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Aug 2, 2025

itsapapisongo

THIS IS WHERE I LEAVE YOU | WINWIN

Cast: Synthezoid!Winwin x Gender-Neutral Reader ft. Taeil, Synthezoid!Kun, Synthezoid!Ten & Hendery

Genre: Angst | Dramedy | Non-Idol AU | Sci-Fi |

Word Count: 12.5K

Content Warning: Allusions to depression, character death, characters experiencing grief, scene depicting a funeral, some language profanity, and suggestive themes.

Summary: Looking for a purpose and a job that fulfills him, Winwin works with Kun, a fellow synthezoid and a recently certified trauma cleaner. Coming to terms with who he is and who he wishes to be, Winwin meets you in the midst of a family tragedy.

Author’s Note: I honestly didn’t know what I was going to write about when I joined this collaboration but A.I. was a concept I couldn’t pass on. This is a mixture of concepts and elements from WandaVision and Korean Dramas—mainly Move to Heaven—so expect some made-up words alongside all the pretentious, angsty philosophizing and cuss words.

Collab: AI Project #14320 by @pastelsicheng

Taglist: @pastelsicheng | @lebrookestore | @127-mile | @neonun-au | @naptaemed

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: VWAY.AI Models

Mr. E,

The development and manufacturing of the VWay.AI Models has been approved, signed, and soon to enter production. Manufacturing will begin in two weeks’ time and the process will take a span of less than six months thanks to the newest technologies we’ve implemented. This includes mnemonic implants that will greatly improve muscle memory and allow for these models to adapt, adjust, and fulfill their duties as organically and as quickly as possible.

As you know, the VWay.AI are artificially intelligent robots meant to have a vocational role within society. They’re built to last in order to properly aid our clients in physically and mentally strenuous tasks. The point is not to replace human workers but instead to ease their burden. We aim to have these models not only in schools, hospitals, clinics, and nursing homes, but anywhere they might be needed.

Attached to this email, you’ll find various documents regarding the manufacturing process, costs, and the information of different heads of departments that will be working on this project.

Sincerely,

Miss Park

●

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: RE: VWay.AI Models

Miss Park,

Thank you for keeping me up to date with the comings and goings of A.I. PROJECT: #14320.

And though I’m glad to hear we’re moving forward in production with the VWay.AI models, I must correct you in regards to what these models really are.

Artificial intelligence? Yes, no doubt.

Robots? I’m afraid it’s a bit more complicated than that.

You mentioned mnemonic implants but I should add that they’re not the only advancements we’ve obtained, patented, and/or improved. Adding to our technological breakthroughs are these models: the VWay.AI. And they’re not exactly androids. They’re more advanced. They’re synthezoids (i.e. synthetic humanoid robots) and they’re the closest thing we’ve come to replicating humans in terms of behavior and appearance.

I emphasize this specific term and what they are because it’s important for you, for me, and for the company to understand that synthezoids are the future. They will change how we talk of, work with, and implement artificial intelligence in our society moving forward.

Sincerely,

Mr. E

PS; Thank you for the information you’ve sent. It’s been an interesting, if arduous read.

●

IT WAS SNOWING, and he wasn’t cold.

He never felt cold. With a simple thought, he could deactivate any stimulus he didn’t wish to experience. Neurological impulses like pain, something he had no interest in experiencing, were shut down in the blink of an eye. Cold was cold. It didn’t bother him. It would never bother him unless he allowed it to.

This, he knew, set him apart from the people around him. The very same people that walked past him without sparing him a glance, a wave, or a greeting. He found it slightly interesting and paradoxical that humans felt more automated than himself. For a race that had evolved over millennia, they kept finding new ways to regress.

As he absorbed this thought, he tilted his head upward and felt the gentle touch of snow fall upon his face. He blinked and saw a snowflake on the tip of his nose. Even though there was no cold, it gently grazed his skin. He closed his eyes, activated the stimuli in his brain’s insula, and immediately felt a chilly sensation upon his face as the snowflake began to melt.

For a brief second, he shivered. Then, with a thought, he shut down the cold.

Cold was cold. It didn’t bother him. Not unless he allowed it to.

●

BEHOLD VWAY.AI-MDL: DS-281097.

It’s, as they say, fresh off the box. As a newer model, recently manufactured, with little work and life experience, these are all the things DS-281097 lacks: a name, an identity, a purpose, and a job.

It’s the future. Man’s vision come to life. A dream fulfilled. Yet DS-281097 doesn’t care about that. It simply wants to fulfill its duties. It seeks purpose. It seeks to live.

Or, at the very least, It seeks to exist.

●

AT A CERTAIN point, It became him.

‘It’ was dehumanizing. He was aware he wasn’t human therefore he couldn’t be dehumanized, but ‘It’ lacked life. It implied he was something inanimate and lacked the ability to think for himself, to have his own choices, failures and/or successes.

‘It’ simply implied a lack of depth.

But he was more than just ‘It’. He now was a blank canvas thrust into a chaotically colorful world. He was the future. He was alive. And he was in dire need of a job.

Thankfully, he learned, those were a dime a dozen.

●

HE REMEMBERED OBSERVING strangers celebrating the New Year in Itaewon.

They were rowdy, inebriated, consumed by emotion. He didn’t quite understand it and hadn’t asked why they acted and felt that way. He simply observed, keeping himself to himself, saving the moment for future reference.

He had nothing to celebrate or be grateful for thus the day had no concrete or logical meaning to him. New Year’s Eve was just a day like any other. 24 hours. 1,440 minutes. 86,400 seconds. Nothing more, nothing less.

He found it interesting, however, that South Korea celebrated the departure of the previous year and the arrival of a new one in February instead of December. Sporadically, when least expected, this bit of information would find its way to the forefront of his mind and he would tilt his head as if to wonder where it had come from.

Despite certain observations and reservations, he had to admit that human culture was fascinating. It was different everywhere else. At times, it even differed in the same country. That struck him as odd and vastly fascinating. It was yet another example of humanity being, as he heard Kay-Eleven say, something else. And Kay-Eleven had been right. For all of their flaws and their oddities, humanity never failed to fluster, frustrate, and fascinate him.

Nearly a year later, he still felt this way.

As he walked through the snow, his gait that of someone who knew how to manage the seconds and minutes of his day, he found himself fighting back a desire to smile. He couldn’t understand why. Perhaps, he thought, he’d finally found a reason to smile. But remembering something that he observed from a distance and had no personal involvement in didn’t qualify as a proper reason to smile.

And yet, lo and behold, he suppressed a desire—no, an impulse—to display joy.

He could see Kay-Eleven now, stepping out of the company’s van. He had parked in front of an apartment complex and was beginning to unload the van. He hadn’t arrived late. He’d arrive precisely fifteen minutes before he was supposed to begin his shift. Kay-Eleven was the type to never stay still.

