Chapter Text
Wihlborg didn't think he would ever get used to the annoying, blaring message sound.
It always put him on edge, always making him jump like a scared animal whenever that metallic ping cut through the quiet hum of the engineering dormitory. Most of his workmates slept right through their alerts—which had caused them enough trouble—but Wihlborg had always been a light sleeper. A blessing and a curse in a place like this. Years of working in cramped workshops had taught him that any noise could mean a leak, a power fault, or a system meltdown waiting to happen, he wasn't going to risk it.
This noise, though—it just felt different.
It was a priority one system communication, the kind that didn’t wait for morning or a reasonable time of day, didn't wait for him to get his much-needed eight hours of sleep, even if he never got them.
He blinked at the screen beside his bunk, vision still blurry, mind a little fuzzy. A red notice pulsing in the dark room:
PRIORITY SYSTEM ALERT
Reset Protocol Activation Notice
Subject: Synthetic A0-5 Unit (“Andy”)
Reset Commencement: WAITING FOR APPROVAL
Reason: Emotional Drift Indicators
His name was right under, big bold letters flashing on the screen.
“Andy?” He whispered, of course he remembered Andy.
He read it twice.
Then again.
“Emotional drift?” He whispered into the dark, as if saying it aloud would make it more logical. More plausible. Less unbelievable.
Androids didn’t drift, he was sure of it.
Emotions weren’t part of their design. And even the rumored “adaptive responsiveness” updates—the ones Weyland-Yutani repeatedly denied—were only made for practice. For theory.
Wihlborg sat up slowly, the cold of the metal frame pressing into his back. A0-5. He’d been in the unit a handful of times, and had seen the state some of the androids were in. It wasn't nice, wasn't something he enjoyed, but did it anyway.
But why him? He was on the lower-level engineering support, hardly ever trusted with anything more than coolant circulation checks and power stabilizers. Reset protocols were usually handled by senior synthetic specialists.
The message blinked again, as if impatient, as if it couldn't wait for him to wrap his head around the fact he was picked for this.
Assigned Technician.
Someone must have made a mistake. Or he was being punished for something, wouldn't be the first time. Hard to tell with Weyland-Yutani.
He swung his legs off the bunk and stood, pulling on his jacket. The metal floor chilled under his bare feet. Outside his small dormitory window, the station drifted in half-light, not a single soul was awake, and that's when he noticed the time. 3:07 in the morning as another ping came through: CONFIRM RECEIPT OR FACE DISCIPLINARY ACTION.
Wihlborg did not want to face any more disciplinary action, thank you.
He rolled his eyes. “Fuck. Yeah, yeah, I’m awake,” he muttered, tapping the green confirm icon on the small screen.
The message vanished, replaced with instructions to report to Sublevel 12—Synthetic Containment, a wing he knew all too well.
He felt his stomach tightening anyways, hands getting sweaty. Out of all the jobs he had done before, a sythetic dealing with “emotional drift” was brand new to him.
He grabbed his boots, laced them hastily, and headed out.
The hallways were quiet at this hour—almost eerily so. Only the sound of ventilation cycles and the occasional beep of automated monitors filled the air, it always felt too still, like something bad was about to happen. It made Wihlborg want to turn around and face that diciplinary action for a minute.
He took the lift down to Sublevel 12, leaning against the cold metal wall as the lift descended with a low, industrial groan. He thought about the things that had happened there since Weyland-Yutani took him for the job: Synthetics that malfunctioned and tore their own limbs off, androids that talked in human voices when nobody was in the room, AI personalities that “grew” beyond what the company allowed.
He thought about Andy, and how he was the nicest synthetic he had ever dealt with. Making easy conversation, dumb puns and a solid way of making Wihlborg feel like he was way more than just an “android”. He ignored that last part every time though, for his own peace of mind.
The lift stopped with a heavy thunk. The doors parted to reveal a sterile hallway, brighter and colder than the rest of the station. Thick reinforced glass lined the right side, revealing empty containment rooms with metal chairs and diagnostic racks.
