Chapter Text
You didn’t know what day it was. You hadn’t known for the past weeks, assuming weeks had passed, perhaps months, and no matter how often you checked your phone, or marked the days on your calendar – which you got specifically after The Rapture began to keep track of time – you could never remember.
You checked your phone, for what must have been the seventh, or eighth, or twelfth time today.
02/04/20, 13:42
… it was only April. You rolled over to shriek into your pillow. Ever since Lucy was evicted – your Landlord stopped asking a couple of months before the plague hit – you’d been a bit of a mess. The apartment was reasonably clean, mostly because you were never home. Except now you were, but you were trying not to think about that. The diner and your college kept you too busy to think, until it closed and classes became online, but you weren’t thinking about that. Going outside and coming home to peace and quiet was great, right until you realized outside was a silent as the inside, and your town was a fucking ghost town now!
You check your phone again.
02/04/20, 13:44
It buzzes as you’re glaring at the time, trying to force it to move faster, and a banner notification pops up from your messenger app; your mom. You stare at it for a few minutes, and another text arrives. Then another. And a fourth.
… Fuck it. Even she’s better than this silence.
You message her back, tossing out some apologetic lie about cleaning your apartment for the sixth, tenth, twentieth time. She’s annoyed, but who cares? At this point, really, truly, who cares? You’re talking to an actual human person again! K-kind of. Through text. Whatever! It’s fine!
You cut in with another apology, more to stop the tirade than anything. At this point, she – either frustrated or just as desperate for company that isn’t your father as you are for human people in general – demands a call.
Then calls without waiting for your response.
You pick up, with only a small amount of trepidation.
“Sweetheart!” She cries.
“Hi, Mom,” you reply. You hear her take an almost sobbing gasp. “Mom…”
“It really is you… It’s been so long, baby! How are you doing? Are you okay? You haven’t gotten sick have you? Your father caught it while at work and it was awful…” She pauses here, and you take your cue.
“I’m so sorry, is he okay? That sounds horrible, Mom. Did he go to the hospital?”
Your mom scoffs. “Oh please, baby, you know he’d never. I couldn’t get him into the car until he was half dead! He’s still there; doesn’t know I’m calling you. He said something about giving you space, but I’m your mother, so of course I should worry about my baby!”
“Yeah… thanks, Mom. I appreciate you checking up on me. It’s been – it’s been rough.”
“With that slut of a roommate…”
You rub your eyes, hard. “Don’t call her that, Mom. Lucy got evicted a while ago; she’s at a friend’s house now. I’m just glad she’s okay. I meant that, I haven’t gone outside at all and it’s getting to me a bit. It’s nice talking to you.”
“Wait, you’re staying inside? Sweetheart, that’s not good for you… It’s just a flu, baby. Have you even been meeting your friends? What about a special someone, hm?” She says, pity seeping into her tone. You fight down the urge to bristle. “Well, that’s not why I called. I know you’re a little silly, and you take things like this seriously, so I decided to get you a gift to make it easier on you!”
“Mom…”
She cuts you off, a note of steel in her voice. “Don’t argue with me, baby. And since your father is in the hospital, he can’t say ‘no, you chose to leave,’ and we ‘shouldn’t reward you for that,’ so I thought I’d do something nice. You don’t want your Momma sad, do you?”
“I…” You sigh. Why did you pick up the phone again? Not for guilt tripping and misgendering, you’re pretty sure. Though you did answer your mom so maybe… “No. I don’t. I’m sorry, Mom; I love you.”
“I love you too, baby,” she says, sickly sweet now. You’re gonna need a shower after this. Too many memories of being forced to hug every relative she knew. “So, I’ve done a couple of things. First, I’m gonna pay for your apartment; I saw about your job on your social media, baby. I’m sorry. I don’t want to take you away from your campus too! So me and papa are gonna pay for your living expenses.” … Were they still in your account? Son of a bitch, you thought you took them off of that! “Second – well, I got you a present. It should be arriving real soon. To keep you company, since, well, you’re a bit…”
She says it so sweetly that you almost miss the fact that she called you a slur. You bite your cheek. “Mom, we’ve talked about this. You can't - you can’t use that word. And I hate it when you call me that. I don't think like you do, that's - that's all. Don't call me that."
