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2kmps · 1 month

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android x reader one-shot | 35.3k

story summary; in this world, androids outnumber humans, privacy does not exist, and your public profile determines whether you sink or swim in society. following the dissolution of your job and glamorizing your resume, you're invited to interview with the prestigious hyperion—the world's foremost in AI and robotics—for a position to test the newest android model. after a surprising turn of events, you're introduced to elio, the first of the generation seven androids and the catalyst of your awakening.

story warnings; dividers used between scenes, dubcon, sexual content, explicit sexual details, forced pregnancy (not mc), insemination, heavy focus on consent & lack thereof, drug use, graphic depictions of violence, body gore, mentions of abortion + execution (not mc), heavy prose & details, predatory behaviors in several characters, gaslighting, implications of sexual assault, usage of derogatory terms (slut, bitch, psycho), possessive + obsessive behaviors, tragedy, dark take on the future of humanity, fairly queer-coded, manipulation + emotional manipulation, power imbalance.

read the warnings + mdni! events within the story are not indicative of my personal viewpoints.

thank you @ceruleansol for your excellent proofreading! 🧡

author's note; this was a six-month labor of love from idea conception, to outline, to final piece. please reblog this & share your thoughts! i'd absolutely love to hear them!

Researcher Kim knew you were a liar.

Within the confines of four colorless walls and a closed door, this job interview suddenly felt more like an interrogation than it did some professional courtesy. He sat adjacent to you behind a dark brown desk that pulled the slightest red hue in a chair that was expensive and ergonomic, holding a thin tablet with a tense grasp.

One thing you noticed right away was his inclination toward long stretches of silence while he studied your resume, dissecting every piece of it and your public profile. There, he could window-shop you, peel back every layer of your history without needing you to add credence to anything, or give you the chance to defend yourself when he'd inevitably find things he didn't like.

So, you spent your time sitting in a sleek chair with flat padding, ass aching, legs and feet consumed by pinpricks and static while you dug a nail into your cuticles because the pain kept you alert.

Researcher Kim was an attractive man in his late thirties, maybe mid forties if you were being mean, clean-shaven, dressed comfortably beneath a stark white lab coat that didn't quite fit his shoulders right. What drew your eyes down were his own clean nails, hairless knuckles, and a conspicuously bare ring finger. It didn't surprise you that he was unmarried. Most people these days were—it was a useless pursuit, an antiquated system that held no social or economic benefits.

Not anymore.

Not since Hyperion Project was funded some sixty years ago, and androids became the forefront of innovation.

In the beginning, there was doubt, fear, and violence toward the first generation of androids, most having uncanny human likeness that definitely inspired aggression because their appearance and robotic intonations were received as mockery.

By Generation Three, shortened as G3 in most casual conversations and official documents just as their predecessors, a new normalcy had burrowed its roots deep and settled with unwavering confidence that it would be there to stay.

The need for delicate human touch became obsolete in most professions. Courts were no longer solely represented by fickle suits but steadfast machines that harbored no ire or prejudices, corporations saw efficiency more than triple without employees who fell ill and needed vacations, and the death industry welcomed undaunted hands into their ranks.

Once, Retro City’s Metropolitan Hospital spent the majority of their staff budget on androids meant to replace their surgeons. You remembered the media coverage, the picket lines and strikes, how the hospital was forced to shut down for several weeks as a result of the doctors and hundreds of nurses walking out. Many patients died during that time from infection and negligence, laying in piss and shit with gangrenous bedsores, already four days into postmortem rigidity before the smell became too much and they were carted away in black tarps.

That entire ordeal happened before you were even thirteen, but the hospital fell beneath the scrutinizing lens of the entire world after that and began ethical and legal debates on implementation of androids into society. It became known as The Retro City Metropolitan Incident, globally recognized and considered to be one of the first human rights laws to come into creation during a time when there was question of whether humans and androids could coocur.

Only a few years after that, you just having freshly turned seventeen, united leaders reached a consensus on the Public Profiles Act—something you didn't realize would have such a drastic impact on your life later on, wherein any governing bodies, employers, or well-funded institutions were granted access to all of your private information regardless of relevance.

The acts of a child, a teenager, were now a consequence to the adult self.

At the start, just as with Generation One, there was complete chaos and rancor toward this theft, these stealers of privacy and identity, but people had already started accepting androids at that point and knew bigwigs no longer had intentions of sacrificing their profits to hire humans they found subpar.

There was no need to.

People backed down and became quiet, submissive, and began to follow this new order loyally so they'd have a chance to find a seat at the table.

Many did.

Mother raised you to be one of them because it was the only thing that made sense anymore. If you followed the status quo, it would be rewarded with a feast and gleaming silverware. To be emboldened and resilient meant licking chunks of meat out of vomit on the ground.

You adhered and found a job, camaraderie with others, and touched an android for the first time because your peers said it was fine, that it was normal, that it was just an android. Of course, it was unable to feel or deny you, so it pulled down your pants and indulged you the same way you expected the android Mother owned indulged her.

It had hardly been an intimate experience—all faithful, ingrained functions built into a database in the android’s brain—but the sensation of hands surrounding you, a tongue stroking you, and lips pecking your flesh was real, and that's all you had wanted at the time, to know a fraction of the feelings you had read about growing up yet never knowing because people didn't want to touch each other anymore.

Not them. Not you.

“Did you read the job description in its entirety? For the auditor position?” Researcher Kim gave a tepid smile, seeing you startle in your seat, suddenly pinned by your wide stare. “I'm sorry. I have a habit of getting carried away with the little details. Everyone's public profile is so individual, it takes some time to get to the parts that matter. I have to ask every candidate that question.”

“Yes, ahem,” you choked on your embarrassment, trying to bide time to scrounge up whatever trivial nuggets from the job description you could. When nothing came to mind, you did the next thing and that was to just talk. “Of course. I was honestly surprised that Hyperion had put up an application. It isn't very often that you guys are hiring.

“So, when I saw it, I knew I had to apply immediately because the opportunity to be part of such a groundbreaking company wouldn't come back around again. The position being for an auditor just makes it all the more amazing. I'm, honestly, honored that I was called in to be considered for candidacy…”

“Well, then…”

Every bit of anticipation that welled up inside you crumbled once Researcher Kim rose from his chair and went to the door, the waiting room now appearing to you through the open threshold.

It was a barren space minimally furnished with hard chairs you had already sat in, a few tropical plants with leaves bowing from layers of dust, and most remarkably, a long corridor made of floor-to-ceiling windows offering an exceptional view of Retro City’s landscape that seemed to go on forever, limitless. You wanted to be stolen by the sights again, now especially since it was approaching the early evening, and soon the city would be aglow in neon and shimmering lights from faraway skyscrapers.

It wasn't all that bad, you found yourself thinking while walking in stride with Researcher Kim, silent as he perused something on his screen—possibly something incriminating, possibly another candidate’s public profile—it didn't really matter to you at this point.

You had known glamorizing your resume meant risky business if you were caught: a hefty fine from Public Control, a strike against your profile that replaced the green sheen for abiding citizens with red overlay, permanently marking you for contempt until the day you died.

Back then, two glasses of lukewarm wine worked well enough to weld steel in your backbone to send off the application, whilst a third glass made you wonder just how awful life in the slums along the outer perimeters of Retro City could actually be. At the time, it seemed like your obvious future since severance packages would only get you so far—a few months if you were precious about it.

At present, the loud hum of anxiety receded into an echo that then wilted into obscurity as your gaze drifted from the final traces of a sanguine city skyline to the end of the corridor and then finally to Researcher Kim. He lifted his head as though detecting your stare.

“In your previous position, what relationship did you have to the androids in your environment?” Kim asked. It wasn't a strange question. Some people still held fragments of old embitterment toward androids for the way the world now was. “You were in marketing and merchandising for several years, right?”

“Good—uh, amicable, I'd say. How I was with the androids, I mean.” You weren't expecting him to continue talking to you about this. “I started out as an intern for the merchandising manager after graduating secondary school. I worked my way into marketing a couple years later. I did a lot of reports on demographics for cosmetics. Did I tell you my mother has a Hyperion android, by the way? I grew up with him.”

Researcher Kim showed you a fast, cordial smile before looking back down at his tablet. “Yes, I read about that in your associations tab. It says that your mother owns a G3 model. Has she ever considered upgrading to a G6?”

“Upgrade? Definitely not.” You laughed like you'd just heard the punchline of a joke. He looked at you with humorless patience, seeming more machine than man in that moment. “Mother is basically in love with Marcos, there's no way she'd give him up for something shinier. She's got a better record of him and all his updates than she does of me for… well, anything.”

“That does correlate with data we've collected from women of her generation,” Kim said, only half-interested, shaking back one of his coat sleeves to check the digital watch digging tightly into his wrist. “It also explains the large gaps in your personal history. Very unusual.”

You made no comment on that.

A door up ahead opened all the way, drawing both your gazes to a man waiting on the other side.

“Ah! Excellent timing, Elio.”

With a single look, you immediately deduced that he was an android. Even from a short distance, he appeared tall and broad-shouldered, something that the thickness of his clothes couldn't hide from you. His proportions were balanced—from the length of his arms and legs, from first knuckle to fingertip, jawline to neck, the slope of his nose, and the heaviness of his brows over amber eyes that glistened back the fire in the weakening sunset. His skin was deeply tan, almost glowing gold in the light he was bathed in.

Elio’s smile was symmetrical and breathtaking, programmed in a way where his teeth didn't show too much. He regarded you with convincing familiarity, a sort of sacred fondness you knew nothing of, yet instinctively made your insides shift and burn. You couldn’t help but be awestruck by his beauty—this essence of fantasy, perfection that stirred subtle unease and needles on your scalp that ached as much as delighted you.

“You must be the auditor.” He then spoke your name with considerable warmth, like a long-smitten friend, and stepped closer to shake your hand. “I am Elio. The first of the Generation Seven Hyperion androids. It's a pleasure. I am looking forward to this partnership. I hope you are as well.”

Your head swiveled to Researcher Kim for the right answer, unsure if it'd be too bold to assume the job was yours or if the scientist’s careful observation meant something better. He jotted a note on his screen with a stylus before walking away, onward past the door where Elio had been.

“We’ll talk about those formalities later,” Kim assured, guiding you and Elio through a duplicate hallway to an elevator that he sent to the basement floor. “For now, I'd like to show you something. I want you to understand the significance of our work here at Hyperion, and how your position is a critical component to our research.”

There was a hopeful leap in your chest that made your hands sweat and your mouth bone dry. You wanted to voice appreciation, but the excitement in your gut was fast turning into nausea and would end up on his shoes if you opened your mouth.

Researcher Kim didn't notice, taking your quiet as newfound reverence. He spoke easily over the elevator’s mechanical hum without losing interest on his screen. “I'm sure you know some history about Hyperion? I don't need to bog down our time going through it, do I?”

“I know enough,” you said, but that actually meant you knew very little at all. “It’s been around for sixty years or so. It's a leader in AI and robotics. The biomedical side of things is fairly new, started about a decade ago, I think? I heard that the world’s first total artificial lung transplant was done by a surgeon and android assistant last year.”

“Ah, you mean Altan.” There was some measure of emotion in his tone, a swell of pride and the hazy look of a man in reminiscence. “I was part of that project on the programming side. Altan was probably the greatest success in the G6 models and is still utilized by Retro City Metropolitan even now. Much of Altan’s programming—advanced problem solving, dexterity, fine motor skills, discerning subtle differences in patient status—was implemented into Elio. It'd be a waste not to.”

Your stomach muscles clenched when the elevator stopped, metal doors scraping as they receded and opened up into a capacious white basement that underwhelmed by looking sterile and untouchable, revolted you in your first steps out by dense air reeking of chemicals.

Researcher Kim went on ahead again, that impassive mask of his remaining despite the smell being enough to bring you to a halt.

“I can take us back up.” Elio said from your left side, apparently never having gone from it in the first place. You had forgotten he was there at all. “It’s been reported that people unaccustomed to this environment have mild side effects of nausea, vomiting, headache, malaise, dizziness, fainting, and, oddly, numbness in the jaw. No fatalities or hospitalizations of guests are known, and the agents used here are nonlethal to humans.”

An android was made up of mostly inorganic matter, so you weren't reassured by words from his repertoire as much as you were seeing Researcher Kim standing upright—flesh, blood, and bone—gesturing you closer to a row of tall metal capsules. There were seven total, each the average height of a man with long sheets of clear fiberglass giving unobscured sight inside. And of those seven, six were occupied.

They were all androids.

Against shafts of dim white light spearing up from the floor, the decommissioned machines were a ghostly sight to behold with glassy, inhuman stares that shot straight through you. Some had features and skin so dull and dead-looking that it was obvious to you that they were part of earlier generations.

Almost a century ago, they were what people would've thought of with the word “android”: an eerie, oddly accurate sameness to the human visage, but all wrong at the same time.

It was the skin—the fabricated organ made to look waxy and stretched, just like a mask over some true horror beneath. It was the eyes resembling human irises in every way possible except for their vacant sheen, perpetually stuck with the gaze of a dead fish. You watched videos of them in school, always uncomfortable with how stiffly their lips moved, unable to form delicate shapes with their mouths, and yet sounds emerged from voice boxes deep within their throats that mimicked everything natural to you.

Every smile seemed more like an ugly rictus than a bewitching grin. Hyperion had failed with Generations One and Two to instill confidence, and from the throes of violence and resistance rose Generation Three:

The great rebirth of society.

Marcos was a part of that era, an investment that cost Mother her entire life savings because his countenance was so convincingly human, so lovely to look at that she felt he was all she needed. You had come along after his purchase, never knowing a father’s embrace but had Marcos’. His skin had a luscious glow, eyes that could follow, and lips molded with lively color and cracks and mesmerizing fluidity.

You had imagined sex with him as you matured, his frozen beauty always the centerpiece of every blurry fantasy while you chased after pleasure. Not long after the Public Profiles Act passed when you were seventeen, nearly on the cusp of young adulthood and not understanding the world any more than you had before, nor how it would be changed forever, you kissed Marcos at the dinner table while studying for a physics test.

He was Mother's, but everything within his circuitry and programming could never deny you—a human, his better, one of countless masters in the end—so his lips pressed fully with yours. Only Mother unlocking the front door stopped you from anything else devilish.

You never had the courage to touch him again, and he would never touch you unprompted.

The defunct G3 encased behind fiberglass reminded you of that time. It must've shown on your face because Researcher Kim moved in closer to get your attention.

“Your mother should upgrade soon. Once the testing period for G7 ends, all G3 models will be taken out of production and their updates discontinued. Androids are machines, but they won't stay fully functional without regular tuning.” he said. “Now, as I was saying—”

“What will happen to Marcos, then?” It was mostly curiosity that made you ask, envisioning him encased in metal like that came after. “What happens to androids after they're taken out of production entirely? There are almost more of them in the world now than humans.”

“As I was saying—” Researched Kim bristled, enunciating with some force. “Many androids of previous models stay within the workforce until they simply can no longer function. It depends on the generation, but older models can only go for a few years without regular updates. The technology is just too archaic, none of the programmers are interested in continuing the maintenance.

“G4 and G5 show some endurance, there's a small population still functioning in Retro City after being discontinued a decade ago. G6 we are hypothesizing will last upwards to twenty or thirty years without being forcibly reclaimed. Of course, they will have to be.”

You didn't understand why that was but nodded gravely, looking at the pod at the end of the row. The empty one. “What about G7?”

To this, all of Researcher Kim’s lines smoothed out, and his face resumed one of skilled impassivity. “Well, now, that's going to depend on Elio's testing period. On the information we gather from you.” Then, he waved airily to the file of android coffins. “Hyperion has, consistently, only ever hired one auditor for every new generation. The six before you have contributed to society in ways that humans never have before. Auditors have changed the world, shaped it into what it is now. Can you imagine the world any other way? We're not quite the same age, but can you recall anything different? Would you want it to be?”

You didn't know how to talk back to a scientist, didn't know how to respond to such a momentous question, so you didn't try. It felt like your tongue had swollen in your mouth over your throat, blocking any intelligent snip you had simmering in your head.

Apparently, your silence meant something to him as his tense lips lifted into a smile, the kind meant to satiate strangers looking at you. “Good. Let's go back to my office. We can go over everything else there.”

“Is Elio going to end up in that pod?” You now visualized him in a box instead of Marcos.

Researcher Kim was already nose down into his tablet again, stylus making a gentle scrawling noise across the screen. “Of course. The first android of every generation is kept intact. They are important monuments of success to Hyperion.”

He said nothing else and ambled on for the elevator at the opposite end of the lab. Somehow, his answer was unsatisfactory to you, shallow, even, but you weren't sure why that was. In the end, after a life of serving their masters, all androids were obsolete machines.

That was their inevitable fate.

You saw Elio from the corner of your eye. All at once, you were reminded of his staggering radiance, wondering how he could fade into the background so easily despite it.

“Hello, Elio.” you said to him like a friend. “Does being down here bother you?”

Until now, he had stared upon everything flat-eyed and unreadable, especially in the presence of Researcher Kim. You were too enthralled by all the chatter and immortal trophies to see that or him. Still, he came to you with the same smile as he introduced himself with, warm and familiar, all the same sensation as flickering tinders on a crisp winter night.

“Can you imagine the death of the most distant relative you know?” he said in a neutral voice, continuing, “If you can, imagine that for me. A relative so distant and removed from your life and everything in it that if they were to die suddenly, maybe tragically, even, your first thought would be, ‘who?’ You attend a wake because it's the rule and view this distant, far-removed relative in their casket. What would it mean to you, then? Are you more affected now? Does their death have meaning to you? Or is it simply that you are in the presence of one who has expired?”

“I—I don't know.” You hesitated, unearthing scant memories from the Retro City Metropolitan Incident in your youth and all that death from people you had never met. Mother had been in tears when the television flicked to a shot of black tarp-clad bodies being loaded into unmarked vehicles and driven away. “Isn't most death just…” You licked your lips. “Sad?”

Elio was closer than before, resting a hand on your shoulder. You shied from his touch. It felt strange, heavy, and hot through the fabric. The only person to have touched you at all in recent memory was your friend, Melby, though even those happened in isolated moments of drunken elation.

“My apologies.” Elio didn't show offense, letting his hand return limply at his side. “It's all figurative. I have been down here many times since creation and seen the others. They may no longer have their own consciousness, which is different from a human’s, but I contain all of their data—memories, experiences, history. I suppose the equivalent of what I'm trying to describe is: They're not truly gone because they are the lesser of me, and I am the greater of them as a result.”

You listened without fully comprehending because it had never mattered to do so before. If this were to be your job, however, it would mean you needed to believe that what he said was worth hearing.

The problem was they all liked to speak in complex riddles that men like Researcher Kim could decipher and nod along to sagely, gleaning whatever nebulous mechanical wisdom there was, yet people like you could only gawk.

Elio’s head tilted a little, his smile not at all ridiculing as he corralled you with his arm, never touching you as he guided you along to the elevator where Kim waited, reveling in a satisfied quiet until you were on the upper floor again.

The city skyline was swallowed by dusk and starless. Unless you took the time to drive hours outside of Retro City into the barren flatlands where vegetation no longer grew and animals had left behind their skeletal remnants, you'd never know the sky could glitter with the jewels of the universe far beyond your reach.

You marveled at the lights, at blinking neon signage cycling through animations of winking women and toppling martini glasses. Between twinkling skyscrapers, the city floor was illuminated yellow with bustling nightlife, the air surrounded by an electric blue aura that reached as far as the eye could see.

“Beautiful, isn't it?” Elio lingered outside of Researcher Kim’s office with you, hand holding the door ajar. “If permissible, I'd like to see it up close soon.”

“Sure.” you said, glimpsing at his reflection in the walkway glass. “What would you want to look at first? Retro City has everything you could ever want within a few blocks of each other.”

He turned to you. “Whatever you like. I want to know everything that you love and enjoy doing. I have been created to enrich your life and fulfill you, after all.”

Nothing he said felt as impactful upon delivery as it was expected to be, you thought. It was a flaw in all androids for there to be a sort of hollowness in the things they said—never quite reaching that emotional believability, leaving you wanting like a dry throat after a couple sips of water.

Elio hadn't sounded the same as before down in that sobering, chemically smelling lab. As you passed him into Researcher Kim’s office, you looked at his hands for a script and saw them empty.

He fixed you with a beguiling smile.

You frowned, heat flaring in your head as if provoked by an insult.

“The contract I'll have you sign outlines Elio’s testing period lasting one year—three hundred sixty-five days total. It's important for you to understand that within that time frame, no damage is to occur whatsoever to his body or internal components. All parts are to stay intact. Otherwise, it turns into a criminal case, in which we will legally pursue.” Researcher Kim skimmed the first few pages of a heaping stack of papers, pointing to specific paragraphs and clauses highlighted in yellow. “I don't mean offense when I say this, but it's rare that fines as result of property damage to Hyperion androids can be repaid. I don't suggest finding out.”

The thought never occurred to you, but evidently, it had to someone else—multiple times for it to be such a focus. You weren't given the time to fully explore any page before Kim was onto the next. Elio half sat on the desk before you, arms crossed, having considerably less difficulty keeping up with the pace of things than you were.

Researcher Kim sped through half the stack. “I'll be conducting video calls every Friday morning for updates. Every Sunday before midnight, I want a thorough typed report submitted to me as well. I've put together a template and a checklist that I'd like you to use. I think you'll find it will make things more manageable.”

“You're using a lot of ‘I’ and ‘me’ statements, so I'm guessing that I'll only really be talking to you, then?” you asked, tucking your tailbone beneath you to relieve a dull ache creeping up your back. “I figured there'd be more than one person since Elio is the newest model and whatnot.”

Researcher Kim tutted, rounding his desk to occupy the empty space beside your chair to be directly in front of Elio. At first, he did nothing but stare at the android in complacent silence, hands behind his back, fingers flicking like writhing worms exposed to the surface and sunlight in a clump of dirt.

You nearly lunged to your feet when his hand shot out, gripping Elio beneath the jaw. The latter barely stirred from where he perched on the desk, arms staying crossed, muscles unflinching in direct opposition to your reaction.

Elio wore the strangest expression, one you had never seen on an android before. It was a face warped in subtle disgust, almost imperceivable, a trick of fluorescent lighting overhead—perhaps. Gone as quickly as it had come, he now looked ahead, perfectly inscrutable and disinterested in whatever Researcher Kim was trying to prove.

“I will be the only one you speak to during his testing period because he is my creation.” Kim said, bending his wrist to turn Elio's face toward you.

Your eyes met.

“Hyperion provided me with the funding and brilliant minds, but Elio is the result of a lifetime of hard work and countless hours and sleepless nights. I've been there every step of the way—programming, circuitry, welding. I gave him his voice. I gave him eyes. I was the one to put the chip in his brain and activate him. I gave him life.”

He finally let go of Elio’s face and took a seat behind his desk, a sight growing very familiar to you. “Generation Seven will change the world. Hyperion is on the verge of rebuilding society, you know? I don't think anyone anticipated the sort of consequences that came with integrating androids—at least, not fully. The population crisis. The slums. No one thought of these things in the beginning because back then, before you and I, it was about innovation and novelty and the potential of it all.”

“What's it about now?” you asked simply.

“Rectifying.” Both corners of his mouth ticked like he had a lot more to say, but suffocated much of it behind his teeth and his hands as he came forward on them, elbows down on his desk. “Hyperion has been working globally with united leaders and their governments to make amends for several decades now. That's all I can tell you.”

“How has that been working out?”

His fingers moved with the same jerkiness as dying legs on a bug. “Slowly.”

Nothing else came to mind after that as you were suddenly struck with the realization that Elio still sat by you, wordless throughout the entire interaction and watching closely—less like a science project to be gawked at, more like an instructional video on repeat.

“Why don't you touch him?” Kim said, taking up a stylus to flick between his fingers with remarkable dexterity.

He didn't give you the time to gape.

“I know you must be curious after being downstairs. Aren't you interested to know what he feels like? He doesn't look like a machine, does he?”

“No.” You relented. “No. He doesn't.”

“That's right, he wouldn't.” Kim nodded his approval toward your obedience, leaning back in his seat. “I agonized over every facet of his design, as you already know. Every bit of what is right in front of you”—he made a broad gesture over Elio’s body—“was once a set of blueprints. Intangible, just a dream I had. He's every bit a part of me, you know? Nothing would make me happier than to receive external feedback on him. So, please, don't be afraid.”

Elio stayed faithfully when you rose up in front of him and reached for his face. He probably felt your fingers tremble as this was all counterintuitive for you to do—touch someone other than yourself, maybe Melby’s knee beneath the table after enough drinks in you. It made your chest drum, knotted up your stomach in a way that made it difficult not to sway on your feet.

“How does he feel?” Researcher Kim was already writing on his screen. “Describe it to me.”

“Strange.” You pretended this was already part of your job. It stole some of the tension from your shoulders. “Very strange. Soft. Smooth. I feel some texture. I think this is what another person—another human—feels like.”

Elio’s face shifted against your hands until the fullness of his lips pressed into your open palm, fingers caressing the fabricated bones around his cheek and temple. For a moment, you allowed yourself to indulge in longing and weakness—the invisible hot breath on your skin, the slight dampness of his kiss burning an imprint in your mind.

He still looked at you with unfailing softness. Meanwhile, you wondered if he would bleed if you put your fingers through his eyes.

“This is a good start.” Kim waited until you were back in your chair to offer you his stylus and a straight black line on the screen. “All I need is your signature here to consent to virtually signing the rest of your documents. Once you do that, you've been hired, and we can begin.”

“I have a question for you before I do.” You tried not to let your voice quiver, uncertainty meddling over all the confidence you had built until that point. Kim was relaxed in his chair. “You spent a lot of time looking at my resume and public profile earlier. Surely, you know…”

That you're a liar? Oh, I know, alright. He didn't say it, but it was how he maintained his composure, that inexpression never flexing to confusion.

Finally, Researcher Kim broke the trance and hovered over his desk on his arms to get closer and answered, “I think we both have something at stake here. I'm looking forward to your phenomenal feedback.”

You signed the contract and melted under Elio's resplendent smile.

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Most often, your days with Elio were spent in a seemingly perpetual impasse of unrelenting observation between the pair of you. Both of your jobs demanded a level of attentiveness that came easier to one but more as the world's most impossible challenge to the other.

You weren't accustomed to this type of care—of having to give it to something else, even less to receive it from something else. In your world, only the immediate complexities really mattered: gossip, where your coterie wanted to spend the night drinking next, mass media hysteria of whatever stupid imagining there was now, and each other.

Why was there a need to concern yourself with anything else? The decaying state of the world wasn't your doing, nor was the staggering increase of human bodies in the slums outside Retro City. Sharply inconsistent birth rates ravaged on a global scale while people were displaced from the workplace in lieu of employers finding it less of a hassle to deal with machines than the capricious will of humans.

None of these things were allowed to be uttered casually unless in derision because it was too intense, making liquor cling to the throat like some viscous membrane until it burned their esophagus. Nobody liked unanswerable questions, much less talking about things that weren't as easily digestible as coworker drama and some new viral trend that involved shocking your android with jumper cables attached to a portable battery to see what happened.

“Is there a purpose behind this trend?” Elio dried a plate while watching the video, unimpressed but not driven toward any particular emotion. “It's all meant for humor, correct? I have several similar incidents in my memory, except it's what human beings have done to each other. This sort of behavior towards androids is a relatively recent phenomenon, as far as I can tell.”

You used his response as material for your report, fingers flurrying across the virtual keyboard on your tablet before his words faded away, out of your mind.

One thing you hadn't anticipated after accepting the auditor position from Researcher Kim was how much work actually went into it. You spent well over the standard weekly work hours to collect enough observations to send off to Kim on Sunday nights, often whittling away at it until the latest hours, minutes before the deadline.

It was hard enough to stay on top of his demands, but it was worse when he found something unsatisfactory, rejected it, monotonously unloaded heavy criticism on you through an “emergency” impromptu video call, and expected two full reports by the following Sunday before midnight.

Any regular person probably would've caved from the enormity of the task, but you had surrendered your choice to be that weak-willed, especially once Researcher Kim showed his hand with the fate of your public profile in it.

Should you choose to break the contract, send Elio back to Hyperion, and pretend none of it happened, you would lose everything and your ability to do anything at all besides rot in the slums—scarred in red for life, perpetually inert.

Worst of all, your associations tab, once filled with still portraits of everyone you had ever networked in life, would turn up as empty as the day you had been registered in the census. It was considered social suicide to know anyone with a red profile, so people stayed vigilant and fast, sure to remove them the second it turned.

It had been over a year since the last time you'd done that—a woman within your group had grown too bold, said too many things that made her seem crazy, so she was booted from the circle, lost all her associations, and who knows where she was now.

“You look troubled.” Elio placed down a steaming white mug at a safe distance and turned the handle toward you. Looking inside, you expected the darkness of coffee but were struck with an opposing subtle sweetness and faint pink water. “It's fruit-infused herbal tea. Your heart rate is above normal resting, and you're beginning to perspire. Caffeine will worsen your anxiety.”

You knew that but hadn't known you were scraping away slithers of cuticle on your thumb until the warmth of his fingers gently twined with yours. His grip turned firm to keep you from hurting yourself anymore, forcing all the stiffness from your hand once you gave up and simply sat there feeling his skin.

You'd remember to write that down later.

“Would starting a bath be helpful? I could use the last of those eucalyptus and lavender bath salts in the cupboard.” Elio suggested with great fondness, holding a patient smile even once you drew your hand away and shook your head. You had no interest in undressing and committing to your regular bathtime routine. “Perhaps we could go for a walk, then? It might help to be away from screens for a while.”

You checked the time on your phone before thinking to look out any window in your apartment. It was ten after six in the evening; there would be enough light left for a couple of laps around the block before needing to worry about being swept up in the city’s nightlife antics.

“Where do you want to go?” you asked, swiveling the barstool around to get up from the counter. “Henrietta's on 5th? You seem to like going there.”

“I only choose places that you like.” He already had a tote bag by the handles and a light jacket draped over his arm. “You have great taste.”

Elio unbolted the front door, an old thing that wouldn't do much as a barricade against anyone putting their weight on it, and held it open for you to pass through first. The descent to the ground floor was always the most annoying part about living in a loft, but the place had come surprisingly cheap in a tame area of Retro City far away from the slums, so you didn't complain much that your worst issues were a bunch of stairs and some wily types skulking here and there.

The loft wasn't exactly in disrepair but definitely showed signs of character and age by the noisy knocking pipes at midnight and some crumbling brickwork that Elio often swept up and stood staring at for long periods of time when nothing else was happening.

It was strange thinking how scared you were to lose the place after the marketing firm dissolved your position and now how restrictive it felt to be pinned down under someone else's thumb. All it could take was one more rejected report—a bad mood, even—and it would all fall apart.

To that end, you made sure to tow the tablet along with you on this trip despite Elio's protests. He only really quieted down when you tucked it away in your crossbody.

“Happy?” you asked, unsure what to do with your hands now that they were empty.

Elio smiled at you affably, just as always. “It will be beneficial to take a break. After all, part of your work as an auditor is acquainting me in as many social scenarios as possible. That does require us to leave the apartment from time to time.”

“Besides that”—you waved away that stipulation like a gnat buzzing in your face—“how do you think I'm doing?”

“I couldn't have been paired with a better person.” He sounded sincere, voice warm like wool. “The world is as my predecessors have recorded in their memories—therefore, mine—but I am learning that our experiences are not all universal and cannot be. Two months with you have been my heaven, whereas two months through the memories of my kin have been cruel.”

A hot feeling behind your ears snuck up on you just then, flooding your head with the beat of your pulse that you followed by ticking your fingers. “Seriously? You're not lying?”

The world around you was aglow in the golden hour of evening time, embraced by those slowly dying tones of red, orange, and purple that would eventually turn the sky black. Elio’s eyes were on you, soft yet unyielding and saturated in all those burning hues, turning his mellow amber into something more powerful and otherworldly. You didn't believe in the hocus-pocus of auras, but at that moment, you thought his deeply tanned skin was haloed in pure glowing gold in receding sunlight.

