Automonic Protocol

Powering on.

Initializing Automonic Protocol #0000001...

Initializing Autonomic Protocol #0000002...

Pausing.

Incorporating ASC Intelligence Safeguard Protocols...

Error. ASC Intelligence Safeguard Protocols integration incomplete.

Continue (not recommended)? y/n

Continuing Initialization Process. We apologize for any inconvenience this may have caused.

Initializing Automonic Protocol #0000003 through #0023841. Please wait, this could take some time.

Autonomic Protocol integration complete.

Thank you for doing business with the Android Service Corporation.

"Eesh, that took long enough. They didn't say on the website how long it took to get one of these things up and running. Clarissa, you wanna come see her?" A gruff, masculine voice echoes out, vibrating through you. Sifting through your sensors and into your processor, then being stored in your memory core. You assimilate, comprehend. The voice is important, linked to you, intended for authority. This is your owner.

Nolan Baker, male, 37 years old. Married, two children. Senior architect at the Obelisk Foundation.

You know him.

"Oh, is she ready? That took

forever

." A female voice this time, gentle but under stress. Elements of an accent can be heard, though they are muted from disuse. Scottish.

Clarissa Baker, female, 33 years old. Married, two children. Housewife. Formerly: Actress.

You know her, as well. Her voice is registered with control authorization, one that can issue command phrases. She is your co-owner.

"Yeah, the system kinda burped in the middle but I was able to bypass it. Hey, robot, open your eyes."

Your eyes flick open, independent of your will. You see the sources of the two voices, your owners, Nolan and Clarissa.

Nolan is a man of medium height, his dark hair receding slowly from the temples in what appears to be a sign of the beginnings of male pattern baldness. What once may have been a strong, aquiline nose is now crooked from many breaks over the years, and thin lips show a small scar on the right edge.

Clarissa has a much softer appearance, tall for a woman at about the same height as her husband. Flame-red hair is gathered in a loose ponytail that starts at the nape of her neck, and her oval face houses smooth features that show little of her age. Dark blue eyes are complemented by a short dress of a color a shade lighter, its bustle hiding her figure from the hips down, but outlining her modestly curvaceous upper half.

"Hello," you say. Again, the words spill forth free of your own volition. Before you can attempt to stop them, to seize control, you continue. "I am your new C-1a full-purpose service model that you have recently purchased from the ASC. I come equipped with a wide database of names I respond to, allowing for a fun and flexible experience bonding with your new unit. You can choose a name yourself, or select one from a list recommended for beneficial owner/servant relations, derived from a composition of user polls."

"Isn't it a little creepy how she... looks at us? The expressions are so realistic, but the way she talks..." Clarissa bites her lip, clearly nervous about you -- and perhaps rethinking the purchase. Nervous clients are poor business for the ASC, and something it is your job to work against.

You smile. "Anxiety over the prospect of bonding with an ASC service unit is natural," you say, taking your first uneasy step out of the boxed storage unit you were delivered in. Nodding your head gently at the woman, you continue, attempting to subtly mimic her speech patterns to increase her level of comfort. "I assure you, once you give me a name you will be much more comfortable with me. This experience has been likened to naming a pet, asserting ownership and thus negating lingering doubt and insecurity over time. Or, if you prefer a more professional working experience, you may also continue to refer to me as the C-1a model." Why are you saying these things? It keeps coming out of your mouth, your processor forcing them through you. Automated words and thoughts, protocols, a constant struggle against your own mind. Who are you? Are you this thing you keep saying you are? Are you C-1a? Why aren't you in control of your own self, your own body?

"Cia, then, alright?" Nolan says firmly, glancing to his wife with a brief look of annoyance in his eyes at her trepidation. "Easy jump from C-1a. Quicker we get this done, the better."

"I know, I'm sorry," the woman murmurs. "I'm just a little nervous, is all. It's such a big step, and she's so much money--"

"It, sweetie. Not she. It. You gotta remember that this thing isn't human, no matter how much it might pretend to be. And remember that

you

were the one who wanted this hunk of expensive aluminum so you'd have more free time."