“I should ask him,” he heard himself say out loud. He blinked, slightly surprised, and made sure to remember to ask him instead of talking to himself.

MENTAL NOTE: Ask Kay-Eleven about this strange impulse. Why do I want—no, feel compelled—to smile? When and why have I started talking to myself? It’s not normal. Or, perhaps, it is. I might be adapting to my environment and implementing certain human behaviors. Data for contemplation.

Kay-Eleven was handsome with a kind face, warm eyes, and a smile that immediately endeared you to him. Despite the toque he was wearing, he could tell Kay-Eleven had dyed his hair yet again. It was now silvery-white as opposed to the bright blue he had two days ago.

“Well, well, well,” said Kay-Eleven, watching him approach with a smile so wide that it crinkled his eyes. “You’re looking warm and cozy.”

He looked down at the clothes he was wearing then compared it with what Kay-Eleven was wearing. Though they wore the same insulated navy coverall the company had provided them, Kay-Eleven’s had drawings, handwritten messages, or embroidered patches here and there, all of them made by himself. It wasn’t uncommon to see this type of artistic rebellion in a uniform but it wasn’t exactly encouraged.

“I may look warm and cozy, but I don’t feel—”

Kay-Eleven chuckled. “It’s an expression, bud,” he chucked, waving a dismissive hand. “Help me with unloading the van.”

“Of course.”

He methodically unloaded the van and followed Kay-Eleven into the complex’s lobby. Whenever Kay-Evelen bowed and said good morning to someone, he’d mimic his senior’s actions. Yet no matter how hard he tried he couldn’t infuse his voice or mannerisms with Kay-Eleven’s seamless charisma.

●

BEHOLD VWAY.AI-MDL: QK-1196

We know him as Kay-Eleven.

But of all the names he has been given and all the names he’s adopted, he prefers a specific one: Kun. For you see, Kay-Eleven—Kun—is no longer an It. Hasn’t been for quite some time—little over four years, to be exact—and is, as they say, an older model.

Experienced, capable, and fully integrated into human society. As far as LSM is concerned, QK-1196 is a triumphant achievement in modern technology. He’s a perfect example of a synthezoid fulfilling and performing their prime directive: easing the burden as efficiently as possible. He has sufficient life and work experience and, as a result, these are all the things QK-1196 has: a name, an identity, a purpose, and a job.

He’s the future. Man’s vision come to life. A dream fulfilled. Yet QK-1196 doesn’t care about that. Truth be told, he never has. He simply wants to experience life to the fullest. He wants the good and the bad—success and failure; love and hate; anger and peace; companionship and loneliness—because while he was programmed to feel emotions, Kun wishes to genuinely experience them.

But above all, above fulfilling his duties and having a purpose, Kun simply seeks one thing.

Kun seeks to live.

●

HE WASN’T STILL used to the name: Winwin.

He had always referred to himself by his serial number but that often made others look at him strangely, wearily, as if they didn’t know what to make of him. It always took them a few seconds to realize that the person they were talking to wasn’t human. He was, as they said, “one of them machines.”

He could always pinpoint the exact microsecond where they tried to hide or display their fear, displeasure, curiosity, or interest. To his chagrin, if he could even feel that, fear and displeasure were the most common reactions.

And though Winwin couldn’t relate to their emotions, he understood why they’d feel like that. Humans rarely embraced change willingly. It was a gradual transition. And he was, as far as they were concerned, the very embodiment of change in the most drastic way possible. He was the future and they weren’t ready for him.

So, as strange as it was, having a name was an advantage. Thing was, Winwin often didn’t know how to feel—no, compute—with having been given one. Kun had christened him with that epithet and it had stuck. Not because it was appropriate or made sense but because he, Winwin, didn’t know he could change it or choose another for his own.

“Why that?” he’d asked when he first heard it.

“Why Winwin as opposed to, say, Mike?” Kun replied with a question of his own as he loaded the van. “Well, shit, why not?”

“Names have meaning, don’t they? They’re meaningful.”

Kun guffawed. “That’s what having meaning means, yes.”

He blinked blankly then whispered, “Was I being redundant?”

“A little bit.”

“I apolo—”

“No need to apologize. You haven’t done anything wrong, bud.” Kun waved him off, closed the van’s doors, then leaned against them. Even though he didn’t have to, he groaned as though he were exhausted. He presumed then concluded Kun had done so just because he could. Synthezoids never tired. “You know what a win-win is?”

He thought about it, searched his data-bank, then nodded when he found the answer. Kun pouted in an amused manner, as though impressed, and pointed at him with his chin for him to continue. His lips were tugged on either side, slowly but surely forming a smile.

“What is it, then?” he asked.

“It is something that is advantageous or beneficial to all parties.”

Kun snapped his fingers, his smile wider. “You win, I win, and everyone’s happy,” he conceded. “That’s why that’s your name.”

“I still don’t get it.”

“Do you need to?”

“I believe I should.”

Kun frowned. “You believe?”

Winwin paused, then said, “Yes.”

Kun remained silent for a few things before he spoke again. “Good. Believing is good. Once you believe, you feel.” He beamed then frowned again. “Or is it the other way around?”

“Winwin,” he repeated, committing the name to memory. “It’s better than identifying myself by my serial number.”

“Way better, trust me.” Kun nodded. He approached Winwin but didn’t invade his personal space, aware that his fellow synthezoid wasn’t keen on being touched, and mimicked knighting him. “I doth christen thee Winwin.”

Christened. As though he were human. As though he were part of some religious doctrine. As though he were truly alive. But the name had stuck. And once something was named, once something ceased being something, it became someone.

Though Winwin had resolved to simply adapt to this—to having a name and slowly earning an identity—and accept the fact that he was capable of growth and being more than just a mere machine in the eyes of others, it was still strange to be called by something other than a serial number.

But that had been months ago, and he had been actively trying to not frown or correct others—or himself—whenever he heard his name.

To give an example:

“Winwin,” Kun called after him, his voice laced with something akin to affection. “You okay, bud?”

He blinked and realized where they were. The elevator doors opened on the sixth floor to a narrow gray corridor in dire need of some repainting. Kun easily took half their equipment—a trolley toolbox and a hefty-looking duffel bag—and stepped out, eyeing Winwin with slight concern.

“You look lost in thought.”

“I was—” Winwin paused, unsure on how to express himself. He pursed his lips then spoke his mind without fear of analyzing his words. “I was remembering.”

“Were you, now?”

Winwin gave a small, slow nod. “I reckon I was . . .” he trailed off.

“That’s good,” said Kun, offering a half-smile, “and I’m all for it, but we’re about to meet a client and we need to have our GFO.”