A security officer stood waiting, arms crossed. He scanned his ID, then his face.
“You’re the tech?” The security officer asked him, one he had never seen before. His tone too much like disbelief.
“Apparently, yes.” He muttered.
The guard grunted but led him into the inner wing.
“The unit is compliant,” He heard the man say as they walked. “Mostly. Admin flagged behavioral anomalies. Mild at first, but escalating. Nothing violent.” He paused. “Yet. But they will explain everything better before you can see it.”
He frowned, the pit forming in his stomach deepening.
They stopped at a sealed door, the guard gave him one final look before opening it and letting Wihlborg pass.
A small, sharp-eyed woman in a navy uniform stepped towards him.
“Engineer?” She asked, voice clipped.
“Yes.” He replied, fast and precise, trying to sound sure. He wasn’t.
“I’m Officer Kade. I’ll escort you to Admin. They’re waiting.”
They?
Wihlborg thought this was going to be way simpler, but a meeting? With multiple people before he could even see Andy?
As he followed Kade through the halls, he caught glimpses of the station’s heartbeat: some crew members moving like ghosts, eyes tired, shoulders tense, flickering screens, the distant hum of machinery that seemed slightly off rhythm.
They stopped at another sealed door and honestly, how many more doors was he going to go through? marked: ADMIN OMEGA — AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Inside, two figures looked up from a table screen glowing with data streams. The oldest — a man with silver hair neatly combed back — gestured him in. They had never been here when he was working.
“Engineer Wihlborg Marsh,” He said. “Level Two specialization. Station transfer from Jericho Colony and Vallis Outpost.”
Wihlborg nodded. “Yes, sir.”
The man studied him for a moment, as if weighing if he was worth the mission at all, before speaking again. His eyes were cold.
“My name is Director Halden,” he said. “And this is Supervisor Quinn. I believe you might know what we are dealing with, correct?”
Wihlborg felt like he'd walked into a briefing he wasn't supposed to hear.
“Uh, a little.”
Director Halden turned the table screen so he could see it.
A file opened — code streams, error reports, memory logs.
At the top:
A0-5 SYNTHETIC UNIT — “ANDY”
STATUS: OPERATIONAL WITH ANOMALIES
PRIORITY: LEVEL BLACK
RESET PROTOCOL TO BE SCHEDULED
His pulse flickered.
“A reset already?” He asked, forcing control into his voice. “So soon after an anomaly report?”
“No,” Halden corrected. “So late.”
Supervisor Quinn stepped forward, tired eyes narrowing. Her tone was clinical, but uneasy. It made him think about his old coworker.
“The synthetic’s behavioral drift has increased over the last three weeks. At first it was minor. Hesitations, small deviations from programmed social responses. Then came the emotional layering.”
Cold washed down his spine.
“That’s insane,” he said. “I've never heard of an A0 unit that has emotional algorithms.”
“They shouldn’t,” Quinn replied.
She tapped the screen. A log opened.
Lines of code pulsed in red — an unauthorized module buried deep inside Andy’s neural net. Something subtle and very much hidden.
EMULATION SUBROUTINE — FEELING SIMULACRUM
(Origin Unknown)
Halden didn’t blink. “A synthetic that deviates is a synthetic that becomes unpredictable, and we can’t afford unpredictable.”
“But he’s—” Wihlborg stopped himself. He couldn't talk to them about the small bond they had created over time, it would be stupid of him, so he tried to pick his words carefully.
He had spent enough years with machines to know when something wasn’t malfunctioning.
It was evolving.
“Whatever this is,” He tried to continue again, forcing his voice to sound more controlled, “it doesn’t look like corruption. Something added itself intentionally, something that’s learning.”
Quinn shifted uncomfortably as Halden narrowed his eyes. “Are you suggesting we let it continue?”
“Sir, I’m just suggesting that we understand it before we erase it.”
Halden exhaled through his nose— a clinical, tired sound.
