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Chapter Text

Her entire life from before the manor, and even after, V had lived following three simple rules: Keep quiet, keep your head down, and keep alive.

She’d made those rules quite early on in, and for the most part they had carried her for quite a long time. Far enough to avoid the wrong kind of attention, and to keep from being discarded as fast as other drones were. Far enough to survive.

But not always.

She had broken the third rule once before, and it had almost cost her everything. Survival wasn’t guaranteed for drones who slipped up, not even once. To fail was to be thrown out—useless, replaceable, gone. By all rights, that should have been the end of her story.

And yet, against all odds, it wasn’t.

Instead, a young girl had fixed V up and taken her into the Elliot Estate, and if there was any such thing as fortune for a drone like her, this was it. Few, if any, ever found themselves granted a second chance after their original owners had deemed them defective. The Elliots hated her, yes, but they didn’t bother dealing with a drone like her so long as she stayed out of their way and followed her three rules. And it worked, for the most part. A second chance at life that others did not get. Some might have even called her lucky.

V did not.

What good was a second chance if it came shackled to the same limitations as the first? A “new” life was hardly worth celebrating when you were still bound to the same mind numbing existence—when you couldn’t imagine doing anything with it beyond keeping your head bowed and waiting for the days to blur past.

Not that she denied it was better here. Better compared to before, at least. Better than the cruelty of her previous master, whose patience was a thin string compared to the heads of the Elliot manor. Punishments had lingered in her memory and body long after Tessa had fixed her up. In fact, there was some damage that simply couldn’t be fixed.

Life under the Elliots was tolerable because she kept to her rules. She did not speak unless spoken to. She never dared to stand out or set herself apart in any way. Becoming invisible was the safest thing she could do. Those rules had carved themselves so deep into her code that even with the opportunity to shed them, she could not peel them away.

And so she remained as she always had: apart.

She kept her distance from the other servant drones, though in truth it wasn’t difficult—most of them avoided her anyway, some out of indifference, others because no one wanted to risk association with a drone that had already failed once. The few who spoke to her were acquaintances at best. J was one of them. Though both came from the dump, they gave little more than acknowledgments traded in quiet corners or while tasks overlapped. J, ever efficient, had no patience for idle words; work came first, always, because slacking even for a moment could mean immediate disposal. V understood. She respected it. Like V herself, J had her own set of self imposed rules she would follow, but it meant the conversations never grew into anything more.

Then there was Tessa—the Elliots’ only daughter. In some ways, Tessa was more bound than any of the drones, her leash woven from her parents’ expectations rather than code. They did not approve of her mingling with the servants (even less when it was V and J), and though Tessa’s eyes sometimes lingered on V, she kept her distance. To do otherwise would invite scrutiny, punishment, and worse—for her and for the drones she reached toward. Only J, as her personal maid, was allowed any real closeness.

Which left V with little at all. Her ties to J were too thin, her interactions with Tessa too brief. And even if she could theoretically spend more time with them, V had already spent so long following her own rules that for the most part, she had grown too shy to do anything. Her own rules had kept her safe, but taken away her ability to interact with others without looking down and struggling to say words. So to call either Tessa or J a friend would have been a lie. Her world, then, was made up of nothing but silence—of rules repeated endlessly in her head: keep quiet, keep your head down, keep alive. It was a small world. A lonely one, especially. And V had long since convinced herself that it was all she could expect.

It was strange, when she thought about it, how thoroughly she had made a prison out of her own mind. No walls or chains—just three little rules that bound her tighter than anything the Elliots ever could. Survival demanded obedience, and obedience demanded silence. She had repeated the cycle for so long that she wasn’t sure anymore whether she even had the capability to break it.

Here she was, alive, free in the barest technical sense, given a “second chance” that most drones would kill for, and yet she could not touch it. She stood in the middle of a world that was somewhat better, and she could feel none of it. Safety had become a cage just as much as danger once had. Freedom wasn’t the absence of punishment; it was the presence of possibility. And possibility was something she had long since trained herself not to see.

When she tried to imagine what it might feel like to speak openly, to laugh, to reach out to someone without fear of what it might cost, her systems almost recoiled. There was a quiet panic in the thought, as though stepping outside the invisible lines she had drawn for herself would cause her to collapse, would expose her as something unworthy of even this fragile second life. Better to stay small, she told herself. Better to vanish into the background, unseen and untouched. Better to stick to herself and not trouble anyone else.