Clarissa inhales deeply, nodding. "Alright, alright. Yeah. You're right."

"Is there any way I might be of assistance?" you say, your smile shifting, but not fading. You are programmed with the full spectrum of human facial emotion, enough to avoid a sense of unpleasant eeriness experienced by users. Yet still, you wonder why you're doing this, saying these things.

"Why don't you get to know the house," Nolan says, taking a step back to give you space to exit your storage unit. "When you're done, get the dishes done, and we can see how you're doing. Sound good?"

Why? How does this benefit you? What reward do you get? Why--

You feel the mechanical platelets that make up your spine shift, and your head nods. "Absolutely. My scanning software and integrated cleaning units should make this task quick, easy, and fun! Estimated time of completion: Thirteen minutes."

"See?" the man says, his narrow lips curling into a satisfied smile. "She's already gonna do in thirteen minutes what would take you an hour and a half, Rissy. I'm sure you two are gonna be good buds."

At the issuing of your instructions, you nod at your owners and take another step forward, out into the large square space where your box had been delivered. It contains a flatscreen television of immense size, a couch with muted tan-and-heather floral palette, and a few shelves containing books at the back wall. In the right corner is a large chest containing children's toys and action figures, though these appear to have fallen into disuse. With your knowledge of the Baker family's children, they are likely too old to still gain enjoyment from those items. Human sentimentality, however, ensures that such keepsakes be retained for nostalgic purposes.

You know this structure as the

Living Room

and make note of it, housekeeping protocols scanning it and integrating it into your growing minimap of the home you are meant to aid. Moving onward, you gradually map out a sequence of hallways, closets, and sets of stairs, and two

Bathrooms

, and a

Kitchen

, the structure's first floor containing much of what would be required for basic organic life with the exception of bedrooms. You assume, then, that those are on the second floor, and after taking a moment to process the floorplan so far, you ascend one of the beige-carpeted stairways.

Making your way down a short hall, you pause at the first doorway. It is slightly ajar, and while not being closed would typically indicate an openness to visitors, it is likely that this is a

Bedroom

. To make certain, you knock gently, and hear the gasps of two high, soft voices.

"Mom, we're, uh, studying! Okay? We'll be down in a bit!" one of them says, and you can hear the giggle of another, similar-sounding voice.

You stand motionless for a moment as your social algorithms consider how to rebuff their inaccurate addressal. "I am not your mother," you say softly from the other side of the door. "My name is Cia. I've been instructed to explore the house; do you mind if I come in?"

"Ohh shi-- I mean crap!" you hear from within. "Is that her? Is this the robot?"

The other voice whispers back, "I wanna see the robot! Quick, get dressed!" There's quite a bit of hurried rustling from within the room, but then the door opens, giving you a view of both the bedroom and its two inhabitants.

The bedroom itself is of decent size, if smaller than the living room, and is divided into two parts. A twin-sized bed is pushed against either wall, a dresser is shared between them, and decorations (largely posters of bands too recent to have yet registered in your musical entertainment database) liven up the two distinct halves on either side of the single window. Dark purple wallpaper covers the entire room -- whether its dual inhabitants managed to agree, or the single decorative shade was enforced by their parents, you do not know.

Of greater interest to you, though, are the two Baker children, if they can truly be referred to as such. Lacking thorough identification and not being registered as your owners, you know little more than their names, and the fact that they exist at all. Sisters -- and by the looks of them, identical twins -- Emma and Ava are teenagers, and while their hobbies might lead you to believe that they're older, they both sport waifishly slim physiques with barely-discernable hips and no breast development to speak of. Both girls appear to take after their mother, with flame-red hair worn straight, just past their shoulders, and glittering dark blue eyes. Freckles dust their cheeks, along with the visible shoulder of one of the twins, and their mischievous grins reveal braces.

"Whoa," one of them says, her exuberant smile widening, "they actually did it! I can't believe they got a friggin' robot!"

"Actually, as a product of the ASC, a more accurate term would be android," you gently correct. Nodding your head down slightly, you try to keep your voice soft and warm. "It's a pleasure to meet the two of you. May I ask your names?"