“Well what else can I say? It’s true! You’re not all that bright, baby.” She huffs, and you catch a mutter of ungrateful. For what? That she didn’t call you something worse? Jiminy Christmas. “Well, anyway, it’s one of those new robots. The PTRs? I figured you’d need some help around the house, and since they’re on sale, I thought I’d get us both one. God knows your father doesn’t help around the house.”
“What? Mom, I don’t think I can afford to keep something like that…” You sit up straighter, your hand tightening on your phone. “I mean. Thank you. But I’m not, I can’t really afford that kind of electricity, and I don’t know if my landlord would allow it.”
“It’ll be fine. Anyway, it’s arriving later today, so make sure you answer your door, okay? I’ll text you the shipping code later so you can track it. Don’t worry about the bills, that’s my job to cover! You just keep your savings, okay, baby?”
You do bristle at her condescending tone, this time. “I can find another job, Mom, just—”
“Absolutely not! You focus on your college work. Do you still have a scholarship? You’re not the brightest, but…”
“Mom!” You finally snap. She scoffs again, muttering about just telling the truth, and you cut in again. “I’m fine! I have my scholarship. I just – I…” You take a deep breath. Breathe it out. “… I appreciate it. Thank you, Mom. I’ll make sure I get it. And – thank you. For rent, and the bills. I know Dad gives you a hard time over me.”
“Anything for my baby. You know I love spoiling you~” She coos. You grimace and stand up. You should probably get dressed now; knowing her, the PTR was probably five minutes from your complex. Or less. Hell, maybe your Landlord was marching to your door right now.
“Yeah… I’m gonna – I’m gonna get dressed. I love you. Talk to you soon.”
She gushes a little longer, then – at last – allows you to hang up. You knuckle your forehead as you stand, deeply regretting all of this. The only good thing was that you had an actual excuse to talk to someone else! To pick up a robot. That you didn’t want.
Why did you answer the phone?
You toss on a pair of pants and your favorite hoodie, too annoyed and lazy to bother with anything more. Almost on cue, as you’re fishing your keys from the counter, you hear what can only be the Landlord banging on the door.
“You’ve got a delivery downstairs. Pick it up in ten minutes or I’m sending them out.”
“Just a sec!” You call. He grunts, somehow loud enough to be audible through the door, and you hear him storming off. You wince; more than likely, he’s pissed someone is getting an in-person delivery during the plague. You put on your mask, double check you have your hand sanitizer, keys, and phone, then head out. Your Landlord is grumping his way to another room; you elect to not touch that mess, and instead pass as far around him as you can to get downstairs.
You feel significantly better as you find the deliverywoman just downstairs, a rather large and surprisingly square box for the humanoid thing within perched on a lean-back dolly that seems too small for the load it’s carrying. There’s a disinfectant spray bottle and cleaner wipes attached to the dolly’s side, and the deliverywoman is wearing a mask and rubber gloves.
“I wiped down everything before I took it off the van,” she says, unprompted. “Does your building allow visitors in? We’re supposed to take these straight in to make sure there’s no interference. Company policy.”
Technically, yes. For the sake of not having your Landlord chew you out, however… probably still yes. You weren’t sure what kind of apoplectic fit he’d have if he saw you had a PTR now, after months of rent just barely on time.
You nod uneasily, guiding them through the inner halls and to your room. Thankfully, he’s not around to see you; you’re not sure you could handle a second round of chiding. Even better, the deliverywoman clearly wants to be in and out as fast as she can. After pulling open the box and, with some assistance, setting the PTR up on the couch, she gives you a QR code, printed on a slip of paper.