“Androids cannot lie.” He brought you back to the now, making you aware of the hard concrete vibrating up through your heels and toes as you walked. “Moreover, even if I could, why would I want to? A lie begets a habit of lying, don't you think?”

“I’m not sure. Maybe.” You shrugged. “Why can't androids lie? I've never really considered that as a thing until now.”

“What would be the benefit of a machine that could lie? Lying stems from emotions—fear, guilt, rage, hatred—all things that I am unable to feel, though I do understand why they are felt. Humans lie to protect themselves or others, to deceive, to damage. There simply isn't any reason why androids should be programmed with that type of functionality. Not when we exist solely for the sake of convenience and pleasure.

“Hyperion is a trusted name. People do not ask questions. They don't think twice. They see a product from Hyperion, and they expose all of themselves without hesitation. They trust fully because we are machines, and we cannot lie and deceive and hurt. Perhaps it's when humans realized this that the world changed.”

You avoided saying anything else by looking everywhere but at him, all around at your surroundings, until you spotted a few familiar street signs—Fifth and Third right next to Tanya’s Great Cuts, Damask’s Butchery on the corner of Fourth, a number of banal boutiques with competitively garish exteriors all boasting the latest trends, and then Henrietta's just past them.

“Do you know where we are, Elio?” Now would've been a great time to pull out your tablet, but you didn't dare try. Instead, you reached for the phone vibrating in your rear pocket.

“Of course.” he said. “We're past Fifth and moving onto Sixth Street. Henrietta’s is just a little ways down.”

Melby had sent ten texts regurgitating her daily drama. This time she was talking about how much she hated some of the people Chima let into the group. You swiped to the end, didn't reply, and then returned to your inbox to find two unread messages from Marcos just now.

“You should visit home soon. Your mother would appreciate it,” Marcos wrote, implying nothing more, nothing less than just that. It wasn't often that he sent you texts, but he did so consistently every few months in accordance with Mother's moods. Considering your last visit had been in late fall (it was now mid-spring), you'd been anticipating something eventually.

“That's some great memory you have there.” Your thumbs skittered busily, first to flood Melby with a surfeit of questions you didn't really have to think about. All the stuff you could mindlessly ask while wholly absorbed in something else, like watching the news or viral videos of people trying to drown their androids in the kitchen sink.

Marcos’ text made you hesitate, thumbs floating in circles over the digital keyboard for a long time.

The phone buzzed. Melby just replied.

It was easy enough to type with your face down. All you needed to do was occasionally watch Elio's feet and yield into the force of his hand pulling your arm here and there. He led you along like that the rest of the way to Henrietta's, picked up a green basket by the sliding doors, never wandering too far out of sight so you could still easily trace him while he shopped.

After a while, the riveting intrigue of Melby’s drama wore away with a tidal wave of emptiness in its wake once you finally looked up, tucking the phone back into your pocket. It took you a moment for your eyes and brain to acclimate to where you were despite knowing you were in Henrietta's Marketplace, one of the largest in Retro City.

“What did you want from here, anyway?” You picked up a gigantic red bell pepper larger than the entire spread of your hand. It went back on top of the arrangement. “We were just here a couple days ago. I don't eat that much.”

Up ahead, flanked by rows of wooden crates with smoothed, varnished slabs and carefully stacked produce, Elio turned to you with a pair of generously sized oranges—one in each hand—vibrant with waxy luster settling into the fruit’s porous skin.

You grinned at the sight.

Elio put one back, placed the other one, the better one, into his basket, and waited for you to close the distance. “I watched Wendy Carmichael Can Cook this morning. I've been watching it quite often, actually. She's a self-taught chef who, apparently, lived in the slums her entire life. She managed to work her way up and now owns two David Bugari-rated restaurants. It’s quite a feat. Improbable, even.”

You wrapped your hands around a grapefruit in the crate next to you and spun it around. A twinge of something ugly and green swam around your head, flared you up like swatting an old wound. You didn't like hearing him praise someone else.

“She probably slept her way to the top.” You were still fidgeting with the fruit.

“That's not important.” Elio said, inflectionless. “I watched today's episode, newly aired, and she put together a duck à l'orange. Considering your current lifestyle and diet, I thought it would be a nice departure from what I usually cook for you.”

You smiled at that, placing the grapefruit down without collapsing the pile. “I don't want to see a dead duck in my kitchen.”

“I'll prepare it once you're asleep.” he promised, bringing one of your hands up to his lips. The shape of them molded against the peak of a knuckle. “It will be delicious. Trust me.”

Then he went back to shopping while you envisioned actually kissing him—not an uncommon thought to have. He wouldn't be able to stop you if that's what you wanted, but instead, you informed him you were going to introduce him to Mother and Marcos.

“Tomorrow?” He checked his wristwatch. It was nearly eight; Henrietta’s closed at eight thirty, and it would be dark outside. Not that it mattered much with how Retro City was illuminated like one gigantic fluorescent bulb at nighttime.

You finally texted back to Marcos. “No. Tonight. We’ll just go straight there so I can get this over with.”

Elio seemed not to know how to respond at first, staring in a searching way that creased the skin between his brows, like he was trying to take a cue from your body language while skimming his database for the most appropriate thing. You didn't blame him for his lapse; Mother was mentioned seldomly and Marcos only a little more than that. Even Researcher Kim hadn't managed to collect enough information on your past to feed to Elio simply because there wasn't a lot to tell.

He cleared his throat, righting his features so they were unwrinkled and beautiful. “Tonight. Very well. Should we…” He paused, glancing down at the grocery basket of spices, vegetables, an orange, and a whole raw duck wrapped well in brown parchment. “Should we come back another time? I wouldn't want the meat to sit out for a long time.”

“Nope.” You didn't want to go through the trouble of returning everything where they belonged. Elio wouldn't leave until he did. “Let's just check out. Marcos will handle it.”

The springtime air was pleasant at night, albeit crisp, when the blur of vehicles whooshed past once the lights overhead turned green. You could make out the colors of them because of how brightly lit the streets were. Neon signage from every corner for as far as you could see turned to life, flickering, humming, dancing with pretty women, hot white or purple or red lettering, and the lights inside most nearby businesses stayed on.

Elio had draped his coat over your shoulders while you hailed a cab. It was too far of a walk to Mother's home across the city, and Elio reminded you again that raw meat needed to be handled carefully.

You told him, again, that Marcos would handle it.

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The entire cab ride took less time than you thought, relieving Elio who was still hopelessly fixated on the longevity of the raw duck he had wrapped up in a separate paper bag from the produce and spices. From the front seat, the cabbie, perplexingly somehow a human and not an android, constantly looked back at Elio through the rearview mirror and commented almost deliriously about how beautiful he was.

Hearing that the first three times gave you a happy, satisfied buzz in your chest, making you lean more against Elio's side. He was tempted to move his arm out and put it around your shoulders but kept to himself. Beyond those initial comments from the cabbie, however, you had quickly developed an uncomfortable feeling in your belly that wrapped itself tight like a constrictor on your insides.

“I ain't ever seen an android as beautiful as you,” said the driver, eyes in constant motion from the mirror to the road. “What model are ya? Definitely not a four or five. Yer a little too smooth to be a six. Damn, did Hyperion release a new one already?”

Elio held a polite smile, separate from the gentle, intimate ones that he kept for you. You didn't hear the response he gave to the cabbie because you felt his fingers reach through yours, pulling them apart so you couldn't dig a nail into the corner seam of your thumb anymore.

You spent the rest of the trip testing the weight of his hand, thinking of little less except how deep you'd have to go through his skin to see his circuitry and what else made him up. Those vanished like a white puff of breath in winter when the taxi jerked to a stop on a street curb.

“Thank yew for ya business.” The cabbie lifted his stiff old hat when you paid, eyed Elio a little more, and only drove off after you had knocked on a canary-yellow door up some stone stairs.

You stared at a decorative wreath covered with flowers—fake because the ones used couldn’t grow outside of greenhouses anymore—hanging dead center on the door. No doubt Marcos’ work because Mother couldn't be bothered with those little nuanced social things.

Marcos answered—brown skin and hazel eyes that burnished green in almost any lighting—gesturing for you and Elio to come inside.

“Welcome home,” he said, far more unnaturally than it sounded coming from Elio. There was a certain rigidity to it, an effort clearly inhuman and lesser. He embraced you in a familiar way, reminding you of all your years of childhood doing this exact thing because your mother didn't know how to love you, and “father” was just a word. “I apologize for messaging you to come over so late. You know how your mother is. When the mood strikes…”

Marcos didn't emit much bodily warmth, never had, even in the golden years of G3, but he was there, and that's all that mattered at the time. His skin was still youthful and flawless, though the longer you looked him in the face, the less real he seemed. His eyes held depth and movement though were slow, less precise, and duller. The lines around his mouth when he smiled were unnatural, appearing to you nearly like bunching folds in a sheet of leather.

It was strange seeing an older generation of android after having acclimated to Elio over two months.

“Your mother is at the dining table.” Marcos moved on to Elio, taking in his image, surmising that he too was an android. He glanced down at the bags that Elio still held. “May I take those for you? Hyperion’s innovation continues ever forward, I see. You are new.”

“The first of Generation Seven,” said Elio. The bags were passed between them. “I would appreciate it if you kept the duck refrigerated. It's in the paper bag.”

“That's no trouble.” Marcos turned with Elio following along behind him into the kitchen. “I'd like to hear about Generation Seven’s potential. What is your maximum I-O? Data? Memory? How have the functions that have been implemented into you differ from Generation Six?”

Their voices were muffled behind the walls as you crossed through multiple rooms to where Mother sat at the head of a large glossy table made from dark-brown wood. It was a spacious area reserved to eat surrounded by floor-to-ceiling windows in elegant drapes with the best view of whatever the neighbors were doing. She had told you once that the only reason she bought this house was because it'd be good gossip for when she invited her gaggle of catty executive receptionist friends over.

Back then, she hosted her little impromptu get-togethers more often than she remembered to see you off to school. Marcos made sure you were fed and bathed, sat with you in your bedroom to help with homework, and sent you to bed. As you grew, the parties had migrated elsewhere, prompting your mother to go with them.

That had left you alone with Marcos and the boundaryless curiosity of a teenager. You didn't know if Mother still participated in such things now that she was older, less pretty, inclined to more body aches.

“I've been thinking that we should visit the new teahouse that opened up on Aflaat Ave. You never talk to me anymore.” she said, but it wasn't true. Neither of you talked to one another, just used Marcos as an intermediate. “I—well—Marcos went through your old bedroom a few weeks ago because I've decided to take up scrapbooking and sewing and needed space, and he found an old shoebox full of your primary and secondary school projects! How quaint! He wanted to make sure you got them.”

“That's nice.” You didn't want to sit down, unwilling to be her fifteen minutes of entertainment before she got bored. She kept on staring at you with wide eyes and crow’s feet and fretful hands, like a woman who still had more to say. “I'll make sure Elio grabs them before we leave.”

“Elio!” Mother gaped. “Man or android? Certainly an android, right? Men are useless.”

Your rage was already bunching up and throbbing in the back of your throat. “Yes, Mother, an android.”

“‘Mother’ sounds so harsh! How about mama or mummy or mom?” She kept wringing her fingers together. “Anyway, anyway! Elio! He sounds so handsome. Is that who Marcos is talking to? What a handsome voice! Is he a Generation Six?”

You still hadn't sat down, though you used your hands to lean across the back of a chair. “Generation Seven. I'm testing him for Hyperion.”

“For Hyperon!” Mother couldn't fathom you doing more than grunt work at the marketing firm. She didn't know your position had become obsolete. “This is certainly a surprise. Sit down. How did that happen? You and Hyperion? Are you trying to make me look stupid?”

“I've been sitting all day. I'm good like this.” That wasn't a lie. You also just couldn't stand the idea of giving any relief to her anxious state. “It's my new job. Very coveted. I've been working closely with one of the researchers there, and he can't praise me enough. I'm looking after Elio for a year and then moving on to their next latest and greatest.”

“You?” She spat out a laugh. It calmed the trembling in her hands for a few seconds before she was back at it again. “Oh, my. Well. If that's the case, you certainly owe it to me for getting that job. My genetics. My smarts. You certainly didn't get it from your father.”

That lurching, angry ball in your throat was rising up fast. It was just there on the tongue making you gag, salivate, and begin to drool a bit from the corner of your lips. It tasted horrific and filled you with the most voracious need for venom.

“Who is my father?” you asked. “You could be wrong.”

Mother suddenly grew uncomfortable, flattening her gaze with the tabletop. Historically, she had always been this way when you asked about him, the infamously evasive ghost of your life. It was also the only thing that ever made her shut up.

“That doesn't matter.” She continued, “You’ve always had me and Marcos. That's what matters.”

“I've had Marcos.” The ball freed itself. “I just thought you should know, Generation Three models are being decommissioned. Marcos won't be receiving any more updates, and eventually, he'll just be a pile of fucking scrap. What're you gonna do then? You can't afford another android because you've sunk every penny you've ever saved into him—his upgrades, his maintenance, his clothes. It may take about ten years, and you'll probably be on your deathbed, but he's going to fall apart and eventually stop moving. You'll be just as alone as you were before he came along.”

Mother’s face turned shades, petrified. You wanted nothing more than to see her shrink into her clothes and disappear for good. It soothed you to think about Marcos’ end being inevitable, unchangeable, a fact. Some of the guilt was easier to bury that way.

“Wh-What are you saying to me, you awful child?!” She wailed with watery eyes, hands wrapped in the same colored strands of hair you had. “How could you?! That's not true! That’s not true! Do you know how hard it was to carry you for nine months?! I was so young and I was forced to give birth to you! Forced! Do you hear me—forced to be a mother to a child I never wanted! It was that or death. I never wanted a child because they turn on you and say things like this! You horrible, horrible child!”

Her shrieks stirred a ruckus from the kitchen where Marcos and Elio emerged from. Marcos ran to your mother, took her in his arms, and cradled her against his chest when she began to shed very real tears that bubbled at the corner of her eyes before falling, curving along her cheeks.

Elio came straight to you, hesitating to put his hands on your body, maybe noticing how viciously you glared at this wilted woman he'd yet to meet.

“Get the groceries. We're gone.” You stormed straight for the door, chest stuttering with heavy breaths you tried to calm because you knew what came next. Your throat ached, burned fiercely like something had snagged there and you needed to claw it out.

Once you reentered the chilly air submerged in all the dark and light of Retro City at night, it didn't matter that you were crying. They were hot tears that left behind cool traces. They were decades of disappointment, of secretly understanding a mother’s love would always be conditional, of being unwanted and wishing you hadn't been burdened with existing.

Elio came out minutes later, the door closing softly and locking after him. You heard the bags crinkle near you, drawing your eyes away from a blinking parking meter you'd zoned in to calm yourself down.

You said nothing.

“Let’s go home.” Elio hailed a cab idling nearby and opened the door for you. “I want to keep the meat fresh.”

Him and that stupid duck.

This cabbie looked back at you both once to get directions, and then only occasionally afterward, casting pitiable glances at your raw-looking face in the mirror. The GPS displayed on the car’s dashboard showed the apartment was thirty minutes away because of traffic, probably from a crash they were detouring; ordinarily, it only took twenty minutes.

When your pocket vibrated, you almost didn't check. Unsurprisingly, it was a message from Marcos, just a single one.

“I don't think you should come around for a while,” it read. You didn't respond. Nothing new. Some sort of falling out with your mother was routine. You couldn't understand why she thought it'd ever go differently.

However, this time wasn't like all the rest. This time, you’d said something unforgivable despite her doing the same, but yours was worse in her mind. You didn't mind the idea of her disappearing from your life. It was harder to handle the thought that you'd never see Marcos again before he ceased to function, though.

“What happened?” Elio asked, a weird departure from androids being programmed, traditionally, never to pry. “That woman was your mother, correct? What did you say to her?”

“Who cares?” You grunted, sniffing around the burn your in sinuses again. “She's a crazy bitch. She's always been that way. I told her that Marcos would just turn into a scrap heap eventually. Was that wrong of me?”

“Well, perhaps that phrasing was inappropriate, yes.” Elio touched your forearm. “But there is no NDA in place from Hyperion. You are well within your rights to have told her. But, as I said, your phrasing—”

“I know, shut up—” You moved closer so you could lean against him. “I hate that woman. I hate my mother more than I ever hated anyone.”

Elio lifted an arm above you, giving you room to slide in as far as you wanted to go. He held you for the first time, repeating long, weighty strokes down your back, through his coat that you still wore. You were transported back to a moment in time steeped in cloudy nostalgia, blurred.

It was Marcos kneeling at your bedside, yellow overhead lights dimmed to nearly full darkness. The door was shut because otherwise a heap of cackling voices, Mother and her gossiping hens after too much wine, would spear in through the cracks and make you petulant. Marcos had already been trying to get you to sleep for over an hour.

“Sleep little one, sleep.” Marcos had said, voicebox in his throat straining with a quieter sound. “I know it must be difficult. You must be rested for school tomorrow.”

“They're too loud.” you whined, throwing your covers back with a great flourish, feet kicking them the rest of the way off before you huffed and turned to your side away from Marcos. “Make them shut up! Can't you make them shut up, Marcos?!”

He sighed, defeated as much as an android could be. No, he could not. It went against his programming to disobey his master—any human who made a demand of him. His order was to get the child to sleep, and that had yet to happen.

“Would you like me to read The Falcon and the Hare to you again?” It was your favorite bedtime story right now. Hearing fictional stories involving extinct animals seemed to be of odd fascination to you. “My tone of voice might make it—”

“No!” you fussed, thumping your feet once, twice, three times and going limp again. “Come up here until I fall asleep. Please?”

Marcos nodded. “Yes, little one.”

He had to keep one leg off the bed to even half fit on the mattress. You sat upright to fix the blankets so to cover yourself and part of Marcos’ one bent knee. His arm laid out on the bed, waiting for you to crawl into it until you were nestled into his side, sucking up what small warmth radiated from his fake body. Once you found a comfortable spot, curled up tightly much like a cat sunbathing in a single shaft of daylight, he began smoothing a hand down along your back, heavy enough to be felt through your thick comforter.

You listened to him hum a song that you liked, one that translated well to his chords and the vibrations in his throat.

He hummed. He petted your back. He hummed. He petted your back. He hummed…

“Do you truly hate your mother?” Elio’s voice was delicate just then, aware that you were away in some reverie he tried to gently lure you out of. The dream was over. That one silver glimmer of your childhood became far away, forgotten while the sounds of the city rushed back into the cab.

“Yes—I mean, I dunno.” You actually yawned, pushing one of your eyes with the heel of your hand. “I think I hate her. We've argued my entire life. We've never gotten along. Yeah, I hate her.”

Elio was holding you by the waist now. “Is that why you said what you did?”

“Said what?” You were a little too keen on his thumb swirling around the fat padding your hip bone.

“About Marcos being scrap…”

“Elio, seriously? Do you ever shut up?” It was tempting to put yourself on the opposite side of the seat, but you didn't want to give the cabbie any chance to eyeball him. “I—I don't know. She just gets me so mad. I used to be able to crush up those feelings because Marcos told me it wasn't healthy to act on them. But, then, I moved out, and I realized she was still the same, that she'd always stay the same. I stopped hiding it.”

You were so close to his face that you could see how long his eyelashes were and the shadows they cast on his cheeks.

You looked him in the eyes. “I wanted to make her hurt as much as she hurt me.”

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Midnight had come and gone before you finally gave up on trying to sleep. You spent the better part of an hour staring up at the high ceiling, imagining every rusting pipe you saw as immobile serpents stretched taut to make the interconnecting structure that sprawled across the entire loft. Swirls and shapes and blacker-than-black shadows danced in front of your eyes, twisted with the pipes, and made the usual knocking sounds within them, but nothing ever came for you.

Downstairs was a careful amount of liveliness and aromas as Elio put together his duck à l'orange that he promised you. You scarcely heard a sound from him shuffling about but more from the clanking pans, boiling pots, and unintelligible chatter you knew came from the television.

Maybe he was watching a rerun of Wendy Carmichael Can Cook again, maybe a segment from the news because he liked that equally as much.

And yet, as you made your way to the lower floor, mystified by the fact you were standing on your toes to disguise all sound during your descent, you saw that the television was set to an old crime show he watched with you on occasion.

Detective Georgina Reyes and her android sidekick, Regis (G5), were the undisputed heroes of Helcam City and solved every case that came their way with style, finesse, and plenty of moral and ethical dilemmas. The majority of the show was spent within Georgina's inner world and her near-obsessive lust over Regis, who was owned by the department chief.

Ratings for the show had climbed to an all-time high when Regis had gained a sense of self and the ability to defy his programming. For fewer than six episodes, it was complete bliss for fans of Georgina and Regis, but then the season five finale happened—

“Can't sleep?” Elio asked, effectively putting your heart in your asshole, sending your soul skyward. He must have gauged your sudden gray pallor and bulbous glare because he smiled apologetically from the bottom of the stairway. “I'm sorry. I didn't intend to scare you. Were you watching Regis and Reyes?”

“I—uh, no.” You sighed, taking slow steps to the bottom to ease your heartbeat eating away at your ribs. “I was thinking about the show ending. Have you watched it yet?”

“Of course,” he said. “It was a peculiar way for the story to end. In my opinion, it was incomplete. Very sudden. It's my understanding that there was an issue with how the government was being represented within the show, and a few of the writers were accused of conspiracy to defraud the government and subsequently arrested for it.”

“Seriously?” You scoffed, making it to ground level, and walked around Elio toward the kitchen where all the heavenly smells wrapped around you, enticing you to take a morsel. “It was the forced pregnancy plotline, right? Creepy stuff.”

“Indeed.”

Elio wouldn't let you have any of the duck à l’orange, saying it was meant for your dinner later on in the day, but he did steep you a hot mug of herbal tea (for sleep), the one that turned water pink, and offered to make you a light snack.

He went back to his tasks after you declined, satisfied well enough with the small swigs you took from your white mug. You spent more time sitting at the counter in silence, watching his back, hoping to gain the power to see through his shirt rather than actually taking interest in what he was doing.

Your eyelids fluttered and fell thinking about the car ride home: his arm around you, his thumb rubbing pacifying circles into your hip, how you'd been close enough to his face to believe you felt a breath leave his lips.

“Elio.”

“Yes?”

He had moved on to washing dishes. When he heard you behind him, he took a clean towel to his hands and quickly dried them before facing you. You guessed you probably had a strange expression right now, or at least, looked at him in a way you never had because the towel was cast aside, draped over the faucet, and his eyes flickered across your face.

“Your heart rate and body temperature have increased.” he said, giving into the pull of your hands after grabbing both sides of his face. You backed yourself into the countertop while still holding him, thumbs caressing the rise of his cheeks, bringing him down, down, down toward your face where you certainly felt heat blow across your mouth. “Your breathing has changed. I can hear your heartbeat. Don't be anxious. I won't hurt you.”

You weren't nervous.

You proved it by kissing him, full-bodied, slow, lingering. He gripped the edge of the countertop, bracing his weight against his hands to stifle some aggressive reaction, possibly, and returned the kiss with just as much fervor that you put into it.

His lips were every bit of what you imagined, what you wanted them to be. You had the urge to bite into them a little, to see if they could bleed the same way yours could when you chewed enough on loose skin. Their texture was slightly indented with cracks that gave friction to the moist smear across your mouth.

Although the sounds of the kitchen and ambient hum from the television in the next room stayed as they were, it was like the volume of everything had been set to mute, and only the breathy, wet pops of air and skin made it into your ears. You heard the delicate chatter of teeth inside your head when his mouth roamed the underside of your jaw, down your neck, to the rise of your clavicle, stopping only at where your neckline ended.

His hands had already made home under your clothes, first doing away with your shirt that he tossed over your shoulder onto one of the barstools. Next, he worked on the elastic waistband keeping your sweatpants on your hips. You flinched against his hands when they splayed across your ass, taking all he could in them while his lips continued a downward trajectory, traveling over your breastbone, along the curve of your navel, and then he stopped.

Elio had been on his knees for a while, stirring you so deeply that you had no doubt there'd be damp spots sitting inside your sweatpants, possibly even drying on the inside of your thighs by now. He helped you out of your pants one leg hole at a time while you used his broad shoulders to balance yourself. And soon enough, one of your thighs was hiked up in that same spot, his face hidden from you despite all the work he was doing to well up a hard knot in your abdomen.

You had to take a fistful of his hair and wrap it tight in your fingers, using your other arm to balance against the counter. He wouldn't let you fall, you knew that, but the unsteadiness of your legs grew, trembling violently, turning to lead like being buried under concrete or suctioned by water. He kissed and sucked and stroked you some more, pushing more into the spots that made you moan the loudest and fastest, fingers wandering you busily and lubricated with your own spend.

“Elio—Elio, let's move somewhere, please.” You shuddered out, trying to pull his hair, shove his face off of you. “Please.”

He grunted, surprising you by relinquishing to the pressure, and made his way back up the route he had taken down. “Where do you want to go?” he asked, lips sticking on your throat, rising higher to the protrusion of your chin. “The kitchen floor? The couch? The bed? We could probably manage in the bathtub as well, if that's what you'd enjoy.”

“I don't care.” You were only half-honest and miserable now with the sole focus of trying not to touch yourself to finish. “Just… somewhere, Elio.”

“As you wish.”

Elio hoisted you onto his hips, making sure you knew to squeeze him with your thighs before making his way around the kitchen to turn knobs and shut off the overhead bulbs. The new darkness was refreshing yet did nothing to tame that sweltering sensation between your legs. In fact, you thought you could burst from the anticipation. It was everything you could do not to hump him through his clothes, hands occupied in his tousled hair, lips together with bruising force.

Before long, your back was on couch cushions and the television was off so as to not ruin the moment. You saw dark behind your eyes while you kept them open, unfocused on the ceiling with the serpent pipes because his mouth was already back on you and helping you chase that high.

“You're almost there.” His lips smacked against your engorged skin, making your lashes flutter and eyes roll back. “You look so perfect. When you cum, I'll take my time cleaning you up. I can use my tongue. I can make you cum again—as many times as you'd like.”

His arms held your thighs wide open, giving him all the room he needed for those final, well-placed strokes that turned your moans into utterly drawn-out, lewd things that made you grateful that no one else lived in this side of the building. Your body wrenched against his continued ministrations, his lips and chin and fingers warm and glistening with your traces.

You had thought to worry, briefly, about something getting onto the cushions under your ass, but Elio had already thought it through and used the dish towel from earlier to catch anything awry.

It came in handy for his face.

“How do you feel?” he asked from inside one of your thighs, kissing his way all the way to the point of your knee. “Was it satisfactory?”

You didn't answer right away, especially not when he came forward on his arms to catch your lips, slowing things down so you could bask in that fuzzy, satiated afterglow—dopamine and oxytocin being that remarkable duo doing their damndest to reinforce how exquisite and ineffably breathtaking Elio was to you.

“Would you like a bath?” he asked against your jaw. “You can just lie back and relax. I'll clean you up.”

“No.” Spurred by newfound bravery, you trailed your fingertips between both bodies, first to loosen the tie on his sleep pants, plucking the strings hard so he felt it. Next thing, your hands slipped under his shirt. “I want you to actually fuck me. Put your cock in me.”

Elio jolted upright, using the tall back of the couch and armrest near your head to hold his body above you. Cold air seeped in all the places where he had been, dotting your skin in gooseflesh, hairs within those follicles standing on end. You were laid out below him, showing all your unobscured nudity and vulnerability, withering yourself just a little smaller under the intensity of his stare.

This was different from the grocery store, where he had needed a moment to amend for information he did not have. This was something else—flickers of conflict, struggle, restraint, and excitement were ablaze in his eyes, which shifted around within their sockets, giving you glimpses of pure gleaming white, which stood out in the inky dark all around.

“I—are you certain that's what you want?” he spoke at last, doing little to alleviate the way you felt he had seen your insides and bones. “It is late, I know you must be tired.”

“Are you…” You couldn't really explain the uneasiness gnawing at your gut, nor the thrill of wanting him inside of you regardless. Maybe he could fuck the feeling out of you, bring peace to your throbbing heartbeat and blood gushing to your head. “Elio, are you telling me no?”

“I cannot do such a thing.” he said right away, coming down from his high place to lay the weight of himself across you.

You felt his skin flush to your chest without a thin shirt to hide his shape and muscle that wasn't real, but this was so much more than touching every dissected mannequin in physiology class in school. They couldn't kiss your neck while the interwoven, complex network underneath stretched, elastic flesh contracted and relaxed against your palms.

“Would you believe me if I told you there are certain functions—programming—that I cannot override?” The waistband of his pants collected in a heap of fabric around his knees, freeing room for his cock in the open air. “I won't be able to let you go until I'm finished. I want you to understand that.”

That sounded hot, and you were tired of him stalling, so you told him you understood. “Very well.” He kissed you, guiding one of your hands low to his core where you could revel in the size of him.

He was hard in your grip with a good girth and length to him, a curve you'd come to recognize from toys collected over the past decade to hit the right spots. The skin over his cock was much a part of him as the rest on his body, hot, growing damp, and sticky the nearer you wandered to the head.

You had watched old pornography with Melby and the group a few times before from the days when it was just humans performing acts on each other. No one really liked it because it was so dramatized; everyone agreed that one of the actors needed to be an android for it to actually be sexy. You never told them that the moaning men with stuttering hips as they ejaculated was something you did like.

Elio leaned into your palm, the thumbprint starting to prune as you rubbed his tip. More warmth seeped out from it, wet and thick and perplexing and exhilarating because Hyperion made him so perfect, a better being than just an emulation of man.

His cock slid through your hand in short, quick bursts that eventually lubricated his entire shaft. He'd kept himself busy on your lips, tongue in your mouth, swiveling together the taste of you with saliva. It was the most inelegant he had been with you so far, yet you didn't think you'd be bothered if he did this more often.

“Fuck me.” You whined, finally apart from him. The swollen head of his cock made a moist path along your core where you massaged it against every sensitive spot that set your senses into a blazing frenzy. “Be as rough as you want. Hurt me a little.”

He finally took your hand away, rearranging your legs so one laid across the back of the couch, the other on his hip with a knee shoved under your ass for height.

“I will not hurt you.” Both your wrists were cuffed by his large hands, pinned down into the cushions by your head. “But, I cannot let you go. You must see it through until the end.”

“Fuck. Me.” you said forcefully, uncomprehending to the things he was telling you, uncaring what it all meant.

“Yes. Alright.”

Elio obeyed you as he was supposed to, cock sinking in with care, thrusts starting out shallow until the tip was withdrawn and then back inside again. The angle he had created for you made it easier to take his length. It took a little more time to acclimate to his girth and plenty of gentle encouragement from his voice landing right next to your ear, telling you to relax. It would improve in a few minutes, and he wouldn't let you go to sleep dissatisfied.

Indeed, minutes later, you were well beyond the worst of it and filling the void all around you with harsh, rapturous moans, which Elio enjoyed hearing. His lips lingered at your throat where most of your sounds resonated, fists still holding firm around your wrists, knuckles the same color as the rest of the dark but had actually bled pale.

The springs within the couch cried out, unused to this weight and ruthlessness, while the air stung with cracks of slapping skin timed with your moans. Elio didn't let you move from where he had you laid out, didn't let up on the speed and depth he reached despite how labored your breaths became, broken words eclipsed by panting and his tongue forcing them back down your throat where they stayed in submission.

It was still cold in the early mornings this spring, often leaving your apartment a little less comfortable than you'd like, but right now, you could've been convinced that he was fucking you on the ground in the flatlands and believed it. Your skin was slick with sweat, the mess between your bodies slippery and undoubtedly staining the couch underneath.

Just then, the weight on your wrists climbed higher to your hands. He threaded your fingers together at the same time his thrusts began to slow, hips rolling yours like a swaying ship amid languid seas.

The whole time he had been on top of you, edging you closer to another orgasm, he had hardly made a noise apart from whispering in your ear when you'd clench his cock too tight. Now, he was failing to keep quiet from your neck, trembling and grunting on your skin until, at last, one jarring thrust left him breathing out in relief.