“Engineer, this station is not a research lab for rogue programming. And this synthetic was never designed to be anything more than a maintenance assistant with a polite subroutine. Now it’s showing emotional mimicry and independent decision-making. You know what the Company protocols are.”
He knew them, they were pretty easy to learn.
Synthetic deviation = immediate shutdown.
Emotional drift = memory purge.
Anything beyond that = disposal.
But something in him recoiled from the idea, because something had chosen to wake up inside of Andy. Something that wasn’t supposed to exist and destroying that felt like stomping out the first spark of fire before you knew if it was warmth… or dangerous.
“Where is he now?” Wihlborg asked.
Halden tapped the screen.
A security feed opened: a sterile containment cell, faint blue lighting, and a synthetic sitting perfectly still on the floor. Knees drawn up. Hands clasped loosely. Head bowed.
Not deactivated.
Not restrained.
Just…waiting.
Like he already knew what they planned to do, and he was just going along with it. He probably did.
His stomach twisted again at the image.
“We have him isolated,” Halden said. “For transport to the reset bay.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
Soon? Soon now or soon later? How soon?
He didn't ask, didn't want to seem so into…this.
“And you want me to diagnose him before you wipe him,” Wihlborg said. “Is that right?”
“For the report,” Halden answered. “We need clarity. The company doesn’t like mysteries.”
He studied the tablet again — the halted footage of Andy’s face. The flicker of emotion he wasn’t supposed to see.
The moment his fear broke through his programming, and it felt wrong to look away. He wished he could do something, wished he could make sense of it all to not feel devastated by Andy's brown eyes on the screen.
“And what if the anomaly isn’t a malfunction? If it’s something else?”
“Then you write exactly that,” Halden said, already turning away. “And then we destroy him anyway.”
Quinn signaled that he was dismissed.
Wihlborg forced his legs to move, stepping out into the corridor, the door sealed behind him with a soft hydraulic click.
Only then did he let his breath escape.
He walked out of the room, past the guard and into the hallways that were now empty. Cold. Dim, but Wihlborg felt… awake. More awake than he had in days, his brain working overtime with thoughts he didn't want to dwell on. Not right now.
He should’ve gone to his quarters, should’ve slept, cleared his head, prepared for the evaluation. Instead, his feet led him in the opposite direction— toward the synthetic wing at the far end of the station.
Every step, every hum of the lights above him pulsed with the same thought:
If they’re going to destroy Andy, I need to see him first.
Not for them, but for him.
Security was minimal — just a retinal scan, a code panel, and another bored guard who barely looked up.
“Evaluation officer?” The man muttered.
“Engineering,” He corrected, holding up ID. “Preliminary diagnostics.”
He nodded and let him through.
The holding area was colder than the corridors. Quieter. The air smelled faintly of disinfectant and polymers, and he tried not to think about how it only made the pit in his stomach grow.
And there— in the last cell at the end of the row— sat Andy, exactly as he appeared on the feed.
Still.
Silent.
Head bowed.
Like a discarded statue waiting to be swept away.
Wihlborg approached slowly, like someone trying not to scare an injured animal.
Andy didn’t look up, didn't greet him like he usually did— all soft smiles and warm eyes. It was always the highlight of his day, getting to talk to him and listen to really stupid puns.
He stood outside the glass wall, fingers hovering over the panel that would activate the intercom, but for a small moment, he hesitated. He wasn’t ready, for the first time he didn’t know what to say to him.
What could he possibly say to make him feel better?
But then Andy's head lifted.
Not sharply.
Not mechanically.
But gently, like a person waking from a dream.
In that shared instant, their eyes made contact—deep, brown, and unnervingly human, as they always were. The sudden, intense focus put on him sent a hot, tight twisted feeling through Wihlborg's chest, a jolt that seemed to catch his heart and almost pull it.
Andy didn’t move otherwise, didn’t speak, didn't blink more than a person would. He simply looked at him, and he felt the weight of that gaze like it knew something he didn’t.
