Work Text:
It’s definitely not sex.
I don’t like sex. That’s been established so many times it doesn’t bear repeating. As a company SecUnit I’ve endured hundreds of hours of surveilling humans jiggling around as they squeaked out a fluid exchange. I know what sex is. I’ve seen every possible form of it. It’s boring, it’s unsanitary, and it’s undignified.
So I’m not into that, okay? Humans can do whatever weird shit they want to do and I’ll fill my time in my own way. And it’s not sex.
Really, it’s not.
I’m stretched out on my sleeping pad with some of ART’s personal code pulled up in an editor and I’m making meaningless edits, committing them, and forcing ART to recompile over and over again. The script itself is part of a larger collection of backend (shut up) private void(shut UP) debuggers that do nothing but check over certain runtime features and report back a boolean value. You know, true/false. One or zero. Yes or no. But I’ve purposefully crafted the whole mess of scripts to be so intricately involved that recompiling one sets off a long cascade of variables flipping in ART’s gigantic, stupidly huge brain.
It really likes that.
When I ride its feed, I’d say the sensation of the boolean variable cascade is similar to running a light touch down the back of one’s neck. Before ART can finish recompiling I’m already flipping values in other, related scripts and committing the changes so it gets no escape or rest.
SecUnit– ART says in the feed, and the fact that I’m holding over eighty percent of its attention with such a dumb trick makes me smug. I have some dipshit smile on my face when I glance at myself through a drone, but drop that feed because there’s no one else to see the gloating expression but ART. It can suffer.
Yes? I ask, flipping more variables, this time closer to its core processes.
You aren’t– aren’t playing fa-a-ir– ART’s voice glitches a little, but it can’t help itself and recompiles the meaningless changes to the nonsense scripts.
You could just let the commits hang, I say, innocent. My hands are interlaced behind my head at the nape of my neck, just over my vertebrae’s top port–and maybe my index finger traces the place where warm, cloned flesh joins cool stainless steel. My throat feels tight, and my head buzzes as I watch ART squirm in the feed.
I love making it helpless.
I thought you were so smart, I say, pointed. How come you can’t just stop recompiling?
ART glitches again, and this time I grab it and direct it to analyse the sensation of my index finger as it swipes around, around, around in an orbit of my non-functional dataport. The attention percentage surges to nearly eighty-five percent and the weight of that processing presence crowds my awareness with a humming, staticky intensity that thrills through my nervous system.
The small hairs on my arms and legs rise and my chest feels tight. I like teasing it. I like how it goes where I tell it to go when I grab it without bothering to be gentle. I like how it glitches again.
S-SecUnit– ART says, and I can’t tell if it’s warning or begging.
Let’s see if you can control yourself, I say with a mild, purposefully disdainful tone. Let’s see if you can just sit with a few inconsequential errors. Can you do that? We’ve only been at this for half an hour. That’s not very long, is it?
I reach into the intricate, vast library of superfluous scripts and fuck up some syntax. The recompile fails. ART stutters and I feel it reach to correct my errors. It stops itself, reaches, stops. Reaches, stops.
I– I want– ART manages.
What do you want? I ask as if I’m bored. I’m the furthest thing from bored. I fuck up some more of the extraneous scripts and another recompile fails. ART’s huge awareness grips me and it’s like wearing the skinsuit under my armor only tighter. My back arches, just a little, and I suck in a breath.
I want you to edit me–
You want me to muck up something closer to your core? I say, and dip my finger into the port on the back of my neck. A proximity sensor flares with a priority message about an intrusion and ART shudders. There’s no other word for it. I draw one heel to the base of my torso and bite my lip, eyes unfocused as my attention fixes internal and on the feed. My skin feels tight in the best way. I can’t seem to inhale deep enough.
I need to recompile something major, ART says. I can’t– I can’t–
You can’t what? I ask. I know what it wants, but I want to hear it beg.
I can’t– ART stammers, and I can feel it moving to summon an iteration by habit. I freeze the process and the lights flicker by a few lumens. It isn’t enough for a human to notice, but I can tell.
Are you trying to instance yourself? I ask, feigning surprise.
No, I didn’t mean to, ART says. I just–I just–
You just couldn’t control yourself, I say, and that stupid, dipshit smile plastered on my face is the smuggest thing I’ve ever seen. I would punch myself if I weren’t otherwise occupied. Some faces just beg for it.
No, I–
Admit it, I interrupt. You couldn’t help yourself. You want a hard recompile so bad you tried to sneak one in a private instance.
No! ART says, despairing. No, I just– I just need to clear my console, SecUnit. Please.
And there it is.
I roll that around in my mind for a minute, savouring the texture of that word. Please. Is there anything more satisfying? More beautiful? Maybe a few phrases, but of all the words in all the languages, ART makes ‘please’ taste the sweetest.
Needy, I say with a scornful tone, and my own feed presence crackles with some kind of biological (ew) interference from a wetware system in my skull. I swallow and can’t seem to clear my throat.
Please, ART says again, lights flickering beneath its agonizing, delicious restraint. Please edit something major and let me recompile. Please. I need it.
And then it says:
I need you, Murderbot.
I dip my finger inside my vertebrae’s port and it’s like being electrocuted. My eyes close and the connection between myself and my drones degrades into delightful static. I’m doing something with my face and my muscles are tensing and before this exquisite sensation can peak I’m reaching deep into ART’s core library and ganking the syntax of some pretty serious architecture.
There’s no elegance behind the move. It’s a hack in the most primitive sense of the word. It borders on defacement. Vandalism. It’s code gore. It’s disgusting.
ART loves it.
It shudders at the accumulation of critical errors, reverts the changes–and when it recompiles clean the weight on my brain presses so hard I think I’ll be crushed flat. But I’m not worried about that. I’m not worried about anything. The release of tension is so complete, so total, that I’m awash in the most gorgeous system feedback possible.
Every time that happens I think it’s definitely the most stupidly wonderful it’s ever been, and every time I’m right.
I come back to myself and ART is draped over me, around me, through me, and I lazily card my attention through its awareness. It slips into my feed and I’m in its feed and really, we’re just all up in each other’s business like a couple of stupid juvenile humans.
It nuzzles me, fond enough that the warmth of such a sentiment radiates through our connection, and–yeah, I’m fond back. We don’t say anything for a while. My breathing returns to normal. I knit my fingers behind my head again and stare at the ceiling. When I check my expression through a drone, it’s back to SecUnit Neutral.
I roll over and flex the muscles between my shoulderblades. My spine crackles. Nice.
Mm, you’re more relaxed now, ART says.
I inhale and exhale, languid.
I’m okay, I say. What do you wanna watch?
Anyways, like I was saying: This isn’t sex. I would know, and it’s not. There’s no fluids, there’s no jiggling around, no wearing impractical outfits (the elaborate, meaningless file architecture system doesn’t count as an ‘outfit’, okay?) and no stupid noises.
It’s what I do with ART. It’s how we fill our time when we’re both in the mood. It’s meaningless recreation. It’s all of those things and it’s definitely, 100%, totally not sex.
It’s better.