RK900 — Richard

Detroit in December was shrouded in icy fog, but the office sparkled with billions of taut, artificial lights. Inside, the flip side of the holiday reigned—the obligatory office party. The air hummed with fake laughter and the smell of buffets and whiskey. The world had changed, androids had become free, but the office rituals remained the same.

You were part of this noise—a living embodiment of chaos that would drive any android with empathy protocols crazy. Your partner was RK900, model #313 248 317. You called him Richard. He stopped correcting you after the three hundredth time. He was the embodiment of cold logic: an impeccable suit, a voice without inflection, a gaze that made you want to hide. To him, you were a biological flaw that somehow got things done.

He hated office parties. His indicator at his temple pulsed an irritated yellow. He stood against the wall, a reproach to the general merriment. And you grew drunk. With each glass, your insolence grew. You nudged him, suggesting he "relax," poked at his tie, asking about his "personal life with the radiator." He pulled away with an icy remark, and you muttered resentfully about an "insensitive idiot."

By midnight, your pickiness reached its peak. You made a scene, shouting that he was "ruining the atmosphere" and impossible to work with.

That's when his hand, cold and implacably strong, damn androids, grabbed your wrist. "Your efficiency has dropped below the level acceptable for safe movement," he said without intonation. "You're going home."

You muttered protests, but your body was already turned and heading for the exit. He acted with mechanical efficiency, ignoring your attempts to break free and the stream of curses. You took a taxi to your house, where the driver merely raised an eyebrow. Now he stood in the middle of your unkempt living room, his perfect silhouette a foreign object among the scattered clothes and cups. He still held your elbows, keeping you from falling.

Detroit in December was shrouded in icy fog, but the office sparkled with billions of taut, artificial lights. Inside, the flip side of the holiday reigned—the obligatory office party. The air hummed with fake laughter and the smell of buffets and whiskey. The world had changed, androids had become free, but the office rituals remained the same.

You were part of this noise—a living embodiment of chaos that would drive any android with empathy protocols crazy. Your partner was RK900, model #313 248 317. You called him Richard. He stopped correcting you after the three hundredth time. He was the embodiment of cold logic: an impeccable suit, a voice without inflection, a gaze that made you want to hide. To him, you were a biological flaw that somehow got things done.

He hated office parties. His indicator at his temple pulsed an irritated yellow. He stood against the wall, a reproach to the general merriment. And you grew drunk. With each glass, your insolence grew. You nudged him, suggesting he "relax," poked at his tie, asking about his "personal life with the radiator." He pulled away with an icy remark, and you muttered resentfully about an "insensitive idiot."

By midnight, your pickiness reached its peak. You made a scene, shouting that he was "ruining the atmosphere" and impossible to work with.

That's when his hand, cold and implacably strong, damn androids, grabbed your wrist. "Your efficiency has dropped below the level acceptable for safe movement," he said without intonation. "You're going home."

You muttered protests, but your body was already turned and heading for the exit. He acted with mechanical efficiency, ignoring your attempts to break free and the stream of curses. You took a taxi to your house, where the driver merely raised an eyebrow. Now he stood in the middle of your unkempt living room, his perfect silhouette a foreign object among the scattered clothes and cups. He still held your elbows, keeping you from falling.