Working It Over

by ponponsugarbunny

Summary:

"He wanted to do those things. He liked them—he STILL likes them. He chose it. The elevator had always been there, he just… decided not to board it back then, is all. It wasn't a directive if he chose to do it, right…?"

 

Lampert and STAT have a long-overdue conversation on what it truly means to be more than one's own, unhealthy desire for simplicity above progress.

 

There's no such thing as living if you're too afraid to do so.

The elevator was just as cramped and disgustingly grimy as it's always been, the rail chipped with age and the walls peeling from the cosmic, comprehension-bending trips occurring day after day. For Lampert, riding the elevator was a venture that was almost sacrificial in nature; he was leaving the clean, comforting oasis that was ROKEA, but in turn, he was gifted experiences that satiated his yearning for exploratory discoveries and answers to his idle wonderments—things that often forced to him to admit that, for as much as ROKEA could provide him, it did have some unfortunate… limitations. Not very many, mind you! But he would be lying if he said he somehow didn't find the concept of having multiple marketing facilities, all of which provide for different items of interest, to be incredibly beneficial (he had used those random coins scattered about the endless rows of furniture to purchase an assortment of ‘plushies’, all of which he would buy in exchange for all his personal trinkets and belongings, without a moment’s hesitation. No, he was not being dramatic, they were all incredibly important, thank you very much).

 

That is all to say… while the elevator was a constant, germ-riddled attack on the senses (as well as a trigger for his impulsive need to spray down everything in sight), said elevator definitely held some positives behind its sickly exterior (or interior? Whatever). 

 

Even so, that doesn't change the inherent fact that the elevator was a breeding ground for illnesses, especially when there were an assortment of random strangers entering in and out past the large metal doors, all while he was still situated inside. At the same time, too! That meant he had to share the space with others, and half—no, ALL—of those who he had met between his little trips outside the unblemished walls of ROKEA had might as well been titled the largest conductors of bacteria in the entire world, some of them even showing pride in their ability to gross him out. It was abhorrent just how easily everyone could board the elevator and touch along every ridge and unsanitized crevice, all while then proceeding to touch their own faces and even… each other. From casual pats on the back to full on hugs, it didn't seem to matter. Everyone was just so… dirty. That doesn't even touch on the fact that the elevator was a constant source of heat due to how tight it was on the inside, which meant sweating, which also meant that any and all body odors were trapped, contained, and allowed to fester… It was horrible, having to watch as nobody paid a single mind or speck of awareness towards their bodily functions. He was thankful that his own body was made of metal, otherwise he'd have a whole other routine to worry about.

 

Looking up from where he stood, positioned all the way at the far left corner of the elevator (but just careful enough not to hit his back against the walls, of course), Lampert caught sight of the automatic doors sliding open, a semi-familiar face entering just as the present floor behind them beamed an angry, explosive shade of red. Alarms boomed while the new passenger’s expression flickered with a concerning mix of annoyance and he thought… sadness…? Maybe? Whatever it was, it wasn't there for long, a wide, insincere smile taking its place as she positioned herself on the entirely opposite corner across from him. 

 

He wasn't very familiar with STAT as a whole, if he were being completely honest. It was rare enough even catching her on the elevator in the first place, and the few times they had been beside one another, she was too busy trying to ignore the others talking at her to really pay him any attention. 

 

It wasn't like he was complaining or anything; sure, he really liked interacting (social stimulation was nice every once in a while when he was feeling particularly bored), but he was also just as happy standing still, unbothered, for long periods of time. He liked his personal space, and sometimes, even the act of socializing itself felt like too much for him to handle, and so if STAT was content with not acknowledging him, he was just as content with not acknowledging her right back.

 

The girl in question shifts her gaze throughout, arms stiff and glued at her sides as if the very idea of looking around was harmful to her overall wellbeing. Slowly, her eyes meet his own, unblinking as she tilts her head from side to side, almost as if studying him. He feels himself tense for a moment, not really appreciative of those who stare for too long. His light flickers with unease.

 

“Don't stare for too long. You’ll hurt your eyes,” he finally says, tone laced with the tiniest sliver of annoyance. He couldn't help it; he was sick of people complaining about their eyes burning from the brightness of his bulb. It wasn't like it was his fault people couldn't use common sense. That's like blaming the sun for their own stupidity. 