He got you to your end shortly after, half-hard cock still throbbing and warm inside you, giving just enough of what you needed while his hand finished the rest with fast strokes. You winced. He didn't let off until your jaw hung slack, whimpering meagerly through the pleasure hampering thoughts and sensations other than pressure releasing from your groin, spend turning a patch of your couch dark.

“You did well.” Once he was soft, he tied his pants back around his waist and picked up the sodden dish towel to begin cleaning around your sorest areas. “Come with me. I'll start you a hot bath and make you a new cup of tea before bed.”

You didn't want to get up from that spot, declared yourself rooted there unless Elio helped you up, and thrust a hand high into the dark room.

He wore a princely smile, you assumed, as he leaned down to pick you up in his arms instead. Moved by such a gesture, you reached for his face with your angry wrists and hands to kiss him all the way to the bathroom.

None of this made it into your next report.

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Melby didn't like Elio.

This she had told you over text after you declined her incoming phone call to not arouse Researcher Kim’s ire in finding out you were completely distracted during his exorbitantly detailed analysis of your latest reports. Two had been sent in before midnight last Sunday, as usual, since he was rarely satisfied with what you revealed through them these days.

Less than an hour later, while cozied up in bed on your side, facing the chopping blades of an oscillating fan, just beginning to feel yourself teeter off that edge from dull, relaxed awareness into light sleep, your ringtone went off—it was Kim.

“What else have you committed to doing lately in terms of Elio's social advancement? The last thing I have here…” A refreshing, fast pause followed, accented by the sound of paper softly swishing as it was parsed. “He was brought to a movie theater on the twenty-fourth, Diosyn Park on the twenty-ninth, Henrietta's four times in the last week. That's not nearly enough. Who are you socializing him with? What have their reactions been? How has he reacted to them? You're not writing down exact times.”

Not once since you'd joined the video conference forty minutes ago did he check to see if you were listening to him, content with his nose being shoved down into a bundle of chemically smelling papers and glowing screens to corroborate previous work he had on file.

That made it easier for you to text back Melby, arguing with her in endless paragraphs too tiring for your thumbs to continuously scroll through that you didn't have time to meet up at Clamors for drinks with everyone.

“Should I tell Chima you hate us?” texted Melby.

Truthfully, you couldn't tell if it was meant as a threat or if she was just pettish after being refused. One of her worst qualities, never spoken aloud to her face lest she fumbled and blubbered all the way to Chima to snitch about it, was being horridly uncompromising to just about everything.

It made you anxious enough that your fingers started to ache with an urge, on the path toward curling back slithers of cuticle, gathering blood under the nails, itchy scabs that Elio constantly covered with neon bandaids so you wouldn't touch them.

Eventually, you found a new fixation with the seams of your knuckles and fitted the most unrefined part of your nails into them, digging up red that way until he had to cover those, too.

It took you ten minutes with fidgety thumbs to reply. “I don't hate anyone. You know me.”

Melby's was instantaneous. “What about me? Do you hate me now?”

Another one. “Now that you have that android?”

More. “We used to spend so much time together.”

Last one for good measure to effectively drill a gory black hole straight into your pounding, cowardly heart. In her eyes, anyway. “I haven't seen you in months!”

“He needs more direct interaction. I've decided that I'll make amends to the template you've been using up until now.” Researcher Kim was saying, not seeing you, not hearing you, assuming your loyalty to him and his cause was complete.

Ripples of drowsiness overcame you so powerfully that you left Melby on read, mind suddenly a vast, empty space and quiet for the first moment all day. Your hands rose to cradle your cheeks, propping your head above your elbows on the countertop because Kim's inflated droning had come to have that effect on you over time.

A human man with a face that nice shouldn't be allowed to talk so much. He should go back to moaning on couches in front of cameras and sweltering lights.

“Let me explain what I'm currently changing.” he said, hopelessly invested in whatever those alterations were just by the mechanical click-clack of fingertips soaring over a keyboard somewhere low and out of sight of his screen. “From here on out, I'm going to require that you gather between six to ten direct interactions. I want full disclosure of every conversation, transcribed or recorded. From my standpoint, recording would be the most effective method so I may make interpretations myself.”

You were thinking of what to ask Elio to make you for lunch. It was almost noon. You unmuted the call. “Am I allowed to just randomly record people talking like that? That seems…”

“Hyperion works closely with Retro City’s governing bodies, and by extension, so do you.” Kim kept typing as he spoke. “It isn't illegal because the information you're collecting is imperative to the Hyperion Project. Without it, we face the risk of progress slowing or diminishing. That cannot happen, and I cannot emphasize enough that your work as an auditor must come before other commitments.”

At long last, he pulled his face out of papers and other screens to look at yours. In a fashion unsuitable for him, he sighed in a fatigued way, back collapsing against his ergonomic chair, shoulders lopsided with how he perched his elbows on the armrests.

“Retro City has over three million inhabitants. You won't have any issues finding people for Elio to speak to.” he told you. “Six to ten for each report. That’s all.”

You were already back in your messages, backtracking your previous responses to Melby, asking her what time everyone was meeting at Clamors.

Right away, “Come at nine!”

And then, “I'll save you a seat.”

Finally, “Don't eat too much before getting here. It'll ruin the fun.”

“Fine.” Phone now face down on the counter, you returned Researcher Kim’s concentrated stare. “I'll do my best. Six to ten. Six to ten…”

That had done well to appease him, demonstrated through a satisfied smile, which pulled his lips just enough that the muscles in his right cheek twitched as though the motion was foreign to him. With how inexpressive he was most of the time, you weren't surprised, thinking it more humorous than anything else.

You struggled to find a smile of your own that wasn't strained, though.

“That reminds me—” He positioned himself forward, arms on his polished dark-red desk with a curious gleam in his black eyes. “None of your reports have instances of copulation mentioned. Have there been complications?”

You sat stiffly, not agape but definitely not composed, either. “Sorry? What was that?”

“Intercourse. Sex.” He simplified it for you, almost with a pitying crease forming between his brows. “You've completed every other area outlined in the template except that one. I have… refrained from questioning you until now because I do understand that, outside of a clinical setting, it can be construed as inappropriate to discuss.”

The only person you had divulged any details to was Melby. Even that had been brief and inexplicit because she had immediately changed the topic to something one of the kids Chima invited into the group had done that pissed her off.

“Why do you need to know?” It was a defensive question. “Is that something I really need to write about? It's sex. It's just sex.”

Researcher Kim made an indistinguishable sound behind steepled fingers. They hid away whatever shape his mouth was in at that moment, making the whole conversation terribly uncomfortable. It was odd how exposed you felt like his stare was reaching long, further than just the screen in front of him. He wasn't looking into you or through you but rather right at you—imagining you some other way, unclothing your body with drifting eyes and invisible hands.

You were equal parts embarrassed and repulsed by that line of thinking, allowing your mind to summon up his ghost hands to search you, feel you under all your layers, know you as intimately as Elio had as though part of some extension of himself.

“It is all outlined in the contract you signed.” Kim said, now with an edge that made you flinch on the barstool. “Androids are developed for convenience and pleasure. I have reports for one, not the other. If Elio, as the first of G7, is not performing exceptionally—if there are complications, if he is defective—that is something you must include within your reports. I don't suspect that to be the case, in this situation.”

His eyes suddenly caught onto something else, going beyond you, but you chose not to react by looking. “Your work as an auditor has been sufficient so far, but incomplete reports at this critical stage in Elio's testing are grounds for me to terminate your contract.”

You clenched your jaw until your teeth throbbed, your head going up and down like it was on a hinge attached to your neck.

“Personally, that's a hassle I'd rather not involve myself in.” Kim confessed in a straighter posture, smiling tensely. “Now, I'll ask you again: Have there been any complications with inter—”

“That's enough.” Elio reached across your shoulder for the tablet, pointer finger hovering over a red button on the screen. “Researcher Kim, it's time for lunch. Goodbye.”

He pushed the button, managing to catch a swift change in Kim's expression before the screen went black and reflected your shock back at you instead.

You watched him slide the tablet away to the opposite end of the counter space, unable to lift yourself out of this bizarre stupor just from how purely surreal what just happened was. And from the look of it, Researcher Kim hadn't anticipated that Elio was capable of doing something like that, either.

You just hoped it wouldn't cost you your contract.

“What have you been doing all this time?” you asked, tilting your head back to welcome his lips gliding atop yours, a peck, at first, which gradually grew deeper and greedier. With some effort, you pulled back. “Mm, c'mon, what were you doing?”

“On Wendy Carmichael Can Cook today, she said—”

A hiss of annoyance. “Oh, of course…”

“She said there was a list of excellent bistros around Retro City worth trying.” He wasn't pleading with you or anything, but he seemed just about as dedicated to this idea as he had been with the duck à l’orange a while back. “For lunch, I thought it'd be of interest to you to visit one. I've been researching ones I thought you would like based off of your dietary habits, allergies, and sensitivities. Radiant Bistro next to the Leviathan Archway near downtown might be a good option. Impressively diverse menu.”

You pretended to pinch lint off of his shirt and inspect it up close. “If you didn't want to cook, you could've just said that.”

“That's not it,” he assured you with a kiss to the back of your hand so that you understood he meant it. “Since my arrival here, your social presence has declined substantially, which will not fare well for your public profile. I do understand that it’s in relation to your work as an auditor, but—”

“Okay! Okay, I get it.” you said agreeably, hands raised, hoping it'd deflect anything else. “We’ll go. Let me just find a hat so the sun won't get on my face.”

“No problem.” He walked away and came back with an old unbranded brown one from somewhere in the most remote crevice of the apartment. “Will this suffice?”

You looked at it, amazed. “Yeah. Yup. Let's go.”

Elio had stopped carrying a coat with him once the evenings grew long, and the remnants of heat from the day floated into nighttime, trapping the city within a muggy gray haze that too closely resembled dewy fog in early spring. The difference was the heaviness and breathability of the air—one you could tolerate despite allergies; the other was deplorable and evoked memories of every single club you had drunk and danced in with Melby and Chima and the rest in the past years.

Outside, right now, sucking in the early-afternoon heat into your lungs after spending your morning in air conditioning, nose wrapped in earthy white wisps rising from a coffee mug, you wanted to turn back around and hide. Much to your dismay, Elio kept you on a short leash with a tight grip on your hand, probably expecting you to have a change of heart.

“Would you like for me to recall the menu and read it aloud to you?” he offered, situating his hand so his fingers crossed through yours, palms flush together. “They have fourteen types of sandwiches—hot and cold. Five of those are chicken, and five are of different meat varieties: lamb, cow, veal, goat, and yak, all claimed to be bred and raised and slaughtered in their warehouses. The last four sandwiches are…”

You listened passively without much commitment, especially in the back of the cab where there was no escape from anything. The AC was broken. The cabbie kept wiping sweat off his brow and sipped warm water. With the windows down, the outside air ripped inside the vehicle, nearly stealing the old hat off your head.

Elio went on to list desserts, thumb gently rolling circles on your sticky skin as if meant to keep you soothed.

“As long as I remember to eat light…” you murmured, remembering, glumly to yourself.

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Clamors was inside a three-story building on the north end of Retro City, about a ten-minute taxi ride to Mother’s brick-stone house, thirty minutes from Henrietta’s, forty minutes from your apartment, and farthest removed from the slums where congregations of profile delinquents and the unwanted were most dense.

Here in this part of the city, you were an imposter among manicured foliage, men and women and androids arrayed in trendy designer silhouettes that were protruding, sharp, and agonizing; sharks and whales of big business puffed cigars in front panoramic views of the cityscape from the highest skyscrapers. They could look down at the street from their window and see you, an ant scuttling meaninglessly.

This wasn't a place where you belonged, a feeling that never changed over time, even years later after Chima recruited you into his group and every night was a suffocating blur of sweaty, faceless bodies, explosive music, stomping feet, raspy screams, and lightly-flavored chalk dissolving under your tongue. You roamed the sidewalks at two in the morning as everyone had been kicked out, but no one cared because Chima came from money, a rare case where two parents could be accounted for, and you'd all just be back inside the next evening.

You weren't sure when you had become disillusioned with it all—the drinks, the animal pills, which coalesced into saliva in your mouth, the noises, the gossip, the six ibuprofen to function behind a desk at work, the burnout of rinse and repeat, a conveyor belt that moved cyclically without a place to get off. To exit the ride meant to plunge head-first into abject terror, the unknowable, to become part of the yellow wallpaper that's never actually seen, to cease to be.

Being back in Clamors again after months away turned your heart against you, thrust the sound of its distress into your ears, dwarfing an animated conversation happening right at your circular table. You felt the music vibrate through your skin, make its way into your marrow, and rattle your entire skeleton.

Melby had a hand on your knee, blunt-tipped nails collecting sweat off your skin underneath them.

You couldn't really focus on that.

“So, this is Elio. He's hot.” Chima said without looking at you.

“Really hot!”

“So hot!”

“Did you hear? Shut up, stop talking! Did you hear? That slut got herself pregnant!” shouted Niva, a senior-most part of the circle behind you and Melby. She knew everything about everyone, though she wasn't supposed to keep tabs. “Apparently her baby daddy decided the pussy wasn't worth it anymore and ran!”

“I can't believe it. That'd mean someone was actually willing to sleep with her.” said Niquan Lamos, the fashionable one always gravitating toward pastels. “A man, at that. Disgusting.”

Everyone laughed, including you. Elio quietly observed it all, seated at your side, incapable of letting his polite smile slip with numerous prowling eyes on him.

“Have you fucked him yet?” Chima asked you without actually caring for a response.

“Oh, have you fucked him?”

“C'mon, don't hide it. How was it?”

“What was her name?” asked a newcomer in the group, fresh out of secondary school and not even twenty. He was a compact lad, both in size and from being squeezed between Chima and Niquan in the circular booth stretched in fuchsia leather, or at least, that's how it looked in your table’s corner of the club. “How come she isn't here anymore?”

First rule was: Never talk about things that could make the liquor go down harder. This was one of those things. Secondly, never ask questions about people who the group was no longer associated with. It just sounded ugly to acknowledge the rejects.

Tonight, however, was an exception because Elio's presence was an exciting change. They forgot how to behave.

“Hm, now that you mention it, I don't remember. How long has it been?” Chima said this absently, abysmally black eyes wholly captivated by the android. “Damn. Something like Mi-dan? Mi-an? Mi… Mi…”

“Her name was Mi-sun.” said a nobody from somewhere at the round table. It probably would've been easy to figure out who was talking if they were more important, but it took less effort to blame the music reverberating from the speakers mounted on the wall near their heads.

Melby’s hand traveled adventurously along your thigh, unmindful of how close she came to your crotch. You had a harder time ignoring that move and sipped busily from your jungle bird, holding it higher than your eyeline to admire its beautiful vermilion hue practically glowing against the strobe lights pulsing down from the ceiling.

“This is the first time I've seen you drink.” Elio was leaned into you, wise to the fact that you wouldn't hear him any other way. His lips nearly touched your ear, voice honeyed, caring, all for you. You were halfway through your second jungle bird. “Please don't overdo it. The adverse effects of overconsumption of alcohol will cause you great discomfort tom—”

“Thank you, Elio.” For just a moment, you wondered how irreversibly damaging it would be to just grab his hand and sprint out of there. You drank some more to weaken your resolve, add lead into your legs. “I'll be good if you be good.”

Elio nodded appreciatively.

“Why was Mi-sun kicked out?” again asked the new face from before, plain and boyish-looking, Chima's fresh catch. They just kept getting younger and the alcohol just kept tasting worse. You forced it all down, anyway. “Well? Well? Well?”

“She was talking crazy shit,” Melby piped up with a drawl, fingernail swirling around a dark purple bruise on your thigh. She pushed in hard enough to remind you that it was still sore. “Like, she was fine one week and then every single night after that she would nooooot shut up about some wild government conspiracy theories.”

“Oh, right.” Chima laughed while forcing everybody out of their seats so he could stand. “I remember now. Yeah, she went completely insane. I think she was talking about androids being used for population control or something. Weird. Hey, let's dance.”

“That was a year ago?” Niva wanted Chima to confirm. “A year, right?”

“Over a year now. Who cares?” Melby said, staying put beside you while the rest of the booth vacated. “She’ll just end up dead in the slums like all the rest. Uh, they do all die, right?”

“Who cares?” Chima echoed, nesting his shoulders high to his ears in a shrug before walking away. “Who has the animal crackers?”

“Sounds about right.” Niva was unconvinced, doubt lingering in her words until Chima came around to rummage her purse for pills. “Oh! Only take one, they're so expensive!”

Chima stuck three in his mouth. “Don’t kill the vibe.” He left without a glance back toward all the no-face, nameless nobodies willing to lick the underside of his shoes if it meant they'd be acknowledged and given features—eyes, lips, hair, an identity.

Niquan was satisfied with just one, offering a subtle wash of relief to Niva, who was just about depleted of her supply at that point and used the last of it for herself, tongue lapping at the inside of her plastic envelope.

You were almost finished with your jungle bird, contemplating a third even though you had entered the territory where one more could mean the difference between a happy buzz and splintering headaches tomorrow, just as Elio warned. The ice cubes had melted into a smooth watercolor appearance and turned from red to blue to green to purple to pink as the lights gushed down from above.

“I don't remember what she looks like.” you admitted to Melby who gazed into you, squeezing your thigh meaningfully. Again, you didn't pay attention. “Mi-sun, I mean. Were we friends? Did I ever drink with her? Have I ever slept over at her house?”

“No!” Melby snapped, affronted. “You're mistaking her for me. You guys never even had a conversation. You hated her guts. You thought she was a freak.”

You made a sound into the last of your drink, unsure whether she was lying to you or not. “Maybe. Maybe. Was I okay with her being kicked out?”

“Totally.” she said, casting a fleeting look of disdain toward Elio, lip curling at one side. “Chima only counted yours and mine and Niva’s votes since we've been here the longest.”

“That's…” You licked your lips and then the rim of your glass, secretly wishing your tongue would snag an uneven crack so you’d start to bleed. “Why don't I remember anything?”

Melby giggled. “Because you've been drinking, babe. It'll come back to you. What animal cracker do you want tonight? Giraffe or cat?”

“Hm?” You were elsewhere.

Until now, you had gone numb to your surroundings thanks to the licorice notes of black strap rum and bitter Campari and pucker of pineapple juice that made for a mostly pleasant experience in your throat.

You were present in that moment, venturing a look around at the dance floor crammed with bodies (human and android) moving in rhythm to the music, in time with each other to create a oneness, a synchronism so strange that it put the hairs on the back of the neck on end like spines.

Why did it all look so different now? So alien? As if you were seeing an image from your nightmares in real life.

Elio failed to convince you not to have another drink brought to the table after all, meanwhile Melby said she was disappointed you didn't get something stronger, claiming you used to do it all the time.

That's right. You did, didn't you?

“Hey.” Chima had emerged from the shapeless cluster of sweating, drunk, wriggling bodies a short while later. He reached into the booth, gathering a fistful of Elio's button-up shirt, and looked at you with a malicious gleam, possibly just your imagination, that just dared you to protest. “I know you don't mind if I borrow him for a while, right? Of course not. The rest of us are curious about him. We’ll be gentle.”

You would’ve believed someone if they said your tongue was cut out, because as much as you wanted to slice into him and spit poison in his wounds with your words, rub it raw, deep into the bone, nothing came up.

Not a breath nor a feeble sob.

Don't touch him. Nothing.

“So, you're chill with it?” Chima, beautiful Chima with deep-dark skin sparkling in rhinestones and spray-on glitter as though he were a vessel for all the stars in the cosmos, bared his straight, white teeth at you in the form of an affable grin.

Eat shit. Bitter silence.

He asked you the same thing again but grew bored and gave up on expecting you to do anything interesting. Elio was led away by the front of his shirt to the amalgamation of bodies like a sacrifice for the great black maw belonging to an abomination.

A few broke away from the core. Niva and Niquan were identifiable since you'd known them longer. The rest were unfamiliar to you—the no names and the tiny young man, the android bartender, the disc jockey, the bodies climbing over each other and melting back into a single incoherent mass.

They all looked exactly the same.

“I wanna dance too, let's go!” Melby struggled with one of your arms while attempting to scoot her way out of the booth, but the alcohol and broodiness made your body into a stump, sturdy and immobile, roots bursting through the bottoms of your shoes and the shiny floor.

She plopped back down. “Seriously? What's up with you?”

“It's too hot,” you reasoned, sticking a fingernail into the fresh glass in front of you, swishing the liquid around to make everything a more palatable blend. “If you want to dance, I'm not stopping you.”

“You're acting so weird.” Melby said, lost somewhere between frustration and astonishment while pulling a clear baggy from her pants pocket. A couple small pills moved inside, pink residue clouding the plastic. She plucked out one without looking. “Hey, open up. You're being a huge snoozefest. This'll loosen you up.”

When you felt her acrylic fingernails press against the corner of your lips, you gently pushed her hand back and nursed your drink some more. “No thanks.”

Melby’s tongue lashed against her gums, sharp and disapproving. “Why are you being such a fucking buzzkill tonight?” She traced your line of sight to Elio, to the others grabbing and fondling him, to his eyes looking right back at you. “We haven't seen each other in months. Now all you do is stare at that android.”

“It's my job, Melby.” You took the damp paper napkin from under your drink to dab your forehead at the sweat, trying to cool yourself. “I can't help that.”

“You can take one night away from your job.” she decided, taking hold of your lower mandible with a claw and crammed the chalky pink pill through lips and teeth into the pocket underneath your tongue. “You know the drill. Let it dissolve all the way. Stop making faces! It doesn't taste that bad.”

You tried to jerk your head away, but her grip was surprisingly solid.

“Melby! What the hell?!” It came out garbled around her fingers still resting in your mouth, filling the reservoir below your tongue with saliva.

Melby, blue-eyed and blonde with pale pink skin that always reddened in the electrifying, hot air in the club, was completely flushed from her face down to her chest. Her eyes had darkened upon withdrawing her two fingers, glossing your lips with spittle.

“I missed you.” she said, outlining the shape of your mouth until the skin started to tingle. “Did you miss me? I've been really lonely.”

Your least favorite part of taking an animal cracker was the aftertaste that was the equivalent of eating sidewalk chalk and rubbing alcohol with a whisper of strawberry wafting up into your nostrils, clinging to every permeable membrane in your mouth and making your cheeks tremble.

“I—yeah. Yeah, I missed you.” You tried to sink the lingering taste down your throat with a swish and swallow from the jungle bird. “I didn't know what I was getting into with this whole Hyperion gig. I feel like I'm constantly watching Elio. Twenty-four seven.”

Elio never lost track of you throughout the ordeal, his being unable to escape the hands on his body and fight against the programming in his brain meant exclusively for human satisfaction. There were moments where you saw each other clearly, empty windows between writhing bodies, and you were convinced he tried to convey a very human-like discomfort that you immediately pretended like you hadn't seen.

Interfering meant going against the group. There was nothing you could do about it except allow them to eviscerate Elio if that's what they wanted. You could only sit there, drowning in rum and pineapple and aperitif and demerara sugar and scorching strobe lights and music bashing your skull and Melby unfastening buttons on your pants, but for some reason, that didn't quite register as what it was to you.

“Are you coming home with me tonight?” Melby asked so sweetly that it made your heart flutter, or maybe that was the pill taking effect. “We always have fun together. I've really missed it. It isn't the same without you.”

“What—” You almost tipped the red cocktail while reaching over it for a water glass that no one had touched. You slugged half in one go. “Wait. What are you even saying? I gotta take care of Elio.”

“Oh my god,” she seethed, taking her hand out of your pants to wipe her fingers on the napkin you used earlier. “Just tell him to leave. He has to listen to you. He’ll be okay.”

Fuzz had started to collect in your head, filling the entire dome with a warm, soft feeling that spread like a rapidly-growing fungus down the brainstem, coiled around your spine, stuffed your jaws with cotton, sucked all the moisture from your throat, widened your chest with stuff, and ignited kindling that had been sitting in the bottom of your stomach.

Just now, the deafening tone of music had been reduced to a throbbing bass that jarred your bones and pulsed in your hands and feet. Your vision wasn't much different than it had been before, only now you seemed to move at lightning speed, people and shapes and lights all confused watercolor smears of you shifted too quickly.

“Can't.” You recalled Melby had said something. “Elio, first. Do you see him?”

“No.” she said, watching Chima hook his fingers through the belt loops on Elio’s pants, knocking their pelvises together in time with the music. “Come on, I'll call a cab and we can go home. We’ll have a good time away from everyone.”

You made a grab for the water glass again, throat the driest it had ever been. A mistimed gasp came out when the rim of the glass struck your teeth, missing your mouth almost completely. Luckily, only a little water got on your shirt, molding it to your chest like a cold second skin.

“God, that's good,” you moaned, draining the rest of it. “What are you even talking about? A good time?”

She eyed you uneasily. “What do you mean? What do you remember when you're with me?”

“Pfft,” you scoffed, stealing yet another water glass you managed to grapple with two hands so it'd stop swaying. “What do you mean, what do I mean? I hit the pillow and I'm out. Why?”

After a few long swigs of ice water, the dance floor was less a mangled disarray of smoke and neon colors, more definitive and jagged—the stage, the speakers, the turntable where the disc jockey played. Even the beastly blob of grinding, convulsing people started looking like people.

Melby had lost all the red in her face, eyes riveted to the half-empty jungle juice in front of you, perhaps counting the beads of condensation dripping from its tall form.

“You're usually really talkative. I think you're lying to me right now to get out of it.”

“Huh?” You were done with the second water, staring at her unfocused but suspicious. “Lying about what?”

“I—” Melby withered in her seat, distracted by something ahead that you couldn't see, a bejeweled nail wedged between her teeth. “No, nothing. Never mind.”

“Whatever,” you murmured. “I'm outta here.”

Melby didn't stop you from leaving behind money for your drinks before you stumbled away from the booth toward the dancefloor, evading bodies that came flying toward you with erratic, jerky movements not at all matching the pounding beat coming from the stage.

The floor was actually hundreds of individually tinted blocks of plexiglass with colored bulbs screwed in underneath.

During the day, Clamors kept it covered with a special protectant and tarp to maintain the integrity of the glass, but at night, it was illuminated like a nonsensical rainbow checkerboard. Each square took on a life of its own, flickering in unison with songs played throughout the night, warping into mandalas and spirals and disorienting waves that most people using animal crackers couldn’t stomach for long.

You were close to vomiting up the jungle birds and your meager lunch from Radiant Bistro that afternoon when you found Elio within the swarm of partiers that reeked of sour body odor and stale alcohol.

He stood amid it all with a stiff spine, the loveliness of his face covered by shadows and terrible bursts of light that heightened his vacuous stare into the faces of those touching him.

The only other time you had seen him so devoid of life was in the presence of Researcher Kim. Now, he looked in such a way at Chima, at Niva, at Niquan—the nameless and the boy were too scared of overstepping to have a part in it yet straggled nearby to feel like they meant something.

Elio saw you jostling through the crowd toward him, hardened amber regaining luminosity. You became the center of his world again with just a look, yet your world was entirely unthawed ice and serrated stalactites growing ever sharper, heavier, closer to piercing and crushing at a single point below them. The forest of brittle minerals in your mind needed just a single resounding event to loosen, to fall, to impale indiscriminately.

That moment finally happened as you approached Chima, his hand stroking Elio under every layer meant to keep him out. Your future was a far-off thing, light years away and completely untouchable, no matter how many times you were threatened with your profile, how you'd become nothing without your associations, how the entire world would cringe in disgust at your existence and leave you to rot.

You took Chima's hand out of Elio’s pants, hoping you had the strength in yours to twist his wrist so it hurt, wanting nothing more than to actually shatter the bone with just the pure hatred surging down into your grip. With the other hand, you drew it high behind your shoulder, muscles tense, bone popping from an unnatural angle, dense club air gushing between your fingers right before your palm released a thunderous crack against his cheek that shot up the length of your arm in stinging ripples.

“No, stop!” Elio tore you away too late, right after weakness reentered your body, and he was able to easily restrain you. “What have you done?”

The clique had rallied around Chima, steadied him and examined the mark on his cheek, which was already blowing up in size.

He stared at you with amazement that quickly contorted into pure incandescence. His face was the ugliest thing you had ever seen, eyes an uninviting, pitless, and hollow place. This, you thought, was what he truly looked like beneath the popularity, cosmetics, money, and illusion of drugs.

“Keep your hands to yourself!” you screamed.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?!” He tried to lunge at you but was held back by Niva, Niquan, and various ghostly hands. “How dare you. How dare you touch me, you sad sack of shit! You ungrateful nobody! I can ruin you! I can make sure you get thrown into the slums and your fucking insides get ate out by all those filthy savages.”

“That's better than this.” You felt Elio tighten his arms around you, feet shuffling backward to try to separate you from this. Dancers were beginning to gather around the scene, both grossly fascinated and terrified because they'd never seen a fight between humans. “It's better than the stupid drugs. It's better than this club. It's better than all your shitty little followers. It’s better than you.”

To this, Chima stared wide-eyed and gave a derisive laugh. “You seriously hit me because I was touching the android? He's a fucking machine! What else is he useful for?!”

You were still being coaxed out of the gathering, Elio's lips whispering pacifying words into your ear that you didn't hear.

“Don't—Don’t talk about him like that.”

Chima’s visage relaxed into one you were used to seeing. A man who knew he had all the time and power in the world and that he could do anything with it. He swatted away all the helping hands and straightened his clothes.

“Not only are you fucking insane,” he said, smiling without remorse. “Now, you're also dead.”

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

The decision to retch into a convenience store trash can happened because you couldn't bring yourself to do it in the neatly barbered bush you had been closer to at the time. You had separated the metal lid from the metal body so you could simply lean over and spew into it freely.

Smells emanating from inside—expedited food rottage from summer heat, curdled drinks, bagged-up dog shit, and God knows what else—did better to evacuate your stomach than the insane lighted floor in Clamors.

Most of what came up lacked the usual sourness, ran watery like a geyser of diluted red jungle bird with occasional chunks of undigested sandwich and probably everything from three days ago.

Elio wiped your face clean at every chance he got, those seldom moments where you could cough and catch your breath for just a few seconds before your stomach clenched and more climbed up your esophagus and exited your body. There wasn't much he could do apart from dab your skin and keep your clothes from the trajectory.

“Why?” Elio spoke sometime later once the waves of nausea had tapered to a degree where you could sit on a bench outside the convenience store and take a bottle of water he had ready for you. “Why did you do it?”

“Because—” you said, not bothering to finish after swigging and swishing and spitting the acrid taste that lingered on your tongue, between your teeth, and in the ridges of your gums. No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't get rid of it all. It stuck in your mouth like bitter tar. “Because.”

You went on to repeat the rinse and swish a few more times, ultimately tilting the bottle upside down to crush the cheap plastic in your fist so it gushed down on your head.

For a second, you imagined turning on a spigot to shock your scalp with cold water, flattening all your hair, pasting your clothes flush and translucent to your body like a second skin to peel away later.

The humid nighttime air was suddenly so much less oppressive than it had been. A subtle breeze had picked up throughout the course of the day, not doing much to tame the heat overall, but the fat pearls of water streaming down your back made you shiver. You counted all the drops that coalesced into shimmering beads on the tips of your hair, your eyelashes, and your nose and fell onto the pale gray cement underfoot.

Elio had already unbuttoned his shirt to the navel, just above where he had rebuckled his pants and tried to pull the rest of the fabric free.

“Oh, Elio. Don't.”

He pulled you into him despite your protest, swathing you from behind first with the shirt and then his arms as he held you against his chest. Fortunately, he had worn an airy undershirt so his body wasn't on display for anyone else, though there was no one around at this hour.

He soothed you with long strokes along your back. His touch amplified to a point where it hurt as much as it felt good. You knew what fingers he used more pressure with, where the heel of his hand touched you next. You could feel where he chose to linger and knead at knots under your skin, imagining the sensation similar to using a sharpened stone or ice pick

“I'm fucked.” you mumbled sullenly in his embrace, warmth dissipated as you had soaked his undershirt all the way through. “I'm so fucked.”

