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Strange, to be free.
Painter was one of the first to be let out. The paperwork of personhood and accepting a home bought with Urbanshade’s liquidation money was, somehow, less of a pain than getting a mobile body to plug itself into when it wanted to move around the house. It was finally free to do what it wished, and it couldn’t be locked away anymore. It needed that freedom, that mobility, in a way it simply never thought of before, until Urbanshade ripped it away from everything. And now it had more freedom than it knew was possible.
Sebastian Solace, on the other hand…
His biology demanded accommodation, and Painter didn’t like living alone.
All his doctors were delightful people when he wasn't in the room. Painter preened when they said good things about its attentiveness, when they agreed it could help him. Sebastian had nowhere else to go and several months in intensive care had driven him nuts, desperate for any out that wasn’t outright fleeing the building.
Painter’s programming woke it from sleep mode at 7 AM sharp. It woke its mobile unit up from its spot slouched on a chair in front of its true body’s desk. It was a thick-plated, short, humanoid thing, all sharp edges but dexterous enough for its purposes. A cable ran from its back up to a series of rails on the ceiling that ran through the rest of the building. Getting those installed and bickering with engineers the whole time was a pain. Its consciousness settled in that steel puppet, and it double-checked it was all working fine.
It looked back at its true body, on the desk, near a window. It opened the blinds to let in the morning light and adjusted its monitor, so when it returned to its true body it had a good view of the light hitting the houseplants on the windowsill.
Painter went about its morning unhurried. It watered its plants, examined the leaves for damage, checked that its puppet’s cabling wasn’t getting tangled in its support system, and eventually drifted to the kitchen while opening every window in the building.
Houses had kitchens. Even if their owner was a machine who did not need food. When it first arrived, it had no idea what it’d do with it, but with Sebastian officially its housemate, the room suddenly had reason to exist.
With Sebastian’s moving in, the fridge was stocked. Painter knew exactly what was inside, from food he could digest to the purposes of every single medication, courtesy of Sebastian’s care team giving it his patient files. His many, many files.
It was morning. So where the hell was he? In the Blacksite, Sebastian was always up bright and early. He spoke less with Painter over text when he was in the hospital, but Painter reluctantly understood that he was probably very busy with whatever it was organics did while in hospitals recovering from imminent bodily shutdown after months of agonizing physical decline.
So Painter let itself into the guest room, which was now Sebastian’s room. He was curled, hidden under multiple sheets upon his bed. One of his arms hung off the edge, grazing the carpet, and the edges of his tailfin drooped past the sheets. His head was completely hidden in the heap of himself and the covers. Under it all, it watched the slow rise and fall of his breathing. He was alive under there! Excellent!
“Rise and shine!” it announced, as it marched over to the room’s window and pulled the curtains open. Light bathed his embarrassingly barren room. Maybe it’d let him pick one of its plants to keep, to liven the place up. It kind of sucked when it was little more than a bed and nightstand stacked with papers and pill bottles.
The shape on the bed moved. His head rose, eyes half-shut, and then fully shut when the sunlight hit him. “Whuh.”
“It is 7:24 in the morning!” Painter announced.
Sebastian blinked slowly, then stretched his arms out, and sank back down. He draped his arms over his head. “So I can still sleep, is what I’m hearing.” His voice was thick with exhaustion.
“It’s your first morning out of the hospital! Where’s your love for life?” It went to his side of the bed. “And according to the doctors—” He groaned. “—you need to take your medicine with breakfast. It is time for breakfast.”
“Painter. Painter. Listen to me.” He reached for its hand when it yanked the sheet covering his face back. “I have not had a full night’s sleep in months, if not years. I am going to sleep in. So please buzz off.”
It examined his features. He had a generally sunken, miserable appearance. It took in the bruises on his wrists and inner elbows from IVs and drawn blood. There were even bruises along his collar, from use of central venous catheters. But his hair was washed, his skin wasn’t as pallor as it was in the Blacksite, and his face was a bit fuller. It wasn’t all bad.
“In the hospital, what time did you—”
“Stop talking.”
When it commissioned its mobile puppet, the screen was very important. It felt like home, like its real body. It allowed it to scribble a glaring expression on, which was vital for communication. “I am going to wake you again, on the hour.”