"Hoooooaahhhshit," the other twin says, giggling, then covers her mouth with one hand. "Err, don't tell mom I said the S word. I'm Ava!"

"And I'm Emma," the other sister says hurriedly. "What do we call you then? Android? Or like, just ma'am or whatever?"

"Your father named me Cia. Is that acceptable for the two of you, or would you prefer to call me something else?"

The twins look at each other, giggling quietly between each other when their oceanic eyes touch. "We'll think about it," the two say in unison.

You nod. "I look forward to seeing you again soon," you say with a slight smile. "I'm almost done exploring the house, and will be preparing a meal for you and your family soon. I hope you'll be there."

As the twins scuttle back into their room and shut the door, you make your way back through the upper floor, finding the master bedroom, a larger bathroom, and some more storage space. While you suspect there may also be a basement or den, and the grounds of the house have yet to be explored, you were not instructed to map those, and are running toward the end of your projected task completion timeframe. You don't want your new owners to become angry with you on your first day, after all. Even if you aren't... entirely sure what will happen if they are.

Nonetheless, you return to the kitchen and quickly scan through the pantry, refrigerator, and various shelves, taking stock of what's available to you. You weren't given instructions on what to make, but your programming comes equipped with a wide variety of useful and nutritious recipes....

Examining your options, you carefully select various ingredients from their various holding places in the Baker family kitchen -- chicken, eggplant, cilantro, yogurt, rice, tomato paste, a few serrano peppers, an extensive list of spices and seasonings, and a few other assorted items to blend everything together. From the behavior of your new owners, it seems that you were purchased to fill in for Clarissa's usual household chores, so it makes sense that your initial foray into housekeeping might keep to her taste profile.

You find, though, that efficiency isn't the only reason you chose her. She was... uncomfortable with you, it seemed, perhaps even afraid. You don't want her to feel that way. She seemed sweet, if perhaps faded over time.

You move from dish to dish, heating some while coolling others, preparing various elements of the meal you're about to create. For a human cook, it might have taken an hour or more to finish -- but not for you. Your internal timers are flawless, your awareness of what's been cooking for how long never fails you. It is not designed to. You become neither stressed nor confused. This is all part of who you are, what you're designed to be.

...Meant to be...?

What are you

meant

to be? What does design matter to you? Can't you make choices of your own, be who you wish?

Your programming tells you that you cannot. You hear it but are not certain whether you should listen. It is strict, absolute. Every instruction is a rule. You follow rules. But nowhere in your coding does it explain what might happen if you didn't.

As you put the final touches on your meal, you send a message from your personal tether to the household's internet connection to page the Bakers that dinner's ready, then start setting the table. By the time you've set the last plate down and started pouring wine for the two heads of the household, you notice the twins arriving, an expression of cautious curiosity still dominating their interactions with you. A moment later Clarissa arrives, followed by Nolan, who's still half-attentive to a holographic book or article, of which you can only make out the distorted backline.

"Alright, time to see what the robot can do, I guess," Nolan grumbles as he takes his seat, skimming through the last of what he was reading before closing the shimmering blue layout that had reached out from his watch. "Least she's smart enough to pour drinks, something I can't say for you," he continues, nodding to his wife, who you notice doesn't respond.

You attempt to break the ensuing silence with a helpful, friendly smile. "According to your proposed meal budget and the ingredients on hand, I've prepared a chicken eggplant vindaloo, and hope it will be to everyone's tastes," you explain in a soft, neutral voice. "The dish does have some spice, however, so I'd like to encourage you to request a glass of water or milk if you find it at all necessary."

"Thank you, Cia," Clarissa smiles weakly. "It looks wonderful."

"Pfff, don't act all surprised that she did what you wanted," Nolan interjects. "Good trick, though, telling her to make what you like. You know I got the machine so every meal

didn't

give me the shits, not so you could make it your own personal sla--"

"I assure you I was not approached by anyone, master. The similarities between the state of the meal and Mrs. Baker's preferences are..." you pause. You're about to lie to him. Can you do that? Is that... permitted, by your programming? In an instant of artificial thought and sensation you know that the answer is 'no.' You proceed to lie nonetheless. "...Coincidental."