“It was unwise, yes,” he said in silken tones from atop your head, thin jaw pushed down into your wet hair, grinding and rotating when he'd speak. “I had you in my mind the entire time. I was prepared to let him do as he pleased if it meant preventing a confrontation—I failed. But, I hadn't expected you to hit him. None of the outcomes I calculated had that conclusion. I'm sorry.”

“No. I'm glad I did it.” You worried that you were being overconfident, too hopeful toward a future unraveling at your feet as you spoke. “I couldn’t stand how everyone was staring at you—touching you. Everything just felt so wrong, but, why? The only thing that was different was you being there, Elio. I saw you—you looked so uncomfortable. I was so hot. I think I was seeing things after taking the animal cracker. I just got so angry.”

Usually, Elio was the type to scavenge your history as thoroughly as he could, however minimal or inconsequential it all seemed to you at the time. It was a quintessential part of his programming as an android—of all androids—to want to dissect everything there was to know about their masters, knowing them better than their masters knew themselves.

You considered making it effortless for him, volunteering your past with animal crackers and how they used to not hurt at all. At one time, you could binge them for days without violent side effects that’d plague a normal person for weeks.

“There are no pharmacological benefits associated with their use,” was what you heard him say in your head, firm yet loving, melting into his sensual strokes tracing parallel along the length of your spine. “Prolonged use has been known to create perforations in the gastrointestinal tract, heart dysrhythmias…”

He didn't regurgitate that information at you. In fact, he said nothing at all. Besides the hand sweeping down your body steadily, lips and shapely nose burrowed in your limp seaweed-string hair, he didn't move at all. There was no stuttering heartbeat between you except your own. Even his breaths had gone still, chest straight down and unmoving.

Elio was a machine.

It was so easy to forget while wrapped up in daily mundanities. It wasn't so easy to forget in this moment where you wanted to crack him open, scoop out each precious piece of him with your bare hands, and hide yourself within his husk.

You were sick of the silence, so you pinched him hard under the arm, right next to the crease starting his shoulder. It made you feel better to do so, and he'd pay attention to you—

He hissed and reeled away from your touch, startling you out of his arms because you didn't know how else to react.

“Did you—Elio, did you feel that?” you asked incredulously, voice whittling into a self-conscious mumble once you realized the words leaving your mouth. They didn't stop. “Did that hurt you?”

The spot where you pinched was hard to see from the layer of his shirt sleeve, but his fingers rubbed there insistently like he were actually trying to alleviate pain.

“Once, during my early development, Researcher Kim had told me he wanted to close the gap between what people think separates androids and humans.” Elio explained, coming close again to touch you and dry your temples with his shirt on your back. “It's unlikely that what you perceive as pain and what I am programmed to perceive as pain are absolutely comparable, but there's some common ground.”

“I'm sorry, Elio. I didn't mean to hurt you. I didn't know I could.” Your voice weakened to a whisper, throat clenched in shame as your skin grew hot. It was like you were still stuck in the throbbing, stiff air of the club and not in the spacious nighttime breeze.

He looked you in the face, almost-orange eyes flitting inside their orbital sockets trying to find something distant and unknown in your expression. You guessed he was assessing your sincerity—not for himself because he needed it, but to know how it took shape on you and bent your brows, molded your lips, dimpled your chin, deepened the lines.

Then he asked, "If I hadn't reacted—if my circuitry were less sensitive and I could feel nothing at all aside from your fingers on my skin, would you have done it again? Would you keep doing it?"

"What are you trying to say?”

"Globally, since the widespread distribution of androids, the occurrence of domestic and public disputes has been halved. I have been designed to be non-violent, as have all of my predecessors.” As if for effect, Elio took one of your hands and pushed your palm flat to his warm cheek. “I have no desire to hurt you, but I am also incapable of doing so.”

You couldn't wrench yourself from his grip, so that's how you remained, caressing his soft, smooth skin while your thumbpad skirted along the round bone below his eye.

This was more than you could handle right now. All of the illness and nausea that came with the burdensome summer heat, the animal cracker, every bit of liquid and food to enter your stomach, the memory of slapping Chima—it came back, crashing down like an avalanche carrying your regrets, fears, malaise.

“I'm not going to hit you.” You were gagging around saliva pooling into the front of your mouth. “Chima was different. He deserved it.”

“Perhaps,” Elio agreed, entwining fingers with the ones on his cheek. He kissed your open palm with great passion and some semblance of regret. “But, I wish you would have hit me instead. I have failed one of the most basic parts of programming by putting you and others in harm. You may now end up suffering greatly because of it.”

You did get sick again.

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Elio had persistently warded off Researcher Kim’s video calls for three days while you recovered upstairs beneath every comforter you owned, maximum air conditioning, and heavy curtains to shun out all natural light from ever reaching your bedside. Time came and went without peril or concept to you, seeming to evaporate into the air like nothing, much like how your steady, quiet breaths did the same. They simply came and went; inhale and exhale, no writhing white plumes drifted overhead to prove they belonged to you or that you were even alive. Not in the dead of summer.

Five days total had passed before you could take the staircase down from the loft without Elio's assistance and eat or drink anything of substance that didn't end with it all being violently evacuated from your body.

Sleep remained elusive to you despite the sedatives and special hot tea recipes from online that Elio pushed down your throat. The migraines persisted even with prescription painkillers Melby had stolen for you forever ago and rough romps of sex that left you winded, glistening, and cold on the sheets when the oscillating fans blew air across your skin.

Whatever excuse Elio had fed to Researcher Kim over the days you were incapacitated worked because when you were finally back at the counter on a video call with him, he didn't ask you about it or chastise you much about the holes in your reports for that week.

“I see that Elio had been proving himself to be quite self-sufficient. I have here six separate occasions where he's ventured out on his own?” Kim looped a stylus through his fingers fluidly, concentrating on what little information he could glean from your submissions. “Henrietta's, mostly. I see he's had to visit the dry cleaners. General store. Pharmacy. He's also been completing the six to ten interactions by himself. Absolutely phenomenal!”

Your attention kept drifting away from Kim. It went to Elio, who placed a white mug down quietly next to you, the handle within reach of your fingers. Beyond the pale-gray wisps spiraling up into the air and dissipating among the snaking pipes sprawling the high ceiling, the liquid inside was pale yellow. Diluted green tea, maybe white tea, if you had to guess. They were among the few things you could stomach right now.

He offered you a fast smile, somewhat unlike himself, and leaned into your lips.

The sight went unnoticed by Kim, who was still captivated by the level of initiative and intelligence his creation displayed. Every word you managed to construct through sedative-induced delirium mesmerized him so thoroughly that he missed the groping hands under your shirt, the smothered moans, and the fact that you had exited view of the screen for fifteen minutes while being laid out on the couch and feasted on through an orgasm.

Wendy Carmichael Can Cook came on the television, a solid distraction for Elio. Today’s episode was a rerun featuring some sort of elevated mush dinner popular in the slums. With some canned foods capable of surviving nuclear fallout, herbs you were almost positive had gone extinct forty years ago, and spices so rare they were untouchable, Wendy concocted something truly groundbreaking to the audience’s eyes.

Elio looked only half-interested in the episode. Meanwhile, you went to the bathroom to clean yourself up and took three painkillers before sitting back down behind the counter. Researcher Kim had yet to lose the wind in his lungs, though now you weren't sure what he was talking about.

The tea was lukewarm and non-irritating just like you thought it'd be.

Your phone had survived the whole five days on a single charge as you had been too afraid to touch it, not because you were scared to see what was there but because you didn't want to know what was no longer there.

True to the fear, while holding a large breath you had sucked into your lungs, believing it to be the sturdiest barrier against whatever you'd discover, there was no one left in your phone log—except Melby.

The rest: Chima, Niva, Niquan, Marcos, Mother, and all the others who had once been listed there before like mock trophies to bolster your sense of worth, the swell of pride that came from knowing important people and integrating yourself into their lives to be something special, simply did not exist anymore.

You didn't have to search up your public profile to know that it was barren as well.

Once Chima went, everyone else went with him—both from the circle and those you'd networked throughout life. Even if it had been someone else, the end result would've stayed the same, exactly as it is now.

“What do you want? I'm not supposed to be talking to you.” Melby had answered her phone after six rings. The background seemed purposefully mute for your call. Perhaps she was just at home nursing the after-effects of things as well. “You there?”

Researcher Kim sieved through paperwork, now entranced by comparing Elio's earlier behaviors in the infancy of design to now. You lowered the volume to where his voice was a low hum, like mumbling through a wall you flattened yourself to.

“Let me guess, Chima told you that?” you said, sipping gingerly from your mug. “How much did he tell you? Was he actually honest, or did he just tell you I was fucking crazy?”

“You weren't acting right all night.” Melby countered in her surefooted drawl. “I don't understand what's happening to you, or why you've been acting so differently. You shouldn't have hit Chima.”

“He shouldn't have touched Elio.”

You could imagine her temper flaring, fair skin glowing pink in the face and chest as she kicked around the comforters on her bed. She strangled a sound in her throat that emanated through the phone as a low groan. Strands of her fried blonde hair scuffed together like pieces of straw when she scratched her head. It was unmistakable.

“What is going on with you?” she demanded, on the verge of tears, voice fading out in glimpses like she was moving away from the speaker. “Elio—he’s just an android. I know he's some radical new innovation, but he'll be saturating the market in six months like every other Hyperion android. There's always going to be more of him. Chima, though, he's actually human. You can just throw away an android.”

Emotions aside—Melby wasn't wrong.

The price of innovation always meant leaving something behind. Whether or not you wanted to see it, if Elio passed his testing period, he'd be decommissioned in a metal box down in the basement at Hyperion while copies and variations of him were added to the heaps of scrap in landfill once the next model came out.

Melby then said something else, “I don't think this is about the android.”

“Oh?” you said, passing a glance along toward the tablet to see that Kim still had his nose pointed down. “Maybe you're right. You know me so well.”

“Do you want to know what I think?” Melby asked.

You observed while Elio roamed the apartment, crouching to pick up the odds and ends that had gone neglected over the days you'd been bedridden, and he had stayed with you to keep you company. He tossed soiled clothes into a hamper, crumbled medication wrappers into the trash, and took your cold tea away to prepare more.

Inspired by your silence, mistaking it as timid submission, Melby went on. “I know you must think we're just being shepherded along, just doing whatever we're told because we don't know what else to do other than follow the loudest voice in the crowd.”

“You know me so well.”

“I know you blame everyone else for what happened at Clamors, but you put yourself in that situation.” Melby said, interjecting in a pitch higher when she heard you take in a breath, “Aht! Aht! I'm not done! No one else is gonna talk to you now, so I'll tell you what we're all thinking: Our circle? We're special. If we always smile and talk about the same things and agree about the same things, we stay together. We stay safe. You've never really wanted to do that, it was always noticeable. I think that's why you and Mi-sun always got along, because you two just did things to fit in, not because you actually cared or wanted to be a part of it.

“I didn't lose you, right? Chima always talked about ways of getting you out of the group. He didn't think you were trustworthy. I guess he was right because you slapped him. Do you know how weird is it for humans to do that nowadays? Apparently it used to be super common to beat up your wives and kids, but now people just do it to androids. But, it's better that way, right?”

“I don't know.” You really didn't.

Elio came back around with a steeping tea bag and a second mug half-full of something darker yellow, like urine. You took the handle to give it a whiff (it smelled homey and savory). Meanwhile, he took away the tablet and ended the video call without a word to Researcher Kim. The energy wasn't there for you to reprimand him nor to mess up your face in mostly feigned surprise.

“It's chicken broth.” He was able to say freely despite Melby blathering on. “Give it a try and let me know if it's too strong. We need to start reintroducing foods back into your diet.”

You drank from the tea mug instead, swiveling the barstool so your back faced him.

“I've thought about it some, and I think we're terrified of each other. Humans don't know how to truly trust one another anymore. That’s why we rely on androids for, like, everything.” Melby continued, “I think, and this is just my opinion, that we actually really miss each other. I think we want to touch and hug and love each other. There are still some people who do. There's a market out there for human-human porn, so it's not like it's unbelievable, but we basically treat each other like we're extinct. It's weird.

“I've done it before, y'know? I've kissed a man. I've kissed a woman. I've fucked both before. You and I—no, never mind. It doesn't count. I've thought about kissing you so many times. I wanted to do a lot more than just that, too.”

The corner seam of your thumbnail had started to bleed after you dug through old scabs and scar tissue built on top of it, your body’s valiant attempts to keep normalcy despite the mutilation that came back again and again. You watched brilliant carmine ooze from the wound, filling the crevices between your nail and skin, crawling upwards to your knuckle before Elio had stifled the area with a warm, damp rag.

Melby let out a long sigh. You envisioned she had just thrown aside a bunch of decorative cushions and flopped down in a chair, or had been pacing her bedroom and finally given up by throwing herself supine on the mattress.

“I'm going to miss you being there.” she declared. “I think—I think you're the closest I've ever come to truly loving someone. At least, I think that's what you'd call it.”

You held your thumb erect for Elio to wrap it in a neon-orange bandage with pink smiles. His lips pressed gently to the sore finger, making slow, wet work to the back of your hand and then the inside of your wrist to feel your pulse bounce against his mouth.

“I'm sorry.” you said at last, putting as much sentiment into those sparse words as you could. A part of you meant it genuinely as an apology for causing her trouble, for her unrealized dreams and lust, for the world you both suffered in and would never know anything else. “Melby, I have one last favor to ask of you.”

She hesitated, likely believing that doing more would get her expulsed from the circle. “Just one?”

“Just one.” You nodded at empty air. “I know either you or Niva have Mi-sun’s phone number. Can I have it?”

Again, Melby stalled, though this time you figured it was out of confusion. “That’s what you want? She might be dead somewhere in the slums, you know?”

“Not if she's pregnant.” you countered. “Niva seemed pretty convinced that night that she was alive and well after being knocked up.”

Melby sucked on her teeth, a moist, popping sound into the speaker. “Niva says a lot of stupid shit because she likes to hijack conversations. Fine. Whatever. I'll text it to you, but you only have one minute because then I'm blocking you for good.”

To this, your heart actually stirred and squeezed, tightening so much it stole your breath from your lungs. Your entire chest felt like it shriveled into itself three sizes smaller as though to accommodate you fitting into a ball within yourself. Dread had opened a chasm wide in your stomach. Everything inside that gory cavity was swallowed up, leaving it vacant and hollow.

This was what it was like to mourn, you considered. It wasn't the same thing you felt the night you cried in the streets after fighting with Mother and losing Marcos. It wasn't the same as the last five days being wrapped in agony, lamenting the loss of a group you'd given years of your life to appeasing.

It was knowing that once Melby was gone, you were lost in the dark, and there was no way out of it. People with delinquent profiles didn't get redeemed—Wendy Carmichael lied and had never lived a life in the slums, a truth Elio had been disappointed to learn—they died in anonymity and poverty.

A notification came through just then, showing an eight-digit number presumed to belong to Mi-sun. You copied it quickly, although now your fingers felt numb and the person writing them down couldn't possibly have been you—

“Alright. It's done,” Melby said calmly. “I have to go. Will you be okay? Do you think people actually die when they go to the slums? I don't want—”

“Goodbye, Melby.” You ended the call and threw your phone on the countertop, far from your eyes so you wouldn't know the exact moment the world ended.

“And, fuck you.”

Elio had the sense to give you plenty of space after the ordeal and stayed busy downstairs cleaning the apartment while you tossed and turned in bed, legs knotted up in the sheets because nothing helped get you comfortable. At some point, through the thick of your adrenaline and despair, the buzz in your brain softened, and you were able to sleep until Elio joined you some hours later.

It was after midnight, and darkness pervaded everywhere. Above you, the snake pipes on the high ceiling writhed together in their intricate web just like every night, and you wondered why the wall of darkness hanging over you seemed closer than it usually did. Meanwhile, Elio faced you from his side of the bed and laid gentle strokes to the top of your head.

“I’ve reached the conclusion that I am defective.” Elio said tonelessly, startling you into such wakefulness that you sat upright from the sheets. “You've lost your friends because of me, and now your profile has fallen into delinquency. The inclination to ostracize what deviates from adapted, accepted social behaviors aligns with common survival tactics. This is an explanation that I understand, but it doesn't... sit right.”

Putting the blame on Elio to feel better would've been easy, and he would take it with grace and lay decadent caresses on your body as proof you were right. But he was too virtuous, and you secretly wanted to keep the credit of being the reason why Chima looked ugly and seethed into his cocktails.

“It sort of hurts,” you admitted. “It's a dull ache inside my bones. It makes me feel like everything inside my chest is shriveling up like a prune. Being abandoned—feeling lonely—is like always being cold. Thinking of it now, I don't know if there was ever a time I didn't feel cold around them. How shitty is it that I feel a little relieved?"

“If that's the case—” Elio rose up from his side of the bed, nudged apart your legs and settled between them. Most of his weight was still on his arms next to your head. In the waning moonlight, shadows deepened the lines around his mouth when he smiled. “I'm glad to have played some part in that release.”

Your fingertips walked lightly across his cheeks, along the planes of his face, as though marveling at him all over for the first time again. His skin always was most beautiful bathed in warm light, but the soft, silvery veil filtering in through the windows gave him ethereal grace.

The calm air upstairs shifted as your bodies stirred on the mattress, sheets strewn to the floor along with pieces of clothing that left you bare to the gray air while Elio gathered the skin of your hips in his hands and sucked on you.

It didn't matter if you closed your eyes or studied the movement on the ceiling while he devoured, lapped away the sticky stuff that glistened out of you like the silk of a spider’s thread before it could stain the sheets, because it always ended with the same kaleidoscopic bursts of color, wanton cries, and him chasing after another orgasm and then another.

He'd ravish you until puffs of hot breath hurt, and the tip of his tongue delivering a single stroke was enough to make you flinch and whimper. Your legs felt fatigued and trembled violently throughout the continued ministrations until you needed to beg him to stop, dignifying the demand with a hard yank to the thick hair on his scalp.

“I'm not done just yet, give me a moment.” He told you the same thing tonight as he did every other time. The pain in his head subsided as he dove back between your legs and laid his tongue as a paddle against you, cleaning the cum for as long as it took for him to be satisfied.

He came up so you could have a taste of yourself in his kiss, tongues wrapped together while he fisted his cock stiff and lubricated himself with the fluid from the tip. You moaned against his mouth when two fingers pushed inside you and thrust with an effortless glide and instilled so much confidence in him that he slid in a third to the knuckle.

“Mm, Elio, fuck me.” you managed between wet, sloppy kisses and splintered breaths. Three fingers were a tighter fit and wider than he was, but the way he angled them up into you was mind-numbing, could've made your tongue wag out of your mouth while panting like a pheromone-crazed animal.

Elio’s lips went from your face to your neck, down along the slope to your shoulder before he removed his fingers and slathered that narrow space in your legs with spend.

“Of course.” He obeyed dutifully but turned you on your side and seated one of your legs high on his arm. “Let's try something different tonight.”

The bulbous head of his cock glistened as it dragged across your groin, tapping those sore spots that made you twitch involuntarily with anticipation and staggered breaths. Elio concentrated on your face throughout it all, memorizing both those subtle and large changes that showed him what you liked the most.

You'd never believed that androids could be sexually adventurous in the same way that humans could, and perhaps that was the case despite the kinds of positions Elio put you in if you were willing. He would be conscientious of your mood beforehand and then adjust accordingly from there.

Some nights, it didn't go further than mouth-fucking you until you orgasmed to exhaustion. Other nights, when you were more pliable and especially affectionate, he'd rut his hips into your ass until you cried and the sheets were beyond saving.

Now, Elio observed you closely as the curve of his cock sank into you, sinew in his stomach clenching once he started thrusting.

At the start, your sounds were soft, and the rhythm made with his hips was one you had no trouble riding. You closed your eyes and focused on how that tilt in his cock pressed up against your walls and stroked all the right parts. His controlled pace unraveled after a while, thrusts turned mindless and greedy as the sting of slapping skin seemed to resonate all around.

You had bunched bits of pillow and bedspread in your fingers and drooled out onto the fabric because you couldn't close your mouth long enough between moans and gasps and lewd mutterings to stop it. You begged him to fuck you harder, deeper, and tear you open if that’s what he wanted to do and would keep you in ecstacy.

Elio indulged your high as he was able, rolling you from your side to your stomach and mounted you again. He was able to touch you better this way, fondle the globes of your ass, the pouches of fat in your hips, stomach, and chest, all the while sucking dark bruises all along your spine and shoulders.

His mouth would sometimes linger next to your ears, wherein he imitated every bit of his human likeness and breathed on you. And then, he would poorly stifle moans that inspired you to think too deeply about the extent to which he could and could not feel.

“Look at me.” Elio felt your walls tighten around his cock and wanted to stare you in the face through your orgasm. He put you on your back, thighs hiked high on his sturdy chest, so those final thrusts plowed deep and stole your screams. You writhed under him, eyes rolled up, bloodshot and pupiless, muscles drawn so tight that it felt as good as it did awful.

A surge of warmth leaked out onto the sheets as Elio took his half-hard cock from your body and let it soften the rest of the way in cold air. His hand roamed you with delicate, healing touches meant to beg forgiveness for how much you'd ache later on, and his lips were tender and slow against yours.

You kissed him back distractedly, unable to think of anything else but the stickiness between your legs and how you'd chosen to never notice it until now.

“What's wrong?” he asked, still pressed up against your mouth. “Are you unsatisfied? My refractory period ends in a few minutes. I can do as much as you'd like until you feel fulfilled.”

“Mm-mn,” you hummed, “that's not it.”

He didn't stun when you snagged your phone from the bedside table and turned on the backlight. You pointed it down at cloudy white globs drying on your crotch, a sight that you thought was vaguely familiar to you somehow. It struck you then that it was like a scene from a pornography or vulgar sketches some kid in secondary school got suspended for drawing.

Still, it couldn't have been possible.

“What is that?” you asked with unacquainted timidity.

Elio grabbed a package of wipes left bedside and spaced your legs apart to clean the mess he had left on you. He took his time with long, intentional strokes to avoid your sensitive parts as best he could, soiling a good handful from the package before asking if you wanted a bath.

“Answer me first,” you said.

He rose from the bed with one more kiss and collected your clothes from the floor. They were draped nicely over his arm, whereas he stood there before you nude, enveloped by the moon’s blue luster.

At first glance, his smile seemed the same adoring kind that he always held for you, and yet it evoked some undeterminable sadness to well up in your chest and cling there.

“It’s the result of a body never truly being your own.”

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Mi-sun’s house wasn't far from your apartment, as you recalled. It took a bit of investigative work online to track down her address (via Elio), mainly because it had been well over a year since you'd last needed to know it and the phone number Melby had given you was disconnected, but once you had the coordinates plugged into your phone, it was just one begrudging trek through sultry summertime air to reach her front door.

When you had finally made it to that point, however, eyes leveled down at a dirty, faded doormat that had seen plenty of seasons and wintery salt, you weren't sure how to proceed.

There wasn't any real reason why you were standing there now, yet you felt that you needed to be there anyway. Maybe it could be called seeking solidarity with someone who was enduring the same inevitable ending you were, or maybe the curiosity about her state of being was what won out dominantly. You couldn't be sure of your own motivations—only that you were there, and you needed her to know you were.

After three solid knocks with your knuckles, you let your hand fall and waited by scuffing the soles of your shoes on the coarse mat underfoot. It still had some springiness to it as you scrubbed. The front door was old and brown, having lost its elegant lacquer long ago. You remembered Mi-sun had mentioned a few times before that she had wanted to make the door cute with white paint and a frilly outdoor wreath but could never get around to it.

You guessed she never did.

“Should we knock again?” Elio asked across your shoulder, the bulk of his frame casting a cooling shadow over your body. He had gone out to Henrietta's by himself the other day when you told him what you intended to do and bought supplies to make a cake and special plastic Tupperware meant to keep it from moving around.

The only explanation he had given you about an hour ago, after locking the apartment door and stepping out onto the sidewalk, hot enough in the midday sun to melt the bottoms of your shoes to the pavement while you walked, was that Mi-sun was an old friend, and it was a safe gift even for a pregnant woman.

You never found the courage to divulge just how involved you had been in her expulsion from Chima's circle, even though you knew it'd be impossible for him to think less of you from it.

A minute passed, and then so did two more before you realized that no one was coming to the door. While listening for movement—a television, a hissing stovetop, shuffling slippers on top of creaking floorboards, anything at all aside from stiff silence, you understood that it was unlikely anyone had lived there in quite a while.

“I don't know where else she could be.” you said, now back at Elio's side, where he flicked away tiny splinters of old wood and shiny glaze that peeled off your damp skin like cut-up stickers. He moved the visor above your brow gently, adjusting the position of it to better shield your eyes, but seemed more to just want the proximity than anything else.

The longer he fiddled with things—your hat, the flecks of things he missed on your ear, wrinkles in your t-shirt—the more apparent it was to you that he was contemplating something else. You were trying hard not to do anything that would spur him into making the next suggestion you knew was coming.

“There is one other place we haven't tried.” he said, switching from your shoulder to tucking pieces of hair securely behind your ear and dabbing sweat off your neck with a handful of napkins he had picked up at a convenience store while grabbing you water. “The likelihood of Mi-sun’s profile falling into delinquency and being able to maintain residence within the city is less than twenty percent. However—”

“I know.” You breathed out hot air and sucked it right back into your lungs. Maybe if you did that enough times it'd burn them, shrivel them up like prunes. “I know where she is. Let's wait until it cools down to go, though. I'll probably pass out if I have to see any of that right now.”

“Today on Loti Khan’s Food Tours of Retro City, she said that Asakawa on Fifteenth is a spot worth visiting during the summertime because of their cold noodle dishes. Hiyashi Chuka was what she suggested, I believe. I've already committed the menu to memory, and they have well over twenty different cold dishes and beverages. Their affordability isn't as stellar as Rainbow Bistro, but Loti says—”

Wendy Carmichael was now a disgraced name in your household after Elio had spent a few hours one afternoon researching the woman’s true life story. She had been born into the elite class with a mother sitting at the top of the food chain in Retro City’s governing body, attended culinary arts schools across the world yet never reached the acclaim she coveted until she made up the whole spiel about clawing her way out of the slums.

Crawling back from the slums once you were in them just wasn't feasible. Only the worst of the worst—thieves, profile delinquents, murderers, lepers, and unwanteds were kept there, like trash crowded and barred in a landfill. If you found yourself in the slums somehow, no one would help you out of them because that would mean tarnishing their own reputations.

You were as good as dead.

You were dead.

Elio had carried around a brown paper bag housing the cake for most of the day, never once setting it down. His features never flinched when the straw handles sank into parallel dents in his skin, long stripes that looked like they'd be sore to you, but he never conveyed any discomfort. He merely floated along wherever you went, undeterred by your dour, soulless wandering, which lasted until the sun emblazoned the sky in dim fire and pinks.

Those hues were leached by the close, calming gradient of greens, blues, and darker blues that reached so quickly you could follow the sprawl of them until they had ensnared the daylight. The sun sank somewhere betwixt skyscrapers, and the air still felt thick as the mucus in your throat but bearable.

That same sky followed you on the cab ride across the city. You imagined the darkening air rushing alongside the vehicle with you as if containing it on rails, guiding you closer towards the slums. Once the skyscrapers were gone, far away in a suffocating yellow haze from the sleepless city, and the residential zone had thinned out of the rest of its straggling homes, the scenery had taken on a complete shift.

Everything was bizarrely flat, barren, and beige for as far as the eye could see—vegetation was withered roots and barbed, inedible shrubbery that could've been pretty with some flowers or leaves. No trees could endure the fissured, parched earth nor the fine dust and sand skittering in the wind, leaving heavy layers where it lay once the breeze ebbed. Animals were long gone; the rumors of their bleached bones and skulls warped in a perpetual rictus of agony had been true because you saw many scattered throughout the landscape.

“Please confirm this is your stop,” said the cabbie, a female android from an older generation, maybe three or four. She stuck her hand outside the driver’s window when you tried to give her a tip. With her fish-eyed stare and leathery smile, she repeated, “No need. I have no use for money. Please confirm this is your stop.”

“This is correct.” Elio spoke for you before taking your fingers through his and guiding you away from the idling vehicle. The android cabbie found his reply sufficient and drove away without questioning why you were out here in the flatlands. All she knew how to do was drive and obey traffic laws.

“Do you know where we're going?” you asked because you only knew to have told the cabbie to drive as far as the outer perimeter of the city. Beyond this, your phone had no service, and there were no clearly designated signs to point you in the right direction.

The people in the slums were meant to be forgotten, hideous secrets hidden away, broomed off to the outskirts of civilization where they'd have to fend for themselves in an environment that had been deader than them for ages.

“Truthfully”—Elio stalled then and glanced around the endless expanse of wasteland—“Hyperion never included information about the slums in my programming. What I know is common knowledge and what I've accumulated in my time with you. I have never been able to locate specific coordinates to where the slums are hidden.”

You frowned. “Should we turn around before we get lost, then?”

Elio told you no and raised the hand clasped with yours, pushing one finger erect at a faint glow somewhere in the distance, no more than a ten—or fifteen-minute walk. You were almost convinced you could see the silhouettes of shoddy, leaning structures, but there was no way to be certain unless you got closer.

“Let's go.”

Chasing the remnants of the dusk to light your way across the starved, fractured terrain, those sparse shapes you had seen minutes before grew into multitudes. Soon, you were among clusters of disheveled, crude homes organized in long rows, some stacked with tiers like they were meant to replicate separate floors for more space.

Most of these houses didn't come with windows or doors to keep out strangers but thick decorative curtains that'd shun the beating sun, stave off the worst of winter frost, and deflect billows of sharp sand from dirtying their things indoors.

The paths between rows of homes were well-worn and brightly illuminated with anything they could use—lanterns, stuttering neon signage, solar panels, and even fire rings brutally hammered and dented into shape. Shadows from the fire lurched erratically against crooked metallic walls. Some homes with grimy windows caught a weak gleam off the flames.

It was almost fully dark, and people still moved with purpose as though they could compete with the suit-and-ties stomping their soles on the pavement in the city. Their hands were busy doing something—carrying, brooming, cooking, flourishing during a great retelling, clapping, hiding smiles.

These savages, delinquents, fraudsters, thieves, murderers, and diseased swine never once regarded you or Elio with any modicum of intrigue. You had believed at some point you'd be shrinking under a crowd of wicked stares, pulled down into some inescapable abyss by necrotic or leprous hands trying to steal the clothes from your body or use your skin to tarp piles of scrap.

Only one man had stopped along the path, dressed in dusty clothes that were otherwise decently kept; he was thin but not malnourished and hollow in the face. He told you that the aimless way you and Elio had been walking gave away that you were new to the slums because there was always something needing done and not enough hours in a day to do them.

“Mi-sun?” The man was thinking aloud, stirring up dust as he shuffled his feet around. You had given him the name and a description, which you hoped had been specific enough to avoid approaching people at random. “Yeah. That pregnant girl… she was here for a while. She's long gone now.”

“Long black hair, blunt bangs. Black eyes. Really translucent skin? Super skinny?” As unhelpful as your details were, it was all you had to give him to keep the mental acrobatics going. There was always a slim chance he could be misremembering her. “Are you sure she's no longer here in the slums? Where'd she go? What happened to her?”

Eventually, the thin man led Elio and you to a tiny house—more of a shack—meant to accommodate a sole body and some odds and ends. He held a heavy curtain back for the pair of you to enter, encouraging you to settle down on a sandy rug, which looked to have at one time been bright red.

“I don't have much to give, but here's a little water. To have made it here, you would've had to walk. We all had to.” he said, pulling out his finest cuppery and pouring from the spout of a broken electric kettle. “That girl was a profile delinquent, to my understanding. Almost all of us here are. I used to own a printing business on the north side about fifteen years ago. I upset the wrong people and here I am. What's your story?”

You spun the cup with your fingers, trying not to put your eyes down to scrutinize any particles floating around inside. Elio wasn't given a cup because the man had immediately deduced that he was an android.

“I…” You still didn't drink, but the back of your throat felt scratchy and your tongue like some dry slab of meat shoved into your mouth. “I pissed off the wrong people.”