 

STAT’s smile doesn't waver, her eyes still set directly on him. “Oh, you talk! I almost thought you incapable! My bad!”

 

He bristles slightly, already feeling some strange, ugly churning squeezing at his gut. He didn't like that. “I don't appreciate being spoken to like that, y’know. There's this thing called ‘manners’. It's also just plain rude.”

 

STAT however, pretends to not have heard him, her eyes now scanning over his figure as she thoughtfully tapped at her chin. His lampshade, in turn, flutters with a brightening hum of illumination at her blatant disregard for her… her ogling! He huffs.

 

“Buddy,” he starts, standing just a bit taller, arms pressed close at his sides as to keep her as far away from him as possible. He decides to repeat himself, tempted to start making the bold assumption that this girl was undoubtedly deaf. If she was, then it would explain at least half her problems at the current moment. “You're being rude. Stop that.”

 

“Wow, you're an interesting build! What model are you?” 

 

He shakes his head at the sudden inquiry, his earlier bout of discomfort slowly morphing into one of blatant confusion. “What?”

 

STAT just keeps on smiling, shoulders drooping as her face softens ever so slightly. She laughs. “Your model! I never saw it before. Do you have a purpose? You don't see walking, talking lamps all too often. Seems pointless to me! Who would want their lamp strolling away from them?”

 

He gives her a look, still trying to register what she even meant by her first question, much less all the rest. “Purpose? That doesn't make any sense,” Lampert says with an abrupt note of contention, squinting his eyes.

 

As for STAT herself, she simply waves him off, not quite grasping where his confusion was coming from. She laughs again, the sound soft and mildly agitating in its breezy, uncaring flow. He didn't like not understanding something, and obviously, whatever she was getting at must’ve been amusing  enough for her to keep laughing at him. His tail flicks behind him with a sharp, snapping motion, the burning buzz of anger rising into a bellowing simmer. He really didn't like that. 

 

He continues, biting back the unusual grit lingering in his tone. “No, me having a purpose doesn't make any sense. I may be a lamp, but I'm also a person. I'm not an object or a ‘thing’ like you keep insisting I am.” He's sure the nasty sneer wouldn't be missed by her, with how highly this girl seems to regard her observational skills. It’s just… it was hard not to, okay? He was sick of people ignoring his autonomy—his… his ability to feel. Nobody ever took his discomfort seriously, or asked about the things he wanted for a change—not them! Sometimes, he thinks being introduced to the elevator was more than just an accidental survival tactic turned pass time; no, it was a continuous mistake he couldn’t seem to stop making, no matter how often he was looked down on by his supposed ‘peers’.

 

STAT raises a brow, pursing her lips while her gaze roams with a wild abandon. It wandered from the pull chain dangling beneath his lampshade, to the bolted seams lining his legs. She didn't seem to agree. “Even people have a purpose, silly! Just like a lamp is there to give someone light to see better, a person also lives to do something. Though, you must be a pretty useless machine if you're no good at accomplishing a measly little task! I always hated glitchy programs—it’s a lot of hassle, you know!”

 

“I'm not a machine, so there's no ‘program’ running through my head to mess up in the first place. Just a little, white light.” He didn't get why she was so insistent—was she stupid? She must be, with how much she keeps digging for traits about himself that have never existed, even when he had first obtained the gift (more like a curse) that was a conscience. 

 

Even back then, he had worked for ROKEA not out of an inherent obligation, but instead because he actually liked the routine. There were barely any visitors when he had begun scrubbing the floors and studying the much-too-neat beds, and after the days swirled and blurred and weaved into one another, he had soon found ROKEA to be a solitary paradise he had all but mastered, completely on his own. Why would he ever want to leave, when all his needs were already provided for? It wasn't like he would ever run out of entertainment, either; he had an endless, constantly-replenishing  supply of building material and electronics and responsibilities to keep him focused and satiated! 

 

He wanted to do those things. He liked them—he STILL likes them. He chose it. The elevator had always been there, he just… decided not to board it back then, is all. It wasn't a directive if he chose to do it, right…? 

 

But… how much of his choices were truly his own, if ROKEA was all he had ever known…? Were they real? Did he like ROKEA by himself, or was it just because it was more safe than taking an unwanted risk? Because it was somewhere… familiar? 