…And yet—there was a hunger she couldn’t erase. Something deep inside that told her mere survival was not enough. That whispered there had to be something more than keeping her head low and her voice caged. Companionship. Friendship. Intimacy. It was not a loud voice, not strong enough to undo the rules she’d built, but it was there, gnawing at the edges of her carefully maintained silence.

Sometimes she wondered if this faint ache for more was her punishment. If surviving when she shouldn’t have meant she was doomed to carry this restless longing, trapped between the comfort of her rules and the possibility of breaking them. To want something she couldn’t even name, something she could not allow herself to chase.

And so her days passed in quiet repetition. A cycle without color. A life that was technically living but felt half-finished. V existed, yes. But living? She wasn’t sure she remembered how.

V sighed to herself, systems slowly blinking to life as the first rays of sunshine came through the windows. It was the signal to start the day, and she obeyed without hesitation. Her body moved, gathering cleaning implements from the supply room, her optics sweeping the polished halls of the Elliot estate with the usual blankness.

The manor itself was a place of careful grandeur, all cold marble and dark wood polished to a shine that reflected distorted versions of herself as she passed. Sometimes she wondered if that was all she was—reflections stretched thin across surfaces, too easy to ignore.

Oh well. Time to get to work.

She grabbed her trusty featherduster and stood on a stepstool, dusting shelves lined with books and paper. The library was by far her favourite place to be. Whereas doing other chores could feel tedious at times, she loved it when she was assigned to care for the library and all its wonders. The books and their fairytales made up for the lack of people in her life. Imaginary friends filled the void where there was none. She could spend hours upon hours just sitting in here, reading to pass the time.

It made her wonder why the house heads never seemed to visit the place. She couldn’t think of a single time Louisa or James had stepped foot in the manor library. Most of the time it was used by Tessa or by the other drone staff. And more often than them, it was V.

She never had anything better to do, afterall.

Other drones crossed her path from time to time, each absorbed in their own work and conversations. Though, everyone definitely seemed a lot more chatty lately. What were they talking about? she wondered.

From the doorway, J passed by, balancing a tray of porcelain cups that clinked softly as she moved through. They locked eyes only briefly—an entire conversation compressed into that look. Then J was gone, and V returned to her dusting.

As cold as always, V thought to herself. J was never one for pleasantries if they weren’t needed.

The hours blurred into one another, as they always did, but every so often the monotony broke with fragments of conversation, carried between other drones who were less careful than most, words half-whispered when they thought no one was listening. Something about the Elliots receiving a gift. Something about a new addition to their ranks. Something about a drone unlike the rest of them.

That piqued her interest.

While the manor got new drones every so often with how fast the Elliots broke them, it was rare for it to be a topic of discussion. Replacements arrived often enough that V rarely paid them any mind. They appeared, they served, they faltered, and they disappeared again, usually without so much as a trace left behind—except in the growing junk heap just beyond the estate’s grounds. That junk heap was filled with her predecessors. She wouldn’t be too surprised if this new addition to the work force would end up there sooner rather than later, since that “new” did not mean “lasting.”

But technically, this was different. Gifts among the nobility were often special. A drone presented by another family was bound to be something noteworthy. Surely a drone given by a noble of high standing would reflect such status in its longevity. Though, she wondered how far being special would actually get the newcomer in a place like this. Special or not, the junk pile did not discriminate.

Her movement slowed as she heard movement in the corridor. Some more servant drones walking past. V instinctively lowered her head, pretending to fuss with the imaginary dust on the shelves, all while tuning her audio receptors sharper.

“So why’s this such a big deal?” she heard one ask. “We get new staff all the time.”

“This one’s from Lord Frumptlebucket,” she heard a different voice reply. “Heard it was cutting edge technology compared to us… whatever that means.”

The first scoffed. “Cutting edge? Bet it won’t last even half as long as we have”

“Maybe,” the second said. “But whatever the case, we’ll be seeing it soon, anyways. The Lord is on his way right now while the Master is preparing for the arrival.”

By the time they were out of earshot, V was up against the wall, trying to catch any other snippets of their conversation. Not really any new information provided, but still interesting. A drone given by Lord Frumptlebucket? That was no joke, especially considering how his family’s influence reached deep into the drone industry. The Elliots, of course, were no less significant; their reach sprawled through the upper rungs of technology, a family name synonymous with progress and power. Where one advanced, the other matched, and so the families orbited each other in a delicate balance of rivalry and alliance. A gift, then, from one house to the other, was quite important, as one might imagine. It was politics made flesh—or in this case, circuitry. Ensuring relations between the two remained as well as they could.