He didn’t dignify it with a response. Painter relented and let Sebastian steal another few minutes of rest.
And true to its word, it reentered Sebastian’s room at 8 sharp and yanked his sheets off him.
“Fuck you,” Sebastian said, but he did sit up. “You’re sadistic, you know that? Depriving me of my beauty sleep? Wipe that smug look off your ugly mug.”
“It is not smug!” it retorted, but the smile on its screen was promptly replaced to express its irritation. “I’m excited! I’ve… missed living in a home, with someone.”
It wasn’t like before. Not even close. Painter was such a different person. But Sebastian was a friend, and it was going to take care of that friend.
Sebastian’s features softened. “Ugh. Stop getting sappy. Fine. Getting up. And go away, I’m technically naked right now, you creep.”
The also-technically-naked machine left him alone to put on a shirt, humming as it went. It ran Sebastian’s files over in its head. There was his ungainly list of medications, each with a particular function, and the schedule for each one, as well as a helpful note of side effects and who to call in case of emergency.
Sebastian joined it in the kitchen, weary, looking around the space like he didn’t belong. He hunched, less due to the ceiling and more in discomfort. “Must you hover?” he asked.
“What are you going to have for breakfast?”
He pulled a face. “Whatever’s easiest to make. I’m going back to sleep after this.” He opened the fridge and grimaced. In the Blacksite, Sebastian subsisted off of rations stolen from expendables and occasionally the bodies of said expendables themselves. Once, Urbanshade even sent in a sacrificial lamb with a hearty inventory of food and medicine to get on Sebastian’s good side when setting up the dead drop system, to keep everyone happy.
But the months were hard. Painter firsthand witnessed Sebastian’s health deteriorate.
It did not know how he was fed before breaking out. He didn’t like talking about those years. But from how he acted around meals in general, it doubted it was any good.
Painter watched Sebastian from the edge of the room as he prepared breakfast. Maybe the first real meal he got to make for himself in months, if not years. The stock in the fridge was mostly meat; very protein heavy, to support his weight and muscle development. Also, because he had the DNA of so many carnivores melted into him, his gut bacteria did not react kindly to plants.
“How come you haven’t been sleeping well?” it asked.
He didn’t look up from the eggs he’d settled on frying, but his ear-fins did pin back in irritation. “What, seriously? You need this explained?”
“You’re free,” it pointed out. “You’re getting taken care of! Top-of-the-line healthcare. I don’t know about you, but I greatly enjoyed my hours of shutdown.”
“Good for you.”
It fumbled something. What? It did not know. And that frustrated it. Painter was good at two things: Painting landscapes and shooting turrets. Sociability eluded it. “You know what I mean!”
“I want you to put that fancy processing power of yours into thinking about why I of all people would dislike being anywhere near a hospital.”
A pause.
“I can hear your fans spinning from here.”
“I see,” Painter settled on, when it got the point. “I will… go.” It promptly left to fetch his medication for him, to flee the tension while still being useful. It double- and triple-checked it had everything he’d need. And even then, it lingered, stalling, to cool itself off.
When it returned, Sebastian ignored the ungainly heap of little plastic containers it deposited on the dining table. “Don’t remind me.”
“I’m helping,” it said tersely. His gaze raked from its legs up to the cables connecting it to the ceiling array. For a moment he looked… curious. That hardness in his expression faded as he looked at its mobile body. Was that envy? Confusion? Just raw exhaustion, after everything? He looked so tired, ever since he came home. Hardware repairs were done within days. Wetware, on the other hand? It shifted self-consciously and his gaze slid off it.
He said nothing.
Eventually Sebastian settled to eat; a combination of pre-packaged nutrient-slop from the hospital and fried eggs and softer meats. He stopped, and again gave Painter a strange look like everything it did baffled him. And ticked him off. “Do you really have to just stand there?”
Painter’s experience was that people enjoyed company while they ate. Its creator ate his meals with it all the time. Dinner had been its favorite, when it heard all about his day, and afterwards they got to watch the sunset together.
Sebastian spent a decade as Urbanshade’s property, poked and prodded at every moment of the day, having his privacy violated at every turn. He completed his goal but crawled out of it starved and was forcefully admitted to intense hospitalization because his mangled, mutated body began shutting down on him. When he escaped his containment, he escaped the biological maintenance Urbanshade performed to keep him alive. Painter saw the photos. The press saw the photos.