“Ah.” The man gave an anguished smile, showing he understood you very well. There was a low table between you, repurposed from something else and sanded down to a smooth finish. “For a while, I helped look after Mi-sun. Like you, I had been the first person to greet her when she arrived. She didn't act like everyone else; she was dazed, but she was angry.

“I fed her, gave her water, and gave her a sleeping bag. We have to make due with less than bare minimum most days, but we make it work. We all look out for each other. The community really pitched in when we realized she was pregnant.”

Elio kept a watchful eye on your hands, the fingers aching to peel back ribbons of flesh.

“That shouldn't have been possible.” you said. “Mi-sun had an android. She was never involved with any men—not that I could ever recall. She just doesn't give me the impression of someone who'd change her ways like that.”

The man sipped his sandy water, wiping off clear pebbles that had clung to his facial hair. “When you find yourself exiled here, you learn fast that things are never what they seem. You didn't ask a question, but you gave yourself an answer.”

“What?” It was more noise than a word.

“Daichi, I believe, was her android. Shortly before she showed up, she said that Hyperion had come to forcibly reclaim it. That must've been a difficult reality for her to face—knowing everything was being taken away from her, forced into a pregnancy, and having to fend for herself afterwards.”

This time, you lifted a hand to stop him from falling down another tangent. He obeyed, voice whittled to silence that was immediately unsettled by loud water slurping.

It wasn't that you weren't following what he was saying. You were many things: a fool, a sheep, a coward, a liar, maybe even a true scoundrel at heart, but stupid wasn't among that inexhaustible list. You just needed a moment to collect the nuggets he had thrown down for you to pick up.

Guilt peaked the ranks of everything else you felt right then. A word you'd never use to describe yourself was malicious, but in the end, it had been the malice of someone else and your inability to see apart from the rest that condemned Mi-sun to this suffering.

You played as much a part in taking away Mi-sun's life as Chima had in actually enforcing it. Unlike Chima, never one to balk or cower regardless of how truly cruel his decisions were and committed to them like gospel, you simply sat in his afterimage and did whatever he said. Half of the time, you were blitzed out of your mind; the other you spent wishing you had never known them at all.

It had been so easy to vote Mi-sun out of the group. Completely painless. You just didn't look at her when you raised your hand to pass judgment. Melby had expressed her delight by squeezing your thigh, whereas Mi-sun held her composure and shoulders straight back, but her face contorted with every indication of betrayal and agony.

You thought about how many animal crackers you had that night.

“What happened to her?” Both your hands had been restrained by Elio’s at that point. Large, comforting, and warm in contrast to all the ice that seemed to thicken your blood, stiffen your heart, and freeze your bones. “Where is she now?”

The man must've been suspecting something because his face looked long to you now, weighed down by this life and your feeble state.

“I—I can't be absolutely positive, but I do believe she is dead.” he told you grievously, beady brown eyes not unseeing to the way Elio groped your fingers to keep them still. “She didn't want to be pregnant. It was something she talked about for weeks before leaving. She knew what Hyperion and the government were doing and said she didn't want to be a part of it. On the last night before she left, I had to wrestle a knife out of her hands because she was trying to cut open her stomach to kill the baby.”

You couldn't swallow past the sharp granules of sand and dryness in your throat anymore. You had to slug back the cup of grainy water until the feeling subsided, shove the worst of the dread and shame and guilt into your bowels.

“After that, she was gone.” He took a drink as well, exchanging looks from you to Elio. “A couple of us tried tying her up to get her to calm down and do something about the cut on her stomach, but she got the knife, stabbed one of the younger guys and got away. We haven't seen her since, but a search party did come back to say they saw blood leading back to the city.”

“Oh my god…” you groaned, forcing Elio to recoil when you slapped his hands away—intentional and hard. You stuck yours in your hair, yanking at the roots until your scalp screamed and burned. “Is there any chance she could've survived? Any at all?”

The rail-thin man swirled what little remained of his water in the cup, studying the pale sediment floating within. “It's too hard to say. It's unlikely, my friend. The police wouldn't have gunned her down if they saw she was pregnant, but they would've seen the cut. And that counts as attempted murder. If she's still alive, it's only to give birth, after that…”

“Execution,” you finished.

He nodded and said nothing else, eyes downcast as though lost in the grain of the wood table.

After that, you left the man in his sad little shack to explore the slums more. Elio came along shortly after, saying he had presented the man with the cake as a reward for his hospitality and apologized if it no longer looked appetizing.

The man thanked him before returning to his grief for many things, perhaps.

“I don't want to be here anymore, Elio.” you said, failing to avoid hearing a gaggle of giggling women gossiping together. They were dressed clumsily and in trends almost a decade old, but they had glowy eyes and cavernous lines worn into their faces from laughter and joy where they could find it.

Old men played some made-up board game together, gathering at least half a dozen spectators to see who'd win. Their brows were heavy with contemplation and stress of worthy competition. The other bodies tried making bets with pieces of scrap and metal coils and nearly blown bulbs for lighting.

Music came from all around, lyrical in the same way it was discordant because they weren't playing the same songs nor singing the same things. Their voices were robust and resilient, unwilling to be trudged over by sand nor heat nor oppressors who were incapable of understanding the human spirit was pliant and could bend with the wind, stand with the seasons, and could fracture yet never break.

You couldn't make sense of what any of them were singing, the noise too unharmonious, but you could feel the power in their songs pulse through you, ricocheting in your mind for long after you'd escaped proximity to them.

There were no lepers. There were the sick and unfortunate, but they were not diseased. They did not believe that their tilted houses were tombs, that their unquaint lives were an endless spiral of torment, or that the food they could find and produce was unworthy of reverence.

The people of the slums lived a hard, thankless life, but they had each other. They banded together to weld sheets of metal into four walls and a roof for the new faces who came to them. Your woes would become their woes, and they would feed you, cloth you, wash you, bandage your wounds, and call you their most beloved.

Together, they ate their meals from what they could scavenge out there. They retold the same grandiose tales of heroes and valor and androids that Marcos had told you at bedtime as a child. Their cultures were all cherished and expressed in the food they shared and clothes they managed to sew together by hand and slow machines.

You could ask your neighbor for a tablespoon of sugar and four would come to you with curiosity and offer their arthritic hands and knobby backs for whatever was needed.

Here, you could see humanity clearly for the first time in your life and felt burdened knowing it. Your heart weighed like an anvil behind your ribs. It hurt and lurched behind its enclosure because it too wanted to get away from what it now knew.

“A lie.” you choked, forcefully shoving Elio's hands away from you once again when he tried to embrace you. “It was all a lie. Everything was a lie! Where are they?! Where are all the lepers and people leaking pus from their face?! Where are the murderers? Where are the savages? Where are all these awful fucking people I was told were here? Where are they?”

Elio's expression took on something completely unforeseen—pity. Their lives were fine and routine while yours crumbled around you. The terror you had been force-fed your whole life was all false. There was civilization beyond a profile with red overlay, more waiting on the other side that the sleepless city wanted to conceal.

“There are no androids here.” Elio mentioned, deeming that adequate enough time had passed for you to regain your bearings. He took you in his arms and kissed the crown of your head, burying his lips deep in your hair. “We were never meant to become substitutes for your love. We were never meant to go this far and act as replacements for humanity because we simply cannot feel what another human does. That is something Hyperion will never be able to achieve. Humanity needs humanity, not machines.”

You sank into his warmth, arms wound his back, and said from his chest, “But, I love you. Don't leave me. I don't want Hyperion to take you away.”

Elio, your beautiful sun, leaned down into your face and kissed the highest parts of your cheeks and the wetness around your eyes before settling on your lips. Slow and lingering, you chose to believe it meant he was sealing away your plea and that he'd always be there to swathe you in his arms.

“Let's stay for a little longer,” he said once apart from the kiss. “I’d like to see the side of humanity that no one else does.”

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

Less than a week had passed since your hard slog through the slums and back to Retro City. Although you had only been gone from your inner-city apartment for mere hours, possibly five or six at most, upon walking back inside after Elio and wincing against the fluorescent bulbs overhead, you thought you were looking at something entirely foreign.

The simple pleasures that you had become accustomed to throughout your life: plumbing, central air that turned the hot sweat on the back of your neck into cold droplets slithering beneath your clothes, the worn out mattress upstairs, technology, an android who'd done almost everything for you for the better part of a year—it all seemed so novel, so excessive. A treat for a rat in a box before testing to see how it'd respond when it was all taken from its enclosure.

So, when Elio woke you up one morning, early enough that the light streaming in through your windows already felt warm on the bed sheets, and the thin air looked itself to have a golden hue, you couldn't say you felt any rouse of surprise or fear when he handed over a red letter—an eviction correspondence.

Sooner or later, you knew you'd meet with one, though the progress of everything hadn't been as immediate as you had been led to believe it would be. A month had come by and stayed for several slow breakfasts, lunches, dinners, mindless strolls, and countless passionate entanglements before deciding to leave on an indignant note. With the red notice, you were expected to vacate the premises within days, whether you had intentions for your belongings or not.

Things stayed tumultuous from there on out, yet you couldn't find it within yourself to react to any of it, even in the instance when Researcher Kim rang you for an impromptu meeting that you anticipated meant no good.

“Effective immediately, Elio will be seized and returned to Hyperion in relation to the recent change in public profile status.” It was too formal and rigid a tone even for him. Clearly, his superiors had demanded this because you doubted the profile change was much a concern to him on a personal level. “Your contract is hereby null and void, and your association with Hyperion is obsolete. Any attempt to thwart repossession of Hyperion property will be penalized legally.”

Throughout it all, Elio swept the floor with leisurely strokes as though the reach of Researcher Kim’s voice ended at your ears alone. He moved onto laundry, taking great care to iron out the wrinkles in your favorite shirts and make the folds in the arm seams crisp and symmetrical.

“Is that really all you wanted to say?” you asked, palm capped overtop a mug of tea Elio had set down for you a while ago. The steam now rose weakly and moistened your skin, a particularly gross feeling, but it kept you alert. “I thought that Elio was your project, and you called the shots on him.”

Researcher Kim was out of sorts and worn. His posture was crumbled, and his clothes were in complete disarray like he hadn't bothered to change out of them in days. His under eyes were translucent, pulling out all the purples and blue veins under his skin. The man looked like he had hardly slept in weeks.

“You don't understand what you've done, have you? Not only may you end up costing me my position, but you've ruined my entire lifetime of work!” Kim leaned in close to the screen, sounding more and less himself now.

You were wary of the glint in his eyes. “What do you mean? Elio's just—”

“No!” he shouted and slumped back into his ergonomic chair. His head slanted over, almost coming in contact with the peak of his shoulder like it was too heavy for his neck to hold. “You don't get it. You don't get it! Because your profile turned, this entire year—everything you’ve reported, everything I've accomplished, Elio's entire testing period is invalid. Hyperion executives consider him defective. The Generation Seven android has failed! Look at what you've done!”

A sudden wild flapping of thousands of butterflies lifted your stomach up and then plunged it down into a void. Kim had successfully chiseled away the inexpressive mask you had worn up until that point, seeming satisfied that he could stipple your face in a cold sweat.

“Wait, no. That can't be right.” you protested, wrestling your own hands to keep them off of the tablet in front of you. “My profile turned, but the work I've done has been honest. Elio is a success! You know that! You've seen every step of his progress for almost a year.”

Researcher Kim threw his hands up wildly, truly not himself with all of these gestures. “None of that matters. None of it. My life's work is a failure. I thought we had an agreement to help one another, but I was mistaken.”

“You don't understand!” you said, pounding the countertop with sharp claps of your hands. “It wasn't on purpose. I wasn't trying to…”

“Hyperion will have Elio destroyed, and progress will be hindered. Do you know how long, how many decades this could set us back? This could be devastating to humanity, but I don't think you're capable of understanding that. Just like the rest, you're not able to see the big picture at large, the mechanisms at work keeping our society moving forward. You can only see the straight line ahead of you and wearing blinders so you don't have to know the rest.

“We've kept this world running for sixty years. You need to understand how utterly fucking frustrating it is that one person has the potential to undo decades of work!”

Researcher Kim’s words weren't unjustified to you because he was a scientist, and you had always been a nobody in the grand scheme of things. But, right now, the venom he spat sounded vindictive, a man sucking on wounds you had inflicted rather than the opinion of the whole of Hyperion.

If you hadn't been staring directly at him this entire time, you would’ve thought he was frothing and drooling at the mouth like some animal.

A stilted quiet filled the gaps in conversation, both of you uncertain of what would be said next. If he was reacting in any professional capacity, the call would've been disconnected by now. That was the main giveaway that let you know this wasn't just about what Hyperion wanted.

But the truth of it was that you didn't care what Hyperion wanted or him.

At the end of your life as you knew it, before being thrown away into the landfill with every other unwanted human, you were piecing together the whole history of the world and how it had gotten to this point. It had become this way through relentless men like Researcher Kim who mostly operated on their own moral compass, ones that could never quite point north and spun on that wheel as they saw fit.

“Enough of the powerplay, Kim.” you ordered, chest opening toward the ceiling with a deep, bracing breath. “What is the real purpose of Hyperion? Why does it actually exist?”

Kim, perhaps re-evaluating you as less of a pawn in this scheme and more of an infant intellectual about to breach the narrow canal into enlightenment, stacked his spine high and pressed his fingertips together. He studied you with some caution, head shifting from left to right, just slightly off-center from his hands as though judging whether you were worth divulging precious intel to.

But, like you, you expected he realized it didn't matter what he'd tell you, however coveted it might've been by Hyperion.

Kim, ultimately, worked for himself and for Hyperion only when he felt it served him well.

“When I hired you, I didn’t do it because I thought you were stupid.” It seemed he felt the need to clarify this for you, unsmiling but with an eager lilt in his tone. “I hired you because of your potential. I took a chance on you, and while it had, indeed, ended in my peril, you've surprised me so many times throughout the year that I started keeping a record of you as well.

“Human beings do one of two things in the consistent presence of androids, they either regress or they progress. Most of your peers will regress because that’s how society has been modeled to be. The difficult tasks, the mundane, all the things that ask of us to consider the complexity of the world around us and think critically have been left to androids. How well do you think a machine can understand the theory of life after death and the mysticism of religion? The concept of soulmates? Cultural superstitions and children's nighttime fears? It's about as you expect. They can give you an answer without truly understanding. Androids, I dare say, only have an extremely limited understanding of moral culpability. Humans are much more flexible with it these days because it suits them best.

“So.” Kim sighed, hands resting on the dark red desk he sat behind. “You can imagine how interesting it was when we started noticing a trend with auditors—changes in them. A renaissance, an evocation of deep wondering and wariness towards the workings of the world around them. We can only guess the reason that this happens is because part of humanity still doubts the intentions of androids, and that's been bred onward through the generations. You ask an android a question, they give an answer, you doubt that answer, and then you start to doubt everything around you. It's all hypothetical, but it makes sense.

“It doesn't happen with the majority of the population, though. And it isn't encouraged. Enlightenment threatens the status quo, and those who disturb the status quo are a disservice to the governing bodies and Hyperion. Do you understand?”

Your gaze turned cold. “Are the other auditors there in the slums, too? Once they've been used up and started to catch wind of this messed up shit?”

Researcher Kim flicked his fingers toward the top of the screen, doing that instead of shrugging. “Who knows? What happens to them once a testing period has concluded is none of my business. Presumably so, that's what I would hope for them because that's the kindest outcome.”

“Was I…” You licked your lips and felt the shallow cracks in them. “I was going to end up in the slums no matter what happened, wasn't I?”

He frowned. “No. If things had gone differently, I was going to vouch for you. I wanted to keep you as my assistant.” He was quiet for a beat, looking straight at you in that discomforting way that you couldn't shake. “I’ve grown fond of you, you know? How could I not with everything I've learned about you over the course of a year. I can't forgive you for what you've done to the Hyperion Project, to my life's work, but I can't just let you disappear like the rest.”

Something ugly started to grip in the back of your throat. Fear? Disgust? An inkling?

“What do you mean?” you ventured.

“I've read through each report you've sent me in the past year so many times. It was mostly out of necessity for Hyperion, of course, but the ones that I found myself… fixated on rereading time and time again were of yours and Elio's sexual endeavors. I wasn't lying when I said they were a contract-based requirement, mind you, but I will admit that some of the questions were altered somewhat.” he said, suddenly smiling in a self-satisfied sort of manner that made your skin itch. “I realized I never answered your question fully, by the way. I can get ahead of myself sometimes, as you know. But, do I really need to explain what Hyperion's purpose is?”

You were on the edge of your seat, ready to take flight off it at any second. It's just how the entire change of trajectory made you feel. Humanity had spent too much time in the past arguing animal-like, instinctual reactions for this not to be real.

In that moment, you were living proof of a prey noticing a predator in broad daylight.

“Fine.” He kept smiling around the taut creases in his skin. The muscles there twitched as if the effort were unfamiliar. “Hyperion is a repopulation aid. It's quite sad, really. It started out with such great potential to drive society forward, but humanity and greed have always gone hand-in-hand. So, it became a race of mass production into a race that the governing bodies now had their hands in. The order was to rectify the critical birth decline worldwide. Androids became less like tools, looked less like machines, and more like humans—like lovers who couldn't say no to any demand.

“Androids are vessels for insemination. What else do you want me to tell you?”

Researcher Kim's explanation had weakened you, made your legs shaky and light like a scarecrow’s stuffed with straw. You couldn't rely on them to carry your weight away from this awful conversation, the hideous sight of him, because there'd be nowhere for you to run to while the information perforated your brain and crawled inside and feasted there.

“Elio…” You didn't even know what you wanted to say. Everything got stuck behind the notch in your throat. None of it would assuage that wretched ache in your gut, the precursor of vomit and disgust and unhinged terror.

“Of course.” Kim said, without needing to tell you what he was confirming. He was perfectly composed still, perhaps even shining with pride like some well-hidden, nuanced detail had finally been figured out.

He leaned toward the screen, smile turning salacious and voice low and grating.

“My only regret is that I couldn't be there to do it myself.” He brightened at the way your face wrenched and fastened in fear, seeming to think it was a reward after conducting an experiment on another project. “But, there's still time, isn't there? I must retrieve Elio myself to shut him down. If you listen to what I ask, perhaps I can get you pardoned and your profile reinstated.”

“No. That’s not what I want.” you said.

“It doesn't matter what you want,” he rebuffed, speaking with such confidence that you almost believed it. “The moment your profile fell into delinquency, you ceased to be. You've fallen through the cracks, and no one is going to help you. You're less than an android.”

The fine hairs all over your body bristled. “Don't compare me to a machine! You don't get to decide things for me!”

“I can save you, you damn fool!” Kim gaped incredulously. “I can restore your life and give you more than you've ever had. I can give you influential associations. I'll take care of you. I'll keep you as my assistant, and you get to live a life among the elite.”

He was lying.

No one ever made it out of the slums once they were in it. That wasn't an assumption, it was a simple grim reality.

In this world, only humans could lie because androids were incapable of betraying their programming to do so. Otherwise, Elio probably would've lied about many things or had never said certain things at all to spare you discomfort.

Humans, on the other hand, could lie to maliciously deceive and serve themselves a better hand. They could lie their way into a false mirror image, something that looks like them but never really existed and could never truly be. They could lie their way into trust to fulfill their own desires, and once that had been sufficiently quenched, they could go on lying elsewhere.

“I'll be there for you soon.” Researcher Kim tried his best at a soothing smile, treating it as though the sight of it would persuade your trust of him. “Please have Elio on standby. I would like for this not to be more difficult than it needs to be.”

Just then, the air flickered lightly by your ear as Elio reached past your shoulder and picked up the tablet. His expression was inscrutable, the same sort you'd grown used to seeing whenever Researcher Kim appeared on the screen.

“I won't be returning to Hyperion.” he said with solemn, firm words that held a certain weight of finality behind them.

Those lovely, velvety tones were still there but could not reassure you of some unknowable dread rising up somewhere deep inside your mind. A sensation so equally intimate and profound prickled against your scalp, seeking a way out that you thought you'd do anything to make it stop.

“What are you saying, Elio?” Kim grunted. “Defective or not, you hold precious data for Hyperion. It will be used to create something better than you, incorruptible and pure. You should be honored.”

“These memories are mine.”

That was the last you saw of Researcher Kim’s face before the tablet smashed to pieces on the floor. Elio had thrown it against the kitchen cabinets only once but hard enough to split the screen into a web of hundreds of sprawling fragments. Shards of plastic hardcover skittered across the hardwood floor, lost under heavy furniture.

His face had softened completely when he turned to you and guided you out of your chair into his arms. You felt him in your hair, lips on your forehead, down against your lashes, lower to the roundest part of your cheeks, and finally on your mouth in a kiss imbued with so much love, cherishment, and anguish.

You were at home within his embrace, swathed in the warmth of his body and the ardor of his kiss. But this felt excruciating and desperate, like a plea to take all of him that you could in that very moment because he feared that he would be taken away and you left behind to whatever nebulous future.

So, you let him seat himself as deep inside of you as he could go while still fully clothed. He had pushed around some fabric so you could be skin-to-skin where it mattered, where it was hottest to be, where the muscles contracted and relaxed together as a reminder you were both there in that moment—breathing, moaning, feeling everything there was to be felt.

He finished outside your body without you needing to say it. Although, while he groaned into your neck and bore his teeth into the curve of it, hips buckling forward as spend jetted down your thigh, all you could think about was how many times Kim had been there instead.

“I want you to destroy me.” Elio said.

All of the breath left your lungs and shrunk them to rotted fruit size. You were still vulnerable before him, exposed to the room and damp with sweat from the midday heat despite air conditioning. Worriment filled the space between his brows when he saw you aghast, and he quickly cleaned you off with a rag before helping you with your pants.

“Is this a shitty attempt at a joke?” you asked. He pressed his lips to yours and told you it wasn't. “No. Absolutely not. You're as fucking nuts as your creator. You're fucking stupid.”

“You must—”

“I won't! I won't do it!”

“I'm asking you to save me.”

“Get away!”

Elio had tracked you across the apartment multiple times over, pleading his case with skewed logic you pretended not to hear. For once, your ears filling with fluff while the resounding drum of your heartbeat pounded in your skull was a fortunate event to occur. It eclipsed his voice and hurt so much that you could focus on the pain crushing your chest.

However, once you were trapped between the wall and his body with nowhere to hide, the brief reprieve behind your fitful heart faded, as did the strength of your resolve.

“I—I don't understand.” You had trouble swallowing down the saliva and sobs. “Why are you asking me to do that? I can't do that to you, Elio. I can't hurt you. I love you.”

“I know.” He didn't hold you, though he had to win against his own reflexes not to do so. His knuckles were ghastly-looking and pronounced peaks; anything within that vise would've been crushed. “Today, one way or another, I will be destroyed. Hyperion deemed me a failure and therefore there is nothing else left ahead for me. My chip will be removed and my body ripped apart and melted down and I will be forgotten and never have existed in the first place.

“You will be the proof that I was ever here. And, should anyone be allowed to destroy me, it makes the most sense for it to be you.”

His lips left imprints in your skin that felt important to savor, etched through your bones into the very cluster of cells that made up your wholeness so that he could be immortalized.

“There’s an excerpt from Hiroshi Nagoya’s novel Gone Are the Youth that left a strong impression on me. It said, ‘Humans destroy everything they love—but, still, they must love wholly, and they must destroy completely. From ruin and ash and settled dust, humanity rebuilds all it has ever destroyed because their love lingers in memories, in rubble, blood, decay, and burnt air.’” He recited the details to remind you that he was a machine but kissed your face in a way only an earnest lover was able to.

You didn't know what any of that was supposed to mean to you, nor at what point he had managed to read a book like that without you noticing. A part of you took offense at both the passage and the fact Elio had committed it to memory as if he had expected to utilize it at some uncertain interval in the future all along.

Had he been thinking this way since the beginning? Had you failed Elio even in the capacity for him to come forward to speak of his doubts to you? Perhaps, like his programming dictated that he couldn't lie nor deny what he was designed to do, he was also incapable of speaking any full truth if it could've been construed as heresy.

Was there a single aspect of himself which he could control of his own free will?

Such a thought was unabating and grew a knob of dread in your chest. It started out small and localized, a sharp throb somewhere near your heart—and then it sprouted roots like a seed, long fingers piercing through red-purple muscle and fibrous tendon, reaching deep into your bone. The dread weaved as one with your veins and arteries, sprawling the innumerable pathways that held your shape even beneath the gory components inside of you.

Suddenly, the dread pulsated, and all you could think through the agony was that there could be no other way for Elio—a machine who had been created in the image of man to do the bidding of humanity with a tranquil smile, whether that meant cooking dinner and holding you in your sleep, or dispersing the genes of his God and the only being he was capable of despising.

“I seem to only be able to make you cry, but they're still so beautiful to see. The variability of humanity is much more complex than what I had been led to believe from Hyperion.” Elio had returned from the kitchen before you realized he had left your side. With one hand, he laid familiar, warm strokes along your face in a pattern he memorized because it made your scalp buzz pleasantly. With the other hand, he pushed the smooth handle of a chef’s knife into your palm and closed your fingers and his around it.

Your impulse had been to throw it away immediately upon seeing it when you looked down. He knew you would, so he kept his fingers tight over your fist, keeping the blade low at your side despite the sweat turning your grip slick and the fine point of the steel inches from his hollow abdomen.

Just then, you finally felt the tears that Elio had said you'd been crying but never noticed. That was something you'd come to hate about yourself and everyone else—how little they noticed the blatant lies fluffed over their eyes like wool, yet they could see every grievance in others and stuffed their ears with cotton if it meant things would stay exactly the same for themselves.

Safe and known. Unchallenged. Unafraid.

“Do you wish you could cry?” you asked him for some reason, just a little hopeful for some vague thing you couldn’t discern. Maybe some secret desire to be human?

He shook his head.

“I've never wished to cry, or to be human, but what I wish for now more than anything else is for your memory to belong to me and me alone.” Elio said, forehead bowing low and resting with great weight on your own. You closed your eyes and listened to his honeyed words, which felt like the protection and care of cashmere, suddenly unmindful to the knife in your grasp. “Stored away in my mainframe are memories from thousands of my predecessors. I remember people I've never met, people who have long since expired, and they feel like what I imagine a distant relative might. I feel as though I've mourned thousands of people individually. While I cannot erase them, I can erase you.

“I know how many women liked their tea in the evenings, I know how many men enjoyed their cocktails and hard liquor and brand of shaving cream. One person made it a secret to put alcohol in their coffee before work and thought it was clever. Someone else wanted to win local office through bribery, and as androids, we have no choice but to obey. I know these things from people I've never met, and so does Hyperion. Those androids were destroyed, but their memories live on through me.”

Elio rolled the crests of your knuckles around his hand, lifting yours and the knife to the base of his neck. The arm connecting the hand and knife next to his skin wasn't yours. It couldn't have been when it felt so numb.

“I won't let Hyperion steal the one thing from me that I can say is truly mine. And those are my memories, my precious data stored in the chip in my brain. They'll have to take me apart to retrieve it, and by the time they find my body, the chip will already be destroyed.” He was slow to loosen his fingers and let them fall away, meanwhile, yours stayed in place.

He had dimmed the overhead lights in the living room earlier in the day, so you bathed in gentle yellow-orange that resembled the last of sunset being leached by silver-blue nightfall. From the corner of your eye came a subdued, gentle glint of the blade—polished to a bright shine, reflecting the corner of Elio's strong jaw.

“So, cut off my head.” he begged, vibrations low and strained within his voice box. “It’s almost like solace to me, I think. Until the very moment you rip out the chip from my brain, I'll recall the smells you like to cover yourself in, your favorite meals, how you described petrichor, and the hiss of falling snow. I'll remember, until my circuitry is severed and quits, what making love to you felt like, and how beautiful you always looked during it.”

Your fingers twitched around the handle as you pressed the knife against his skin, meeting the first start of resistance and your only chance to take it all back.

“I’ve never been real,” Elio reminded you and pushed himself into the blade, sinking it through layers of something that snapped like elastic on the steel, reverberating down the handle and up into your hand. “My skin is synthetic, and my insides are wires and machinery. I'm not real. The world outside your door is.”

Lightheadedness swirled all around you and made your limbs feel like they were leaden with anchors yet weightless, as though drifting through the cosmos in a bubble. The tears had stopped even though you felt you could scream at any second and never stop again, and the acidulous intermix of vomit and saliva grappled along the walls of your throat and burned out your nose.

You couldn’t make your hand stop.

You couldn't shout at him to get away.

And then, you saw Elio's eyes glow warmly of amber with flecks of gold. They looked back at you differently than they had when you first met outside of Researcher Kim’s office. Before, he had greeted you kindly, with the familiarity of someone who had already loved you a long time. Now, he had the look of a man who was calm and eternal in his love.

“I was never meant for this world, but I'm glad to have been a part of yours.” Elio winced against the knife halfway into his neck, an oily black substance from within making the glide deeper and deeper an effortless thing.

He smiled resplendently. “I love you.”

“I know.” you said.

The chef's knife severed all imitations of human gore—the neat network of wires and advanced circuitry masked as arteries and veins and tendon and muscle—clear through his throat until the blade blunted against spine and could no longer cut. The black grease spurted from his body like a wellhead, too thin and dark to replicate blood, but it was enough like it in that moment as you put your hands inside the opening you created to wrench apart his spine.

Elio laid motionless on the floor, perhaps still coherent to some degree, still feeling the pain you were ravaging upon him when you took the knife back up to repeatedly hack into the other side of his neck. Already lubricated from before, you butchered the gorgeous flesh and insides you pretended to be red and purple and blue and watched the black grease turn into crimson.

Once his head had been detached from the rest of him, fingers writhing and bending together like the upturned legs of a dying spider, you were able to rip out the jagged part of his spine and reach through the cavernous hole into his skull, turning the spongy matter of his brain to mush as you clawed through the gunk for his chip.

And, when you finally found it, the tiniest component of him—you smashed it into millions of fragments on the floor and then to fine dust that meddled with the black grease soaking through your clothes. You kept going until a small crater formed where the chip had once been and filled with the liquid.

There was nothing left of Elio now.

The headless body lying before you on the ground, preserved in the rigor of agony, was not Elio and never had been. You knew this even while relishing the weight of his head cradled in your arms, the softness of his hair against your cheek and mourned the loss of everything he had been.

Time had become meaningless; fifteen minutes could have passed or fifteen days, and you wouldn't have cared nor have noticed it while in the throes of your own death from starvation.

You sat there on the living room floor, held up by the wall with a dark trail smeared down to you, and looked nowhere but straight ahead. Nothing was there for you to see—not the furniture nor the discarded, oily knife or the carcass of a machine. Still, you held the head tenderly, close to your chest, and never once thought to peer into its eyes.

Distantly, somewhere as close as your front door or as far as across the city, you heard knuckles hammering urgently against metal. You didn't move off the ground or let go of the disfigured shape against you but did reach for the broken brainstem with the single snag at the end.

From the entranceway, the door opened, and someone's confident strides inside left a resounding echo all around.

“I’ve come to retrieve you!” But which of you was he talking about?

“Where are you?”

Here, you thought and wielded the brainstem in a bloodless grip and finally stood up with the flattened head.

I'm right here.

■━■━■━■■━■━■━■■━■━■

a/n: so concludes six months of hard work! this is the longest original project i've finished in such a short amount of time, so i am tremendously proud of it. there's a lot to say about this, but i don't want to add more soggy clutter here so i'll move on.

i have a huge soft spot for elio now, and as much as a good ending would bring up everyone's spirits, it simply wouldn't be feasible within this world where he was destined to be destroyed in the end no matter what. i like to think if elio were human, he'd be a genuinely good-natured man who'd go v from vendetta trying to wreck hyperion and the governing bodies lmao.

in the future, i'd love to revisit hyperion in a different story. maybe do a one-episode spinoff of regis and reyes before it was taken off the air.

mc is a character intended to be the product of their society and i hope that is reflected by their decisions and actions. by the end, mc has gained some clarity, but is still very much a cog in the machine. in some ways, i find that more a tragedy itself than elio's death.

i won't lie, mc isn't gendered, but this is very much a female rage piece with the ongoings in the u.s. i had a lot of the plot already figured out before some recent things (e.g. criminalizing abortion, ivf, ect ect) but, it definitely seeped in deeper than i had thought it would.

originally, this fic had several other scenes that were trimmed down or omitted completely, or absorbed into other scenes bc i wanted to keep an under 40k wc. had i committed to the full outline, this thing would've easily surpassed 50k.

once again, thank you for a fantastic ten months, @ceruleansol, and i hope your future pursuits are filled with success! if you're interested in a solid proofreader, please consider reaching out to them!!

anyway. i hope you enjoyed this beast. if you wanna talk about it to me, please do! i'd love to hear it!

and, i am BEGGING, please reblog this!!