“This is primed and connected to your PTR unit. Scan it with your phone when you’re ready; the app it downloads will teach you what you need to know.” She gives the PTR a once over, then a customer service smile to you. “All PTRs come with a free lifetime warranty, and, since this one has been fully paid off in advance, we’ve added a bonus of free station charging. PTR will know where to find them, if they need to. If you haven’t activated the QR code in twenty-four hours, they’ll wake up automatically, or send an error to us if they can’t.” She thinks for a moment, allowing you time to examine the code she’s given you. “If there’s any issues, you can contact us at any time; our help line is open twenty-four seven, and the app, as well as our website, has an exclusive emergency help line for those with PTRs. Don’t be afraid to use it if you need; we’d hate to leave a customer unsatisfied.” She smiles again. “Do you have any questions?”
You keep playing with the QR code. Your biggest one is if your mother suddenly decides that, much like every other “gift” she’s given you, she wants it instead, would it be possible to reregister the PTR? But… you can deal with that if – when – it comes up. Not now.
“No. Thank you. Do you want me to show you back out…?”
The deliverywoman gives a quick shake of her head. “I’ll be alright. Have a good day!”
She piles the box back onto the dolly and without anything further, hurries out of your apartment, but not before dropping off something by your shoes. You lock the door behind her.
And now… the PTR.
It’s slumped over on the couch, overlarge eyes closed as though it’s sleeping. It’s not… entirely creepy, you concede. Reluctantly. It has a large, round head with eyes just as big to match. There’s a mouth, and some implication of a nose – but otherwise, not nearly as human as you feared it might be. Some of the regulars at Dad’s Damn Diner had PTRs, all painstakingly configured to some aesthetic you couldn’t figure out, and the line those ones toed often leaned more towards the uncanny valley than not. This one, at least, with its chalk-grey skin and oversized head and hands leans safely on the other side. With how large its eyes seem, it might even be fine to look at. Not necessarily nice, but… fine. The exaggeratedly dark lines around its eyes spark some kind of worry in you, though; they look like eye bags from the wrong angle, and you’re almost forced to wonder if a robot can be sleep deprived.
It’s got clothes on too – something you’re pretty relieved to note, honestly. You’ve heard tale online of what people did with their PTRs, and while that was expected, allowed, and depending on where you asked, encouraged, you were more than fine with yours being dressed, thank you. In this case, in a long sleeved blue tee that had a heart embroidered on the front; half black, half white. Over that is a sleeveless black hoodie that looks pleasantly soft. You can’t help but run a hand over the material, and are surprised to discover that it is, in fact, as soft as it looks. Almost as good as your own favorite hoodie, though certainly not worn in like yours is.
Aside from that are dark grey pants and a pair of white socks; there’s black shoes left by your doorway that aren’t yours – probably the PTR’s, now that you think of it. That makes sense.
You eye the QR code in your hand, then, hesitantly, scan it with your photo app. It takes you to an offshoot of the Phenomenology website, with a scrambled mass of letters, numbers, and symbols behind it. The page itself has a cheerful congratulations plastered over it, urging you to download your app from the personal key provided, and enjoy life with PTR. You feel yourself grimace, but, nevertheless, download the app.
On your home screen, the logo isn’t horrible. It’s just the white letters PTR over a blue background – the same color as the PTR’s actual shirt, you note. It doesn’t even take that long to download nor perform its first-time setup; that’s all settled in barely a moment.
The issue arises when it tells you that it’s time to set up your PTR to your preferences. It, surprisingly, doesn’t ask you any personality or preference questions; rather, it dives straight into appearance settings. And these get very specific. Worse still is that you get to watch in real time as the PTR in your room hums and whirs as its body adapts to your preferences. Long hair? You watch it sprout from the PTR’s bald head and cascade over its shoulders. Curly? The fake hair writhes like a living thing as it loops. Short? It all ends up retracted. You pull it back to being bald, and when you try to mess with its eye color, one eye opens and looks directly at you as both its iris and shirt change color.
You return that to default too, and the PTR’s eye shuts as though nothing happened.
