Chapter Text
[-V4 user interface has been closed by the user.-]
The direct feed flickers in and out of his consciousness, a controlled hallucination. Then, more informally, a voice.
“Hey, all done!”
Simmering green blurs away as the interface powers off, and his optics come back online with a flicker. He doesn’t move; there will be a tech coming through the single door in a few minutes to unplug the various cables keeping him in his seat. A scant second after thinking it, his link back to the real world bustles through the door, clad in tacky business casual and a smile that makes him stylish anyway.
“Gackpoid! That’s it, dude, let’s get you disconnected.” It’s Jun today, and he brightens a little. Something in his movement is different when he’s disconnecting him from the room-sized interface. The other techs aren’t so careful, and he’s found that it’s best to relax and let them move him as they want. His hair ends up mussed when they take his headphones off and he almost always ends up in the bathroom, hurriedly trying to scoop it back into a professional appearance before he’s needed again. But with Jun, he is asked to turn his head, his neck, the whole process only barely guided by Jun’s hands; he never has to stop to redo what was once a neat ponytail.
Sometimes he even makes conversation, and today must have gone worse than he thought, because Jun’s hardly disconnected the first cable before he starts.
“So, that producer today was, uh, well, I bet you didn’t like that much,” he comments, pressing at one shoulder. He bends slightly forward, so Jun can remove the diaphragm connections midway down his back.
“Personally, I think you did alright. It’s really the producer who makes or breaks it, and they’re probably just famous on Niconico or something, huh?”
He hums before replying. He can’t always pinpoint when his internal voice has come back online. “I hope so. I’d hate to think they picked someone randomly, even if it was out of several talented people.”
Jun nods and his eyebrows tilt up in understanding. “I’m with you, honestly. If we’re going to pay for a full interface connection, you would think they’d find someone who’s used the private version of V4 more than a year.” Well, there is that. He wonders sometimes what the actual cost of the interface is– if it couldn’t be used for something better, with all the reminders he is given about its expense. He leans forward again.
“Just one more, then you’re done- and there we go!” The last cable is a dull tug at his abdomen as it disconnects. Jun pats his last port closed and straightens, before closing up the cable’s connecting end. As he stands up, testing his limbs after so long sitting down, he turns back to Jun. “Free to go?”
Jun waves one hand encouragingly, herding him out of the interface room. “Free to go! Take some time for yourself this evening– you do that, right? You don’t just go into standby or something?”
“I do, thank you. Have a good evening as well,” he replies, turning to leave. It really made a difference on the days Jun was here, although he could never place why.
Today was a bit different, though. He got an amateur producer again, and he’s more disappointed than angry. The latest batch of recordings is supposed to be crowd-sourced to invite more user participation with Internet Corporation, and he gets that. But really. Singing is what he’s best at, he was quite literally made for it, and who is he given to work with? A high schooler with two years of experience, who thinks that his highest pitch composes his entire vocal range. They could at least ask for his input when they’re distorting his voice to all hell.
A single strand of hair sticks to his face and he swats at it, mildly irritated. It’s not even a deliberate affront, which makes it worse. Today’s producer was likely just a teenager with enough perseverance to work past their age, Internet Co. wouldn’t tell them the full details of what the interface does. And the V4 makes it easy to forget what he is. No signs of his sentience make it onto the screens in the user room, apart from error messages– which are him flatlining in frustration more than anything. If he replies with too many of those, they reduce his hours, or cut his pay, all the legal ways of threatening. But more commonly, less of his songs are advertised, and he gets temporarily removed from the two remaining promotional pieces that still feature him.
Vocaloid. The vocalist android, a digital star that won’t abandon a music label, won’t age, won’t want to change like humans do. There weren’t many better deals. Until a few years ago, when an android with something to prove had teamed up with a cyborg politician, and kicked off a revolution. A sudden expansion in android rights had flooded the world, and suddenly inorganics were everywhere, children and adults quietly pushing for permission to be. They had always tried, and humans agreed with them from the start that sentience demanded some rights, but it was still a surprise the day he had gotten a living stipend, his own housing permissions. His apartment had echoed for months before he had belongings.
The labyrinth of the producing floor opens onto a small lobby, and he manages to catch an elevator down as the doors are closing. The dingy hallway at the lowest level of the building certainly isn’t much to look at. But it’s his last stop before home, so he’s grateful to see the buzzing fluorescent lights, welcoming him to Asset Crafts.
The checkout lady is as bored as ever. “Please swipe your card,” she sighs, already clicking over to his icon on the computer. He can make out “Asset 1-0731” in pale blue through the reversed glass of the screen, and obediently swipes his ID through the card reader. After waiting for the familiar click behind the counter, a security locker pops open, and she passes a plastic tray to him.
One worn leather bag, one pair of boots (one-and-a-half inch heel, studded for decoration), one wallet, one set of keys. A tiny carrot keychain dangles from the keyring. He switches out his shoes, ignoring her watchful not-staring (he’s not going to steal anything, honestly) and is about to head home.
He realizes he’s being followed.
He almost reacts naturally. He’s had a bad day, and screw the C-R3 rules, he is tired, and the sensation of being done with a shitty day is accessible even to nonorganics. He just wants to go home. But as he turns around, nice and slow, the only thing facing him is an HR rep, clad in a neat company uniform.
“Hello? You’re Gackpoid, correct?”
He settles in place, adjusting his posture a little. “Yes, I’m Gackpoid. How can I help you?”
She adjusts her tablet, and he blinks, taking in the unexpected whir of cybernetics. Her eyes are organic, brown, friendly, she looks organic– before he notices the quiet silver poking out from her cuffs. It’s her arms, then. She has to be an intern, or lower-ranked employee.