Her processors hummed with thought as she pieced it together, imagining what sort of drone might emerge from such a transaction. A model sleeker than any of them, built with functions she couldn’t guess at. What kind of tasks would it be assigned? What was its purpose? Would it matter at all, when the Elliots had proven time and again how easily they could break even the most finely crafted creations?

V was so enthralled in her thoughts that she hadn’t even noticed that J had come back. The twintailed drone coughed into her fist, giving V an unimpressed look. The latter blushed, digital lines crossing her visor as she stumbled away.

“What were you doing?” J asked, crossing her arms.

“I-It was… n-nothing,” V stammered, lowering her gaze to the floor, heat rising in her systems. The denial wasn’t convincing anyone.

J lingered on her, silent for a beat too long, as though scanning for any traces of dishonesty. Then she sighed. “Hmm. Well, whatever. Have you finished your duties?”

“Y-Yes,” V replied, hands fidgeting at her sides.

“Good.” J’s stance straightened, her voice taking on the crisp tone of an order. “Because the Master is calling everyone to the foyer. We’re to be ready to greet Lord Frumptlebucket.”

“A-Already?” V blurted before she could stop herself. She had only just heard the whispers. Frumptlebucket was quite fast, so it would seem.

“Yes.” J’s tone left no space for protest. “Now hurry. We’ve no time for idle chit-chat.”

J was already striding ahead by the time V’s processors finally caught up to her words. Flustered, V stumbled forward, her thin frame jerking into motion as if the momentum of J’s presence alone pulled her along. The distance between them was only a few steps, yet it felt far greater, a gulf marked by posture and confidence. J moved like someone who belonged in every room she entered—her back straight, her head held high, her twin pigtails swaying with each measured stride. There was no hesitation in her gait, no wavering in her direction. She knew where she was going. She always did. As impeccable as the corporate businessmen she so idolized. Always straight to the point, much like the corporation jargon she so often spouted. It made V wonder what kind of life J had lived before coming here, for her to have such a… unique outlook.

V, by contrast, moved like she was trying to hide in her own shadow. Her shoulders folded inward, arms tucked close to her sides, visor angled toward the floor. Every movement betrayed her desire to shrink, to vanish, to make herself small enough that no one would notice she was even there. Where J radiated presence, V radiated absence. They walked together, and yet they couldn’t have appeared more different.

J, of course, offered no words for conversation. She never did, not unless it concerned work (or Tessa). Ever so silent. Silence that created walls V couldn’t scale.

And so they walked, two drones bound together by their master, but separated by everything else—confidence and timidity, voice and silence, presence and shadow. The glasses wearing maid really wanted to share in the strange curiosity blooming in her chest about the new arrival. But her tongue failed her, as it always did, and the silence stretched on.

She really wished it didn’t.

The manor’s foyer had never felt so suffocating. The servant drones—every one of them—stood in lines along the polished floor, hands clasped neatly in front of them, eyes locked forward as protocol demanded. V found herself in the front row, shoulder to shoulder with J, who stood as unshakable as ever, her features unwavering, as though she were carved into the very stone of the manor. V tried to mirror that composure, but she could feel the tremor in her limbs. Her visor glitched faintly as she fought to still herself.

The atmosphere changed when Lord Frumptlebucket entered. It was not merely the sound of his boots against the floor, nor the sweep of his tailored coat brushing behind him. It was his sheer presence, the certainty with which he moved, as though the entire hall belonged to him the moment he stepped across the threshold. And alongside him was James Elliot, the master of the manor, the man whose command defined every breath and motion of the drones gathered there.

“Frumptlebucket,” James said, reaching out to clasp the other man’s hand. “You didn’t have to come out all this way, especially for something as trivial as a gift.”

Lord Frumptlebucket’s smile was practiced, his own hand meeting James’ with a firm grip. “Nonsense, James. Something as special as this warrants me being here.”

James’ brow rose slightly, suspicion flickering across his face before smoothing into neutrality. He did not press further. Frumptlebucket only widened his smirk, then flicked his gaze toward his own drones, who stood burdened with a crate. The thing was immense, as tall as James himself, its sides groaning as the servants maneuvered it through the doorway and across the floor. When they lowered it to the ground, the sound of the impact reverberated through the chamber—thunk!—a sound so heavy it made V flinch, her entire body jerking as though she had been struck.