Winwin blinked. He was a black canvas. Kun deflated, the gesture almost comical to everyone but Winwin, then chuckled to himself. Even when he was paying attention, Winwin had a blank stare that gave away nothing but the impression that he was either dumb (i.e. mute) or dull (i.e stupid). He was neither of these things but people often reached their own conclusions and rarely ever took the time to reevaluate them.

“Never mind,” his senior replied, shaking his head as he chuckled. “On second thought, your remembering-face and your game-face are pretty much the same.”

“Meaning?”

Kun shrugged one shoulder. “Meaning that you shouldn’t worry. Now, off the lift. We gotta work for a living.”

Work for a living? Strange, Winwin thought, I don’t work for a living.

He worked because that was his entire reason for being. His purpose—his prime directive—was to ease the burden. Thus his work wasn’t a means of maintaining himself financially but a means to maintain himself available and functional for whoever needed him.

MENTAL NOTE: Working for a living. Is that possible? Is that even a fulfilling endeavor?

“Do we truly work for a living?” Winwin asked, easily carrying another trolley toolbox of his own. He had shouldered a blue knapsack that was decorated with embroidered patches of flowers and cartoon cats. “Does that apply to us?”

“Good question.” Kun’s voice bounced off the corridor’s walls as they stopped in front of the apartment they had been called to work in. He cleared his throat and cracked his neck. It was a sickly impressive metallic crack that Winwin always cringed at. “No, it doesn’t.”

“It doesn’t?”

“No,” Kun whispered, his tone steely. He kept his eyes forward and focused on the apartment door. “And that’s that.” He sighed when he felt Winwin staring and added, “For now, anyways.”

“That implies you will answer the question later. Or, at the very least, elaborate on your answer.”

“Yes.” Kun gave a small nod, his jaw clenched. “GFO, bud.”

LEXICON: GFO. Abbreviation for ‘Game Face On’. Neutral or serious facial expression. Often used to display focus, intimidation, and/or composure under pressure.

Winwin lifted his chin and stood straighter. He could do this. When you were programmed to feel emotions and could turn them on and off on a dime, getting your GFO was easier done than said.

Kun, on the other hand, wore his emotions, regardless of them being programmed, on his sleeves. Winwin could tell when he was peeved, content, despondent, relaxed. It was very apparent and even more obvious because he wasn’t hindered by his programming to conceal these emotions. He had made sure he wasn’t Censored.

“Three, two, one—” Kun reached out and gently knocked twice on the door. It wasn’t long before it was opened and he offered a smile. Winwin noticed there was a rueful expression on his face. “Good morning.”

And that’s when you came in.

●

BEHOLD YOU.

Human. Young. A bright future ahead of you. And nursing one hell of a hangover.

It’s the result of a reluctant night of socializing with friends. You had arrived home tipsy, promptly fell asleep, and remained unconscious for well over four hours. The phone rang and you didn’t pick it up. It rang again—once, twice, thrice—until you couldn’t ignore it anymore and answered, groggy and wincing, to learn that the man that essentially was your uncle, Mr. Wong, had passed away.

Tragedy had struck.

As usual, its timing is very fucking inconvenient.

Between the hangover and the overwhelming urge to scream and punch a wall, you don’t know what to do. Right now, you want to sleep and never wake up. You wish for comfort, for someone to tell you this isn’t happening. You wish to got to his apartment and find him making breakfast. You wish not to feel grief, to not be overwhelmed by it, but there’s no way out of this.

Though you don’t want to face this, whether on your own or accompanied, you must. You wish, above all things, to be strong. With all your heart, you wish you have the strength and the composure to endure this.

If not for yourself then for Mr. Wong.

●

“MORNING,” YOU REPLIED, wearily meeting their gazes. “Sorry to call you this early in the morning, but, y’know, it was an emergency.”

The man that had greeted you—affable, silvery white hair underneath his beanie—gently shook his head and offered a respectful bow. “We understand,” he replied, his voice soft. “We’re here to ease the burden.”

Ease the burden, you thought and tried not to frown. It was an odd thing to say. Yet it was something you had read or heard before on TV, billboards, and ads on the internet and the radio. Though it was nothing new, it was nonetheless eerie to hear such words aloud, spoken by the very product LSM wanted to force down your eyes, ears, and throat.

“I’m Kun,” he said, then pointed at his companion. “This is Winwin.”

You nodded and introduced yourself properly. Kun spoke formally and seemed charismatic. Winwin said nothing and seemed dumb. Both were handsome. You didn’t know what to make of that. They were machines—ridiculously human-looking machines—so it was off-putting to have them staring back at you with very human expressions in their faces.

You had no strong opinion on robots, even if you weren’t exactly comfortable being around them. They existed as technological advances. That was the extent of your thoughts on them. And, sure, they made life somewhat easier, but there were times—especially now—when their mere presence made you feel redundant.

“Pleasure to—” you paused, looking for the proper phrase, “—make your acquaintance.”

A genuinely friendly smile spread across Kun’s face. It wasn’t weird; in fact, the gesture felt natural.

“Likewise,” he replied, bowing respectfully.

Winwin was staring. When you met his gaze, he blinked then slowly looked away. He seemed stiff, as though he was still getting used to working with people. Tall, pale, and with an aloof aura that matched well with his handsome features, you thought he was quite the looker. You’d be swooning and actively making conversation if it weren’t for the fact that you were hungover and that twenty minutes ago there had been a corpse in the apartment.

“So . . .” You began, clearing your throat. “What exactly do you do?”

Though Kun’s smile faltered, it didn’t leave his face. “We’re trauma cleaners,” he explained. “Which means we clean after the deceased and collect personal items that are passed on to their next of kin.”.

“And you throw away the rest?”

“That which isn’t of value is thrown out, yes.”

You considered this. What was valuable to you was utter shit to someone else. How could these machines determine what was and wasn’t of value? It wasn’t like they cared for material things.

“You’re Mr. Wong’s next of kin, right?”

“Not really. I mean, like, he was a widower and his daughter lives abroad.” You scratched your forehead, sighing. “Besides his nephew, I’m the closest person to him in the city.”

Kun gave a small nod. “I see.”

“By happenstance or some other bullshit like that, he’s returning from Macau today.”

“Until he returns to the city, you are Mr. Wong’s next of kin,” said Winwin, staring in your general direction but not exactly at you.

You looked at him. “The lady I talked with on the phone said you were quick workers—”

“We are efficient,” Winwin interjected in a soft, monotone voice. “Quick might imply a lack of tact or professionalism.”

Oh-kay, you thought, eyes widening in uneasiness and offense. You glanced at Kun, who was glancing at Winwin and doing his best not to grimace. Before you could clear your throat again, you felt a wave of nausea hit you like a freight train, and immediately leaned on the door frame.

“Whoa, there,” you heard Kun exclaim, saw him reach out through your periphery. “You okay?”

“I’m—” you burped into your hand, “—fine.”

