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Androids weren’t supposed to get ill. Lore lacked any flesh-and-blood components, which meant that he was entirely immune to biological diseases and sicknesses. He did have an immune system, of sorts, though it was designed to fight off the kind of virus that would infect a computer, not a human being. Even then, it was so effective that Lore barely felt a thing. And with his sturdy bioplast casing, there were some times when Lore felt nearly undamageable.
This was not one of those times.
Seven different warnings blared from the back of his positronic brain; something was worming its way through his synthetic defences, (UNIDENTIFIED MALWARE. HOSTILE.) stealing away his processing power and making his entire system twitch towards overload. His motor control spasmed first, and he fell forward, knee joints entirely unresponsive. Strong arms caught him, but Lore felt only the fierce pang of frustration and anger (fire, red-hot, burning, attackkilldestroy—) as he struggled to look past the infection to the world around him.
“Lore,” came the voice of Tom Riker, sinking slowly into Lore’s auditory processors like a fly in honey. “What the hell happened?” (Touch. Touch. Touchtouchtouchtouch—) Lore’s sensors were on overdrive and Tom was holding his arms in a vice grip; Lore forced himself to endure it. He didn’t have the strength to push Tom away even if he wanted to. As it stood, the former lieutenant (William Thomas Riker, Starfleet defector, Maquis agent, allyfriendallyenemy—) was the only thing keeping Lore from laying immobile on the floor, and he liked it just a bit better than being entirely helpless.
His fingers twitched and dug into Tom’s shoulders, feeling the smooth replicated leather of his jacket on his skin. (ERROR: VOCAL SYNTHESISER MALFUNCTIONING.) “That d—ata,” Lore managed, struggling desperately to speak as he lurched in Tom’s grasp, “had a—a bug in it. Malware. Virus. P—robably intended to de—estroy whatever tried to do—ownload it. Failsafe. Trap. Walked righ—ight into it.” (Severe lapse in judgement. Stupid, stupid, stupid—)
“Shit,” Tom swore quietly. Then, as if he could read Lore’s thoughts— “Don’t beat yourself up about it. There’s no way you could’ve known, right? You gave me the all-clear because it showed fine on the preliminary scans.” He hesitated. (2.2 seconds.) His eyes flickered back and forth between Lore, the panel, and the door. (ANALYSIS: NERVOUS. CONCERNED. WORRIED.) “I’m going to carry you. Yell at me later.”
The touch intensified all over Lore’s bioplast-plated body as Tom lifted him into his arms, (warm, safe, no, danger, bad, get off, get off, GET OFF—) and the hydraulics in his jaw fired as he fought off a new set of warning bells. (TOM RIKER: ENEMY. TOM RIKER: FRIEND. HOSTILE. NOT HOSTILE. FAMILIAR. REEVALUATE.) The strength to wrench himself away from Tom and walk on his own was chained down—he had it, but he couldn’t use it, because of this damn virus— and so he fell limp, like a puppet with its strings cut. (Redirecting all available power to destruction of malware.) He couldn’t even speak back.
To his credit, Tom still managed to escape with a sporadically-seizing android cradled in his arms. They hadn’t been detected on the way in, (pride—blooming, blossoming, ecstatic, elation, yes, I did that—) but attracted plenty of attention on the way out. Tom took the disadvantage and used it. “My friend is hurt!” he shouted, and a path was made for them. (Tom Riker. Friend. Reevaluate.) “I really have to get home—he’s sick, he’s not well, please show me the fastest way—” (0.8 kilometres.)
Their small ship (Klingon. Stolen. Tom’s.) was unharmed and exactly where they (Tom.) had left it. Tom nearly whacked his head on the way in, which Lore would have laughed at if he had the energy to spare. Lore didn’t have a bed, because he didn’t need it, so Tom laid him down in his instead. (Soft, warm, stifling, overheating, goodbad—) His touch lingered. (Pleasantunpleasant—)
“I’m getting us out of here,” Tom told him, tone quiet. “I’ll set a course for the middle of nowhere and then come back and help you, okay?” There was emotion in his voice. (ANALYSIS: CONCERNED.) There was nothing he could do, Lore was sure he knew that. (Query: why does he say he’s going to help if he can’t? Answer: because he’s human.) “If there’s somewhere we need to go to get this fixed, though—”
Lore managed a stiff shake of his head. (6% of power redirected to vocal synthesiser.) “N—owhere,” he said. “I ju—ust need t—time.” (Estimated 1.5 hours until virus neutralised.) A full shutdown could have the malware purged instantly, but it would purge the data they’d risked their lives for as well. (Deactivation equals death.) He had his reasons for choosing not to undergo that process as well. (Ice-cold, fear, meaningless apologies, revenge, hatred—)
“I’ll give you time, then.” Tom spoke gently, as if talking to an injured child. (Offence, anger, frustration, affection, distaste—) He pressed a communicator into Lore’s hand. (Touch. Warmth.) “If something changes, anything, tell me. I don’t want to lose—” (The data.) “—you.” (ANALYSIS: SINCERE.)