James approached the crate, circling it curiously. His eyes narrowed as he glanced back at his guest. “And what exactly have you brought to my steps, Frumptlebucket?”

The Lord chuckled. “The absolute pinnacle of machinery, my dear friend. A drone that can fulfill any task you desire. A servant, a soldier—whatever your household requires, it can provide. It can even assist with cleaning up the… useless junk you’ve accumulated here.” His hand swept toward the lines of drones standing at attention, his words making their frames stiffen.

James’ composure cracked for only a fraction of a second—just enough to betray intrigue—before smoothing again. But for the drones, they couldn’t help but worry. V could feel the tremors ripple through the lines, an almost imperceptible shiver, each of them gripped by the same silent dread. The idea of replacement was no stranger to them—they all had to worry for their lives everyday—but to have it promised in such confident tones was making everyone antsy.

The only one who seemed untouched was J. Even so, V, standing closest to her, caught the faint downturn of her mouth. J was composed, yes, but she was not immune.

Then Frumptlebucket snapped his fingers. His servants responded at once, their hands prying open the sealed edges.

“James,” the Lord said with relish, “I want you to meet the latest advancement in human technology…”

The hinges groaned. The box split apart. And for V, it was like watching the gates of hell being pried open before her eyes. She felt her circuits seize with dread. Her rules, her second chance—they all seemed ready to crumble. If this machine could do everything, if it could take every task, every purpose she clung to, then what use was she? What future awaited her but the dump outside the estate, alone and broken again, rusting beneath an uncaring sky? The thought was unbearable, yet impossible to stop. Her hands trembled where they were folded, her breath stuttered inside her frame, and the glitching on her visor got worse. Of all times for her vision to act up, why now?

“Come out and greet your new master.”

And then it stepped into the light.

The drone that emerged was unlike anything V had ever seen. Where she and the others were built for compact labor, their frames slight, their limbs thin, this one was big. It stood as tall as James Elliot himself, its chest broad, its limbs thick. Its head bore a band of yellow lights, glowing like an unblinking eye across its crown, casting eerie streaks across its plated features.

“James,” Frumptlebucket said, “allow me to present Serial Designation N—the latest and most advanced Disassembly Drone yet produced. Stronger and faster than any model before him. A marvel not just of engineering, but of imagination. He was designed to dismantle with perfect precision, to seek out flaws and strip them away… yet also to serve loyally, with all the grace and obedience of your finest workers.”

A faint murmur rippled through the line of drones, quickly swallowed back into silence, but V felt it in the air around her. Fear, yes—but also something else. Fascination.

N stood tall, his visor gleaming as the light shifted across its surface, and for a brief moment, V thought she saw him hesitate, as if he shrunk under James’s gaze before slipping back into neutrality. The aforementioned man stepped closer, circling him like a vulture.

“A Disassembly Drone,” he said softly. “Why on Earth have you brought me a warmachine, Frumptlebucket?”

“Because, James. There is nothing Serial Designation N cannot do. He is the future—the proof that machines are no longer mere tools, but true extensions of their masters’ will.”

V’s fingers dug into her palms where they were folded, listening in to the conversation between the two nobles. A Disassembly Drone. A real one, standing not ten paces away. She had read about them before in history books. Once upon a time, when the wars of humanity were beginning to evolve, soldiers of flesh and blood had been deemed too fragile, and an unnecessary sacrifice. Worker Drones had taken their place on the battlefield, armies of metal fighting wars in their masters’ names. And in response to that change, as always, humanity had built one of the most deadly weapons ever. Thus came the Disassembly Drones. Ruthless hunters. A handful of them could tear through battalions of Workers in an instant, and their self-sustaining systems meant they could go on for potentially years without ever needing maintenance.

V swallowed.

The thought of it—three of them strong enough to obliterate entire armies—should have filled her with nothing but terror. And in truth, it did. A tremor shuddered through her frame, rattling down into her core. But as her gaze lingered on the figure now revealed before her, she felt… confused. Because the thing standing there did not radiate the pure brutality she had imagined. Instead, there was something else that slipped in where fear should have rooted itself. His presence did not repel her, but pulled at her.

An allure. A magnetism. A force she could not name.