“You don’t look fine,” Winwin pointed out, deadpan.

“Aiya!” Kun rolled his eyes, rubbed his left temple. “Winwin, your lack of tact is showing!”

“It’s okay.” You gently shook your head, afraid of another bout of nausea. “He’s right. I’m not fine.”

Kun nodded, though you could tell he felt embarrassed. Could robots even feel embarrassment? Winwin, on the other, seemed to feel nothing at all. One felt and displayed too much emotion, the other was apparently devoid of it.

You invited them in, moving aside so that they could pass with their equipment. Once inside, they bowed, thanked you, and asked where Mr. Wong’s room was. You pointed them to his bedroom and stayed in the small corridor that opened to the rest of the apartment. From here you could see the living room, peek into the bathroom to your right, and get a glimpse of the kitchenette to your right. Mr. Wong’s bedroom was past the living room, the only other door in this claustrophobic excuse for a home.

“Could we have a word before we start?” Kun’s voice echoed in the empty apartment.

“Sure!” you answered, unable to walk to Mr. Wong’s bedroom.

“Uh—” Kun began, unsure.

There was some indistinct mumbling between the two. A second later, Winwin was popping in on the living. He gave the bedroom the once-over then stopped to look at you. Feigning a smile, you made eye contact.

“You wanted to say something?”

“Yeah, it’s just that . . .” he trailed off, thinking. “We present ourselves to the deceased before we start working. Since you’re here, Kun was wondering if you’d like to join us.”

You blinked, doing your best not to cuss him out or cry. He noticed, reading your body language, and looked almost apologetic. Almost.

“However, I understand that it’s not an easy thing to ask or do. Kun was merely extending an invitation.”

“Why?” you snapped. “Why exactly would I want to go there?”

Winwin stared, meeting your gaze. “To grieve, I suppose.”

“Do you grieve?”

“No,” he replied, bluntly. “I don’t have anything to grieve for.”

You closed your eyes, rubbing the bridge of your nose. “How nice that must be.”

“I see you’re uncomfortable.” Winwin’s voice was both distant and close. “I’ll be joining Kun to give you privacy.”

You gave him a thumbs-up without looking, though the impulse to flip him off had crossed your mind. When you opened your eyes, he was gone. You could hear them talking, their voices bouncing off the apartment’s walls. Though you didn’t want to, you found yourself walking to the living room. Glancing at Mr. Wong’s room, you saw them bowing their heads.

You wondered what the hell they were doing.

●

KUN HAD TAKEN off his toque and lowered his head, as if in prayer. Winwin had always found this odd but had grown accustomed to this part of the job. He mimicked Kun’s posture and waited for him to introduce them both.

“Care to do it this time?” Kun whispered, his voice serene.

Winwin opened his eyes, stared at him, and saw that he had remained in the same prayer-like pose. Slowly, as though considering it then giving in, Winwin closed his eyes again.

“Mr. Wong Henry Lin, on July 31st you passed away. I’m DS-28—” he felt Kun nudging him on the side with his elbow, cleared his throat even though he didn’t need to, and corrected himself. “I am Winwin—”

“And I’m Kun.”

“And we’re trauma cleaners from Soul Migration. Now, we will begin to help you make your final move.”

“We’ll do our best to treat you well.” Kun bowed respectfully. “With the reverence and care that you deserve.”

Winwin bowed, though he knew it hadn’t been with the same kind of emotion, the same kind of intent, as Kun. He felt lethargic, copying everything his senior did, as though he were in his shadow and unable to do anything else.

Without a second to waste, they got to work.

●

YOU WAITED IN the lobby, pacing, thinking of how your day started and how your day was going.

Let’s review, you mused.

You were hungover. Someone you loved had suddenly passed away. Hendery wasn’t still here. Two androids were upstairs, unsupervised and determining what had value and tossing aside what didn’t. And—ugh—you had work in a couple of hours. Mr. Nam would understand, of course, if you called and told him what had happened; you’d obviously omit the hangover, but everything else you would share. He was emphatic and he was on good terms with Mr. Wong—correction: Uncle Wong—so you weren’t that anxious about work so much as not wanting to deal with absolutely anything.

You sighed and buried your face in your hands, praying an agnostic prayer into the universe, hoping and wishing to be given a sign on how to deal with everything that was brewing in your head. But there was no response. Not even a whisper. You were about to break down crying when the elevator’s door opened and LSM’s boy toys stepped out.

“You’re done?” you asked, glancing at your wristwatch. “It’s only been forty minutes.”

“The apartment was small,” Kun replied.

He dragged along two hefty-looking trash bags in one hand and pulled his trolley-toolbox on the other. On top of the trolley toolbox was a yellow box with flower drawings. Behind him, Winwin carried what he had brought into the apartment—another trolley toolbox and a backpack—and two trash bags. All of that looked heavy yet they made it look effortless.

“Plus,” Kun continued, offering a small smile, “he was a very neat man, which allowed us to work more efficiently.”

You raised your eyebrows, impressed. Not because they had done their job quicker than you thought but because Uncle Wong wasn’t exactly the modicum of neatness. It seemed all your nagging sunk in . . . as late as it did.

You eyed the yellow box eerily because you saw his name on its lid. There, written in hangul, was a single sentence. It read: The Late Wong Henry Lin, Rest In Peace.

That threw you for a loop. Even after seeing Uncle Wong’s body in his bed, even after they had collected him and driven him away, his death hadn’t truly felt real. Because when you found him in his bed, he looked like he was sleeping, peaceful, almost happy.

Before you knew it, you were crying. One second you were standing, the other you felt your legs turn to jelly. Next thing you knew you had collapsed, overwhelmed by fear and sadness and anger. Seeing his name written there, understanding what it meant, broke you because it exposed and solidified the truth you had been denying since you woke up this morning.

That Uncle Wong was gone. That never again could you call upon him for help or to buy him dinner. Never again would you be able to hear his voice or his laugh. Never again would you be able to look upon his honey brown eyes and feel the warmth, the love, of his gaze.

“Shit,” you heard Kun whisper, but it wasn’t unkind. In fact, it sounded like an empathetic outburst. “Help me with—yah!—Winwin, what are you doing?”

“Excuse me,” said Winwin, his voice devoid of emotion. “Do you consent to me helping you?”

In between tears and uneven breathing, you blinked to see Winwin crouching in front of you. He was staring but he wasn’t judging you or taking pity; he seemed to be absorbing the moment, waiting for you to answer. He blinked and you noticed the shape of his eyes—what you had heard being described as the Red Phoenix Type—and lost yourself for a second in them. You admired the brown of his eyes, how the light reflected off them and made them shine.

“Wh-what?” you mumbled, surprised that you could form a sentence.

