Her children only had talked about such things in hushed whispers of half finished innuendo - never coming close to saying such words aloud, lest they chance their father hearing. 

Grace smiles, endeared. This teenager really does remind her ever so much of Klaus. 

The teenager shows her how to operate the listening stations. Grace is astounded; there are deliberate areas of the store delegated for cassette players and CD players and record players where a person can rent the music and headphones, paying for the time instead of per purchase.

"Let's start you off with something real good." They pop in a cassette for her. "This," they grin, "is Shania Twain. It's called 'Up!'"

Grace's eyes widen, and her red lips curl into a smile. "Oh," she says, pleased and surprised. "I like this."

"Yeah," the teenager nods knowingly. "That's what I was going for." 

The teenager guides her through genres, grinning as Grace pulls faces of wonder and laughing when her face twists in confusion. 

They help her sort the listened-to music into a re-shelf pile and a purchase pile. Grace is amazed to discover that there is a purchase pile - that she wants to buy music.

"Alright, sorry, sorry." The teenager laughs after Grace removes her headphones not even a minute into a Bring Me The Horizon album. "I had to try. Here."

They hand her a cassette and grin. She eyes 'Everytime We Touch' dubiously. They laugh. "No, this one's a jam, I swear!"

When the chorus hits, Grace thinks she understands how a song can be 'a jam.' She feels like she's become bubbling strawberries in a pan of warm sugar while listening to it.

"Thank you for your help." Grace smiles warmly at them. 

They flush deeply. "You're, uh, welcome. It's not a big deal. I wasn't doing anything else, you know?" 

"Still," Grace says firmly. "It was very nice of you." 

Their face turns deeply red. 

"Oh. Um! Good luck!" The teenager says, voice cracking unsteadily.

And then Grace is left to navigate the music by herself - but now feels distinctly less overwhelmed by it. Especially since there are still piles and piles of music that the teenager pulled off the shelves for her.

Grace selects another CD-ROM and settles in. 

Cyndi Lauper bursts through her headphones in vivacious bouts of energy, and Grace smiles involuntarily.

"Are you human?" The voice asks her through her headphones skeptically but then he continues, more certain. "Or are you dancer?"

And-

Grace has learned to dance. 

She isn't human. But maybe - maybe - maybe she can be dancer.

"My signs are vital, my hands are cold." 

Her vital diagnostics all read as statistically normal and no maintenance required; her body gives off no heat the way flesh of humans do.

Grace pauses the song. She stands there in silence, headphones over her ears.

And then, for the first time since entering the music store, she starts a song over. She's looking for the answer. 

Grace sits in the driver's seat of her red Cadillac and ponders where she wants to go next.

She can go anywhere. She can do anything. It continues to feel overwhelming to think about it, makes her giddy in ways she still cannot describe. 

She hasn't gone to the beach yet. She can go to the beach. 

Grace carefully places sunglasses upon the bridge of her nose. They are newly acquired. They are not necessary; she was created with the ability to filter light as well as to see in the dark. A shopkeeper had convinced her to try them on, and Grace had looked in the mirror, had seen the red curve of her mouth that matched the red curve of pointed acrylic plastic around dark lenses, and something about it had appealed to her. 

There is no functioning purpose. It is entirely a decision of aesthetic. 

She's never chosen any of her aesthetic aspects before now. 

She presses a button, and the roof of the car rolls down with an automated drone. She likes the wind in her hair while she drives. It makes her curls a little messy, a little frayed - but she likes the wind in her hair. She doesn't mind the dishevelment of prim, deliberately crafted curls. 

She pauses. 

And then, decisively, she slides off the high heels from her feet and presses her bare foot against the pedal. 

She turns up the volume to her cassette player. George Ezra's 'Shotgun' is on side A. She hits play.

Grace smiles.