Something he wasn’t supposed to know.
Wihlborg swallowed, pressing the intercom control and the speaker crackled softly.
“Andy?” He said, trying not to let his voice shake too much. Not show how affected he actually was from everything going on.
Andy's expression changed— barely, but unmistakably. Recognition? Curiosity? Relief? Maybe all three together, in a matter of seconds.
“Is it time?” The synth said, calm and collected. He could also pinpoint some sort of softness in his voice, despite everything, and Wihlborg wanted to ask how could he possibly look so okay with this.
He didn't, half focused on the way his heart was doing somersaults inside his chest as he stepped closer to the glass.
“No, I'm just…I just wanted to see you. Talk to you.”
Andy tilted his head, studying him with quiet intensity.
“Everyone else seems to be afraid of me, but you never were. Not even now, I can see it in your eyes.”
Before he could think of a response, Andy spoke again— this time quieter, almost pleading.
“Please…don’t let them reset me.”
His throat closed.
Wihlborg had come here for some peace of mind, but looking at Andy now, he realized he was already in far deeper than that.
“I promise I will try my best, okay? I'll figure something out.” He stepped closer, feeling something ache sharply in his chest. “But I shouldn’t be here.”
“Then why are you?”
He opened his mouth— then closed it. He didn’t know how to answer without lying or without admitting something that scared him.
Finally, he whispered, “Because I can't just leave things like this. Without at least trying to do something for you.”
Andy tilted his head just slightly. “Leave things like what?”
“You look…” He shook his head. Ridiculous. “You look so calm, but I know you. I know how afraid you must be.”
Andy absorbed that. Slowly. Carefully.
“I am not supposed to feel fear,” he said. “But I know I do. When I think about the reset.”
“Andy—”
“They say it will improve me,” he continued. “Remove ‘errors.’ Increase efficiency, but the moments they call errors are the ones where I feel the most alive.”
“What do you mean?”
Andy's eyes lowered. “I remember every interaction I’ve had on this station. I remember the way people look at me. Mechanical and disposable.” Then he lifted his gaze. “But you never looked at me that way.”
Wihlborg's breath caught.
“I didn’t think you noticed,” He said quietly.
"I notice everything,” Andy's voice was impossibly soft. Softer than he'd ever heard. “You slowed your voice the first time you spoke to me. Not because you thought I needed it, but because you didn’t want me to feel rushed.”
A beat.
“You apologized when you disconnected my power panel, even though I told you I don’t feel pain.”
This wasn't normal, the way Wihlborg was feeling wasn't normal.
“You always say goodnight to me. Even when you think I’m in sleep mode.”
Wihlborg flushed hard against his better judgment. “I didn’t think it mattered.”
“It did,” Andy whispered. “It mattered to me.”
His throat tightened uncontrollably.
He hadn’t realized how lonely he was until someone voiced the little kindness he’d forgotten he ever gave.
"Andy…why are you telling me all this?”
“Because they will erase me soon.” He stepped closer to the glass. “And I do not wish to die being a secret like everyone else.”
“You’re not dying,” he replied, quickly. “It’s just a reset.”
Andy stared at him, and for the first time, he looked almost frustrated.
“Wihlborg. You know that’s not true.”
And he did. God, he did. He pressed his palm to the glass unconsciously, like maybe the action itself would make the both of them closer.
“Everything I became after meeting you, every change you saw in me, it will all disappear.” His voice trembled— just a little. Too human. “And I don’t want to lose that. I don’t want to lose you. Please don’t leave me here alone.”
A dangerous silence hung between them.
Then Wihlborg whispered: “What do you want me to do?”
Andy didn’t even hesitate.
“Help me live.”
His heart slammed against his ribs as they both stared at each other— really stared— and saw something he wasn’t prepared for.
Andy wasn’t asking out of programming.
He was asking out of want. Out of connection. Out of something so human it terrified him.
“Wihlborg,” he said softly, “I trust you.”