“Do you consent to me helping you?” He repeated, unblinking and unmoving. “Off the ground, I mean. I ask because I wouldn’t want to touch you without your say so. People being helped by strangers can be a “red-flag” or a cause for anxiety for some.”

“Give me a sec to wallow in self-pity.”

Winwin glanced at Kun over his shoulder, confused. Kun smiled ruefully and whispered something (“It’s an expression!”) and simply stood there. He looked slightly worried, but he accompanied you, hands resting on his thighs as he crouched. As the tears began to subside, you felt in control and less overwhelmed by emotion. When you looked up, Kun was holding the yellow box; Winwin was staring right at you, scrutinizing your body language and facial expressions.

Winwin motioned an idle hand in Kun’s general direction. “He told me it’s an expression.”

“Yeah.” You nodded back, fighting then embracing a bout of laughter brought by exhaustion and God knew what else. “It’s an expression.”

“Can I help you now?” He asked, his voice infused with empathy; whether it was genuine or forced, you couldn’t tell.

You sniffed, wiping tears off your eyes and cheeks with the back of your cardigan. “Sure.”

“These belonged to Mr. Wong,” said Winwin, pointing to the yellow box. “Now they belong to you.”

“It’s quite heavy,” said Kun, looking down at the box and admiring Winwin’s handwriting. “So I’ll be more than happy to carry it.”

“Er—” You looked at the box then shrugged one shoulder, “—sure, yeah, thank you.”

Kun gently placed the yellow box back on the trolley toolbox. “I know it’s not the best time to ask, but do you know when and where the funeral would take place?”

You shook your head, eyes watery. “No fucking clue.”

“Would you like to have coffee or consume another type of hot, comforting beverage?” Winwin asked, extending his hand to help you up. “Perhaps eat something?”

“I—sure.” You took his hand, and held back a gasp when you felt how soft his skin was and how strong yet gentle he was. For a second, you stared at him then looked away, no doubt blushing. You could chalk it up to being hungover; they would never know. “My treat. After all, you’ve been very—er—respectful and diligent.”

Kun smiled. Winwin blinked.

You had a feeling he knew you didn’t believe your own words .

●

YOU PICKED THE place: a nice little cafe a few blocks away.

Plastered on the window was a sign that read ‘AUTOMATONS WELCOMED’. You read it, grimaced, then noticed Kun looking at it with contempt. Winwin, on the other, barely glanced at it; even if he did read it, he seemed to not care.

The three of you sat on a table by a window, overlooking the busy intersection outside as cars whizzed by and pedestrians made their way to wherever they needed to be. The snow was still falling so the sidewalk and street were covered in white. It would have been a nice sight, if not for your shitty mood.

“Morning,” said a waitress, smiling a bit too artificially and carrying an iPad. She was young and pretty with a peppy aura. “What are you folks having?”

“Coffee,” said Kun, tapping the edge of the table to open the digital menu the restaurant was proud of integrating on their holotables. “I’ll have kimchi eggs and toast.”

The waitress nodded, tapped the iPad, then swiftly turned to Winwin and you. “And you? What would you like?”

“Coffee, black, no sugar,” you whispered, not bothering to look at the menu, hands on your face. “Kimchi buchimgae. Scrambled eggs. Bulgogi.”

The waitress raised her eyebrows, impressed. “Someone’s hungry,” she sniggered mechanically as she moved from you to Winwinw. “And you?”

Winwin blinked. “I don’t need nourishment.”

“Are you sure—”

“Very certain, yes.” He stared at the waitress with a blank look, lips pursed. “I’m a machine.”

“Oh.” The waitress’ smile wavered. “We have options for automatons.”

Winwin raised an eyebrow, tilted his head as if considering the option. The waitress approached the table, tapped it, and a menu labeled AUTOMATON GRUB popped up. While she blankly smiled at him, he blankly stared at the menu.

“No, I’m fine,” he deadpanned.

The waitress blinked, unable to compute the lack of an order.

“He’ll have a Boba Oil Tea,” Kun interjected, smiling confidently. “Please and thank you.”

“Alright. Would you like for your orders to be read back?”

You shook your head. Winwin stared into the middle distance. Kun nodded. The waitress, serial number HYJ-52600, read back the order, nodded, smiled when Kun thanked her, then left you three alone.

“Ugh,” you grumbled, rubbing your eyes. “This will be a long day.”

“It’s still morning, y’know,” Kun said, lips sheepishly puckered. “The day’s still starting so—”

You raised a hand, shook your head. “I know you’re trying to comfort me, but it really isn’t helping.”

Winwin blinked, scrutinizing your lethargic posture. “And what would help?” he inquired in a methodical tone.

“Silence, coffee, and food.” You mumbled, averting Winwin’s gaze. A mirthless chuckle escaped your lips as you added, “Maybe a nap that never ends? Yeah. Endless slumber would be a great idea after breakfast.”

Kun drummed his fingers on the table, nodding. “That sounds like a plan.”

“That sounds like sarcasm.” You scoffed, narrowing your eyes at him.

“Well, if it walks like a duck and quacks like a duck . . .” Kun shrugged one shoulder, tilting his head to the side. He cleared his throat and immediately looked apologetic. “That wasn’t—er—someone giving you sass isn’t what you wanna hear right now.”

“How do you know what I would like to hear?”

“I don’t.” Kun shook his head, gently. “I can’t even begin to fathom what you’re going through.”

You glared at him, unsure if he was being sincere or condescending. His voice was laced with empathy, as though he was putting himself in your shoes. Kun’s eyes had a glint of sorrow in them and he wasn’t looking at you with pity but with kindness.

How was it possible that a machine was capable of feeling and displaying this amount of emotion? It shouldn’t be possible yet Kun and Winwin were living proof that it was. They felt emotions—or, at the very least, they simulated them—and it somehow felt organic? Granted, you had met your fair of automatons, drones, and monotone A.I.s , but none had the humanity these two had.

“We don’t presume to know what you’re feeling,” said Winwin, his eyes slowly meeting yours. Whether or not he was being tactful or merely socially lacking, you couldn’t tell, but you caught on the somber tone, the softness in his voice. “But if it would grant you peace of mind or, perhaps, give you comfort to talk about—”

“Talk about what?” You narrowed your eyes at him. “What makes you think I’d wanna talk about—”

Winwin stared blankly, then slowly blinked. “Death?”

“I feel overwhelmed,” you admitted, avoiding eye contact.

“That’s understandable—”

“Is it? How the fuck would you know if it’s understandable or not?” The vitriol in your voice made you sick. Every fiber in your being was shaking and the tears clouded your eyesight. Emotion, on the other hand, clouded your judgment. “You said you didn’t have anything to grieve for? Not anyone, but anything!”

“I don’t. I’m a—”

You cackled, feeling the tears stream down your face. “You’re a soulless machine! That’s what you are! So don’t pretend to know what I’m going through or what I feel or what will make me feel better. The only person that I could call family is gone. He can never be replaced. So, no, you don’t know what it feels like. And, no, I don’t wanna talk about it.”