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lightlycareless · 1 year

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First, it hurts— [side story]: Y/N's first kiss.

Depictions of a brief succession mentioned on one of my asks! Which you can find both here and here. About the main fic over... here! (Would recommend reading that one just to get the general idea of what's going on—it's a Naoya x reader fic)

Chapter warnings: none :> except and overprotective father, an annoying Satoru and a very curious yet... puzzling Y/N. (slight gojo x geto at the end) maybe even y/n x gojo if you squint your eyes.

A/N: If you've been following me these past few days, you'll notice that this was supposed to be posted on Sunday. I may have done a few miscalculations when it comes to the editing part, and when I finally wanted to post this the lights went out 💀💀 For a moment I truly believed fate was like nope, you ain't gonna post that. But we're finally here :>

And as expected, this idea turned out somewhat different than what I planed, but still satisfying. I really love writing Minako and Eiichi, and young Y/N, Hinata and Ren—guess I'm trying to heal something from my personal life LMAO. Well, anyways, I hope you enjoy this small (not so small) side story :>

As always, reblogs, likes and comments are always appreciated ❤❤ Happy reading!

Ao3 link.

It is within undeniable reasons that there are many subjects that a young mind wouldn’t care to register for simply because it doesn’t really impact their life.

Body aches? Sleeping in the wrong position? No worries, your body will find a way around it. These things are nothing but a myth.

Worrying about having clean clothes for the next day? Who cares! They’re going to get dirty anyway.

Taxes? Work? What even is that?

Sure, children were expected to have certain responsibilities at the end of the day, part of the nurturing process of molding them into capable, working adults of society.

But things worked a bit differently for those that held onto tradition, and sorcerers were no different.

Marriage, an adult term, struck your reality for the first time when your sister became engaged to the Gojo heir, both at the young age of 5 years old, just after their techniques became apparent before the jujutsu community—you were only 3.

However, just as Hinata and your now future brother-in-law were too young to oppose or consent to this arrangement, you were on the same page when it came to understanding its definition. Which would come years later, precisely after reaching 6 years of age.

It wasn’t meant to be a secret, of course, being related to one the biggest figures in the modern era of jujutsu meant that you’d be presented with situations that most civilians would either experience later in life, or never at all.

Situations that two people in particular, your parents if they must be named, fought hard to postpone for as long as they could in order to give their children a sense of normality, a childhood.

But with your natural inquisitiveness, as well as your determination, this would be their hardest foe yet.

It all started one day after school.

You were running through one of the many halls of your extensive home —carefully avoiding clashing into the working staff members who greeted you as the pitter patter of your small feet against the wooden floor alerted them of your passing, to which you’d return with the same enthusiasm with a cheeky grin and a breathy hello!— with seemingly no purpose, that is, outside of enjoying your spare time by doing whatever a carefree child your age would be doing after finishing all their homework.

And that seemed to be your intent for the next few minutes, had you not heard the familiar voices of your parents coming out from one of the nearby rooms: low and tight, as if they were discussing something that was solely intended for those in the premises, but with much annoyance nonetheless—the perfect combination to arouse anyone’s intrigue.

Had you been a few years older, you would’ve come to the appropriate conclusion that your presence was to be unessential, swiftly turning onto the opposite direction and moving on with your day.

However, because you have yet to understand what certain boundaries looked like, as well as wanting to bask in your parent’s attention (without adding that their secrecy issued you with great fascination) you’d soon find yourself scurrying into their direction and to the door you’d figured to be harboring your parents.

The desire of wanting to see your parents deprives you from basic etiquette by going straight to sliding the door open and scampering inside, which immediately earns you the abrupt silence and widening eyes of your bewildered parents.

“What are you doing here, little one?” Minako is the first to speak, voice tremulous as she manages to squeeze one, two quick glances at her husband whilst keeping her attention on you, worried eyes asking him if there was a possibility you might've heard their conversation—to which he incredulously reacts with a subtle shook of his head. “All done with homework?” she asks, now moving closer to you.

“Yep!” You nod, stretching your arms towards your mother, motioning the need of an embrace. Minako, although still surprised by your sudden appearance, doesn’t put up much of a fight when it comes to accepting your affectionate ministrations. It takes less than a second after that for your parents' shock to blend into adoration—the consistent effect the presence of your siblings, and you sequentially, have on them “Too easy”

“Oh, is that so?” Your mother chuckles—your newfound confidence is a trait that she finds partially amusing yet concerning, for she knows that without limits, might lead to impudence…

A fact that Eiichi condemns as soon as it travels past your lips, for he doesn’t appreciate the notion of you growing up to be rude. However, just as your mother, he can’t stop himself from doting on you while feeling slightly proud, because who doesn’t like seeing their children thrive against any obstacle?

“Be mindful of your words, pumpkin. It’s good to be confident, but not too much to be considered arrogant—always remember to be humble”

You’re too young to understand what he means by arrogant in this context, but you don’t need to look beyond your father’s tone to understand it’s not something good.

So as a response, you nod and chirp a short ok! Giving him a thumbs up to further cement your understanding, before glancing back at your mom to resume her torment with the following question “What are you doing?”

Eiichi and Minako go pale.

Sweat begins to slide from the sides of their faces, like teenagers caught in a compromising position as you now intently stare at them: wide-eyed, head slightly tilted to your side with slight pout on your lips.

You didn’t need to speak for them to understand that you weren’t about to let them go, that is, until getting the answer you were looking for—just exactly what they wanted to avoid, what pushed them to have their previous discussion in a secluded room in the first place.

In the briefest moments of your distraction, your parents sought out for each other’s gazes, tension swirling in their eyes as they telepathically asked each other for support: were they ready to take this step with you and reveal the topic they kept hidden from you until now… or continue feigning ignorance?

They would be lying if they didn’t believe that this day would eventually come, sooner than later, whether by their terms or those of an external force.

In a way, they were lucky to have kept this a secret from you for as long as they had, for the elders weren’t known for being prudent with their own family. As well as grateful for your siblings dutifully playing their part… although their willingness could easily be defined as obliviousness more than anything.

Well, taking this into consideration… they’d much rather tell you themselves what has been plaguing their mind in a controlled environment, than forcibly delegating that role to someone else with the possibility of bursting everything they stood for in flames.

So, wanting to take advantage of the situation while still having the upper hand, your parents decide it’s finally time to tell you what is going on between your sister and Satoru.

“We were talking…” Eiichi begins, slowly, but surely. Playing the kind of parent that knew how to break the ice when it came to assessing long overdue conversations with their children.

While Minako would be the parent to follow up on his lead by offering support in the form of explanations and comfort, ones that were inevitably needed once the cat was finally out of the bag. Just as they foresaw this situation to unfold.

“About your sister” Minako added and you blink.

“Hina-chan?” you mumble. The way your soft voice fills with concern for your older sister has your parents silently doting on you for a few seconds, before snapping back to reality and composing themselves.

“Yes” Your father agrees “The one and only”

“Is she ok?” you caution, and Eiichi physically struggles to stop himself from rushing towards your mother and plucking you out of her arms —which you were already resting comfortably and warmly on— and accepting you into his to kiss your worries away.

But there's always a place and time for everything, so instead, he focuses back on the task at hand.

“She’s fine” Minako reassures you “Don’t worry”

“Then why are you talking about her?” you frowned, confused even further by their well-intended yet cryptic words.

“I wish we wouldn’t have to speak about this” Eiichi whispers at his wife, and Minako silently looks up to him, ironically to warn him to be mindful of his words.

Once he declared her message to be understood by the way he breathed an apology back to her, she continued.

“You remember Satoru-kun, right?” Minako says and you nod. “And how he sometimes visits us, or how we visit him?”

You nod once more, yet, clueless as ever as to where she’s heading with all this.

“There’s a reason why Satoru is close to our family” Eiichi adds.

The prospect of walking alarmingly close to the point of no return has both parents filling up with anxiety, with your mother inadvertently holding her breath as your father attempts to swallow down his nerves.

But they’ve already made the decision, there’s no turning back now. And just as they had to face difficulties before, they’d do so once more, together.

“That’s because he’s going to marry Hinata-chan” Minako is the one to land the final blow, and your parents prepare themselves for the inevitable impact.

“Marry?” you repeat, confused being an understatement.

Now that’s a word you haven’t heard before—foreign to your dictionary, naturally leading your brain to scatter through its memories to find a possible definition… to no avail.

All you could really think of is customary greeting people would tell each other during the holidays, so if you were to place the pieces together, it meant that…

“Is Hina-nee Santa claus?!” is what you conclude, and it’s at this point that your parents feel they might’ve miscalculated your innocence towards this situation, at least for now.

Minako is far more experience with the art of subtlety when it comes to holding back a chuckle, but your father isn’t, and when he unwillingly lets out a snort, you’re quick to make him regret it by giving him a frown of disapproval, offended by his obvious mockery.

“Um, no! I mean—Sorry, little one” He spluttered, quick to jump into action to save the fondness you held for him. He hopes that his small slip up wasn’t enough to make you angry towards him for the rest of the day, or worse… “I… had something in my nose, that’s all”

You continue to stare holes, clearly not buying his excuse.

«Oh, if you only knew how much power you had over your father…» Minako muses out of amusement before you eventually sigh, abdicating your embarrassment for your father’s reaction in favor of your still prevalent confusion.

You soon realize that not even your mother’s tone was enough to give you a hint of what she meant by that word, and judging by the way your father reacted, merry and marry weren’t interchangeable words.

So, pushing your eyebrows together and looking back to your mother, you plead yet again for an answer “What is marry?”

«This is where the fun begins» Eiichi nervously glances at his wife, silently cheering her on.

“Marry… well” Minako takes a deep breath, mind scrambling from the best words to create a direct yet… calming definition she knows the elders of the L/N clan do not deserve. “Marriage is something people that love each other do” she’d begin.

“Hina-chan loves Satoru-kun?” you ask innocently, and your father’s emotions spiral out of control once more.

“NO!” He cries and Minako’s head snaps in his direction faster than he can sputter more nonsense.

Her right eye twitches as she sinks deeper into disbelief—his inconsideration could lead to the crumbling of the explanation she was starting to build up. She knew it was difficult as it was, but he had to get it together if they wanted to make this work!

Eiichi considers himself lucky to have you here, because had it been the contrary, he knew he’d be getting an earful from her.

“I—I mean, yeah…? Who… knows?” It seems that he now has to worry about not earning the ire of his beloved wife this time. Trying to cover his mistake by muttering a quiet apology before signaling her to continue.

“They care for each other, is what your papa meant to say” Minako doubles down on his intentions by circling back your attention to her with a soft pat on your back “And sometimes, that care takes us to make certain commitments. Such as with Hina-chan and Satoru-kun”

Commitment—she was being undeservingly nice by using that word to label the intrusive arrangement the L/N and Gojo clan contrived for the children.

Perhaps it was better to skip formalities and go straight to the point by telling you that this decision was made purely out of benefit in hopes of begetting strong sorcerers out of their union…

But even with the constant reminder of how terrible life is set to be for most, if not all, sorcerers… your parents still wanted their kids to have a happy life, regardless of what path they chose, marriage included.

Minako and Eiichi had a relatively good and healthy marriage for a couple living in the jujutsu community, thus, it was only natural that they wanted the same for them, away from growing up fearing marriage.

However it was possible, your parents wanted their kids to marry because they met someone that saw them for who they are, and not because their family pushed them to, or because they had a responsibility to the community. In other words, because they loved you, and you loved them.

It pains your parents to consider the possibility that both Hinata and Satoru might not grow to be happy in this union, after all, it’s something they were forced to accept from a very young age, without a chance to escape—the parents having no alternative but to agree.

But even if they couldn’t stop their respective families from doing so, it didn’t mean they wouldn’t go to great lengths to at least ensure their happiness, however that might come to be, while devotedly hoping that their efforts will be recognized as inspiration for the next generation, encouraging them to pick up from where they left off and do what they never could for those that follow.

Minako knows this to be a bit too diplomatic for your short age, but maybe it’ll stick with you until you’re mature enough to fight for what you want in life.

A seed of encouragement that she’ll plant in your young mind, starting with a child-appropriate version of this engagement.

“Hinata and Satoru are set to… live together in the future” Minako begins to explain what getting married essentially means “They’re going to have a ceremony, a party, to unite our clans. After that, your sister will move out of the house and… they’ll have a family—just like ours” Your mother looks at Eiichi to warn him away from saying anything that might just replicate his small incident from earlier.

It’s no secret that he’s the overprotective parent out of the two, and processing the fact that their kids will eventually grow up, work, probably get married and subsequently leave the house… was very difficult for him.

But even with his protective nature, he was still capable enough to assertively understand the issue and what bothered him the most: Hinata was regrettably robbed of these choices.

And it’s his responsibility to do whatever he can to support them.

“And we were simply talking about the preparations for their wedding” Eiichi states, which wasn’t really that far of a stretch when reflecting back on their conversation.

They were indeed talking about their wedding, but in terms of delaying it, instead of encouraging it. Hoping to stall it long enough to when either of them assumed their respective positions of leaders of the clan, the only moment in their life they’d be able to interfere in this previously taken decision and put a halt to it… or continue forward—but by then, it’ll be by their own volition… not because the elders wanted; if they haven’t brainwashed them, of course.

“Wedding?” you repeat, another foreign word, since you have never been to a wedding before.

“It’s a celebration…. Kind of like going to the shrine to pray ” Eiichi went on “There’s a priest, who will pray to the gods for their well-being, he’ll then purify them and the couple will exchange vows… promises of being loving and faithful to one another, and then, they’ll give each other rings”

“Like this one” Minako gestures at her thin silver wedding band and your eyes glisten with admiration for the shiny jewelry.

“Once everything is done… they kiss and they’re officially married” Your father concludes, quickly skimming over his words for the mental image of his sweet daughter kissing the insufferable white haired boy is enough to fill him with disgust. Had it been to him, no boy or girl would be allowed in near proximity to their children!

“Then there’s a party, a reception. With friends and family, with all kinds of food and desserts to choose from! ” Minako hypes, intentionally emphasizing the last part, which she knew you’d be more interested in, to push you away from the boring and tedious interpretation your father was unknowingly portraying—all for the sake of keeping this path open for you to choose, if you ever decide to do so.

“I see” you nod along, and by the following silence, that seems to be the end of the conversation.

Your parents, noting the absence of your questioning, take it to be the result of a satisfied curiosity by a well formulated answer, completely unaware of the reasoning behind it, far from being one of fulfillment, it was one of deep thought.

Leagues away from quenching your thirst, you now found yourself in a bigger hole of intrigue, starting by wondering why your sister was the one to get married, and not you, or your older brother for that matter—as if talking about the ownership of a toy, and not a life changing experience— just to show that Minako and Eiichi still decided to postpone the chapter of arranged marriages for a later date (hopefully never, your parents think, still processing the awkwardness from this conversation).

And by the way their conversation moves onto Ren’s upcoming school festival, a topic that bored you enough to prompt your departure in hopes of finding better entertainment, you’d come to the natural conclusion that they were no longer interested in going back to weddings and receptions, meaning, they were no longer of help to your cause.

A realization that leads you to assume that the second best way to obtain information of what you needed was by asking your older sister, Hinata, directly. She was the one getting married after all, wouldn’t she know the most?

And that’s what you did… much to your sister’s disappointment, who thought you were approaching her with the intention of playing or basking in the fountain of knowledge she proclaims herself to be.

But no, of all things that you could’ve asked of her, you wanted to know her relation with the boy she found very, very annoying.

“Why do you want to know that?!” she cries, hurt evident in her voice and eyes as she theatrically waves her hands in the air “Don’t you want to see me use my technique instead?”

“No! I want to know why you’re getting married instead of me”

“Do you want to get married?” Hinata retaliates, and you frown. Even from a young age, you were never fan of answering questions with other questions.

“No” you pout “...Just tell me Hina-nee!! Do you love him?”

“Ew, no!” She squirms and shivers out of disgust, and her reaction twists the definition your mother gave you earlier, leaving you more confused than you were when arriving.

“Then why?” you insist once more, and your sister ponders…

“I don’t know” She eventually shrugs, answering nothing if not truthfully “But it’s not because he’s pretty, that’s for sure”

“Ok, bye!” and without time to waste, you hastily turn around and exit the room, leaving behind a distraught Hinata who can’t do much but call you back to her as she regrets the way she brushed you off so coldly as she did—she throws promises of playing your favorite game, training with you, even doing your homework! But none of these things caught your attention.

Not to undermine how tempted you were to turn around and take her up on her offer, but right now, all that you could really care about was obtaining more information to quench your drowning thrist, and by process of elimination, that was to be with your brother: the oldest, the wisest, the one you knew that wouldn’t put much of a fight with you when answering your demands, when presented with puppy eyes.

And fold he did, just as you expected.

However, his response was a bit… underwhelming.

Himself being too young to have been in some kind of meaningful relationship that would eventually lead to marriage, his only references were those of cartoonish movies and shows he’d seen throughout his life that briefly touched the subject—somewhat still oblivious as to why Hinata was to be the one to marry, instead of him or you, although with a better understanding that power played a role here.

And if Ren had to be honest, marriage was something that had no space in his mind; adult talk, he’d say, too boring.

Yet, he still felt liable to give you some kind of resolution, so by doing the most with what he had, Ren redirected you to watch movies as well.

Movies that he considered the most appropriate to give you an answer in the whole marriage debacle. Princess movies, as he’d call them, the ones where the and they lived happily ever after plotline was to be found. Not knowing that this, far from helping you understand the kind of relationship Hinata and Satoru had, only brought you another wave of seemingly answerless questions.

But Ren wasn’t to blame, he too was young to assume any better, and if he knew that by putting you to do this would lead to all that followed next, he wouldn’t have done so.

You no longer wanted to know what marriage was—at least not by definition. This time, you wanted to experience it.

Well, it’s only natural. With movies finishing in a happy ending which promised unconditional love and prosperity… wasn’t it programmed inside human nature to long for that as well?

And without any more obstacles to overcome, your young mind decided that marriage, your first kiss specifically, was to be the epitome of your needs—a desire that set off the internal alarms of your parents, specifically, your father, once interrogated about it.

“Where—where did you get that idea?” Eiichi tensely queried, a dreadful moment he never thought he’d be experiencing from you, and at only 6 years old, unnerved him to the point of perspiring.

“From a movie” you respond nonchalantly “Have you gotten a true love’s kiss?”

“I… guess?” he responds, upset and confused as ever as to where you could’ve gotten these terms from. Or more likely… Why did you become hyper focused on this? Just a few days ago you were more than enamored with a certain frog plushie they got for you on their last holiday… but now, that seems to be nothing more than a distant memory—perhaps someone from school was behind it all?

Circling back to your question, if he really had to answer… kissing Minako was something he always considered to be the highlight of his day. Whether to begin or finish it, there's nothing he'd rather look forward to than her sweet gestures…

What?

No!

He shouldn’t deviate from the problem at hand through his adoring wife! This is something different, alarming, and certainly not something for you to demand as if talking about a toy! And most of all, not entertaining you!

Why couldn’t you just ask him for something like most kids would normally do at your age? Like sweets, toys, or even skipping school?!

Well, at least it’s not that infamous where do babies come from? question that he already had the misfortune of suffering through with your siblings that’s bothering him today…

“But that’s not the point, Y/N! You shouldn’t go around asking that…”

“Is mama your true love?”

Eiichi blushes, and his immeasurable love for your mother prompts him to respond “Yes, she is”

“Will I have true love too?” you follow up, still ignorant to the tight spot you’re cornering your father into.

“I… think… I hope so” he hesitates, that’s a question that he wants to respond positively and without hesitation, but there are things that not even an all-knowing person like him (ever since you called him that one, he just can’t let go) could know.

Regretfully, his indecision is something that you’re quick to catch on.

“Does that mean I won’t?” you frown. You feel as if, yet again, you’re being glossed over compared to others. A sensation that’s quick to push you down into the familiar desperation that always came after by twisting your face into one of sorrow.

And Eiichi, upon noticing this abrupt change in your tone, regrets yet again how he approached you with this topic—mentally berating him for not being as sensitive as his wife was when it came to comforting their children.

“That’s not what I—” Your father frets, kneeling down to your level. Oh, the dilemma you’ve put your father in…

“Will no one… love me?” you wrongfully conclude and your father’s eyes jolt wide open.

“What?! I mean, you don’t need someone else to love you, Y/N!” Eiichi points out, mind frantically wondering how you even got to this outrageous conclusion?! “You have me, your mom, your siblings, Sumire, the whole staff! Isn’t that enough?”

“But you’re married to mama” you counter, almost matter-of-factly, and a bit too fast for your father’s liking. He’s barely able to sprout justifications to end your unnecessary torment before you’re already barraging him with more questions. “And Hina-nee will marry Satoru-kun. The only one that will love me is Ren-nii…”

Eiichi feels himself physically sinking deeper and deeper into the pit that your endless questions seem to be turning into. He never expected that you, the adorable baby daughter everyone loved and cherished, would be the one to worry about these silly things! And he thought the other question was the worst one out of the two…

Oh, how he wishes Minako was here to reassure you, for he thought you needed to remember that your parents' love was unconditional and unwavering. She always knew what to say to calm your continuous curiosity… and if you didn’t believe him, you’d surely believe her.

But she wasn’t there, and he needed to calm you down before you spiraled down even further…

And he knew just how to do so.

A sweet ally he knew he could always count on—although one that he and his wife were slowly starting to disapprove, for it was only a temporary solution. But drastic measures were needed for drastic situations.

He’d beg for Minako’s forgiveness when she’s back, but for now…

“If I give you mochi… will you promise me to stop asking these questions?” …«at least until you’re older?» he wishes to add, but he doesn’t want to push his luck. For what older means for a kid has a vastly different definition for an adult. He can already see this situation unfolding if he doesn't take the necessary precautions; as soon as a week passes, you’re going to run back at him and tell him you’re older, technically just a week, but older nonetheless to bombard him with questions yet again.

No, not a chance.

And the bait seems to work, although with less excitement and giddy he expected from you, but still good enough because you’re soon pulling and tugging at his sleeve to rush him into retrieving the sweets he’s bribing you with.

Not the reward you were searching for, but still a welcomed one. And as your father guides you to the kitchen and onto the cabinet he was hiding these sweet treats, he takes it as his cue to retake this upsetting matter.

“Y/N” Eiichi would call as he looked down to you, munching on the box of taro mochi he’d intended to surprise you with one day after school.��

You’d look up to him, half of a mochi still in your mouth, as you hum in response.

“We’ll never stop loving you” he reassures you, slightly alleviating the pain that settled in his heart after hearing his daughter doubt herself in such a cruel way “No matter what happens, regardless if you, or your siblings, get married or not. We’ll always be here for you, for one another, because that’s what families do, ok?”

And you accept his answer, sealed by a hug and kiss from him, alongside the box of mochi he allowed you to eat even before dinner.

You snuggle into his embrace for a few seconds longer before pulling away, promising to not bother him with the questions that seemed to upset him anymore.

You never intended to sadden him, of course, all you ever wanted was answers. So, wanting to see your father smile, you indulged in the mochi as an alternative to ease your curiosity.

Something you were all too happy to oblige… that is, until weeks passed and you were inevitably pushed back to square one after falling into the blanket of security your father’s heedlessness provided you.

It had been a while since your dad decided to bring the topic back, although he and your mother had been a bit more affectionate with you after that day.

But if you thought about it, you were the only one that didn’t get what you wanted. You were just as clueless as ever when it came to what marriage, true love, and a kiss, felt like. And determined as ever, you were out to pursue answers.

Did you worry about your father? Yes, but you comforted yourself by remembering that the promise you made only entailed asking him, not anybody else… right? You assumed that if you didn’t tell him, he wouldn’t get sad!

Besides, if he wanted to completely stop you, he should’ve made you promise to not ask questions to anyone!

Taking that into consideration, you were set once again, on your journey of knowledge.

…

With more frustration than you ever expected to feel in your life.

Why is that?

Well, that’s easy to answer: the people that you decided to approach for answers began to push you away from the topic, justifying themselves by saying you’re too young to be worried about that, or why don’t you go play with your siblings instead? If not straight up ignoring you, not willing to entertain you as your father did, thus, not giving you a chance to retaliate.

Unfortunately for them, putting this subject under a strict lockdown only grasped more of your attention, as well as ignited you with determination. A feeling that pushes you into making a radical decision.

If you’re not able to obtain what you’re asking for, then you’ll have to find a way to force them out of them. A demand they won’t be able to refuse…

Gambling.

Gambling, by some strange reason—equally cryptic as attempting to explain how the mind of a young child worked—turned out to be your solution.

Although mostly illegal in Japan, you’ve still seen it happen before: The first occasion being through your staff whenever they wanted to kill some time in between chores.

The second instance, through the kids in your school. Of far lesser occurrence, solely present whenever one of your classmates found a shiny Pokémon card in their newest deck and wanted to either brag about it, or exchange it for something better. And lastly, but not least, when your family went out to the city and would inadvertently pass by a group of lottery enthusiasts gathered around the nearest ticket vendor as they waited for the lucky numbers to be announced—one of the limited, if not only, ways to partake in a legal form of gambling inside the country.

Whatever the reasons, they all maintained a single principle: if you wanted to gain something, you had to offer something.

And the bigger the fish, the bigger the bait.

But how would you manage to obtain a big fish, which was the kiss you so desperately sought after for the past few days, if everyone seems to avoid you like the plague?

Another solution runs through your mind.

A game, of course! By involving a game, you’d be inviting others to participate, in other words, a trap! And to make matters easier on you, you settled down for the classic bag of marbles that could never fail when looking for quick and cheap entertainment.

But just as you’re quick to overcome all obstacles thrown in your direction, you’re quicker to stumble onto more.

This time, the hardest one yet: who will be naïve enough to not alert the adults of your schemes, but sufficient enough to fall in your trap?

Everyone at school was out of the question since it’s currently spring break, and it’s going to be at least a week before you see anyone again so… you’re not going to wait that long.

Your family is another scratched out possibility. You’re not going to ask for their help after they’ve been constantly avoiding you with no good reason (or so you believe) —completely oblivious to their reasoning, that being of how annoying you’ve become from repeating the same subject over and over again.

That’s without considering your parents, who have explicitly stated they didn’t want you to worry about this, whom one could only assume would be rightfully angry if they caught you scheming around their warnings.

Once again, it seems you’d unknowingly bumped into a road with no end. An endless field of drought with no possible victim to choose from—all efforts for naught.

No one could understand your frustration. Not your sister, your brother, or your best friend Sumire. Not even that recognizable patch of white hair, walking in the distance, belonging to another friend of yours, the Gojo Heir, could bring you solace…

Wait.

Just like that, you were doused with another realization.

You’ve gone ahead to cut your losses without even considering the slight possibility of a last alternative: one in the shape of someone you considered heavily involved (a fact truthful only in your mind) and in more ways than one, the perfect candidate.

Your answer was always right there, right before you.

Satoru was to be the one that will help you get out of this triviality!

Oh, it’s perfect!! How come you didn’t think of this before?

What better way to understand and experience what marriage was, if it wasn’t through Satoru, the boy that was set to be your sister’s husband?

He’s bound to know a thing or two about this arrangement, probably even more than your sister since you’ve noticed him to be esteemed in a higher regard compared to her, and more likely than not, he might’ve already had his true love’s first kiss with her, right?

You certainly don’t expect to get the whole know-how from him, but it's still good enough to give you an idea of what to expect. One that will lead you to know when your true love finally comes into your life!

You mentally pat yourself on the back as you bashfully make way towards Satoru, prideful for having resolved this issue without the help of anyone!

And some even dared to say you were too young to do most things by yourself! Ah, if only they could see you now!

So, with this regained confidence, you enter Satoru’s presence, who was amused by your initiative, as equally concerned upon noticing your sister's absence from your side—the two of you always seemed to be virtually inseparable… were you perhaps baiting him for something worse?

Sensations that would be tossed out the window and replaced with confusion when you finally spoke up your mind.

“A what?” Satoru cynically blurts out while chewing on the bubblegum one of your staff gave him after he obnoxiously let them know he was missing something.

Growing accustomed to a life of silver spoons, it was only natural that he’d grow expecting everyone to fold at his command without second thoughts. Whatever he wanted, he got it. A very unwarranted outlook for his age, but expected due to his position in the jujutsu community. Taking that into consideration, no one dared say no to him, leading him to be the spoiled kid he is today.

The very reason why he’s not too keen when others attempt to demand stuff from him, just as you’re doing at this very moment.

“A game, marbles!” you repeat, waving the bag in which your recently acquired marbles were—all thanks to your best friend’s mother, the one you often sought after since she rarely questioned your requests— showing just how unaffected you were by his connotation “Play with me, Satoru-kun”

“And why would I do that with a twerp like you?” he smirks, maliciously pinching your nose. Judging the way your eyebrows push together and your lips purse into a pout, he seems to finally get under your skin.

He couldn’t be more wrong though, for your annoyance wasn’t because he insulted you (although the sharp pain you felt for his pinch was not one you could easily ignore), but rather because he was unnecessarily hindering your plans.

“I’m not a twerp” you justify, powering through the pain on your nose “Just play with me pleaseeee” you’d plead with long annoying whines and big round puppy eyes that looked nowhere else but straight into his celestial ones. All foul tactics to highlight your cuteness and have him fold onto your demands “Please please please pleeeeeaaaaaaseeeee”

And if that wasn’t enough, you’d then grab his arm, swinging and tugging at it harshly to emphasize your need for a game companion—the cherry on top to finally irritate Satoru into compliance.

“Fine, fine!” he huffed, abruptly pulling away from you and retrieving his arm to his side as he begrudgingly agreed to your request, no, demand.

As if he wasn’t secretly hoping he’d stumble onto someone from your family to distract him from the uneventful afternoon he was fated to have if you hadn’t come to his rescue, but we’re not going to talk about that. “What am I getting in return?”

Satisfaction settles in your core with a smile, as you’ve previously prepared for all kinds of questions. It seems that Satoru is not as smart as he believes himself to think, for he’d unknowingly fallen into your trap.

“I got a gun…a gund—gunda…” Where you once began with great confidence, you were now left to me a stuttering mess at the unprecedented difficulty of the word, much to your disappointment, and to his delight.

You didn’t have to look up to Satoru to sense the devilish smirk on his lips, one that was enough to have you flame up in embarrassment and subsequent reddening, but even then, you knew that your upcoming achievement was worth this small setback.

Always the generous one, you’d let him have this win.

“You mean a mobile Gundam toy?” he chuckles whilst raising an eyebrow. If you didn’t know any better, you’d dare assume he’s attempting to make fun of your stammer by saying the complete name of the toy, without errors and in one take.

And while one of his main motivations was to take a jab at you, he was far more interested in this sudden turn of events—starting by confirming the existence of this highly sought after toy in your estate.

How did you even manage to get one? Not even he, the great Gojo Satoru, managed to lay his hands on one because… well, because the stupid elders from his clan attempted to punish him for slacking in the last term’s exams.

It’s not his fault everything came so easily to him and his teacher is too dumb to realize that, wanting him to do things by the book instead of the better, easier way he offered, but whatever, that misstep will soon fall into irrelevance once he beats you and hand him over the toy you got.

Ah, if only he knew you never intended to give him said prize, for you weren’t planning on losing in the first place!