Lore’s automatic blinking program had stalled; it reactivated with his surprise. (Anticipation, fireworks, confusion, shock, pleasure, cold water on his neck—) But Tom had already gone, before he could question the accuracy of his statement. He considered Tom (a friend) an ally. He would not hesitate to sacrifice him if necessary. (Query: is Tom sentimental? Answer: yes. Because he’s human. They get attached.)
Time passed. (9.8 minutes.) Lore’s circuits worked on removing the affectation. (Functionality restored to the following components…)
Tom returned. The red light of the stolen Klingon vessel made him appear threatening (stoic, intimidating, powerful, controlling—) as he loomed over the ailing android. And yet, when he knelt down, he was tender, and Lore’s warning signals hadn’t increased. Tom placed the back of his hand on Lore’s forehead. “You’re burning up,” he muttered. (Colloquialism: to have a bad fever.) “What can I do? Do you need to be cooled down?”
“No,” Lore snapped, having regained better control of his voice. “I. Will. Be. Fine.” (Estimated 1.25 hours until virus neutralised.) “An hour. An hour and a half, maybe. It’s strong, but I am—” He lurched up, and would have fallen back down on the pillows if Tom hadn’t reached out to grab him. (Touch.) “—stronger.” The sensors on his back were burning. Tom’s hand was searing his synthetic flesh. (Error, error, warning, get AWAYGETAWAY—) “Don’t touch me, Riker.”
“Oh. Right,” Tom breathed. The pressure disappeared. “Do you want to yell at me? I said you could, when I carried you out. I’d offer a spar, but you’re really not fit for that right now.” (ANALYSIS: SINCERE.) “I won’t touch you again. I know you don’t like it.” (Like? Like is relative.) He fidgeted with his hands, now that they weren’t on Lore. (ANALYSIS: ANXIOUS.)
Lore laid his head back down on the pillow. (Tom’s bed.) “The virus is overwhelming— everything,” he explained quietly. “Extra— sensations just make it— worse.” (I’m lying. No, I’m not.) “I’ll take a raincheck.” He just felt… tired. (Crushing weight, strings holding him down, mild panic, eyelids fluttering, I can’t sleep I don’t know how—)
“Are you really going to be okay?” Tom asked. “Tell me the truth, Lore. I’ve never seen you like this.” (And I never wanted you to. Vulnerable, stupid, weak—)
“Why the— hell do you care?” Lore spat. “I’ll have the data for you in time, no need to get so… mother hen.” (Get away, stay away, don’t look at me like that, don’t pretend that you care—)
Tom was still for a moment. (3.1 seconds.) He looked hurt. “Because—because I thought we were friends?” he offered quietly.
Lore pushed himself up onto his elbows, (motor control operating at 49% efficiency) and looked at Tom. “Friends,” he repeated with a snort. “That doesn’t mean anything to me, Riker.” (Friend: a person whom one knows and with whom one has a bond of mutual affection.) “Well, I know what it means but I don’t know what it’s like. I’ve never had one. And if this is what having friends is like, then I don’t want it. Go worry about some squishy human instead.”
“You’ve never had a friend?” (ANALYSIS: SURPRISED.)
Lore’s jaw clenched. (Annoyance, rejection, hatred, fear—) “Never,” he said. “I… scare people.” He leaned forward, expecting Tom to flinch back, but he didn’t. (Query: brave, or just stupid? Answer: both.) “Nobody wants to be nice to a thing like me. Nobody worries about the health of a machine. Nobody cares about me so stop saying BULLSHIT!” (Venom, anger, hands clenched, shaking, fury, fireburningrage—)
Tom abruptly stood up, icy blue eyes glaring down at the android in his bed. “You think I’m lying to you?” he demanded in a low voice, body quivering with anger. “Answer me, Lore. You think we’ve gone through all of this and I don’t care about you at all?” (Lazon II, reassembly, escape, alliance—) “Maybe it’s just because I’m human, and maybe I’m an idiot to think that you would hate me any less than when we first met after all this time, but I didn’t think we were enemies anymore.”