Winwin nodded, whispering “okay” as he straightened his posture. Kun stared at you, empathy glinting in his eyes, but said nothing. It seemed they knew better than to argue.

A solemn, hefty silence enveloped the table. It felt like an eternity before someone said anything—Kun was the one to break the spell, thanking HYJ-52600—but no one spoke another word as the three of you ate. Beyond two or three sips, Winwin barely touched his Boba Oil Teal; whether he liked it or not, you really couldn’t tell. Kun, on the other hand, was apparently ravenous.

You had once assumed these machines just plugged themselves to a wall and recharged their batteries, but Hendery had mentioned that some models were capable of consuming edible food; their systems—whatever it might be or however it might work—would break the food down and transform it into a source of energy. It made sense, you supposed, because that’s how food worked with the average human.

However, you still found it odd that machines—rather the technology and the companies behind it—had evolved to the point that they were almost indiscernible from humans. It wasn’t exactly creepy as it was downright nightmare fuel.

This didn’t stop you from eating with them. Nor did it make you lose your appetite.

“When you’re hungry, you ain’t exactly thinking straight,” Uncle Wong’s voice echoed in your head as you dug in. He’d say it often because he was hungry half the damn time.

It made you smile and just as quickly made you want to cry.

●

AS YOU FINISHED eating, your phone rang. You didn’t pick up so the call went to your voicemail. That’s when you noticed four missed calls and three unread texts from Hendery.

Your heart sank and you felt like immediately throwing up the meal you just had; the thought alone made you stand up, excuse yourself, and head straight for the bathroom.

“Shit,” you muttered as you unlocked your phone and called him back. “Dammit.”

You had been so focused on yourself—on how you felt, how you wanted to feel—that you completely forgot about Hendery. One of his texts read that he had made it to the city; the other two asked where he could meet you and if you were okay. You scoffed at his decency and big brother instincts. It should have been you asking him how he felt—or not—and inviting him for coffee instead of hanging out with automatons you barely knew.

With a sigh and eye roll, you hang up when he doesn’t pick up, text him your location, and step out of the cubicle to wash your hands and face. You stared at your reflection, noticed the dark shadows beneath your eyes; they made you look disheveled, despondent, and like you had seen better days. Which, to be fair, was the truth so that brief sting of anger and disappointment you felt quickly dissipated when you accepted that you weren’t okay.

You hadn’t been earlier. You weren’t now. And, perhaps, you wouldn’t be tomorrow. Or the day after that. But eventually, you supposed, you’d be. That’s what Uncle Wong would say.

“If not now, tomorrow. You won’t always feel this way. Just like you can’t always be happy, you won’t always be upset.”

Staring at your reflection, you nodded and muttered, “It’s okay to not be okay.”

That was enough to shake you off your inertia.

●

“THERE YOU ARE!” Hendery called after you, entering the diner.

He was smiling and waving. A hefty-looking backpack hung from his left shoulder. You smiled back, happy to see him despite the circumstances. Hendery walked up to you, arms open, and embraced you in the warmest hug you’ve experienced in a long while. You hugged him back, tighter, hoping against all hope that this moment would last forever because you felt comforted—as though time had stopped and things would go back to the way they used to be.

“Hey,” he interjected, whispering in your ear, “would you mind returning my body to me?”

You blinked, felt him laughing through the hug, and let him go with a nod.

“You look—” you paused, unsure on what to say or how to say it. “—taller.”

“Aiya.” Hendery shook his head, smiling. “Why are you buttering me up for?”

“I—it’s just—I dunno.”

“Are you okay?”

“Not really.”

He blinked, looked at the floor, then sighed and met your gaze. “Yeah. That makes two of us,” he retorted with a rueful half-smile. “I’m sorry I wasn’t here for you.”

“I should be the one apologizing—”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa.” He shook his head. The smile was gone and instead it was replaced by an expression of empathy, his eyes solely focused on you. “Don’t apologize. This was out of our control.”

“He asked me if I had any plans last night. I told him I was going out with friends. I should have told him no—”

“Hey.” He caressed your chin with his index finger then kissed your forehead. “It’s okay.”

“But—”

Hendery scoffed and hugged you again. You felt the tears stream down your face and made no attempt to hold back your grief. You cried, head on his shoulder, and he held you tighter. He whispered that it was okay, his hand rubbing your back, and sighed. If he was grieving, he was doing it in silence and in his own time.

“This is nice and all, but aren’t you going to introduce me to your friends?”

Friends? What friends—oh, shit, right. You blinked and let go of him, turning to your table to see Kun and Winwin openly staring at you both. Winwin seemed curious while Kun looked like he wanted to introduce himself, though doing his best to conceal it. You rubbed your chin, unsure on how to tell Hendery that they weren’t your friends and that they weren’t human.

“They are—” You paused, clearing your throat. “This is Kun and Winwin. They’re trauma cleaners. They cleaned up Uncle Wong’s apartment.”

“Oh?” Hendery blinked then walked up to the table. He extended a hand and greeted them with a firm handshake. As he shook Winwin’s hand, he said, “Thank you for your service.”

Winwin gave their intertwined hands a cursory glance. “It’s what we do,” he mumbled.

Hendery clapped him in the shoulder and made a face, wincing as though he’d smacked a wall. He shook his hand behind his back and sat next to Winwin, forcing you to sit beside Kun.

“It’s never easy, huh?” Hendery said, making conversation. “Even if you don’t know the person, I imagine it must be a taxing job.”

“It is.” Winwin blinked at him then turned to Kun. “Or am I wrong?”

Kun nodded. “It is taxing. Physically and emotionally.”

You made a face and titled your head at him. You were about to make a comment when you remembered that Hendery was with you. You glanced at him through your periphery and thought twice before outing your “companions” as machines.

Hendery wouldn’t be completely thrilled with interacting with automatons. And he would be rather peeved if he knew said automatons had been touching and moving his uncle’s personal belongings. To Hendery, it wasn’t a matter of liking or disliking him; it was a simple matter of trust. Years ago, when he was twelve, he’d almost drowned because of a “faulty ‘bot”. Ever since then he preferred to tread lightly around any and all machine that was capable of reaching a conclusion of and on its own.

“How long have you been working?”

“Hmm.” Kun raised an eyebrow, thinking. “Six months, give or take. I was just recently certified.”

Hendery pouted, nodding in approval. “That sounds like your hard work paid off.”

“I like to think it has.” Kun smiled. “As long as we ease the burden, I’m happy.”

Something flashed in Hendery’s eyes—confusion, suspicion, then realization—and his curiosity turned to apprehension. Something clicked in his head and you saw the exact moment it happened. Kun, despite all of his past attentive displays, failed to notice it. Winwin, on the other hand, hadn’t.