You play around for a while, watching in fascinated horror as the PTR shifts everything about itself to your preferences. You didn’t even know half this stuff was possible. When you reach the “sexual characteristics” options, you return everything to default and decide that it’s fine like that. Honestly, seeing its head loll back to the side again, you feel a little… guilty, for playing around like that. You can’t quite figure out why, but it feels like messing with a sleeping stranger; cutting their hair or drawing on them or something. And, well, you didn’t really like that idea, so.
Back to default it is.
You tap to confirm your choice, and the app gives you a reminder that you can change PTR’s appearance at any time. You try not to think too hard about the logistics of that; about how strange it would be to do so while out in public. You have no doubt that people have done it, but you’ve never been unlucky enough to see it happen in real time.
… Since PTRs register your likes and dislikes, since they apparently have their own likes and dislikes, as the app is now informing you, does that mean they can have opinions on how their appearances are changed? Can they revert or change their own looks if they don’t like what you give them? What if—
You shake the thought off and instead look nervously at your robot. It lays there, still as the dead and peaceful as someone sleeping. Unaware.
Is this really okay?
… You need more time to think about this. But you really don’t want to let it just, sit there on your couch. And you don’t want to forget to turn it on at all and it come to life tomorrow afternoon, right on time to scare the crap out of you as you wake up from your inevitable late night. So – the best option here is to just… turn it on and ask that it make itself at home in Lucy’s room, right? Treat it like a roommate?
Or, if you’re gonna be doing the whole, roommate thing, treat them like a roommate?
The temptation to text TK and ask them what the hell you should do here is rising now, but would they even know what to do? Not to mention they’re busy as it is; they may have been dropped from the diner like you were, but that doesn’t mean they’re idle. TK had said they’d be moving back in with their parents for the quarantine, and you knew from break time talks that they had a ton of kid siblings back home. It’d be a shock if they weren’t swamped in a tide of toddlers, or struggling to find another job to help pay the bills at home. Dumping your comparatively minor problem on them would be cruel, and asking Lucy…
You weren’t gonna ask Lucy. Best case, she’d wonder how the hell you could afford one and leave it at that. At worst, she’d start teasing you about sleeping with the PTR, and you’re not sure you could handle that right now.
So… Maybe you should just rip off the bandaid?
God. Enough stalling. It was time to do something! And that something was turning on your new PTR. You shuffle out of the robot’s direct line of sight first, though. That – that feels a little safer. You really don’t like the idea of their eyes snapping open while you’re looking right at them. Then, holding your breath… you press the central power button.
The PTR whirs quietly for a moment, then goes silent as they blink awake. They sit up slowly, looking around; they don’t notice you for a while, and their expression crumples from a simple calm to concern, then outright worry as they stand. You release the breath you’re holding as they look the wrong way first – towards the door, then the kitchen, and at last, you.
The worry melts right off of the PTR as they find you, and a smile so broad and joyful replaces it that you’re almost blinded for a moment. They have fairly sharp teeth, you note. And blue eyes, just the same as their shirt. “There you are! I was a little worried,” they say, laughingly. It has the edges of relief to it, and – isn’t that just too human for comfort? You knew PTRs were expressive, were designed to be because it was comforting, according to Phenomenology’s research, but it’s just… It’s a little weird to you. That’s all. “You are the one who woke me up, right?” They glance at the phone in your hand, then back to you, smile softening.
“… Yeah. Yeah, I am.” You give them your name, and out sheer habit, ask for theirs. The PTR’s expression dulls instantly.
“Peter, I guess. But I’d prefer it if you called me anything else. A nickname, or something.” They grimace. “I never liked it anyway.”
You… don’t really know how to feel about that. Nor about the fact that you’re, technically, just meeting them, and are now being asked to give a nickname. You give them a skeptical once over and, somewhat helplessly suggest: “Blue?”
They brighten up immediately. “Blue! Perfect. I love it.”
And thus begins your quarantine with Blue, the PTR you were very forcefully given.