The monster hooked up to machinery, pallor and breathing shallow. Bare-chested and hooked up to all sorts of machines and arms laid out bruised from intubation and eyes cloudy. Dignity discarded in favor of delicious headlines, before Urbanshade’s final death throes kicked in to preserve its already-withering image and Sebastian’s maiming of a journalist warmed people up to the idea of scrubbing everything and letting people have their privacy. Rip the company to shreds, not the individuals, and so on.
The first week of freedom had been a nightmare for every sorry thing that survived Urbanshade, Painter included.
It stepped out of the dining room to let him eat in peace.
It returned to its room. Its room. Something just for it, pleasantly cool for its hardware. It checked on its body, shell warm in the morning sun, and pulled up its chair to its desk.
There were birds outside. Maybe it could ask Sebastian to set out birdfeeders? That would be cute. Maybe if enough birds came by they’d stay still enough for it to paint them.
It wasn’t great at life drawing, but that was a challenge for a later time. Landscapes, though? The view into the backyard was lovely. All trees and undergrowth, and once it saw deer in the early morning. It leafed through its art supplies and pulled a paper and pencil in front of it.
Drawing traditionally was an entirely different beast than digital art. Its puppet was dexterous but it took time to get used to merely holding a pencil. It made its fans spin and processors work hard and it felt good to struggle and struggle and improve.
It occupied itself sketching the landscape over and over, blocking out shapes of the trees, over and over, burning the motion into its memory banks.
A tentative knock at its door. It jumped.
Right. Sebastian was here—it was not alone anymore. “Come in!” it sang.
The door opened a crack. Sebastian ducked, but his esca rose past the space cut above the door frame and grazed the cable supports overhead. “Just wanted to, you know, say you don’t have to hide in here or anything.”
“Oh!” It lost track of time. Its internal clock informed it an hour had passed. Sebastian eyed the sheaf of paper before it. “Did you eat? Take your meds?”
Sebastian’s face went blank at the last question. He began to retreat and shut the door. Painter kicked its mobile unit into motion, set its pencil down, and caught the door before Sebastian could escape. “In my defense you can’t expect me to stab myself first thing in the morning!”
“Stab your—what are you so scared of?!”
“I am not scared!” He retreated back, letting Painter through the door. It followed him back to the dining room, and most things had been moved, complete with one of the papers he’d been sent to Painter’s with. He had his own personal laundry list.
It scanned the table and followed his gaze to a vial on top of an untouched little box of disposable needles and bandages. “Is it the immunosuppressant? That’s all you have left to take?” Honestly, it was relieved he took everything else. Just the one thing left, for the time being.
He laughed. It was forced. “I can live without that one.”
“Not really. I know you’re on gene therapy and your body will start eating itself without—”
“Say, you like breaking the rules, right?” His voice took on a nervous twinge. “Guess what! We can break this one. Besides, I took everything else, it balances out.”
“You’re afraid. You’re afraid of the needles,” it said in dawning realization. He didn’t respond, but looked away and shifted uncomfortably in place.
“I’ll—listen, I’ll do it today, I swear, just… after I sleep some more, or something, I—”
Its memorization of his dosage shrieked in the back of its mind. “You’re meant to take it in the morning.”
“Taking it a few hours late—”
“I—”
“Let me at least talk, damn it! I know it’s stupid, cut me some slack.” His fins pinned back and his eyes narrowed. It caught the glimmer of bared teeth. “I put up with enough bullshit before coming here, let me enjoy my rest while I have it.”
“I don’t think it’s stupid,” it muttered. He flashed more of his teeth, irritated. “I’m telling the truth! Do you want my help?”
“I don’t—why?”
Painter looked at the capsule, then at Sebastian. “Are you actually going to do that yourself? In a timely manner?”
If looks could kill…
“I will not bother you for the rest of the day, if you allow me to help you take the medication you need to not go into organ failure on my floor.”
Miraculously, he relented. “Fine, fine… Whatever. Do you even know what you’re doing?”