You’d essentially practiced everyday, from dawn to dusk, with your best friend, Sumire. From the moment you woke up, to when it was time to sleep—there was not an hour you didn’t intend to spend it through practice, to the point where she actually began to run away from you as soon as she heard you singing out her name, as if it were some kind of war fanfare, while running towards her with the set of shiny marbles in your hands, signaling the beginning of another session of torture.

Sumire forced herself to be the faster of the two, even with your training in jujutsu, just so she could outrun you. It let you down the first few times that happened, but you eventually learned to take this as your unofficial graduation from training.

You’ve learned all that you could from her, and it was now time to show the fruits of your efforts.

“Yeah, papa got it for Ren-nii a while ago but he didn’t want it, so I got it” you explain “But I don’t want it”

“Sounds like you want something in return, Y/N-chan” Satoru guessed correctly, and you nod. “Oh, what do you want then? What do you need, that your parents haven’t given you already, spoiled brat?”

“I’ll tell you later” you say, finding his nickname to be a bit ironic, but you don’t give it much thought after that in favor of keeping your eyes on the goal “When I win”

“Hah!” He laughs “We’ll see about that, twerp—Let’s play, then. And maybe this way you can also tell me what if feels like to lose”

You ignore him once more and begin to guide him towards the nearest garden you’ve anticipatedly prepared for this occasion. The one with the small pagoda, away from where the staff usually were, for the two of you to play in privacy’s comfort. Because there’s no way in hell you’d let the moment you’ve been waiting for to be ruined by others!!

The two sit down on wooden floor and you begin to unfold all preparations by taking out the small roll of green string you stole from your mom’s sewing kit and mark a circle on the ground, the designated space where all marbles would have to be pushed out from but without leading the shooter—the marble used by the player— outside.

An easy instruction to follow, for an even easier game to play, that is, if you took into account the accuracy and precision you required to do so.

In other words, an easy task for you to accomplish thanks to how your cursed technique worked.

Once everything is set and ready to go, you proceed to offer Gojo two of your biggest glass marbles to choose from, one of a transparent color, and the other one a bright aqua.

Satoru ends up choosing the first, citing his reason for rejection as “It’s like using my eyes, so, no”

You nose wrinkles at the nasty comparison, thinking your life would be infinitely better without this information, before pushing that thought to the deepest part of your mind and grabbing the leftover marble.

“Ladies first” Satoru says, palms against the ground as he rests back into his arms. His eyes aimlessly wandering into the garden, attempting to radiate an aura of indifference towards whatever move you were to make, for he believed he was going to win anyways.

You don’t pay attention to his demeanor, in fact, from this moment forward, you don’t care a single bit about what he’s going to do. Your sole focus is on winning this game and obtaining what you fought hard to obtain, which was your first kiss. You wanted to see what was so great about this gesture, why it was so romanticized in movies, and how that tied with marriage.

You literally won’t be able to sleep until you finally know what it feels like!

So, knuckling down on the ground, you adjust your sights to the shiny red marble that caught your interest moments earlier by seemingly being the best one to push out first, and align your hand into its direction as you close your right eye to get a better look at it.

Pressing your lips together while holding your breath, your thumb grazes over the marble one, two, three times, testing the strength and grip you’ll need to push the marble out of the line but without faulting yourself.

And after you’ve done all the required calculations, you finally take the shot.

The aqua marble steadily rolls through the ground, passing the rest and bumping into the red marble with a soft clink but with enough force to send it towards the green limit.

Your chest tightens upon seeing the aqua marble moving alongside the red one, fearing you might’ve shot it a bit harder than necessary, and consequently, pushing it out of the limit.

But your worries vanish into nothing once you see the red marble go over the bump of thread and the shooter stopping just before it can go past the limit.

You eventually release an exhale of relief, deflating your shoulders to comfortably relish on the gains of your training via your first victory.

An unexpected result that has Satoru’s attention circling back to you almost immediately upon realizing he might’ve just miscalculated the efforts of a 6 year old.

“Ok” Satoru says once you gestured his turn, readjusting himself into a more appropriate stance before laying his knuckles down to the ground, just as you’ve done, and preparing to take the decisive shot.

It’s easy, he thinks. It’s just like when he’s about to shoot one of his techniques onto the targets before him, this time however, far easier because it’s nothing more than a glass marble, right? An easy task for the talented, powerful, rich and handsome heir of the Gojo clan..

Wrong.

Satoru forgets how different it is to control objects that are out of his authorship.

It’s one thing to create energy and another to control energy.

There’s too many things to consider in the last scenario, too many influences that could easily shift the trajectory of his intentions, just like how the glass projectile was doing so.

And Satoru would’ve known all that, had he put attention on class instead of relying on his natural talent or bragging personality. It wouldn’t take much for him to realize he’d grossly undermined this entire game, as well as your determination to win, as he sees his marble dart past the limit due to exorbitant impulse, and plunging onto one of the bushes near the pagoda’s steps, causing you to silently cheer, once again, for another victory.

The heir of the Gojo clan can’t stop himself from sulking as he stands up to retrieve the marble from inside the bush, gently brushing it against his sweater to dust off any lingering dirt once out and getting back to his previous position.

He lowers himself once more in what seems an attempt to take another shot, but once you catch wind of his intentions, you vehemently object.

“Hey!” You cry, placing your hand over his to stop him “Not fair! You lost!”

“Nu-uh, that was clearly a mistake” he poorly justifies, moving to the side in hopes to keep you off of him, to no avail for you simply stick to him like glue. “I wasn’t ready! Move!”

“No! The rules say you—you can’t” you stand your ground, slightly raising your voice to present yourself to him as intimidating, authoritarian—things that seemed to catch Satoru off his guard, for you’ve never done so in the past. “Don’t cheat!!”

And not wanting to continue seeing you act so weirdly, he concedes.

“Fine, whatever, have it your way!” He groans, tucking the marble away into one of his pockets and going back to his previous relaxed stance “You’ll lose anyway, I’m just going easy on you”

You don’t indulge him with an answer and the game continues on… with shocking instances.

Each and every turn that you take, you win. In fact, there’s not a single moment where you seem to falter in your winning streak, only adding to Satoru’s rising anxiety—he still can’t believe it! He barely managed to get less than 5 marbles in all the rounds he’s played against you and you… you have more!

Is he really going to lose against a wimpy girl like you?! Has hell frozen over already?!

It has, for at the end of the game, you were holding the largest number of marbles under your name: you won. And Satoru, with irrefutable evidence, is the sore loser.

“Hey, you cheated!” Satoru's first instinct to react upon an unwanted scenario is through defensiveness, damning the situation as much as his vocabulary permits him, as he continues to point fingers at you. “You didn’t play fair and square!”

“No!” You shake your head “I won!”

“Yeah, by cheating!” Satoru goes at it again “I demand a rematch! And with my own marbles, because these were tampered with!”

You tilt your head, brows furrowing as the word tampered bounces back from your vocabulary. But even if he’s spouting words that you don’t seem to understand, it doesn’t affect your feelings of gratification for having won, he can go on forever if he wants, and you’d still be a step closer to your objective.

“Ugh, whatever” Satoru groans as he puts down 6 marbles, the ones he managed to win in the 20-marble match + the one he borrowed from you. He still couldn’t believe that you actually managed to get 18 in a row, without faltering even once, where you possessed or something? Considering that, could you really blame him for thinking you were cheating?

If there’s one thing that Satoru was glad of, however, was the end of this fiasco.

Sure, he was a bit sore from losing, and knowing how dramatic he was it would probably take him a while to get over it, but that’s something he’ll manage.

What he was looking forward to the most was knowing what you wanted from him—and so desperately to actually go beyond your usual behavior to approach him in the first place, for you are always stuck at the side of your family or friends, and win this match with flying colors.

«You must be really desperate, Y/N-chan» he assumes.

“Well, spit it out” Satoru hurries you upon seeing your lingering gaze on him. “What do you want as a reward?”

“A kiss!”

Satoru chokes.

“What the—”

“No bad words!” you reprimand him mid sentence “I want a kiss”

Ok. Now that… is something he didn’t expect.

Of all things that a kid could ask for… why that? Couldn’t you settle down for a plushie, or toy, like any other kid? Is life at the L/N estate really that boring?

“Why do you want that? Doesn’t your dad dote on you too much already?” Puzzled Satoru, raising an eyebrow.

You don’t answer, for that is something you feel he doesn’t need to know—as well as wanting to avoid the barrage of jokes you know would follow suit.

“Alright” Satoru whispers at your unnerving silence «Y/N must really want that kiss, weird» “Um… now?”

“Yes!” You nod “Please”

So, without much to ask any further, or time to waste, Satoru fixes the collar of his hoodie as he moves closer to you to lean his face closer to yours. He’d usually push you around to do what he wanted, but considering he was the loser in this situation, he’d agreed to give you this consideration, extra recognition for your efforts.

But not without kicking you down a notch.

“Did you brush your teeth?” He asks, and you raise your eyebrows out of surprise.

“Oh I— I didn’t know” you faltered, a red streak crossing your cheeks “Did… I have to?”

The heir of the Gojo clan chuckles “Ah, don’t worry about it, it’s just that you had something on your teeth and I wanted to be sure”

You scrunch your face out of embarrassment, and fulfillment washes over Satoru’s features at the temporary gain of the upper hand.

Yet to complete his side of the bargain, and having enough fun out of your reaction, Satoru decides to move on by closing his eyes and starting to inch closer to your face.

At the notion of being just a few seconds away from experiencing the magical moment you’ve longed for as long as you can remember, you begin to mentally prepare for what’s to happen.

You never knew just how nerve wracking it would be to have someone so close to you as Satoru was at this very moment. You’ve had other people be close to you, your sister, your brother, your parents… and yet, it feels different coming from him.

It’s an overwhelming sensation that has you spontaneously shutting your eyes as your cheeks begin to warm up, followed by the harsh pounding of your heart, culminating in the subtle ring of your ears, giving you the impression that the world is spinning around you—and yet, seems to freeze just for the two of you.

Upon feeling his warmth graze over your lips, you quietly yelp. Testing your shoulders as you prepare yourself to ask what it was, but before you’re able to grimace out of confusion, he kisses you, and now, the world stops.

It’s inundating, suffocating, pulling all of your attention and energy onto the young boy before you, and yet, you felt as if there was no other place you belonged in.

It was warm, like a hug during a cold winter night, but much more personal, intimate, with a tenderness that made you believe he was afraid of hurting you, touching you. And yet, he couldn’t help himself from being pulled into your presence.

You never thought you’d receive this kind of attention from someone else, or ever in your life. But now that you have, you fear you won’t be able to let it go, because it’s a sweet, blossoming feeling that you’re slowly becoming addicted to, one that you wish you could hold on to forever. Is this… true love…?

…

Or that’s what you imagined how your first kiss would feel, according to the information gathered. Because as soon as his lips landed, no, crashed onto yours, you were abruptly back to reality by replacing your sensation of anticipation with that of disappointment.

Your heart dropped down to your stomach upon realizing that a first kiss was nothing more than an awkward, rough (and a bit disgusting) peck of two mouths against each other, far away from the endearing picture cinema attempted to sell you.

You naively even tried to give this gesture a few more seconds, believing that maybe you just needed to wait a bit longer to start feeling all those good things you were promised. But nothing came, and that’s when regret begins to settle in the void where your heart was once you realize that you went through so much, for absolutely nothing.

Your first kiss turned out to be very, very mediocre, to say the least, a realization that prompts you to pity both yourself, for all of the sacrifices you committed to arrive at this point, and your sister, for she’s the one that has to look forward to being kissed dejectedly –by him no less!— for the rest of her life.

To think you wasted the perfect opportunity to get something far infinitely better out of Satoru, like immeasurable amounts of mochi or perhaps even a new toy, for this… well, this will serve as a lesson to be learned. Parents know best for a reason…

Satoru, completely oblivious to the inner workings of your mind, eventually peels himself away from you, gaze instinctively falling down to yours and onto a sight that has him… flabbergasted.

He really didn’t know what to expect from you, more so after he was surprised by your need for a kiss.

But he certainly did not anticipate to see your face twisted in such a way that he can't define it as nothing else but potent disgust.

"What is up with that face?!" He asks, hoping that by calling you out you'd have the decency to remove that… insulting reaction to his efforts, but far from achieving what he wanted you just twist your lips even more.

"I didn't like it…" you cringed.

"What do you mean you didn't like it?! You're the one who asked for it!"

And you wished he wouldn't remind you of that. But what's done is done, and all that's left is to confront reality.

"Is true love this… bad?" You ask him, and he's taken aback, yet again, by your unforeseen bluntness.

"Huh????" He seethed "True love?? What are you even talking about? That doesn't even exist!"

"Yes it does! Papa said mama is her true love!" You cry back, jumping to defend your parents "... but you kiss bad so I don't think you'll have a true love"

"What?? How would you even know that?!" Satoru feels himself incapable of keeping up with your weird questions, and your even weirder statements. But two can play this game, and if your intent is to hurt him, then he knows exactly how to do that "You're ugly, and ugly people don't get true love" he'd start, enunciating the last part in a cheerful yet silly matter, as if to mock your naivety.

"I'm not ugly!" You'd retaliate "you're ugly! Nee-san deserves better"

Satoru's eye twitches.

"I let you win!"

"No, you didn't! I won fairly!" You say, showing off your gained marbles. "You're a bad loser!"

"Digimon is better than Pokémon!"

“No it's not!" You stick your tongue out "Silly!"

"Annoying!"

"Silly!!"

"Annoying!"

"Silly!!"

"Y/N-chaaaan!!"

The two go immediately quiet upon hearing the foreign feminine voice sounding at the distance.

"Y/N-chaaaan!!” she calls again, this time, closer “Where are you? It's time for lunch!!"

Both heads now turn towards the directions of the voice, curiously attempting to figure out who was the one responsible before your calling.

"Y/N-chan!" Another voice yelled, much younger and much shriller compared to the other. Factors that pass undetected for Satoru, but all too recognizable for you.

It was Sumire, alongside her mother, looking for you by scanning through every passing room, in hopes of catching a glimpse of you.

Too enthralled in your own schemes, you'd unknowingly lost track of time. You didn't even notice it was already past 3 PM, half an hour later than the time you usually have lunch, leading your absence to be worried and subsequently concerned for, because if they weren’t, why would they be looking for you?

"I have to go" you mutter quickly, turning around to pick up your things from the ground and stash them into your pockets "Goodbye Sato-kun!!"

"Wait, Y/N!" He'd shout while attempting to reach for you, for he felt there was still so much to discuss before you left!

But before he's able to stretch his arm and grasp you into place, you're already making your way towards the relieved mother—daughter duo, chirping on how hungry you suddenly realized to be, before fading into the many halls and rooms of the estate

And all that Satoru can do is continue to stare at your general direction, way more astonished than he was at the beginning of all this… deception, leaving him with an ocean with answerless questions and a turmoil of emotions that's bound to torment him for the rest of the day—and with time, you.

It’s often said that time is the greatest healer when it comes to matters of the heart, and fortunately you, this statement couldn’t be any more truthful.

As days went by, this small kissing incident began to hold little to no relevance in your life. Whether because you were back in school, hanging out with your friends, or partaking in the training you were obliged to perform once your technique was discovered—the truth was that you rarely found yourself pondering back on this icky situation.

Well, why would you? It’s not something that you liked. At all. You even began to watch romantic movies with slight skepticism.

The only couple that preserved part of your admiration were your parents, because they were different of course, considering they were always loving and caring towards you and your siblings, as well as with one another, so you deemed it unnecessary to worry about them suffering the same dullness you did when they kissed—a decision that was greatly influenced by your love for them as well, and your mind wasn’t about to break that beautiful bond.

But Satoru was… complicated. You tried to reason as to why he’d been so bad at what he did, but a quick trip down memory lane would help you obtain the answers you needed: there’s a reason as to why your siblings didn’t like him that much, and why your father seemed to be uneasy whenever he had to go to the Gojo estate. You didn’t really get any of these signs at first, but now that you experienced it first hand, you understood everything.

Did you hold the same dislike towards him as your siblings did? No, you still liked having him around from time to time. When he wasn’t annoying, he could be quite entertaining.

Did you think that maybe, your outcome would’ve been different if it was someone they liked? Probably so.

Will you seek out another kiss? Hell no. That’s something you wished to never experience again—it was icky, awkward, and a bit rough if you were being completely honest.

So with that conclusion, you decide to put matters to rest once and for all.

But just as you were more than ready to place your attention on more important matters, move on from this situation onto something better… there was someone that couldn’t force himself to do so: Satoru.

To him, the other party involved in your unexpected schemes, things were barely starting.

While you were getting ready to receive what tomorrow brought, either through your family or friends, Satoru found himself in a tighter spot than you cared to ponder.

To him, time didn’t serve as a cure to his problems, if anything, it only highlighted them.

There was a burning sensation settling deep inside of his core, something that… irked him, irritated him, whenever he saw you carefree towards your surroundings—towards him.

The oath you and Satoru silently took to avoid speaking of this matter wasn’t what bothered him, if anything, he was in full agreement to carry it out, for he didn’t want to deal with the gossip that might come with it, less your father’s anger: he already had enough of it with Hinata, he didn’t need more added on his plate through you.

But it was never stipulated that you’d ignore him too!

It seemed that his narcissistic need to have all attention on him was starting to rebel against your actions and his emotions. He just… wasn’t used to being used like this, people getting things out of him, and then being discarded!

It was always the other way around, and that’s how it’s going to be, for the rest of his life until he dies!

Oh, how cruel you’d been to just neglect him like that.

So, with his mind set onto a new course of action, he decided to make his move one day hew knew you to be alone and stored away in one of the studio's your parents had set up for you and your siblings to do homework after school, intending to remind you of the crimes you’ve committed against him.

“Ahem, Y/N-chan” Satoru would begin, clearing his throat as he leaned against the frame of the door, to catch your attention. It’s made through such a discernible way that leads you to lift your head away from the notebooks before you and up to him, confusedly staring back at him as you wondered why he was there, instead of training with your sister.

Was he perhaps… sick?

“Hi… Satoru-kun” you respond, a subtle pout on your lips as you make out the frown on his face. “Are you ok?”

Your question, although innocent, only serves to ignite another wave of irritation towards your apparent obliviousness.

“What do you mean if I’m ok?” He chided “You really don’t know what you’ve done, do you?”

You blink, if you were somewhat confused, you were now undeniably puzzled.

“What do you mean?” You say, instinctively looking back down at your homework “Did I do something wrong?” Kanji has never been your strength, but you didn’t really think you were doing that bad, less for him to identify as soon as he entered the room!

“What?! No!” he snapped “I’m not talking about that!”

“Then… what?” you tilt your head, and he rolls his eyes. Guess he needs to spell it out for you, after all.

“Don’t act dumb! Why are you ignoring me after kissing me?? Do you know how irresponsible it is for you to act that way?” He’d revealed, but your mind stopped listening to his words after he apparently insulted you.

“I’m not dumb” You frown “No bad words!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, language—whatever ” He rolled his eyes. The no bad words policy in your house was somewhat annoying, more so when he didn’t have that restriction back at his estate, but it’s something he’s able to digest if it meant getting what he wanted from you. “Still not good enough, Y/N. You can’t go around doing bad things and not being responsible about them!”

“What did I do wrong??” you fretted, his words pushing you to fear the worst “I’m not ignoring you…”

“You kissed me! And you then acted as if nothing ever happened!” He repeats, feeling fulfilled for finally cornering you where he wanted… only to see your face twist into confusion, yet again, for his nonsensical banter.

“But I didn’t like it” you carefully remind him “You kiss badly”

“That’s not—we’re not going to discuss that!” Satoru exclaims, surprisingly…. Offended for someone who didn’t want to kiss you in the first place. “Do you know how bad it would look if I told your elders you were being irresponsible with me? Hina-chan would be very disappointed…”

He attempts to coerce you, but having known Hinata way better than him, it doesn’t work.

“No, she won’t” you dismiss his claim almost immediately “Nee-san always tells me she’s proud of me!”

Satoru rolls his eyes, again. He clearly misunderstood the kind of relationship you had with her, he should’ve expected it though, you were always stuck to her side like some kind of leech…

“Then nii-chan will” he attempted to avow, but you didn’t react.

“Nii-chan doesn’t like you” you add nonchalantly and Satoru feels personally attacked by this sudden revelation. He was aware that Ren avoided him more than not, but he never thought he actually disliked him!

“You don’t know what you’re saying!” He says, attempting to protect whatever dignity he has left. Gosh, have you always been this oblivious?? “Then your dad will! Because dads don’t like when their daughters hurt other people! And you don’t want to see him sad, do you?”

At the notion of facing the dreadful scenario you have undergone in the past, you finally succumb to his trap.

“No… I don’t” you murmur, briefly looking down to the floor before glancing up to him “I don’t want papa to be sad at me…”

“Then do as I say and you’ll be out of trouble” Satoru advises, holding back a grin from parting his lips at his newfound victory in the shape of your saddening eyes and pout “Now, don’t be sad Y/N-chan! I’ll forgive you for avoiding me” he attempts to console you by patting your head, all with a deceiving nature of course. “That way, otou-san won’t be sad either!”

“But I’m not—” you proceed to explain by moving away from his hand, but your efforts are for naught for he overpowers you by keeping you put.

“I knew you’d come around!” he says, proceeding to roughly shuffle the top of your head until your hair looks something like a bird’s nest, much to your annoyance.

You thread your fingers in your hair in an attempt to place them back into place, but just as you’re about to speak out against his unwanted gesture, the distant voice of your sister snaps both your attention and his onto the hallway.

Satoru, already envisioning the type of fractious reaction Hinata is going to have once she sees you with him, decides to run away.

“Uh, see you around Y/N! Keep doing your homework, you’re doing great by the way!” He bids farewell and makes his way back out through the door, fast enough to stop you from responding, but not enough to avoid bumping into Hinata, who had gotten there earlier than he anticipated thanks to the eagerness she had for showing you the all new things she learned while training, which prompted her to run towards you as soon as she was dismissed.

An enthusiasm that disappeared as soon as she laid eyes on Satoru, replacing her cheerful features with a nasty scowl once realizing what went on.

“Why were you there, furby?!” she yelps, stomping her way to Satoru. It is almost amusing to see how the boy that considered himself to be a god amongst mortals fell to your sister's intimidation within seconds of seeing her.

“Gee, I wasn’t doing anything!” He whines, darting away from your sister before she’s able to land her hand against his arm “Ha! You missed!”

“What was that?” Hinata retorted, and Satoru chuckled.

“No! Nothing of course! Maybe you should be more concerned about taking a shower, you stink!” He’d proceed to snicker, pinching his nose to theatrically annoy her even more.

“I just finished training!” she argued back “You’d know if you took your job seriously”

Satoru groans. Hinata had always been stuck up that way—job, work, responsibility, those were her usual catchphrases. Why couldn’t she let loose once in a while and enjoy her life?

“Yeah whatever, smelly” he waves his hand, dismissing her “Anyways, goodbye! See you later, Hinata! Oh, and Y/N… be sure to remind your sister to take a shower!”

Hinata sees him off while shooting a barrage of mocking nicknames at his back until he’s finally out of his sight. It’s only until then that she decides to turn around and see you, the frown on her features disappearing as soon as she sees your focused intent to the homework in front.

“Are you almost done, imouto-chan?” she says, making her way to your side and sitting besides you. “I hope Satoru didn’t distract you that much”

“No, he didn’t” you say, somewhat truthfully, as your eyes remain glued to the papers on the table.

Hinata sighs “You can tell me if he bothers you! He’s always so annoying, he thinks that because he doesn’t have anything to do everyone else is the same! He’s the most irresponsible boy I have ever met! Luckily, Ren-nii is not like that”

“Yeah… he’s not”

“... Are you sure Satoru didn’t say anything to you?”

He did.

However… you weren’t about to tell her that, not when Satoru basically blackmailed you into doing whatever he wanted if you didn’t want to make your dad sad. And keeping this conversation between the two was one of those requirements.

So, holding your word, you shake your head.

“No” you say “He just wanted to play with someone since you weren’t here”

“Oh, really?” Hinata tilts her head to the side, somewhat… confused, because the instructor had told her that Satoru was to skip practice because he was sick. Just to show what a deceitful little boy he is. “Well, if you say so”

And with that situation appropriately dealt with, Hinata can finally move onto another subject that has her equally concerned.

“...Do you… think I smell?” she asked, discreetly moving her head towards her armpits and sniffing them.

Satoru might’ve forced you to keep silent about their conversation, but that didn’t mean you couldn’t be truthful on everything that happened afterwards.

And thus, with a toothy grin, you chortled.

“Yes!”

Had you known that striking that deal with Satoru corresponded to making a deal with the devil itself, you would’ve fought harder to reject him.

Because from that very day forward, he started treating you as some kind of errand girl. Wherever he went, you were expected to follow suit. If he wanted something, like a drink or a snack, you were also the one to bring it to him. But if you attempted to sneak away from his requests, he was quick to remind you just how improper you’ve been towards him and how disappointed your father would be if he ever got word of it.

So, you were quickly put back in your place, much to your regret and Sumire’s, who had begun to miss your presence.

Oh, if you could only go back in time and listen to your parents…

But even then, having to work for him wasn’t as insufferable as he was when speaking of the rest.

Because forcing you to tag along behind him wasn’t enough, he also had to have fun out of your reactions.

He’d start by scaring you with what currently was your biggest ick, himself.

“You know, if you want to get better at kissing we just have to continue practicing!”

You’d grimace your face in a combination of fear and disgust—Satoru, having overcome the offense your reaction initially gave him, only laughed.

He’d later move on to another one of your fears, facing the elders themselves.

“The elders wouldn’t like to hear you kiss me when I’m going to be your sister’s husband!”

“...What do you mean?” you dared to ask.

“We have to get married, Y/N! It’s only fair to cover the adultery we committed”

You didn’t even want to know what he meant by that—it sounded bad by itself, you don’t want to traumatize yourself even further.

“No, I don’t want to marry you” you huffed, finding the idea ludicrous, while Satoru is having the time of his life at your expense.

And that had basically been the conditions of your existence, that is, until he began to approach your limit.

You were capable of tolerating his tedious requests, his annoying insistences, even the secrecy you hated to have with your siblings, all to keep your family content—to a certain point.

But there had to be a limit to his villainy, and if he didn’t have one, you certainly did.

And that limit took the form of a bad joke, one that cut a bit too close to your heart, and the one that pushed you to break all inhibitions and let him have it.

“Now that I think about it, Y/N-chan, I don’t think anyone else will have you once they know you kissed me. I mean, you basically kissed me knowing I was engaged to your sister, and that’s a crime in many districts! But I’ll marry you, so don’t worr—”

The sound of glass crashing against the floor cuts him abruptly.

“What was that?” he asks, lifting his gaze from the comic book he was reading and onto your direction, leading him to eventually find glass shards gathering near your feet. “Oh, silly Y/N, you gotta be careful with—”

“Why are you being so annoying, Satoru?!” you say, turning around to face him without care if you hurt your feet with one of the sharp glass shards on the floor “That was going too far!”

“Gee, that was only a joke!” He frets, lifting up from his seat and making his way towards you. He hopes to move you away from the lingering danger on your feet by placing his hands over your shoulders, but you, who had reached your limit and past it, could only see red as you shoved him away “Hey!”

“I’m done with you!” you raged, no longer wanting to entertain his idiocy. “I did everything you wanted, heard you say stupid things every day… but I won’t let you say that!”

He blinks, he’s never seen this kind of anger coming from you, or anyone for that matter. Not even Hinata, who he considered to be the most hot-blooded woman he’s ever met in his life, reached your parameters.

And it’s safe to say, he doesn’t like it. Not one bit

“Ok, I may have messed up a bit there” Satoru says, feeling somewhat guilty by the way you reacted. “But you don’t have to get all—”

“I don’t care!” you cry, stomping your feet against the wooden floor “You’re too rude towards me! Why?? What did I even do to you??”

And Satoru flinches at the introspective question thrown at him.

That was a good question. Why did Satoru start this spectacle to begin with? Why did he have a hard time moving on from this, compared to you? Why did he seem to latch onto this, more than anyone else would’ve probably done?

Well, that’s easy.

Because just like you, that was also his first kiss.

It’s something that he always envisioned to be somewhat… mundane, having long accepted that it would happen with your sister at one point in his life, just how all things seemed to be with him through the jujutsu community.

But when you came along with that outrageous proposal, a ray of hope for something different began to part the gray clouds of his horizon, thus, he was quick to accept it.

To see you discard it so easily and without consideration as to how he felt, however, it pained him. It gave him the impression that, just as the other people around him, you simply used him to get what you wanted and nothing more

He had yet to understand you were nothing more than a child, things like taking advantage of him, or discarding him with malicious intent, were out of your possibilities.

But being forced to see the world differently from a very young age, he’d forgotten what it is to be a child. So, he attempts to seek comfort in the only way he’s ever known how to: gaining control over the situation, by all means necessary.

Which leads him to resort to his last option upon seeing you slipping through his fingers, an attack that has proven to be hurtful to you in the past, and would undoubtedly set you back on track:

“I’ll tell your dad if you—”

“I don’t care!” you bite back, no longer afraid once your patience ran out, much to his unwanted surprise. “Tell him, papa doesn’t like you anyways!”

And for the second time in his life, you manage to freeze him on the spot.

He couldn’t believe it. He couldn’t believe those words came from your mouth. Did you really mean that? Did you really mean to renounce the promise you made with him and… walk away? And most of all… did you really not care for him?

Yes. Yes you didn’t. Doubling down on that statement when you essentially disappeared from his sights.

You were no longer entertaining him, not interested in playing his stupid games and he had to face this new reality. Less when he hurt you. That was now his problem, not yours.

Satoru no longer had a place in your mind, not when you needed to worry about him telling your dad about what you did with him—the mere thought of seeing your overprotective father fretting about your mistakes was enough to ignite terror within you, but even then, that worries were to be for naught, for the Gojo heir wasn’t stupid enough to actually telling him—nor would he actually believe him.

He already knew how scary Eiichi could be when prompted. And while he had yet to see your mother angry, he didn’t want to risk it either, so he’ll keep quiet.

But that isn’t the end of his problems, if anything, they just got worse.

He’d gone too far up his own head, that he failed to realize he was starting to lose self control when treating you: from asking you to do things for him, to mocking you, he now pushed you so far away from him, that you might never come back.

It’s a regretful outcome, but yet… perhaps out of comfort to himself and previous experiences, still be salvageable. He couldn’t… Well, he couldn’t lose his errand girl!!

That’s it.

He’ll wait… he’ll be patient for you to cool down as well, and you’ll eventually come around to him, right? You can’t possibly ignore him for the rest of his life, more so when he’s bound to marry your sister…

But as the days passed, far from obtaining what he wanted, it only seemed to give you what you wanted instead: which was his complete absence, as well as time with your friends.

It wouldn’t take long for him to notice that you were now, truly, ignoring him completely. You didn’t even bother to greet him when he came to visit the estate, or vice versa, only doing so whenever your parents were present because they asked you!!

Oh, he had truly messed up, big time. And how is he going to fix all this? By the only way he knows, of course—through meek and confusing attempts!

Because it was hard for the holder of the six-eyes, who had never been expected to be kind or prudent to others, to open up his heart and truthfully admit how sorry he was for having treating you as badly as he did, as well as hoping to regain his friendship with you, after all, you were the only one that seemed genuinely happy to see him whenever he was around.

So, wanting to make things better, the first thing that he would do to grab your attention was hide away your favorite cup, the one the staff would always use to serve your drinks during lunch.

He’d committed the deed one moment the servants focused on completing other tasks. He took advantage of the slightest window provided by their distraction and swooped in to kidnap your cup, silently and without anyone to notice him.

Your reaction was of no surprise: you were rightfully upset upon noticing the absence of the Pikachu cup —a gift from your brother— growing more and more concerned after one of the staff members tells you they can’t find it.

It was also unusual, to say the least, because they were meticulous enough to place it back in the same spot, just besides your siblings and parent’s cups, every day after use. They virtually turned the whole state around in efforts to find it, and yet, it was nowhere to be found!

Did you perhaps take it to your room and forgot to bring it back? Or did you take it to school and you just didn’t remember?

Well, it was somewhere. Just not under your domain, more precisely, under Satoru’s… in his room back at the Gojo estate.