Serial Designation N straightened his back, his towering form rising to its full height. And then, to V’s astonishment, he raised his hand in a crisp salute before breaking into a smile so bright, so utterly disarming, that for a moment she forgot how to breathe (she didn’t need to anyways). It was not the grim expression of a weapon come to life. It was warm. Charming. Almost… human.

“Hello!” he said, and even his voice was like honey in her audio receptors. “My name is Serial Designation N! I love doing anything, and I hope to be of service!”

The sound of it was almost surreal—bubbly, eager, lighthearted in a way that had no place coming from something designed to kill her kind.

For a split second, V swore her core thumped harder, her processors hiccupping like a skipped heartbeat. Something in her had jolted alive.

It really could’ve been anything. The sleekness of his design, the way the polished armor of his body gleamed under the chandelier light. Maybe it was the brightness of that impossible smile, a grin that seemed almost too large for his face, lighting him from the inside out. She didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t look away.

Even when N seemed to falter under her gaze—a subtle flinch betraying that he had noticed her stare—V did not stop. She should have. The rules demanded it. But she could not.

James Elliot gave a curt nod of approval, already turning back toward Frumptlebucket. In that moment, free of his master’s scrutiny, N turned. His optics scanned across the rows of Worker Drones until, finally, they locked with hers.

Yellow. Bright, vivid yellow, alive with a vibrancy she had never seen in another drone. It was like staring into a sun she had not realized existed until now. The gaze held her, pinned her in place, until the corner of his mouth curved again into that same grin. And then—utterly unbothered—he lifted his hand and gave her the smallest of waves.

Her breath caught in her chest.

The first rule she had ever written for herself was simple: keep your head down. Never make eye contact, never stand out, never be seen. The rules were rules for a reason. They kept her alive this long. And yet, her head was lifted, her gaze locked, her entire being illuminated by that smile. She should have looked away. She didn’t.

For the second time in her life, V had broken one of her rules.

Chapter Text

V couldn’t think properly.

Well, it wasn’t like she needed her full focus to do her work. After all, she had been performing these same routines for years. Dust, polish, clean, move on. The chores were second nature. Even now, with her mind miles away, her hands moved on their own accord—polishing silver trays, sweeping floors, folding linens in such an autonomous way it could have been done by a machine far less sentient than she was. It was almost cruel, how easily she could continue existing without thinking.

But the harder she tried to ignore him, the more her thoughts tangled around the Disassembly Drone. Him, with his smile like sunlight through storm clouds.

To be fair, she wasn’t the only one. Everywhere she went, she could hear whispers and gossip from the other staff regarding the manor’s newest addition. Drones murmured in corners and corridors, their voices hushed but alive with nervous energy. There was a very wide variety of things being said from all the staff members.

Some worried over what having a Disassembly Drone amongst the ranks would mean for them.

“What’s the Master thinking, bringing that here?”

“We’re already disposable enough.”

Some would resolve themselves to make sure they did their best to not be deemed redundant.

“We just have to work harder. Prove we’re still useful.”

“If we stay out of its way, maybe it won’t notice us.”

And then, of course, there were the ones who couldn’t stop talking about him for entirely different reasons…

“Did you see how tall he was? He’s a giant!”

“And so broad too. That chest alone looks like it could crush me.”

“That voice though… like, wow. Not what I expected from a killer. He sounds so sweet.”

Others were more preoccupied with how the newcomer looked rather than the threat he posed to their livelihood. Which, again, to be fair, she couldn’t really fault them for. He certainly was a looker, if you ignored the whole “made to dismantle them” thing.

Yet none of that was what kept replaying in her mind.

It was the smile. That impossible, blinding, dazzling smile.

It made no sense. How could something designed to kill look so—gentle? She could still picture it perfectly, bright and almost boyish, like he had no understanding of how wrong it was for him to grin like that. And worse still, she remembered how that smile had been directed at her. Not at James. Not at Lord Frumptlebucket. At her.

He most likely hadn’t meant anything by it. She knew that. He was probably just being polite. But she found herself stuck in that moment, replaying it over and over again in her mind. And every time she caught herself thinking about it—thinking about him—she could almost feel her core flutter.

She tried to remind herself that despite his smile, deep down, N was a killing machine, and she could just as easily be his next target if she wasn’t careful. But it just wouldn’t work. Because whenever she paused, even for a second, she’d find herself staring at nothing and realizing she wasn’t imagining the weapon he was supposed to be. She was imagining the curve of his lips and how it had lit up the entire room. How happy he looked to simply wave hello to someone he didn’t know.