A consoling smile is flashed his way, and she almost pats his shoulder. “I’m sincerely sorry,” she starts as she pulls up a new document on her tablet, with an official-looking seal on it; that doesn’t look good. “But since you haven’t been as– encouraging with your performance recently, compared to other Internet Co. assets, you’ve been assigned a temporary leave. You’re on standby until your sales pick back up again, and your living stipend will be reduced as of 8 AM tomorrow.”
She pauses. “I can transfer you the documents with more details immediately, if you’ll open your personal network.” One silvery hand is hovering over the transfer button, expecting a reply.
That’s really all he gets. An intern in the hallway, telling him his apartment will be dark and colder for who knows how long this time, and it’s not even worth a meeting.
He almost gives in to anger. But it wouldn’t do, and he’d die before he was undignified. This nice cyborg lady is just the messenger. He’s better than this. He can feel his hands clenching, only slightly. He presses his tongue between his teeth, takes a breath. Right now, he still has the choice to do things with dignity. He’s better than this.
“Certainly. I couldn’t ask for better accommodation.”
“Thank you, ah– Gackpoid.”
A layer of awareness ripples over the hallway as he opens his personal network. Her employee badge registers as a dull ping [Chihiro Fujimoto, security clearance 4, C-R3 default] but the tablet in her hands is more demanding, asking for security clearance to transfer a variety of paperwork.
He might as well take what he’s been given.
-----------------------
The train ride back home is a welcome quiet. The passengers at this time of night are used to him, and a scrawny cyborg teenager shares part of his route across town. Every now and then he catches the boy’s gaze— it’s a blazing gold, completely opposite from his own blue-purple, but neither one of them quite organic enough. The walk to his apartment colors a little less kindly. Streetlights and shop lights haze Technicolor over thousands of heads, selling anything amongst a dull mumble of twilight. The crowds are smaller, but a sea of humanity presses on every side nonetheless; it’s an unlit mob, one spark from violence. He keeps his eyes down.
Thankfully, it’s a short walk to his apartment. As he approaches, the block looms gray over him, dozens of doors peering down; but the monolith is not so cold. High walls hide a small courtyard, full of an entire building’s attempts at gardening. There are flowerpots crowded round the first door before the stairs, and a door two apartments down from his own is decorated with a line of stickers, ending at a child’s height. Still, he thinks as he pokes his entrance code into the keypad, it’s better to be indoors.
The sofa easily accommodates his bag where it’s tossed as he wanders into the kitchen for a drink, but after a moment of thinking, he drags it off the sofa entirely so he can stretch out. Shifting his personal network back on is as easy as kicking off his boots. It’s irritating to keep his network off all day, but it’s a requirement. Nobody with an unsecured network wants him picking up on their every word. His apartment is the furthest thing from the public, though, and here, his Wi-Fi welcomes him home. [Good evening, sir! You have 3 new messages and 4 unopened documents.]
Three new messages? He frowns, curious. Usually messages went through with no problems, and he’d opened his network back at headquarters, what had he missed? He sees that both were only sent a few minutes ago, and perches at the edge of the couch, prepared for the worst; until he sees who the sender is. A relieved smile breaks over his face as he opens all of them at once.
{gumi}
[are you home yet??? how was your day??]
[I got shit to tell you! it’s kindddd of related to you, not really, but I wanna tell you anyway, look it’s cool, chat me alright?]
[if you’re still at hq and the security AI is yelling at you to “stay offline, blah blah” then wait till you’re home]
He can almost hear her voice through the text. He can put off reading the documents, he thinks. Only until later tonight. Irresponsibility is ugly. But he hasn’t talked to Gumi in a week or so, and her apartment is too far to visit after regular workdays. He prods the TV with one toe until the channel is interesting enough to justify his laziness, and tests her chat receiver. There she is! She tests him back, her mental signature instantly accepted as a safe connection. In another moment her audio comes through.
“Gakupo! how are you? Are you home yet, how was the trip back? I haven’t heard from you in a while, you know! Get with it! Even Lily tries to keep up with me and she’s hardly let out of headquarters.” She’s casual, but her voice is a green tree in an alleyway, bright and living.
“I’m here, I’m here, don’t worry over me. Although, I doubt you were worrying, you aren’t that fussy,” Gakupo comments, loosening his ponytail until it sits low at the back of his neck.
“I’m incredibly fussy. I can’t leave the house each day until my hair is perfectly even on both sides. I mean, what if someone notices it’s not RIGHT on top of my head today–”
“Excuse you, I like to look professional!” He yanks his hands away from his hair as though she’s caught him. “It’s hard enough to be taken seriously.”
“Oh really? I wonder why, Mr. Purple Jumpsuit,” she retorts. He deflates into the couch, and a grin quirks his face before Gakupo realizes it’s happened.
She really makes it worth it.
He has a sister, who never forgets to chat and sends him pictures of everything purple she sees. It’s her least favorite color, she says; it clashes with her hair, she says; she never forgets his birthday. And his younger siblings, who don’t yet know why they are marked as C-R3 restricted. They’re still in small bodies, learning about the world. Gakupo will take whatever headquarters gives him for them.
Only people have families, only organics. It’s more than Gakupo should ever hope for– he is created with restrictions.
His sister is still talking to him.
“So, can I tell you about how I finally got around that idiotic no-self-promotion rule? You’re gonna be so proud of me, I was polite as FUCK…”
Even if he’s the one that gets cut out of everything, it’s worth it, to give them more production time, any time at all. Time is a better chance at life, and they made a mistake when they styled him after a warrior.