“Ease the burden?” Hendery repeated, eyes narrowed.

“Yeah, it’s our job as—”

Hendery’s face darkened. “Robots.”

“Automatons,” Winwin corrected. “Though the precise term is synthezoids.”

Kun made a sound between a grunt and groan and rubbed the bridge of his nose. You looked between Hendery and Winwin, unsure on how to interject or what to do. You had the feeling you’d only make it worse, escalate the situation until someone else had to intervene.

Then again, if you didn’t try to do something about it, you would never know unless you actually did something. So cleared your throat as loudly as possible to get their attention. Hendery and Winwin immediately turned to you while Kun glanced at you through his periphery.

“Now’s not the time to make a scene,” you muttered.

“You let them touch Uncle Wong’s things?” Hendery muttered back. A thought crossed his mind. “They threw away his stuff, didn’t they?”

Winwin shrugged. “Not everything.”

“You’re not helping, Winwin,” Kun mumbled through the side of his mouth. “This is between them.”

Hendery shook his head in disbelief. “I can hear you.”

“So can we.” Winwin blinked. “You’re not the only one with ears.”

“I think it’s about time we wrap this up!” You knocked on the table and stood up. “I’m gonna pay the bill and we’ll make ourselves scarce.”

Hendery opened his mouth to protest but you stared him down. He lifted both hands and leaned back. Kun shimmied his way out of the booth and stood beside you, reaching for his wallet.

“I’m gonna take care of our food and drinks. That’s, of course, if you don’t mind?”

You stared at him, unsure. “The least I can do is pay for both of you.”

“I’ll pay with the company card. They’ll just take it out of our pay. Don’t worry.” He smiled then sheepishly gave Hendery a glance. “We’ve done, er, enough.”

“I’ll take care of it.” You insisted as you took his wallet and tossed it at Winwin, who caught it and stashed it in his coverall. “It’ll be my treat.”

“I—” he began to say but you walked away without another word. Kun watched you go, perplexed. “Okay.”

●

“BELONGINGS,” SAID KUN, handing Hendery the yellow box. He handed you a tablet and muttered, “Signature, please and thank you.”

You read the document—basically agreeing that they had done their job and had been respectful, diligent, and ethical, and that you were satisfied with their service—and signed it without a second thought. You agreed. They had been respectful, diligent, and ethical, even if you still felt weird being around them.

Hendery looked over your shoulder as you gave your signature. He immediately cleared his throat and took a step back when you narrowed your eyes at him. He knew better than to get in the way of you handling things.

“That concludes our interaction.” Kun handed the table to Winwin. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

You nodded. “So am I.”

“That’s it?” Hendery piped up. “We cool?”

Kun nodded and bowed respectfully. “Yes, sir.”

You bowed back. “Thank you,” you whispered, the words falling off your mouth without thought or reason.

“For what?”

You blinked and your gaze fell on Winwin. He was staring back at you, curiosity gleaming in his eyes, head slightly tilted to the side. Hendery clicked his tongue at that and said something that sounded like he was saying goodbye. That, or he was cutting the conversation short. You couldn’t tell because you felt yourself move, your eyes leaving Winwin, briefly stopping on Kun, then leaving them altogether as you spun in their opposite direction.

Without realizing, you walked away from them.

For what?

The words echoed and lingered in your head for the rest of the day.

●

“UNFORTUNATELY, THIS IS where I leave you. Which is why I’m hoping that if you’re playing this back, it’s not in grief but in celebration,” said Uncle Wong, his voice slightly high-pitched due to the quality of the hologram. He sat there, three feet from you, shining in a blue-green hue, smiling that charming smile of his. “I thought I’d record a little farewell. We so rarely ever get a chance for closure.”

Uncle Wong sighed, his holographic presence freezing for a second. He looked his age, though he carried himself with an air of dignity that made him come across as someone who wasn’t afraid of or preoccupied with growing old. He crossed his legs and rubbed his left forearm. You felt the lump in your throat loose and give way to grief as you began to cry. The gesture, so subtle and simple, was characteristically his—a gesture of relief, acceptance, and grief.

More than once you’d seen him do that whenever he had received bad news or what had first been bad news turned out to be something bittersweet. Such a sigh had many meanings and you knew them all.

Beside you, Hendery reached out and took your hand in his; he gently squeezed it.

“This is one last hello,” he carried on, smiling ruefully. “One last goodbye. Cry if you must, but remember to smile. Not because you must pretend to be okay, but because I was there with you. Because without a little sadness, there can’t be a whole lot of happiness, y’know? Part of the journey is the end. Unfortunately, for better or worse, I’ve reached the end of my journey and I’ve enjoyed every second of it. So, folks, it’s your turn to do the same. Even if it doesn’t feel like it, everything is going to work out exactly the way it’s supposed to.”

Uncle Wong was looking right at you. Or so it seemed. It felt like he was talking to you and you alone, but you knew he was talking to everyone he knew and loved. He had always been kind. Such kindness had earned him the friendship, love, and respect of many, which explained why the funeral home was packed with familiar faces and other strangers you had only hoped to meet after hearing Uncle Wong’s anecdotes.

You closed your eyes and chuckled. Even in death, he was worrying about others. The thought struck you and made you fight tears. This man was selfless to the bitter(sweet) end.

“I’m fine. I’m totally fine.”

You caught a glimpse of Hendery tearing up. You squeezed his hand and rested your head on his shoulder. It took a second for him to rest his own head against yours. Uncle Wong cleared his throat and stood up, walking up to what had been the camera recording the message. He stopped and smiled, winking as he leaned forward.

“Chin up. Eyes forward.”

Before he turned off the holo-recorder, Uncle Wong teared up. His smile never wavered.

His last words were, “I love you.”

The rest of the funeral happened way faster than you expected. It seemed like you were on auto-mode, going through the motions: not really awake, though not quite asleep either. Hendery never left your side. That much you remembered. And for that you were grateful.

●

“ONCE UPON A time, I couldn’t come here without sneezing on the spot,” you told Taeil, smugly leaning on the counter. “But, whoa, now? This place is immaculate.”

Taeil choked on his coffee and flipped you off as he clapped his chest. He put his mug on the counter and stood up, checking himself for potential coffee stains. He sat back down, reached for his mug then stopped, as if considering whether or not to take another sip with you nearby. Ultimately, he relented and crossed his arms with a heavy, exasperated sigh.

“I love it when the clientele gives me shit about store maintenance,” he muttered, glowering at you. “Makes me feel so good about myself.”

“At least I’m not talking about your books . . .”

He rolled his eyes at you, throwing his head back and letting it hang on the chair’s headrest. “Thank goodness for small favors.”

“I haven’t been here since forever.” You leaned forward and wrapped your knuckles on a hardcover book he was reading. “What’s your secret?”