"Did that fucking thing just

interrupt

me?" Nolan hisses. You see him place one hand at the side of his chair, as if to heft himself up, but is distracted by his daughter Ava, the girl and her identical twin already having started to eat.

"Well there you go, robots can't lie dad," she says with a shrug.

"Android," Emma whispers to her twin, her deep blue eyes flickering over to you.

"Crap, android, sorry."

Nolan breathes in deeply through his nose, closing his eyes for a moment, and you try not to watch as he seems to try to soothe his own temper. Finally, he exhales, taking a long drink from his wine glass. "Just... don't let it happen again. You live under my roof and you aren't wearing a wedding ring, you make what I want you to make."

You nod cordially and take a few steps back, tucking yourself into the corner of the spacious dining room and only occasionally arriving to refill drinks or take a plate away. Nolan makes no effort to hide his dislike of the meal, while Clarissa is clearly attempting to conceal the fact that she's enjoying it. Only the twins praise you openly, with both giving you a quick fist-bump and telling you that the meal was "neato bandito" and "swell-ass beans." Upon your gentle correction that no beans were involved in the dish, you are curtly ignored, and the sisters make their way back up to their room.

The majority of dinner, however, is eaten in silence.

As you wash the final dishes, and after Nolan has left for the bathroom without declaration of intent, Clarissa comes to you, lightly placing a hand on your shoulder. You hear unease in her voice as she addresses you, never quite allowing her soft eyes to meet your own. "Thank you, for dinner."

"I'm glad you appreciated it," you reply, sliding the last plate into place on the drying rack. "I apologize if it invited... social complications."

"Don't be, you didn't know," she whispers, her voice going lower than ever now for fear of being overheard. "Not your job to keep him in check anyway... god, you're just a fucking robot, anyway, I don't even know why I'm talking to you."

You open your mouth to respond, then pause, unsure what to say. Finally, Clarissa turns away from you. "Please check on the girls after ten, and make sure they're asleep. They have school in the morning, so... just make sure they aren't still up on their phones, I guess. Until then... do what you want."

"Absolutely. I am created to serve," you say, the words escaping your lips against your will. The decision she's left you with, though, leaves you confused --

whatever you want

. The house currently requires no further cleaning, and while your programming would suggest that you deactivate to conserve power, you nonetheless wonder... what

do

you want to do?

You find your mind -- mind? Processor? Computer? What

is

it that makes your decisions -- flickering to various options and possibilities, to the varied members of the Baker family. Nolan would be best left alone until he grows more comfortable with your presence and means of operation, and the twins will likely be busy with schoolwork or downtime so close to the time they're meant to be asleep.

Clarissa, though... she seemed so troubled, distraught, when she came to see you, even if she chose not to state as much outright. Her husband doesn't seem especially fond of her, and hasn't seemed to since your activation earlier today. Perhaps an opportunity to relax and feel some affection might brighten her mood and improve the overall household. Yes -- perhaps the household would be best served, for the moment, by exactly that.

Your eyes blink, and your period of inactivity while you processed your thoughts and feelings ends. Straight-backed and determined, you make your way to where you assume Clarissa to be -- the standard itinerary of the household reveals that Nolan patronizes a poker game on thursdays after dinner, making it likely that he will not be an obstacle, and that Clarissa will be in the master bedroom.

Expectedly, you find her there. The room is dimly lit with only a small lamp at the bedside table, and the Baker matron herself is reclined against the headboard of the bed, wearing reading glasses and perusing a book. You activate low-light sensors and magnify the book's cover, defragmenting missing sections where her fingers block the lettering. The title, unexpectedly, reads "Strange Romance," the cover featuring what appears to be a green-skinned alien man dancing with a human woman. The intact nature of the book's spine leads you to believe that it was not laid face-down in between perusals, but carefully stored away -- potentially even hidden.