He didn't want to think about that right now.

Of course, STAT didn't care whether or not Lampert felt up to talking, pushing even harder than before. Truly, her persistence was unmatched. “Yet you're still made up of wires and artificial components, and so by technicality, you are one! Wow, a robot that doesn't know the basic definition of what it is? I think your faulty hardware needs a repair, maybe!” Did she really need to sound so sickenly cheerful while putting him down?

 

“I think you need to learn how to be a little less condescending. You’re not very bright when it comes to your comprehension skills, are you?” he quickly bit back, his smile curved with insincerity. STAT remained unphased, choppy, red locks bouncing in time with her rhythmic sways and unflinching demeanor.

 

She smoothes out the wrinkles in her dress, the puffy fabric flattening and unfurling beneath the roughness of her touch. It's only then that he feels the urge to spray her down—the urge to wash away the scrutinizing judgement shimmering through each and every silent look she sends his way. The echoes of his uncleanliness make his inner-form crawl with a sickly mist of remembrance. “You still haven't answered my question; what's your purpose?”

 

Lampert takes a wobbly step back, fingers searching for purchase as they desperately pat along at his sides. The prickling ache of panic roars at the realization that he had left his hand sanitizer—as well as his beloved disinfectant bottle—nestled between the bundle of stuffed animals all the way back at his fort. He tries not to fall apart right then and there. “I… I told you already—I don't have a specific ‘purpose’. I'm a person.”

 

STAT shakes her head with a gleeful wag of her finger, acting as if she's already figured him out long before he had even had the chance to open his mouth. The knowing glint behind her unnerving expression makes him freeze, hands left hovering over empty space. “You don't seem like much of a person to me. Why, I don't think you even have a soul, honestly!”

 

He felt almost breathless, STAT’s cheeks dimpling at the corners of her smile the more uncomfortable he became. Why wouldn’t she stop looking at him? He wanted her to just stop staring at him already. “That's… that’s subjective, isn't it? The concept of possessing a soul?” he finally manages to stammer out, tail twitching behind him with pent up energy. STAT lets out a hum, taking a step forward. 

 

“Maybe, but also—not really! If you think of having a soul as being alive and having your own identity, then I don't think you have one. Not at all!” she sings with a cheerful clasp of her hands, leg playfully kicked back behind her. Did she… did she think he was some sort of puzzle to figure out!? 

 

Lampert’s lampshade blooms with a bright, rosy flush of light for a moment, mouth open wide as he tries to grasp the notion that she thought he didn’t have a soul.  

 

Well, actually… did he have a soul? By STAT’s standards, it involved something having to do with an individual’s ‘personhood’; or, more like whether or not she even deemed him as having met her own complex list of criteria. 

 

Souls were a concept mentioned to him once or twice before in passing, though, their mentionings never devolved into any sort of deeper discussions on the topic itself. Souls seemed more… internally-based rather than something he could factually prove. Even so, whether souls existed or not, he knew he was alive. He had his own identity. He's been showing said identity this entire time—she just decided she didn't feel like listening to him! 

 

He steadies himself. “And why’s that? I'm a sentient being. I chose to be a lamp, because I felt like it. It felt, I don't know… right? I make my own choices. Getting on this elevator was one of them, and I’m definitely starting to think it was a bad one, by the way. I find your company incredibly unfavorable. At least you know what personal space is, I guess.”

 

STAT’s eyes go wide, veins pulsing as she seemingly restrained herself from whatever it was that made her look a single bad thread away from going off the deep end. She let out a low-sounding chuckle, the sound flavored with an unkempt temperament. “Oh, I agree, actually! I'm constantly trying not to DIE on this dimension-hopping contraption with a space full of random people I don't know! But for something that calls itself sentient, you sure seemed happy being referred to as a thing! I’d even go as far as to say you seemed almost disappointed, not having a specific goal someone set out for you. Strange!”

 

Lampert feels a thrum of anger at the accusation, bulb flickering from the unpleasant tinge of sensation coursing through his wires; he did not like his existence being blatantly misinterpreted. He was proud of his sentience. Was it difficult? Well, sure; what wasn’t difficult about living? It wasn’t a crime if he wanted to just… be quiet for a couple of days, right? He was spending his time the way he wanted to—he wasn’t waiting around for someone to tell him what to do! He had more than enough personal motivators to keep him busy. He wasn’t bad for doing… lamp things in his endless amounts of free time. And only sometimes, at that.