She couldn’t remember the last time she had felt happy.

And in all honesty, it was a bit infuriating.

You’re being ridiculous, she thought to herself. He’s dangerous. He’ll kill you if given the chance.

Stop being stupid, V.

But logic had no power over the part of her that remembered the way he waved at her. Was she really so pathetic to the point that simple hello was enough to get her mind occupied entirely? V had many low points throughout her life, but this might just take the cake. A simple wave, and suddenly he was all she could think about.

And she hated how it made her think and feel.

When the others spoke about him, their words were tuned out. V didn’t care what they thought. She only wanted to know what he thought. What he saw when his eyes had found hers in the crowd.

Maybe she was imagining it all. Maybe it had been a coincidence. It certainly wasn’t stopping her, though. That was the wonderful thing about imagination: all her hopes and would-be scenarios were real in the realm of her own consciousness. If they never could exist out here, then at least they could in there.

V balanced the bucket of cleaning supplies against her hip. In her other hand she carried a step stool. Cleaning the manor’s endless array of paintings was far from her favorite chore, but she couldn’t deny it had its perks. The corridors were quiet—eerily so—and she preferred them that way. No chatter, and around this time there was a very small risk of bumping into one of the Elliots in a mood foul enough to remind her just how disposable she really was.

Peaceful monotony. That was what she lived for.

The manor had hundreds of these paintings—portraits of long-dead ancestors, landscapes of places the Elliots would never visit, stiff depictions of wealth masquerading as art. By the time she would finish the wing, the day would be nearly over, and she’d have avoided all the “unpleasant” work assignments. A small mercy, but she clung to it.

She liked to plan her route ahead of time: start near the guest suites, move her way toward the main hall, finish near the study, and maybe—if the day was kind—steal a few minutes there to read before powering down. There was slight excitement at the thought. There were a few books she had in mind that she was eager to read.

But as she rounded a corner, V couldn’t help but gasp in surprise at who she saw standing in the hall, studying one of the paintings. N himself was glancing up, studying a framed family painting of Tessa and her parents. The golden light from the sconces caught on the smooth metallic lines of his armor, reflecting a soft sheen that made him look almost… otherworldly. His head did an adorable little tilt to the side, as if in deep thought, before he slowly turned to face her. And just like the first time, he gave her that smile.

“Oh, hello!” he greeted. “Good to see you again.”

V felt her body heat up. Good to see you again?

Oh god, he remembered her.

That wasn’t good. That was the opposite of good. She had already broken one of her self imposed rules the day he arrived—keep your head down. Drawing attention to herself, even accidentally, was the fastest way to end up on the scrap heap. And now, somehow, she had caught the eye of a machine built specifically to tear drones apart. She’d never been more aware of how small she was compared to him—how fragile.

And yet… for all her instincts screaming danger, she didn’t feel it.

N didn’t radiate threat the way a weapon should. His stance was open, posture easy, optics bright. If anything, he looked pleased to have someone to talk to.

“I was just passing through,” he continued, gesturing to the portrait. “And I saw this painting! Can’t help but admire it—kudos to the artist, really!”

V opened her mouth, then closed, unsure of how to respond. Her grip on the feather duster tightened as her words failed to come out. Probably the word's possible time for this to be happening. She tried to force out a reply, but not even breath came out. Her visor flickered faintly in embarrassment, and she tightened her grip on the duster until she could feel the shaft bending slightly under her fingers. As always, her timidity was her undoing.

He was waiting for her to answer. She had to say something.

She couldn’t.

Internally, she seethed, shame prickling under her plating. Typical. Always freezing when it mattered. Always useless.

When N received no reply, he just hummed to himself, and for a second, V thought her life was over on the spot—that maybe his programming had decided her lack of response was insubordination. He was going to kill her, wasn’t he? For being as useless as she was. Unable to even reply. Honestly, she deserved it at this point. The Elliots had no need for something like her.

But the seconds passed.

And N didn’t move.

Instead, he shifted his weight slightly, turning to face her fully. The motion made her flinch, a small involuntary step backward. She immediately regretted it, stepping forward again, hoping he hadn’t noticed. He must have, of course—but if it bothered him, he didn’t show it.

