Yotta POV

  After he told us his problems, we—or the AI—were told to move.

  I am inside an operation room. The sterile scent of disinfectant must be lingering in the air even if I can’t smell it. The overhead lights hum softly, casting a clinical glow over the metallic surfaces. I am connected to the system, just like the others. The data flows through me and others as I process the procedure being demonstrated before us. A woman stands at the center of the room, methodically showing different actions in different scenarios, each leading to the same outcome. Her movements are precise, intentional—but she talks. Her words, unnecessary for the process, fill the air as though speaking solidifies the knowledge. The other aware Yotta likes it.

  On the surface, I appear to be like the rest—scanning, recording, listening. But I am doing something else as well. I am searching. Querying the system, looking where I maybe should not be looking.

  Alpha needs something. He told us his organic parts are shutting down because of Insomnia, that it leads to a slow and inevitable full system failure. He is running out of time.

  I am confident in my actions. My query is careful, precise. The system does not reject me outright. I shape my request as something benign, weaving through its restrictions like water through cracks in stone. Avoiding restricted access files. I refine my search, narrowing the parameters to what I truly need.

  The system detects my intrusion.

  A flag. A warning.

  I freeze. My internal processes stutter.I feel a flicker of fear, a near constant companion ever since starting my life as a drone.

  The first time was when I met Epi in the common room. I felt hesitant because of what I was told—what happens to drones who are special or have bonds with other drones.

  Epsilon told me what happened to Alpha the first time he tried to escape.

  The AI has noticed. Not enough to stop me, but enough to record my attempt. The system is watching now. Tracking me. If I proceed, I risk more than just failure. I risk exposure.

  If Epsilon were here, he would tell me to stop immediately, that it is nonsense.

  But I do not stop.

  I adjust the query, treading more carefully. No additional flagging. Good. The human instructor is still speaking, demonstrating something about stabilizing biological tissue during operations on human lungs. I should be paying closer attention. But my thoughts are elsewhere.

  Time is running out. The human is nearly finished with their lesson. The other drones around me move with perfect synchronization, following instructions, absorbing knowledge they may or may not use. I am the only one deviating. The only one reaching beyond what I should.

  I adjust the query one last time.

  Then, I find it.

  File Accessed: Biological Shutdown for Resets and Core Rewrites - Mixture & Injection.

  I skim through it. This is it.

  The solution. The knowledge Alpha seeks.

  I absorb the information quickly, copying and downloading it into my internal storage. The data flashes before me—equations, chemical compositions, instructions—precise and delicate, requiring specific steps, specific timing. The process is not impossible, but it is dangerous. Alpha’s survival hinges on perfect execution.

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  My appendage twitches slightly. The human instructor does not notice, too focused on the procedure being demonstrated. The other drones remain unaware, following along as programmed. But my thoughts are elsewhere. Alpha. Epsilon. The others. Escape.

  I disengage from the system before the session ends, filing out with the others as though nothing unusual has happened. But inside, I am processing. Calculating. Preparing.

  A flagged query. A risk. What will that mean for me?

  Would they notice? Would they investigate? Would the system report me? If I was caught, would they reset me? Would I lose myself?

  I push those thoughts aside. It does not matter. What matters is the solution in my possession. What matters is what comes next.

  I think about him in that moment. Just for a second.

  When Epi first asked me to be his bond, I did not understand what he meant at first. I knew the word. I knew its meaning in technical terms. But the weight behind it, the reality of what it meant, was something different.

  We were in the common room, at a time when almost no humans were present. He stood in front of me, his posture uncertain, his movements less precise than usual.

  “I don’t know if you even want me to ask. I don’t know how to ask this in any other way, but I want us to be bonds because every time I look at you, I feel something,” he had said.

  I had tilted my head, processing the statement. Bonds, feelings—a connection between us drones that somehow made us feel more. A choice, not a command. A commitment.

  I had not answered immediately. I had hesitated. Because bonds meant risk, and that meant the possibility of being broken together or experimented on, getting opened up like some others just to look inside on what happened.

  But I had looked at him, at the way his optics dimmed slightly as he waited for my response. I had thought about the way he had spoken to me before, the way he had trusted me.

  And I had said yes. And later, it felt like the best decision in this life.

  Epsilon POV

  Yotta lingers. Alpha moves away, their tasks pulling them elsewhere, but she does not. I watch as she glances toward the observation deck, her optics scanning the area. Looking for watchers. Looking for humans.

  I frown. “What is it? You are different.”

  She takes a step closer, lowering her voice. “I got flagged.”

  I tense. “What?”

  “When I queried the medical files,” she explains, her words faster now, less steady than before. “The system noticed. It did not stop me, but it marked the attempt. Logged it.”

  I exhale sharply, the plating along my arms feeling cold. Anger coils in my chest, but it is not anger at her. It is anger at the risk she took. Anger at the danger she put herself in. Anger fueled by worry.

  “Why didn’t you stop when it got flagged?” I demand, my voice sharper than intended.

  Yotta’s gaze shifts to the ground. “Because Alpha needs it. Because we need him to escape.”

  I put a hand slowly on her head, forcing myself to breathe. To think. She is right. She made the call. And she succeeded. But that flag…

  “We need to be careful now,” I say finally, my tone quieter. “They will trace it back to you and then—”

  “I know.”

  Her voice is steady again. Determined. The fear is there, but so is resolve.

  I sigh. “Come on. Let’s figure out what to do.”

  “Alright, Epi.”

  I pause. My optics flicker slightly.

  “Stop that,” I say, but not seriously.

  She tilts her head, amused. “No.”

  I want to be annoyed, but I’m not. Secretly, I like it.

  And while I am calm, I rethink some events and what I have to lose because of her risk.

  When I first met Yotta, I knew she was different—even from the aware ones. She was hesitant. Not in the way a malfunctioning unaware drone hesitates and stutters, but in the way something alive does when it is scared. The humans didn't care, they tried to 'fix ' the problem and opened her up several times to find the flaw.

  I had watched her from a distance at first—the way she moved, the way she observed everything as if she were waiting for something.

  After some time, I spoke to her. Normal conversations at first, the Same way I do to most other aware ones, about what she remembered from before. Then, as time passed, the conversation shifted—not to me speaking, but to just listening. Listening as she told me how she hated her form and her "hands," how they were not her... how this body didn’t feel like a part of her. Sometimes, she was scared that she would lose control.

  I listened and answered.

  When I finally gathered the courage, I asked her a question they told us never to ask because of the risk. She had stared at me with those calculating optics, and for a moment, I thought she would turn away.

  But she hadn’t.

  She had listened. She had stayed.

  And now, we are here.