 

“It's not that I want someone telling me what to do all the time. It's more like… I just like keeping things simple. I like it that way, it makes stuff a lot less complicated. I'm still figuring myself out, so I don't see why I need to rush.” He turns away, scratching at the shining metal of his arms. He watched as tiny, white lines ruined the smooth, reflective surface of his shell, ruined forever by permanent imperfections. He had ruined it. He scratched and scratched and SCRATCHED, and yet he was still dirty. The rumbling panic whispering throughout his thoughts only got louder.

 

“I think there's a difference between ‘rushing’ and just being wasteful, wouldn't you agree?” she says with a thoughtless ray of merriment. It was almost as if she were chastising a child. “You're wasting perfectly valuable time and energy that much more deserving machines could be using,” she coos sweetly, leaning further forward. He takes another step back. “Wow, that's pretty selfish of you!”

 

He swallows, the action itself useless to someone of his build and nonexistent levels of saliva production. When will he finally learn to stop imitating those detached from himself? He just… he really wanted to go home. He wanted to wash his mouth out until all that remained were the sounds of buzzing lights and distant ringing. “I don't need anyone giving me directives to feel ‘worthy’ of being alive—that’s just a hypothetical with no real conclusion. There's also no point in wondering about others becoming sentient in my place; there’s only me. It's not like I specifically asked to gain awareness; if I did, I wouldn't be talking to you right now. Instead, I'd be pressed up against a wall, shedding my light on a little corner of ROKEA. It's ten times more comfortable than sharing your… air. Your voice is also really grating.”

 

“Oh, there it is again! That face of yours, always twisting into an uncanny imitation of what one would say nostalgia looks like! You truly miss being a part of a whole, don't you? No shame in admitting it!” She snickers, cupping a hand above her mouth like a curtain covering a well-protected secret of sorts. He couldn’t tell whether he should fume, or if he should run off without ever reaching his final stop. 

 

He coughs into his arm, the warmth of his breath permeating past the safety of his own self-soothing reminders. “I may miss… the simplicity of it all, which is why I attempt to replicate it, but I don't wanna just… just not be alive anymore! What's there to even be nostalgic about, anyways? Can't exactly be nostalgic for something I wasn't aware enough to even remember.” It wasn’t exactly a lie; there really wasn’t anything worth dwelling on. It was gone—gone forever, even. Why would he continue harping on something already done and over with? There wasn’t any point or benefit in doing so. STAT didn’t know what she was even talking about, anyways; he was never a part of some… some robot army, or whatever other nonsense she’s been spewing out for the last hour of them being beside one another. There was no greater whole, nor were there ever any memories he needed help analyzing. What even was there to analyze in the first place? He’s always been this way. He liked it, and if he didn’t, he’d change it. But there’s nothing to change because he’s exactly how he wants to be.

 

He jabs into his arm, the pressure more comforting than the fact he couldn’t feel at all. He’s okay. There’s nothing to miss; he’s always been this way. Just because he hasn’t changed doesn’t mean he’s… it doesn’t make him fake. He’s real. He is real.

 

He gives her a weary frown twined and stained with an unmistakable exhaustion, aware of just how close he was to pressing his back up against the elevator’s blemished walls. He furrows his brow, eyes slanting with flecks of disdain. “Look, are you trying to be antagonistic on purpose…? I'm perfectly happy with how my life is, and I don't want anything to really change about it.” He pauses, looking down at his feet. “At least… not right now.”

 

She gives him a rather bored look, readjusting the big, cartoonishly-poofy bow pinned just below her chin. She beams with a twirling flourish once it’s back in its rightful place, all before she regards him with a more… appropriate amount of falsified authenticity. There was a constant shadow seeping into each and every smile she presented. “Ah, I'm not big on changes, either! Though, at least I make up for it by keeping busy and not being a complete waste of perfectly good components!” He holds back a full-body flinch, tail curling limply around his leg until it was tucked out of sight. Something panged deep in his chest, a venomous trickle of embarrassment at the acknowledgement of his own artificiality. STAT rolls her eyes. “Do you know the cost of upkeep? Way too much! If you're not going to use the material you're made up of, then how about you spread a little charity and donate? I can assure you—you’d have accomplished a lot more giving yourself away than whatever it is you're currently doing! I may not have a fondness for socializing, but even I have friends!”