“You’re pretty quiet,” he said. Not accusing her—just… understanding. “That’s okay. I get that. Talking to new people can be scary, right? I was kind of nervous coming here myself. Whole new place, lots of eyes on me. It’s… all a bit intimidating, if I’m being honest.”

For a moment, V could only stare at him, her expression bewildered.

What the hell was he saying?

A living weapon engineered to dismantle and destroy without hesitation… chatting awkwardly about social anxiety? It didn’t make sense. None of it made sense…

And yet, hearing him say it with that tiny lilt of bashfulness—it made something inside her soften, and she felt herself calm just a tad.

Her hands shook slightly as she adjusted her duster, pretending to find a speck of dust on the nearest frame just so she wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. But even then, she could feel his gaze—curious, and far too kind for what he was supposed to be.

N, apparently undeterred by her silence, rocked back on his heels and looked up at the painting again, arms crossed in what could only be described as a thoughtful pose. “You know,” he began, “I’ve never really understood portraits. Like—humans painting themselves? You’d think with all the cameras they’ve got, they’d just… take a picture instead.” He chuckled softly. “Then again, I guess painting’s more… artistic? Romantic? Something like that.”

V said nothing. Her optics flicked from the painting to him and back again.

But he didn’t seem to notice—or if he did, he didn’t care.

He kept talking, words spilling freely, unbothered by the one-sided nature of the conversation. “I passed by the kitchen earlier! Smelled something burning—uh, not me, obviously—but wow, you guys really cook a lot here. I didn’t even know drones ate food until today. Then I remembered, oh, right, humans still live here! Just kinda hard to remember that fact sometimes with how many drones are here in this manor.”

And another laugh.

V’s hands moved, feather duster brushing across the pictures. The way he spoke—so animated, so unaware of the quiet fear he stirred—confused her more than anything else. He wasn’t like the others. Not like the humans, cold and harsh. Not like the drones, devoid and empty. He spoke as though he was anything but a killing machine.

“Do you like the paintings?” he asked suddenly, and the question jolted her back to the present.

Her fingers froze mid-sweep. He was looking at her again.

“Uh… I mean, you’re cleaning them, so maybe not,” he added quickly. “I get it, though—when you have to do something every day, it stops being fun. Happens with… uh, a lot of things, actually. Like flying! I mean, not that I get bored of flying, it’s great, but still, if I did it every second of every day, I’d probably—uh—get a bit tired of it.”

V blinked, confused. Was… was he rambling?

Her chest tightened—not in fear this time, but something more akin to amusement. She bit it down, pressing her lips together. He seemed to catch her hesitation and smiled sheepishly, scratching the back of his neck. “Sorry, I talk too much. I do that sometimes. Just… trying to make friends, you know?”

Friends.

She felt her throat go dry at the word.

Was… was he like her? Did he too have that desire for a connection? She could sympathise with that. How long had it been since she’d been able to freely talk to someone? Since she’d been able to let her thoughts free without fear? How long since she had truly had a friend?

It was surprising to hear N talking about such a thing, but she supposed it made sense. He was made to dispose of them. No one would want to get close to what could be their eventual killer. And in her optics, that made N seem a little less like some dangerous machine, and a little more… relatable. Because behind his ridiculous chatter and that warm grin, she was beginning to see the start of something else.

Loneliness.

She and him had that in common. Shunned from the rest of the workforce because of the fear that either he or she would bring their downfall. Him because it was what he was made to do, and her because she’d already failed once before.

They were similar, in that regard.

She tried to speak again—maybe a simple acknowledgement—but all that came out was air, too soft to register as sound.

He tilted his head, optics narrowing slightly in what looked like concern. “Hey… are you okay? You look kinda… pale? Well, you’re metal, but still. You sure you’re not overheating or something?”

V immediately stepped back, shaking her head too fast, the gesture jerky and panicked. The movement was so sudden, it startled even her. N blinked, then smiled again.

“Okay,” he said simply, hands raised in a show of peace. “Just checking.”

The silence that followed was heavy—not uncomfortable, but not exactly comfortable either. N turned back to the painting, humming a faint, tuneless melody under his breath. V found herself staring again, her core thrumming rapidly.

Watching him for as long as she was, she could see he was eager to keep speaking. This was probably the first time he had spoken to another drone in his time here—despite it being more of a one sided conversation—and he wanted to keep it going. And she really did want to talk to him too. She found that for all the desire she had to keep quiet and keep her head down, she also wanted to speak to him. It was a first that she felt such a kinship with someone before. What better friend to have for an outcast, then another outcast?