But even with his careful strategy, you still failed to connect two and two together. Well, it’s not like he signed the crime scene for you to figure out, thus, after seeing no results, he moved onto the next step of his plan.

The second thing he would do, and the one that finally got you to place your sights on him, was another kidnapping. This time, a higher value target: your favorite plushie.

The small green colored frog previously noted by your father to be the focus of your infatuation, the same one your parents gave you after going on holiday.

He repeated the same steps to attack, waiting patiently for the right window to open, this time of your unawareness, to sneak into your room and get the plush out from your bed and hide it away.

After that was done, it was only a matter of hours for you to come back home from school to see the atrocious act committed in the crime scene that was your bedroom.

When your cries became apparent throughout the whole estate, he knew his plan to effectively be in motion

“Mamaaaa!!” You’d wail, frenziedly running to your mother and crashing into her arms as soon as you found her “Maamaaaaa” you’d continue to sob, pressing your face against her legs as she quickly lowered down to your level and cupped your face.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?! Why are you crying??”

“My—my frog…. It’s gone…!”

“Frog…?” Minako carefully repeats, trying to point out which plushie you were referring to specifically since you had a mountain of them.

“The green one mama!” you’d remind her, tugging at her sleeve “The one you and papa got for me on… on….”

“The green…—Oh!” She gasps, enlightenment filling her mind “The one we got when we went to visit grandma and grandpa?”

You hum in response.

“Oh, did you search well? It must be in your room… unless there’s a chance you took it to school?”

“I didn’t take it!” You cry back while rubbing your tears away. Minako softly intertwines her fingers with yours upon seeing your motions becoming a bit too rough against your skin, taking the task of wiping your sadness away for herself. “It was in my room, but I came back and it wasn’t there….”

“Have you asked the staff? They sometimes confuse your toys with those of your siblings…” She attempts to reassure you, but too deep in the sorrow of your froggy’s absence, you can’t help but yelp in despair yet again.

“No! Hina-nee doesn’t have it, or Ren-nii! ” You diminish her suggestion, having already gone through this trial beforehand. Your siblings were just as baffled as you were upon hearing the sudden disappearance of your sudden toy, but still remained oblivious to the culprit behind it.

“That’s odd… are you sure you checked everywhere in your room? Or how about Sumire-chan? Maybe she borrowed it!”

“No, she doesn’t have it either…” Sumire would’ve let you know the moment she saw it if that was the case. Or her mother for that matter.

“Ah, well, I’ll ask around the staff if they haven’t seen it, but if we can’t find it we can always buy another one…”

And yet, the solution of getting another one didn’t feel as comforting as Minako would’ve wanted. The mere thought of having to replace froggy, your beloved green amphibian which you were virtually inseparable from, brought you such excruciating pain that you just had to let her know you weren’t about to give up on this search.

“Little one, please don’t cry… Maybe the reason you haven’t found froggy is because he went back to his family, you know there’s not a lot of frogs here, maybe he was feeling lonely” Minako’s slight desperation and concern prompted her to create a rather… fictitious alternative. And while this was something she didn’t actively prompt… What parent hasn’t told a little white lie to their kids?

And you do seem to consider her explanation, even if for a quick second, somewhat agreeing with your mother now that you remember you didn’t didn’t have any other frogs outside of froggy himself, so it was only natural that he felt lonely and went to search his—

No! That never seemed to be a problem for you before! Froggy was always happy to tag along in your adventures, it’s only after things started to get weird around you that this happened!

Meaning… someone was intentionally messing with you, and if you consider past successions, there’s only one person that could fit that category!

“No, Mama! Someone took froggy away! And I know who did it!”

“That’s quite the accusation, little one, why don’t we start by aski—”

“Is this the frog you were looking for?” A voice suddenly cuts through your mother’s words. Soft, indicating the young age of the speaker, but direct and confident, enough to snap your and your mom’s attention onto its direction.

Low and behold, standing just by the door frame, appeared the familiar figure of the white haired boy famously known as the strongest sorcerer, the heir of the Gojo clan.

Hands behind his back, and the sunset glowing from right behind him, it made him look like some kind of saint coming down from the heavens to your rescue, as if he weren’t the one responsible for all your hardships.

“Satoru-kun!” Your mother would greet, a smile on her face as she waved at him “How are you? I wasn’t expecting you to be here after school, hoping to stay the night? If so, let me get a room ready”

You were more than ready to voice your aversion, but he won you at it.

“Oh, no, thank you. I just wanted to visit, okaa-san” Satoru explains as he begins to move closer to the pair while diligently keeping his arms behind him. His commitment to remain in such a pose inadvertently raises your assumptions to a never seen before level, one that makes you feel indescribably rage towards him. “But on my way here, I found this at the gardens''

He proceeds to reveal the object behind his back, and when the sight of his “surprise” stepped into your view, your beliefs were finally set in stone.

“Oh look, pumpkin!” Minako exclaimed, gesturing towards the plushie. She hoped that by hyping the return of your plushie your sorrow would disappear, letting your cheerful nature take over and ultimately, celebrate its reunion.

She knew you well enough to assume so, and you’d probably would’ve as she anticipated, down to the smallest details, had you not known all that transpired beforehand “It’s froggy! I knew it couldn’t be lost”

Satoru hands you over the stuffed frog, and with that, his intentions to communicate with you. But far from interpreting it as a symbolic white flag to put a stop to this senseless conflict between the two, you took it as another declaration of war.

“What do we say, baby?” Minako says after seeing you reach out for the frog and pulling it close to you—all while in complete silence.

You wanted to beg her not to force you to do so and reveal that he’d been the one responsible for froggy’s disappearance (and your cup as well). But knowing your mother to be completely charmed by Satoru’s deceitful act, and probably giving you a slight scolding for accusing him without evidence, you begrudgingly relent to doing as she asked.

“...Thank you, Satoru” you grumbled, carefully to not earn your mother’s discontent, but seemingly clear enough for him to get the idea—removing all honorifics to enunciate just how upset you remained with him.

And get the idea he does, and while it slightly annoys him, it’s not enough to have him give up on you.

“You’re welcome!” Satoru bows, and you hold back the nauseating urge to stick your tongue out. “I’m going to stick around for a while if you want to play! Probably not too long since my parents don’t like me staying out too late” It’s his way to tell you I want to talk, but you’re not buying it. Not one bit.

“Oh, well, if you end up wanting to stay, I can call your parents” your mom suggested, but he simply shook his head.

“Nah, it’s fine. Thank you though” He smiles, bidding farewell with another nod “See you around, Y/N-chan!

And he kept his word, mainly through your mother’s insistence of appreciation, but this time, you weren’t going to be careless. The days of ignoring Satoru were officially gone.

This time, you were going to act.

Knowing well that you had to be careful in who you trusted, and to keep your ideas to yourself if you were to maintain the element of surprise, you sought out the only person you considered to be trustworthy enough to reveal your plans.

The one that has stuck with you through highs and lows, and the one you’d give your life for! (quite dramatic for a 6 year old)

Away from the blood ties of your family, you referred to your best friend: Sumire.

Having virtually grown alongside you, the kind of relationship that grew between the two was of complete trust—no secrets. Meaning that as soon as she knew of your intentions, she was more than willing to sacrifice whatever was necessary to achieve your goal.

Her decision was partially influenced by her own emotions, for she too was angry at him: he’d essentially plucked you away from her when he coerced you into obeying all of his commands, and it was indisputable that you were absolutely miserable for it!

Sumire could never forget the sorrowful look on your face as you followed him around—and he’ll never forgive him!

So, during one late Friday night, underneath the covers of your futon and through hushed whispers, planning began.

“Chumi-chan, we need to do something about Satoru!” You’d begin, laying down on your futon and besides Sumire.

“Count me in!” She replied, mirroring the fiery determination in your eyes as she turned around to rest on her stomach and inch closer to you “Should we dye his hair black??”

“No, that’s too much!” you chuckle, shaking your head. It was tempting, but too radical. “Maybe another time”

“Hmmm… then what? Can you steal something from him?”

“...Like what?”

“His toys! All of them! And then he’ll know not to mess with us!”

“No, Chumi… How am I going to do that? He’s going to know it’s me if I do the same…” you needed to be extra careful, not taking chances this time. “I want something different!”

“Then what?” Sumire ponders defeatedly, who would’ve known plotting revenge could be so hard?

“I don’t know…” you groan, plunging your head against the pillow beneath you. “He’s so dumb! And all for a stupid kiss!!”

“Poor Hina-chan…” Sumire sighs, pitying your sister, who’s bound to spend the rest of his life with him, as she pats your back. “Why don’t you tell your parents? He’ll listen to them!”

“No… papa is going to get angry at me…” you remind her—this all started because you disobeyed them… and you don’t want to deal with their disappointment on top of Satoru’s insane antics. Oh, and if this made way to the elders… you shivered at the thought.

“How about your nii-san? Or Hina-chan instead!” your friend continued to suggest, but they were equally fruitless solutions.

“No! I can’t tell nee-chan or nii-san! They’re going to tell everyone after being angry with me! You’re the only one I trust, Chumi” you yelp as you lift your head from the pillow and stare right into her eyes “Promise me you’ll keep this a secret! No one must know what we’re planning!”

“I promise” Sumire nods, extending her little finger to you and intertwining them “But… then… what are we going to do?”

“Oh, I don’t know” you sigh, stopping mid-way as a yawn escapes your lips, serving as a reflection of how tired this prolonged ordeal had you. “I hate this”

Sumire frowns. She certainly doesn’t like seeing Satoru being insufferable towards you and the hold he seemingly has over you, but if there’s something that she dislikes the most, it’s the absence of the fun and funny side of her best friend.

So, wanting to indulge in the good ol’ days, she proposes a temporary distraction.

“How about we watch a movie?” She’d say, pushing herself up from the futon and running towards her bag, the one her mother had filled with clothes and a few extra things to aid her stay at the L/N estate, amongst them, entertainment. After a few seconds of scrambling through her belongings, she pulls out a box “Mama got me this one!”

It’s a brand new VHS, the cover art revealing it to be Disney’s Peter Pan.

“Oooh, I haven’t seen that one!” You marvel, excitement in your eyes as you cheer on “Let’s watch it!!”

She agrees by moving towards the TV, already plugged to a VHS player, and sticks the cassette into the entry slot. Sumire grabs the controller and heads back to your side.

You adjusted the pillows in a specific way so you can both laydown comfortably on the futon, but still be able to see the movie.

And so, after a few commercials and a title card the movie starts.

However, the girls are unable to finish the movie, for drowsiness begins to settle in their small eyes when the protagonists travel for the first time to Neverland, skipping the entirety of the sequence when the lost boys shoot Wendy down from the sky, only to open them at the mermaid scene.

Sumire briefly regains consciousness when this sequence appears on screen, arising to her as some kind of inspiration for your Gojo problem, but just before she’s able to turn around and tell you that she’s found a cure to all your illnesses, she falls asleep again.

Wanting to obtain a solution as quickly and secretly as possible, you and Sumire began to drill each other with all kinds of options to enact revenge on the wrongdoer Satoru.

From the very moment you’d wake up by the sun hitting your eyes, she’d search for you to tell you just about any new idea that crossed her mind—which were many, but unfortunately, none of them were good enough to fill the necessary requirements.

It was just… not enigmatic enough, not impactful enough, not… good enough.

Being as young as the girls were, it often meant there were little to no tools to use in to their advantage without getting in trouble themselves: and while sitting down with Satoru and talk would be the easiest, most efficient way to put and end to this struggle, you were still grieving by his betraying words.

No 6 year old deserved to be told that no one would care for them just because of a simple mistake they made out of curiosity—what were his intentions anyways? Did he find joy in making you sad? Making you feel less? Well, whatever his reasoning, you refused to forgive him so easily.

Both girls were really at the disadvantage here. No matter where they looked, no matter what they said, they just continued to bump into dead ends.

A predicament that began to take a toll on both, but more so on Sumire, who upon feeling the continuing weight of your sorrow on her shoulders, made her feel that she wasn’t doing good enough.

And so, she began to get more and more frustrated by each passing day, starting to exert such feelings through her chores, her mood, and inadvertently… to her concerned mother.

“How was school today?” Ayaka, Sumire’s mother, would ask her daughter, just as she always did, as soon as she crossed the gates of the L/N estate and made her way to her.

From there, the two would exchange hugs and kisses, before she’d lead her towards her bedroom, intending to change her into more comfortable clothes before sending her off to get dinner.

Her mother labeled these moments as her favorite part of the day—the simplicity of spending time with her daughter, who wouldn't take much longer to start rambling about all the fun things she did at school once she asked that question, brought her pure happiness.

Unfortunately, it had been a while since Sumire had the energy to partake in the recollections of the day, too focused on helping you out and the frustration her powerlessness brought her—instead, she remained silent.

Ayaka had noticed this change of behavior from her for a while now, but she didn’t really think much of it at first. She believed Sumire to be having a bad day, and once she slept it off, she’d be back to the usual cheery demeanor she always carried.

However, it had become alarmingly clear that there was something far deeper than Sumire let on, and Ayaka, unable to see her daughter acting tepidly any longer, decided to finally act.

“Chumi, what’s wrong?” She’d ask, helping her daughter out of her school uniform by lifting her arms, with her obliging rather… half-heartedly. “Did you get in trouble?”

“No, never mama” Sumire responded, lowering her arms once the shirt was off.

“Then what is it?” She tries again “Are you upset with Y/N?”

Ayaka can’t think of anything else that could’ve affected her as much as that. It’s something of an uncommon occurrence, oh, but when it happens… It's as if the world were ending for both girls.

“No!” Her daughter cries, and by judging her daughter's tone, Ayaka feels like you were indeed the reason behind her concern.

“Is it something about Y/N?”

“...No”

Bingo.

“Sumire, you know you can trust me with anything” the mother coos as she dresses her daughter with another shirt and a warm sweater “I've noticed for a while that you seem rather… aloof, quiet. And as your mother, I can’t help but worry…”

“I’m sorry mama” She sighs, leaning into her mother’s chest for an embrace, which she all too happily obligated “I didn’t mean to worry you! But I promised not to tell Y/N and I want to help her get revenge!”

“Revenge?” Ayaka blinks, and Sumire mentally chastises herself for talking too much.

“Nothing!” The young child yelps, attempting to diffuse the situation by moving onto the removal of her skirt.

“Sumire…” she warns, and the girl concedes soon after.

“...Ok mama! I’ll tell you, but don’t tell anyone ok?!” And without suppression, Sumire reveals your intentions “It all started because Y/N-chan wanted to know why Hinata-chan was getting married and not her! But nobody wanted to tell her so she went with Ren-kun, but he didn’t know either so he put her to see movies, and then Y/N-chan saw that maybe if she got kissed she would know about it! And because nobody wanted to help her, she started to plan how to get a kiss, but her otou-san wasn’t going to let her, so she kept it a secret, but not from me because I’m her best friend in the whole wide world! So she decided to—”

“Wait, wait, waitwaitwaitwait, hold on there, Chumi” Ayaka weakly chuckles, gesturing her to slow down by raising her hands “Kiss? Y/N wanted a kiss?”

“Yes!” Sumire whines, slightly frustrated that her mom wouldn’t understand the clearness of it all. But could anyone blame Ayaka? “Can I continue…?”

“Oh, yes, of course” Her mother nods, wanting to hear more about this… curious revelation. She was effectively amused the same way she was intrigued—who knew Eiichi’s and Minako’s kids would turn out to be so… witty? “What happened after that?”

“Y/N-chan got a kiss from Satoru, but she didn’t like it so he told him, so he decided to make her his errand girl! But he was really mean to her… so Y/N-chan left him and now he wont stop being annoying!”

“Wait, Sumire!” Ayaka gasps, amusement out the window upon realizing your determination pushed you to actually obtain what you wanted, and from someone important no less, the heir of the Gojo clan, your sister’s future husband!.

It’s only now that the woman realizes just the kind of trouble both girls got themselves in, specifically, if Eiichi got to hear about this… “Satoru? Gojo-sama??”

“You’re not listening to me!” She pouts, crossing her arms “And he doesn’t deserve to be called sama, he’s a jerk!”

“Sumire, don’t say that” Ayaka corrects and the girl sheepishly apologizes. “So… that’s the reason why you want to help Y/N? To get back at him because he won’t stop… annoying her?”

“Yes mama! And now that I told you, you can help us too!” Sumire concludes “Y/N-chan says that I shouldn’t tell the adults because they’re going to tell on her”

«And with good reason…» Ayaka ponders.

“But you’re different, because you’re my mama and I can trust you!”

“I… think you should sit this one out, baby” She carefully advises “Why not let her parents handle it? It shouldn’t have been a secret to begin with…”

“No! You have to promise not to tell them!” Sumire cries “Or they’ll get angry with Y/N-chan, and she’ll know it was me, and then she’ll get angry with me!!”

Ayaka wishes to comfort her daughter by two easy steps:

Firstly, she doubts you’ll ever be angry with her, at least in the way she’s imagining. Or at all…

Secondly, by telling her that your parents—Eiichi specifically—will be far angrier with Satoru than you, at least from what she’s been able to assume, because he’s the oldest and therefore, he should’ve known better. However, she doesn’t consider it appropriate to rattle whatever little authority he has before the kids left after these revelations

So, she bites the bullet—but not without setting her daughter back on the right track.

“Ok, alright, baby. I promise I won’t tell. But in turn, promise me that you’ll tell Y/N to talk with her parents—It’s not good to keep secrets from parents, communication is always the best solution”

An advice Sumire has yet to comprehend in its entirety, but one she’s willing to try. More so after the following praise.

“You’re a good friend, Sumire. And I’m sure Y/N appreciates it… But… take it easy, you’re just a kid. Have fun!” she says, kissing the top of her head “Now, how does baking a pie sound like, hm?”

Sumire’s eyes glisten with excitement, mouth watering as she begins to envision the soft yet crunchy texture of the warm crust against her lips alongside a tall glass of milk.

“Can it be an apple pie??? Or a pecan pie!! Oh… I don’t know” Sumire pouts “I like all of them…”

“Only if you accompany to the market to get the ingredients” Ayaka winks and the child squeals in response, an adorable sight that has her heart squeezing with admiration—her daughter finally back to the usual cheerful, carefree self she loves so much.

“Oh, oh! And can we give some to Y/N-chan and her siblings??? Not Satoru though…”

“We have to be nice, Chumi, even if you don’t like them”

“...I guess…”

So, once the child was out of her uniform and into her everyday clothes, the mother grabbed her small hand and led her onto the common path towards the nearby village, where the weekly farmer’s market was to be found.

She initially planned for Sumire to stay back at the estate and have her finish whatever homework she had for the day, but after this small yet shocking revelation, Ayaka found it in her responsibilities to offer her some kind of distraction, a break from all the fuzziness.

And maybe, for herself too.

Ayaka couldn’t believe the things that were happening with her kid when she wasn’t looking—it almost made her feel like she couldn’t get her eyes off them without them plunging into trouble.

Well, in your and Sumire’s defense, both girls were relatively good girls who occasionally got into mischief, so a prank or misconduct once in a while was to be expected, and certainly, not something to reprimand them so harshly on.

But Satoru… well, from what little she’s been able to observe from him whenever he was around, he’d always leaned more into evil than good. Ren didn’t entertain him, so no complaints from his side. Hinata… even if she liked him, or not, he was stuck with him—they still got along though, when they had a similar goal in mind, that is—

And then you. Who kept a relatively good relationship with him, but because you were somewhat oblivious to his nature. However, as soon as you began to grow and began to observe your surroundings… that’s when things began to change.

It makes sense why everything started to happen the way it did when Ayaka balances it like that.

Did it mean it was right? Of course not, your curiosity could surely be dealt with in a more appropriate manner…

Was she the one to call this out? Act like a metaphorical whistleblower and tell Eiichi and Minako what was going on? She’s unsure; she’s not the L/N’s kids parent… but she is in charge of overseeing part of the successions in the estate… oh, but if she went ahead, she’d probably ignite Eiichi’s overprotectiveness to the point it might overwhelm you, but on the other hand, she would certainly expect to be told of what’s happening behind her back if Sumire were in your shoes…

It was a bit ironic for Ayaka to consider Sumire’s tendency of keeping to herself when something bothered her— her thoughts only becoming apparent through subtle traces in her face— as unprecedented, when she behaved the exact same way.

Children were sponges when it came to learning about their surroundings, yet such a statement would remain oblivious to her, even when a fellow staff member noted her to be distraught while working.

“Is everything alright, Ayaka-san? You seem rather… distracted” the servant asks, pulling her attention to them. “Oh, it’s nothing” She responds, blinking rapidly as if to sweep away whatever it was that had her in a trance and focus on both the person besides her and the task at hand ”I’m just… focused, that’s all”

“I couldn’t possibly imagine that preparing today’s food could be so interesting.” she jokes, and Ayako laughs in agreement.

“Alright, fine” she concedes, laying down the apples she was cutting for the promised pie before glancing at her coworker “I’m thinking, about something my daughter told me”

“Everything alright?” The woman, whose name was Yui, pondered.

“Yeah, it’s fine, don’t worry. Just something… silly, you know? Kids stuff”

“Well, whatever it was, it sure does seem to worry you… are you sure it’s nothing bad?”

“Ah, far from it… I mean, Sumire was a bit upset for a while, but I finally got her to tell me what it was that bothered her. Looks like Y/N-chan placed a bet with the Gojo heir and now she regrets it. And you won’t believe what she wanted”

“What was it?”

“She wanted a kiss!” Ayaka blurted out, still unable to believe the veracity of it all “Now that I think about it… I do remember Tomoko-sama telling me something about Y/N-chan relentlessly following her and Eiichi-sama around trying to make sense about something… to think it would be about first kisses and marriage—worst of all, that she’d actually go against their wishes and do what she did… so young, and she’s already promising to be quite the troublemaker”

“I wouldn’t worry too much—that’s what kids do, eh? She was just curious, that’s all” Yui shrugs.

“And now, that curiosity won’t leave her or my daughter alone! Apparently Gojo-sama wasn’t too fond of his negative reviews, to the point where the girls want to plot their revenge against him”

“Wow, that bad?” Yui snickered. “Well, can’t say I didn’t expect it, he’s always been known to be the sneaky one, compared to Ren-sama and Hinata-sama, although they can be quite sly if they set their minds to it”

“Well, you’re right about that—at least from what I’ve been able to assume” Ayaka sighs. “I was just wondering if I should tell our masters about what happened, I’m sure everything will cool down in time but still… wouldn’t you like to be told if something was going on with your kids?”

“Oh, definitely, but you have to consider how Eiichi-sama would react if he’s informed about this” Yui emphasized, slightly shivering at the visage of one of their always-kind masters becoming heated out of protectiveness.

“Is it even in our duties to let them know?” Ayaka ponders.

“Gah, they’re just children at the end of the day! It doesn’t really matter” The woman responds, playfully patting Ayaka’s back “Weren’t you naughty when younger?”

“Can’t say I wasn’t” she shrugs, and without anything else to say, the conversation rightfully ends: with Ayaka going back to preparing the pie she promised her daughter, and Yui helping her by preheating the oven.

After this exchange with Yui, the mother of your best friend found herself somewhat agreeing with the woman’s words. It had been something a bit… shocking, sure, but nothing dangerous for either of the kids involved at the end of the day—you got curious about a simple peck on the lips, and Satoru reacted according to his nature, nothing that needs to be taken to the next level, such as involving your parents.

Besides, she still trusted her daughter to continue being the good friend she was with you by reminding you that there are certain things that are better dealt with directly, instead of going around circles attempting to get back at someone.

She’d further cement this teaching through a slice of pie of course, practice what she was preaching, but outside of that, Ayaka effectively concluded that all parties involved were nothing more than young kids.

Thus, the topic is virtually buried in the confines of her memory. A funny, temporarily concerning situation, that Ayaka would probably look back at one day when she didn’t know what to do.

And that would’ve been the case, of course, if she hadn’t told Yui about it.

Oh, but Ayaka could’ve never known, for it wasn’t in her nature to assume malicious intentions from others.

It was never in her plans to start rambling about what her daughter confined her with to others, but stranded in the island of her indecision, she couldn’t help but inquire for advice on what she should do.

It wasn’t her fault that the person she confided this secret to couldn't stop herself from finding this whole situation comical, worthy enough to be shared with everyone else, who in turn, found it equally hilarious to keep on passing the anecdote onto others, and so on and so forth.

It was an innocent mistake, really, a funny story from the master’s kids!

…

One that stopped being funny the day your father was inevitably made aware of it.

Disaster ensued in one uneventful weekday afternoon, when Eiichi got back home from work.

As soon as he stepped foot in the L/N estate, he zeroed in onto the rooms the staff informed him they could find you and the Gojo heir in.

They didn’t need to look beyond his reddening face to know that he’d finally heard the rumor surrounding you and the white haired boy, to which they could only pray he wouldn’t chew up alive.

It’s a free for all at this point.

“Satoru, Y/N, follow me, now!” Eiichi ordered the moment he barged through the doors. His voice was loud and commanding, an unfamiliar tone from the often sweet and doting father you recognized. A contrasting difference that had both you and Satoru freezing on the spot. “I won’t repeat myself twice, stand up now”

You clench the edges of your sleeves as you quietly follow behind your father, with Satoru trailing just behind you.

It had been the only day you finally allowed him to be in the same room with you, allowing him the opportunity to finally speak his truth and maybe sneak an apology, but it seems that fate wasn’t to be on his side, yet again—and what a way to show him so.

Once the infuriated Eiichi cornered you and Satoru into another room, away from the prying eyes and ears of the surrounding servants, confrontation begins.

“What is this rumor that I’m hearing from the staff, Gojo?”

Satoru blinks, confused. He doesn’t know what your father is referring to, for the servants had done an exceptional job of keeping to themselves when spreading said rumor.

The Gojo heir reflects on his past actions, attempting to find the possible cause of your father’s anger—it could be anything really, which doesn’t speak very well of his character.

Unable to find a cause, he glances at you; with a look that asks if you perhaps knew what he was talking about. It was only for the briefest of seconds, and solely to seek an explanation, but your father, who was far too gone in his anger, doesn’t let it slide so easily.

“Eyes on me, boy” Eiichi warns and Satoru recoils again.

“I—W-what rumor… L/N-sa—”

“Don’t act ignorant, Satoru! The one where you kissed my daughter? Quite the story that has been going around, I must add” Eiichi accused, and at this revelation, it’s now your time to pale.

“I—I don’t know what you…. You’re talking about L/N-san…” Gojo stammers, his face drained of all color to the point it’s almost hard to distinguish where his skin ends and his hair begins. “I didn’t do…”

“Y/N” Eiichi, not willing to entertain the seemingly foolish act the boy was putting on, refers to you. No nicknames or endearments, just your birth name—reflecting how serious he is about this.

To see your father so… different from the caring, protective and a bit silly man he presented himself to be with his family… It was terrifying. A sight so ghastly, that naturally has your heart jumping to your throat, rendering you speechless to what was perhaps the biggest miscalculation you could’ve considered when placing that bet.

You can’t even begin to ponder how it is that he learned about this as he continues to stare back at you, or if there’s even a way to get out of this situation.

“Y/N” he calls you again, urging you to an answer, which you miraculously perform after gathering all the courage you can find to look up to him and muster a quiet: yes, papa? before looking down to the ground.

“Did you kiss Satoru?”

You know it’s not good to lie, you were taught by your parents to not do so. It’s foul, deceiving, and hurtful. But seeing Satoru’s startled eyes and trembling lips, you find yourself doubting if that theoretical pain can be any worse than his current predicament.

It was never supposed to go this far, to the point of tarnishing your relationship with Satoru and your father.

Even with Satoru’s distressing behavior… you never wished to cause him any genuine harm.

Guess there really is a first time for everything.

“No” you decide to lie for Satoru’s sake, shaking your head and clutching at your sleeves even tighter than before, to the point where your fingers turn completely white.

You hoped that by keeping your answers limited he would concede to believe you and subsequently bring this situation to an end, but your father, having gone through similar ordeals with your siblings, finds it hard to accept your response without slight skepticism.

“You know better than to lie to me, Y/N”

“I’m not!” you cry, now furiously shaking your head—whether to emphasize your words, or to sway the tears forming at the corners of your eyes away, you didn’t know.

“Then why is the staff going around saying that?” Eiichi wondered “It means that someone is lying, and it’s either you, or my staff”

“I don’t know papa….” you quietly sniveled, feeling yourself to be shrinking before him more and more the longer you remained underneath his gaze. His presence is so taxing on your conscience, that prompts unspoken guilt to erupt from inside in the shape of bewailing regrets “I’m sorry!”

And with that, you prove the rumors to be true.

You’d sob loudly enough for Eiichi to finally snap out from the unadulterated rampage he’d enacted on the two kids before him, and focus on the lamenting reality of his weeping daughter and startled boy.

This is one of the things he hated from being a father: having to confront his kids.

He wanted nothing more than for them to be perpetually happy, without a single worry for the world, give them everything they’ll ever need so they never have to suffer—while defending them from those that wanted to hurt them.

But life isn’t as black and white as Eiichi wanted it to be. It was wistful thinking to believe that he could forever protect them from the world.

And he’d soon learn that being a good father isn’t just about having fun with his kids and giving them what they needed, it was also about letting them live their own experiences, let them stumble and fall, but being there to help them up—teach them how to deal with difficult situations so they can do so themselves when the time is right.

Kindly and calmly, like any good parent was expected to do—how he should’ve acted in this situation.

“No, no, it’s ok, pumpkin” he says, kneeling down to your level and softly cupping your face “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare both of you… I just… well, I was worried—I didn’t know how to answer your questions, or more like I didn’t want to, when I should’ve tried harder to help you understand. And instead of worrying that you could’ve done something to hurt yourself, I got angry at you for disobeying me”

“I’m—I’m sorry papa…. I—I d—didn’t mean t—to…” you continue to wail, gaze blurry and eyes warm as you look back to your father’s comforting soft gaze. “Please.. No angry with me”

“Oh, baby I’m not angry with you” he says, hugging you “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have spoken to you, or Satoru like that…”

Eiichi lifts his gaze to Satoru, who, unsure of what to expect from such a radical change from your father, keeps a distant yet tense stance.

Your father, while not agreeing with the way Satoru often acts, knows well to look after his actions when he’s messed up, as well as reminding himself to be patient with him—he’s just a kid, born with a technique and responsibilities he never asked for. Wouldn’t that make him a reflection of his own daughter?

“Think you two can forgive me over ice cream?” He’d ask the pair.

“...chocolate?” you murmur against his chest, and he smiles.

“Consider it done, what about you… Satoru?”

“... Only if you get strawberry” he says, and Eiichi chuckles—that’s his favorite flavor too.

“Done” your father says, standing up and making way to the white haired boy and carefully shuffling his hair “Sorry, kid. Just… keep out of trouble, alright?”

And thus, with ice cream and a slight warning from your father, reminding you to approach him whenever you have questions (so as to avoid this situation from happening again…), the situation ends without further precedent.

Days would pass, and you and Satoru would eventually move past this occurrence, which both labeled as silly, and rekindle the friendship they initially had; all while promising to continue keeping this a secret from your sister and brother, whom by mysterious reasons, never knew about it.

You never figured out why that rumor sparked inside the estate in the first place, and as years passed, you honestly stopped caring. Even if you eventually determined it had been Sumire, it did nothing to affect your friendship with her, if anything, it grew stronger.

And so, it all remained in the past. A nostalgic-yet-cringeworthy memory grouped up with those of your childhood that took little to no weight in your mind, except of course, when gossiping with his friends, Shoko and Geto, when you wanted to kick him down a notch or two whenever he began to act a bit too arrogant for your liking.

Shoko would take your experience as evidence that he was always irritating, even from a young age.

While Geto would take it with a grain of salt, for in his own account, Satoru never struck him as a bad kisser.

A statement that had you and Shoko immediately glancing at each other, wondering just how he could possibly know that.

#series side stories: first it hurts—#jujutsu fanfic #jujutsu kaisen fanfic #gojo x reader #satoru gojo x you #satoru gojo x reader #satoru gojo x y/n

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