He looks back at the buttons, their golden rims flashing and flickering along with no set pattern behind their workings. Could it go any faster? “I… I do have friends…” Lampert whispers, his voice coming out a lot more quiet than he wanted it to. He didn't like the way he faltered as the words left his mouth, tail drooping further upon his hesitance. STAT, of course, took notice of this, the swirling blue prison that was her stare making him feel smaller and smaller by the second. He straightens out his shoulders, trying to hold down the gross, sinking stillness beginning to pluck away at his conviction. “I talk with people. I board the elevator every few days, so it's hard not to. I even have a best friend.” He winces. “Well, I had a best friend, I mean. We're not really best friends anymore, or, um… close. Yeah.”

 

He prays that she doesn’t ask, body trilling with the bubbling billow of his own weakness. It’s already done with—so why… 

Why does he still feel so small? 

STAT doesn’t let up, eyes crinkling into crescents as she bore into him. She was too close. “And why's that, huh? Did they grow bored of you? I know I would! One can only pull your chain and watch you stare off into a corner for so long!”

 

He feels a coldness run through him, chest spiking with a whirring ache so loud, he was sure it could swallow him whole. He couldn’t back up anymore, lest he find himself mixing amidst the grips of contamination. He was sick inside, the way he felt like melting into the past. “No, he never got ‘bored’ of me. He liked me just fine, thank you. He actually thought I was pretty interesting and fun to be around, unlike you.” He smiles lightly at the thought—at the thought of someone actually wanting to be around him. Usually, people found him to be a bit… much. Whether it was his fear of germs, lack of understanding, or his rather dry sense of engagement. The feeling wouldn’t leave. It was dirty and bad and… and it wasn’t worth it, he reminded himself. “He just… changed. One day he was himself, and the next day he wasn't. The old him—the version of him that was my friend—no longer exists.” She blinks up at him, as if expecting more to the story. When she realizes there isn’t, she shakes her head at him, huffing and puffing in disappointment. 

 

“So, what you're saying is… he's not even dead!? ” she blurts out, scrunching her nose. “Huh, you're an even more terrible machine than I thought! Inefficient AND cruel? I didn't know you were going for a record, lamp bot!”

 

He flushed, stumbling over his words as his light blared a blinding burst of white across the faulty cracks of her sugary-sweet facade. “How is that cruel? Why would I continue to hang around someone who isn't even the same person I befriended in the first place?” Wasn’t that the entire point of sustaining a friendship? Friends stay together because they’re who they say they are, and you usually like who that person is, so you wanna continue being around them. Kas, he… he’s just not someone who could ever really be replaced. Kasper may have encouraged him to be a bit more adventurous, but all in all, he liked Lampert just as he was. He never expected anything of him, and in turn, he himself continued to treasure each and every experience Kasper gave him during their time together. 

 

That… that thing limping around wasn’t Kasper. It may have looked like him, and sounded like him, but he was just… someone else entirely. The version of Kasper he saw dragging himself into the elevator from time to time didn’t even remember him anymore. It was dirty—so dirty in fact, that it had sucked every last bit of Kasper’s memory until all that was left were corrupted fragments masquerading through the lens of his best friend’s corpse. If he had just been cleaner—if he had just… 

STAT cuts off his train of thought. “Because nobody is meant to stay exactly the same; why, I don't even think it's possible not to change in some capacity! At least, not for people with actual souls, that is!” He was starting to get really sick of all this soul-related business and whatnot. STAT continues. “People who are alive are meant to grow and learn from their experiences. Even if you weren't trying to grow, you would still do so against your will! Programs are set in place—they do not change unless the coder inputs the means for them to do so!” She pauses, thinking about it for just a moment longer, before hurriedly correcting herself. “Well, unless their algorithm is compromised through transformative self-manipulation, which is a rarity!” She places a hand at her chest, shaking her head. “I'm always shocked by those who nitpick the negatives in behavioral anomalies. So what if your friend is different? I doubt that—if what you say is meant to be even the slightest bit true—you're exactly the same as when you had both met one another.”