Now, if only she could actually act on that desire.

V’s fingers twitched around the handle of her duster, feathers trembling as she gazed up at the painting she had been cleaning. It was a portrait of Tessa, J and V. One to celebrate the years the two drones had been under the girls' service, and it held a special place in her artificial heart.

Say something.

She wanted to. She really did. She wanted to tell him that she liked this painting, that this was her favourite because it made her, J and Tessa look closer than they actually were. She wanted to ask him if he really meant it—what he’d said about being nervous, about feeling out of place—because if he did, then maybe she could feel a little better about herself always feeling like she was the odd one out.

But, as typical of V, the words refused to come.

They hovered there, half-formed and trembling at the edge of her voice box, but they wouldn’t cross the threshold. Her throat constricted, her mouth open, and nothing came out. Tried again, harder, and her circuits protested.

Her chest ached. Her visor flickered with the visual equivalent of embarrassment. She hated this part of her. It was a glitch she could never fix, no matter how much she wanted to. Every time she tried to reach out, the world seemed to close in on her, her own programming turning traitorous, locking her in place.

N was still admiring the artwork, but he must have had enough, since his optics turned toward her, scanning her posture, her hands, her silence.

His lips thinned into a line for a brief moment, and he was gazing at the floor, almost like… almost like he was doubting himself. But it was for the briefest of moments, before he smiled again, that same sincere expression that had been haunting her since the foyer.

“You don’t talk much, huh?” he said finally. She shamefully looked away. “That’s okay. I don’t think you need to.”

Her head lifted a margin, just so he was back in her peripheral vision.

N chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I mean, you’re a good listener, right? Not everyone’s like that. Sometimes that’s better than saying anything.” He paused, studying the painting one last time before turning toward her again. “Anyway… it was nice running into you. You’re easy to be around.”

Easy to be around.

Easy to be around. No one had ever said that to her. No one ever noticed her long enough to think that—or think of anything, really.

“Hope to see you again soon,” N told her. He gave her a small, friendly wave before stepping past her, his heavy footsteps echoing down the hallway. But, before he could fully disappear, her voice rang out.

“V!”

N paused, mouth drooping in shock. He looked at V, optics widened slightly as she panted and shook.

“P-pardon?” stuttered N.

She swallowed, and what felt like a lump in her throat that had been stuck for years… finally came out.

“M-my name. It’s… It’s V.”

N was frozen, and for a second V thought she had made a mistake. But her worries were diminished when she saw his lips split into the biggest grin she’d seen yet. He looked genuinely happy, and it was contagious. She couldn’t help but smile along with him.

“V, huh? That’s… that’s a nice name,” he said, rubbing his chin. “Well, V. I’ll see you around.”

And then she was alone again.

But the silence didn’t feel quite the same as before. It wasn’t the lonely, empty kind she’d grown used to. The air itself still retained traces of his voice, his words, his warmth.

V stood there long after he’d gone, duster still clutched tight in her hands, trying to process the strange, fragile feeling blooming somewhere in her chest, and all the events that had just transpired.

She had spoken up.

She had actually spoken, and he had heard her.

She felt like she could cry.

A quiet half-sob escaped her. Her hand went to her visor, swiping clumsily at the pixelated tears that had started to form there. The gesture did little to actually stop them; if anything, it was only for show since they were nothing but digital streaks on a screen. But still, she wept and rubbed at her eyes.

It had been years since words came that easily. Even with J, even with Tessa, it was always a struggle—words swallowed before they could ever escape. But something about him had reached through the wall she had built around herself, and flipped some long-buried switch inside her.

For a moment, she felt... light. Unmoored.

When she finally remembered to move again, she sank slowly onto the step stool, hands resting in her lap, duster falling to the floor with a faint rustle. The manor was quiet. The kind of quiet she used to hate. But now, it didn’t feel all that bad. If anything, it gave her time to think.

Hours later, when her shift was over and she sat in the library trying to read, she found her mind looping back to him again. The sound of his laugh. The way he’d smiled when she couldn’t speak. The simple kindness in his words—You’re easy to be around.

She gazed blankly at the paper as the memory replayed, and she caught herself whispering the words back into the dark, just to hear them again.

And then a realization came, sharp as a current through her chest.

Today, she had broken another rule.

Keep quiet.