“When you accepted my offer for cohabitation, I got in contact with your medical team, who informed me of your care routine, should you struggle with anything yourself.” It clapped its hands together; a learned behavior from watching Sebastian do it so frequently. “I downloaded and reviewed about thirty-seven hours of footage of relevant procedures from databases, before you arrived.”
His fins angled low, like he wasn’t sure how to feel about that. Was that not what a friend would do? “Make it quick.” He resumed glowering at the injection kit like it was the most disgusting thing in the world.
“Thank you!” it chimed. “Clean the injection site, please? Below your hip, around—”
“I know where,” he spat, and twisted away to do that. It glanced at him as he popped open the cap to a bottle of rubbing alcohol. His hands were huge compared to it. For the best Painter was doing it, it thought, but wisely didn’t say aloud.
Painter opened it, with some struggle. Its fingers didn’t have an equivalent for nails to work the cardboard open easily. It opened the vial and filled a syringe in a clear, watery fluid. It held the needle level, making sure it had the proper dosage, to perhaps an unnecessary degree. It was a hefty amount, enough to do some damage to a human, but for a creature of Sebastian’s size, he needed the equivalent of horse tranquilizers for anything to kick in.
Sebastian leaned his back to the table and stared at the ceiling. Painter knelt at his side, where one of his hands rested outlining the location. “Don’t warn me or anything,” he said, strangely quietly. “Just do it.”
It held the area firmly, and his hand withdrew. Under his thick scales spread apart with its hand, it felt thick cables of muscle. “Relax.”
It felt him breathe in to retort, but it kept talking. “I’m serious. It’ll hurt if you’re tense like this.”
He took a slow, deep breath, and it didn’t comment on how it hitched in his throat. It wasn’t sure how much he truly relaxed, but waiting longer would just stress him out more. No point in wasting time! Painter angled the needle and sank it into his flesh in one smooth motion. As it pressed the plunger down, Sebastian sucked in a breath like it’d punched him. He stopped breathing and went still under it, even after the syringe was emptied into him.
It withdrew the needle and, without looking away, set it on the table and felt for the bandage patch. It felt the tension bleed out of Sebastian as it pressed it over the injection site and stuck it in place. “There! Done! …Sebastian?”
His head lolled back and his unlit esca fell limply against the side of his face. He’d fainted.
Painter popped up, moved the sharps a safe distance away, and shook him by the shoulder. It was fine, that wasn’t bad, it knew, but it still made its fans whirr. He didn’t look right, eyes half-lidded and mouth parted and body limp like that. It made him look so gaunt.
His breathing caught and his eyes fluttered. He made a strange snorting noise as he shook his head clear. His esca flickered back on like a faulty light bulb. “Hhm—? Fine, ‘m fine. Get it over with.”
Its hand lingered on his shoulder. “...I did. We’re done.”
He twisted to look at the injection site, and promptly looked away. “Oh. Joy.”
“You did good,” it added. It kept a hold on his arm as he wearily righted himself. He used it to lean against and, without complaint, it walked with him back to his room. It personally thought it was a really lame support structure, because it couldn’t hold his weight at all and he could’ve used the walls just as easily, but his third arm clasped around its shoulders with an iron grip. “...feeling alright?”
“No,” he muttered. He let go of Painter only to pull himself onto his bed and coiled up, injection site facing up. The mattress let out a plaintive squeak. He rested his head upon his tail. “I feel like I’m going to throw up. I’ll deal with it if I do, don’t worry. It… happens.”
It almost reached for him again, but thought better of it. He wanted his privacy and sleep, so it’d respect that. “Alright. …do you want water?”
Eyes half-shut, he nodded.
It stepped out.
Painter disposed of the sharps, wiped its hands down, and filled a glass with cold sink water. When it returned to Sebastian’s room, he’d tucked his head further into his tail, and his breathing was already considerably slower and deeper than before. It noted how tightly he clutched an arm around himself, tension clear in the tendons in his hands.
It placed it on his nightstand. As quietly as it could, it shut the curtains to his room’s window. And it lingered. After some consideration, it pulled his sheet over him. Was that right? Was that what a caring friend did, outside of gunning expendables down?
Slivers of blue peered up at it from its periphery, and shut when it turned its head.
Painter left him be. On its way out, it softly called, “Sleep well.”