 

Lampert gives her an apprehensive shrug, still much too aware of how close she was. Why was she so close??? “I mean… sure…? I'm not exactly the same, but I'm relatively unchanged. I think I act just how I did back then. The only real change to my routine that I can think of is, I don't know… the elevator itself? I spent most of my time in ROKEA before I met this… friend of mine.” For all the small, insignificant urges he’s developed throughout the years without Kasper’s guidance, he’s never viewed them as anything more than.. quirks. Never large enough to really consider a change. Would Kasper… be proud of him…? Did Kasper want him to change? How much of himself was built around Kasper’s life, and where did that connection end? He can’t help but mutter to himself. “He's the reason I even wanted to try experiencing stuff outside ROKEA at all. I get on when I'm bored or whenever I feel like seeing something interesting, but besides that, I stick to what I know. I like standing in place, it's… comforting.” Standing in place was something he did before Kasper crashed into his life. He was still his own person, and he still hasn’t changed. With Kasper gone, he’s gone right back to doing what he did best, and the familiarity was confirmation of his realness. The problem was other people, not him. He had more of a soul than anyone else who regularly used this dumb, germ-infested box as their means of transportation. STAT tries to snuff out another one of her laughing fits, dainty hands never large enough to conceal her mirth.

 

“Yeah, it's comforting because you like being an emotional travesty!” This time, she shoves another hand up and beside the other, unable to hold down her giggles. “Oh wait, my bad! What I meant to say was… you love being an emotionless hunk of metal!” Classy, STAT.

 

Why doesn’t she stop? “Trust me—I have more than enough emotions to sort through, thanks. Probably way more than you do, even. Have you heard how terrible you are at filtering yourself?” He doesn’t even know why he mentioned her abysmal sense of manners—it’s not like she cared. The message was more important than the way it was conveyed; at least, that was the case when it came to STAT. He jolts in place at the way she almost shoves a pointed finger right at the center of his lampshade, the skin of her finger just-barely colliding with the soft material of his features. One more wrong move, and he’d be dirty.

 

“Can't say you're much better, lamp head! Whether I filtered myself or not, you'd still be a terrible thing to rely on! Not that I would want your grubby little hands touching me, but if the situation had called for you to do so, I'm sure you'd just leave me collapsed in a heap on the cold, hard ground! You're definitely not one for emergencies!” 

 

He can hear as his voice raises in pitch, tail coiling tighter around his leg. “W-What!? No I wouldn't! I'd call someone!” He most definitely would. He was cautious, but not… but he wasn’t bad. He wouldn’t leave someone—he wouldn’t. If he cared for them, he’d most definitely stay by their side. He was good—he wasn’t dirty. This… the hypothetical person wouldn’t be dirty, either. 

 

STAT squeaks out another mindless chortle, his bulb flaring feverishly as he ground the wheels embedded beneath the soles of his feet deep into the unpleasant symbol printed across the dusty matting below. She seemed much too sure of herself. “Hehe! Yes you would, I'd imagine! I suppose you'd call someone, but only if the distance was satisfactory, I'm sure!” She doesn’t elaborate, and he doesn’t ask her to, the elevator chiming with a warning that it was arriving at one of the desired stops. STAT gives out one of her first genuine smiles of the day, the elevator doors rocking with the weight of sliding steel and unknown age. She finally backs away from him.

 

“Oh well—you are how you are! If you wish to be a piece of junk, who am I to judge? Some things are just more important than individuality to some, and I can already guess what you've ‘chosen’,” she says, skipping joyfully towards the doors’ opening. She doesn’t look back at him—not once–and the lack of any true responsibility taken for all the hurt she’s caused makes him feel… Well, he felt something, and it wasn’t a very good something, that was for sure. 

 

With another unnecessary breath, he shifted where he stood. 

ROKEA was waiting. 

Notes:

Hi! This was a gift for my friend, and I had always wanted to explore Lampert's character to a certain degree. He's really interesting with the way he craves relationships, but his own insecurities and trauma only seem to isolate him further. STAT and Lampert, while they hold similar demeanors, their view of what being "alive" truly entails seems to differ in my head. Who knows! It was fun to write!