(Maybe he’s always been lying to me.) “You’re using me,” Lore replied, slowly. “It’s all people ever want. They see me as a tool, maybe a dignified toaster if I’m lucky, and then when I’m defective they throw me away again—” (Disassembled and abandoned, he deserved to die, I was glad to kill him—)
“Are you even listening to me?” Tom’s hands grabbed Lore’s shoulders, shaking him and forcing him to look up. (Touch, touch— error… error.) “I don’t think you’re defective, I’m not abandoning you, and I’m worried about you! You volunteered for this! When have I ever used you, or belittled you, or told you that you were just a machine?” (ANALYSIS: FURIOUS.) His voice lowered into a growl. “Whoever taught you this, I’ll kill them.”
Something was misfiring in Lore’s positronic brain. He couldn’t focus. (Redirecting 72% of total available power to immune response.) “Soong’s already dead,” he mumbled. (Noonien Soong: father. Creator. Murderer. Deceased.) “I killed him. I liked it. I’m very happy that he’s dead.” He managed an uncanny smile, meeting Tom’s eyes. “That should scare you.”
“It doesn’t,” Tom replied instantly. “If I could wring my father’s neck I would do it in a heartbeat, and I’d be happy, too.” (Kyle Riker: enemy. Abandoned Tom at the age of 15. Scumbag.) “I understand, Lore. That’s what makes me different from everyone else. I understand you. And I care about you. Is that so hard to believe?” (Heat. Flames, licking at his sensors, tearing chunks out of his flesh—) “Lore?”
(Temperature regulation at 20% operating capacity.) “You’re burning me,” Lore hissed instead of answering. “It’s…” (I like it. I like how it feels .) “You’re right. You’re different .” (You’re the sun.)
“That’s because of the fever,” Tom explained. “I’m not sure how it works for androids, but you’re definitely running hot, and I’m sure it’s just that…” He hesitated. (0.8 seconds.) “We’ll finish this conversation when you’re not ill, alright?” (ANALYSIS: REGRETFUL.) “I shouldn’t have made you agitated.”
“No.” Lore grabbed the collar of Tom’s jacket and held him fast. (Fear washes over like cold water; no, I won’t let go—) “Stay here, Riker, explain why you—” (Desperation.) Like water to a man stranded in the desert. “Explain why you care about me or I’ll snap your neck.”
“Because I’ve been through it all, too,” said Tom. “Because I’m the only person in the entire damn universe that understands even a fraction of how you feel next to Data.” His grip tightened and pushed Lore back against the wall, (cold, jarring, solid metal, breakable—) seating them both on the bed. Lore had long since muted the warning bells; his skin could be ash by now and he wouldn’t know nor care. “Because I was replaced by the perfect son I could never be, and left for dead for eight years, and no matter what I do everybody that looks at me will only. Ever. See. Him.” (Thomas Riker: transporter clone of William Riker. Lieutenant, traitor, friend.) “And because, for some unfathomable reason, I’ve fallen in love with you, you oblivious, infuriating, infatuating wonder of an android.”
(Query: why? Answer: because he loves me. Because he’s human, and he loves me.)
“Lore?” His touch was no longer there. He was (ANALYSIS: TENTATIVE. ANXIOUS. CONCERNED.) tender as he regarded his motionless companion, frozen solid to the bed as his limited processing power tried and failed to register the new information. “Lore… please. I’m sorry if you didn’t want to hear that. I shouldn’t have…”
“I agree,” interrupted Lore. “We should finish this conversation when I’m not fighting for my life.” (WARNING: critical failure in estimated 2.5 minutes.) “I know how to… fix this. Faster. But I need you to do it.” (No, no, no, don’t tell him, tell him, don’t trust him, I trust him—) “Lower back. There’s… a switch. Press it, wait five minutes, then press it again.” He fixed Tom with the iciest stare he could muster. “If you don’t wake me up in five minutes, when I do wake up, I will hunt you down, do you understand?”
“Yes,” Tom breathed. (ANALYSIS: JARRED. OVERWHELMED.) “Five minutes.” His fingertips burned a searing line into Lore’s back as he slowly felt for the switch; a jolt of fear and distrust and the urge to lash out shot through Lore when he found it—his Achilles’ heel, the only symbol of trust, of affection, that he had. (Understand me.) “Please live.”
Lore’s synthetic teeth ground together. “I will.” (I’m scared.) “If you do what I asked you to and don’t fuck it up.” (Prove what you said to me.)
“I promise.”
Then there was a soft click, and the last thing Lore felt before the world went dark was the gentle warmth of Tom’s hands on his back. (Query: is this what love feels like?)
(Answer: unknown.)