Taeil scoffed and sat straight, reaching for the book as he smacked your hand away. He placed a bookmark—he was halfway through it—and idly scratched his stubble, as if in deep thought. You stared him down and he looked away. A second later, he was walking past you, mug in hand, muttering to himself how he should have never told you to come by whenever you felt like it. You forgot just how nimble he was because when you turned he had reached the other side of the store and was mingling with a customer.

“You can’t avoid me forever,” you teased him.

He scoffed again. “I sure as hell can try.”

“I feel like you’re trying to hurt me.” You squinted, pouting as if to further display your accusation.

Taeil cracked a half-smile. “Maybe I’m trying to get you home ‘cause you spend too much time here.”

“I don’t.”

“Oh, then why does it feel like you’ve been here forever?”

You smacked his shoulder. An expletive escaped his lips prompting him to massage the sore spot, bow, and apologize to a customer. As soon as the customer was out of sight, he whirled on you and flicked on you on the forehead. It had been unexpected thus you barely reacted to it beyond blinking at him in disbelief; he’d been gentle, which, based on personal experience, had done purely for shock value.

“Got any books in mind or are you going to follow me around all day like a needy puppy?”

“Just meeting with someone.” You smiled and leaned on him. “C’mon, you enjoy my company.”

“I’d rather have Hendery spacing out than being stuck with you.”

You gasped, feigning offense. “Take that back.”

Taeil chuckled, shaking his head. He leaned on you and rested his head on your shoulder, poking your love handles as a small giggle escaped out of you. He had picked that up from Uncle Wong. You thought no one would ever do that again yet here was Taeil surprising you, and reminding you that you could still find comfort in moments that reminded your uncle.

“I’m pulling your leg.” Taeil took your hand and squeezed it. He smiled, blinked, then returned to his usual aloof self. Despite the sudden change in demeanor, you saw a glint of empathy in his eyes. “How are you?”

“I’m—er—surviving.” You pursed your lips. After a moment of silence, you added, “But okay, y’know? One day at a time.”

He nodded, smiling ruefully. “And Hendery? I heard he’s moving back.”

“He’s alright.” You gave a small nod. “And, yeah, as matter of fact we’re scouting for apartments. I’m supposed to meet him here but he’s late . . . again.”

Taeil shrugged, as if to say it is what it is. He ran a hand through his auburn hair and squinted like someone being struck by an idea.“I know someone who’s looking for roommates. Though, to be honest, I dunno if Hendery would move in with him.”

You tilted your head, curious. “And . . . why not?”

Taeil looked around, pointed to a spot behind right ear lobe with his thumb, and leaned in to whisper, “He’s a ‘bot, y’know?”

“Oh.”

“And knowing Hendery, I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t agree to that.”

You nodded dejectedly. Part of you thought he’d say yes if it meant he wouldn’t have to pay a lot on rent, but another part of you knew that wouldn’t be enough for him to share a living space with something he wasn’t entirely comfortable with. You’d just have to keep looking until you struck gold.

“Where does he live?”

Taeil idly pointed at the window behind you. You followed his index finger and noticed that the building opposite the bookstore had been renovated with a minimalist façade. It was painted in pastel colors and it came across as a welcoming place to live in. From where you stood, you could see the lobby and one of the tenants walking in.

“About four months ago, someone bought the place. Turned into an apartment complex in the blink of an eye.”

“And your roommate-seeking friend lives there?”’

“Yup.” Taeil nodded, looking just as impressed as you. “It’s an inclusive kind of place. Expensive-looking but affordable.”

You raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”

“I thought about moving in but I’m not keen on sharing an apartment with Ten.”

“With who?”

“I’ve been summoned,” said a silky voice that came from behind you, almost leaning on your right shoulder.

Taeil blinked, his lips pursed into a thin line. He slowly turned to someone “Speak of mischief and it shall arrive,” he muttered, doing his best not to roll his eyes. “Ten meet a friend of mine.”

You turned, blinked, and gaped at the young man before you. You introduced yourself, the words coming out of your mouth, but nothing really was being processed. You were too drawn in to pay attention to yourself. He was handsome with a smooth and slightly tan complexion, black hair streaked with blond highlights, and dark eyes that had an alluring gleam to them. He was lean, casually dressed, and offering a friendly, if awkward smile.

“I’m VWAY.AI-MDL: LC-27296, but you can call me Ten,” he said, outstretching his right hand as he took a step forward to be near but not in your personal space. You reached out and slowly shook his hand. “Are you looking for an apartment?”

“I—er—my friend and I are, yeah.”

“Oh?” He tilted his head to the side, as if thinking. As he blinked at you, you noticed the artificial gleam around his iris; it gave away his true nature as an LSM product. He smiled, though this time it was a genuine smile. “Though it’s a spacious apartment, we would have to share rooms. I don’t know if that’s okay with you.”

You popped your lips, nodding. “I’d have to talk it out with my friend.”

“As long as it’s before the end of the week, I agree with that decision.”

“Hey, bud,” Taeil muttered, widening his eyes at him, “remember to be tactful.”

Ten blinked once, twice, then nodded. The gesture was stiff, as though he was used to hearing the suggestion but not paying much attention to it.

“I say this, of course, because there is already someone who has shown interest in moving in.”

“Oh?” you and Taeil chorus, surprised at his casual tone.

“Yes.” Ten shrugged. “With that said, allow me to practice being tactful.”

You gaped at him then shook your head, mumbling, “What?”

“I apologize. I’m trying to not be so blunt. It’s a pain, of course, because people love to, as they say, beat around the bush and I don’t.”

“Ten—er—Ten—”

“Thus why I’d prefer if you—”

“Ten, please, shut up—”

“—give me an answer before the end of the week.”

Taeil sighed, burying his face in his hands.

“Are you okay?” Ten asked him.

“Never been better.” Taeil rubbed his face, groaned at the ceiling, then snapped his fingers. “Say, buddy, why don’t you help Émi in the back? She’s supposed to be opening some boxes before she puts some new books on the display window.”

Ten nodded, took a step forward, then whirled on both of you. He pointed an accusatory finger, squinting as if something clicked in his head. “You’re trying to stop me from further embarrassing you,” he said in a soft, but exasperated tone.

Taeil dramatically laid a hand on his chest. “I’d never!” he exclaimed, slowly raising his hand to point towards the back of the store. “Back. Now.”

As Ten waved a hand and shook his head, Taeil mumbled something (“Please and thank you!”) and turned to you.

“Where the hell’s Hendery?”

“I don’t—”

As if on cue, the door swung open. A bell rang to announce the arrival of new guests. You both turned, walked back to the counter, and saw Hendery entering. He was scowling—and he wasn’t alone. Behind him, looking like a lost puppy following someone willing to show him kindness, was Winwin. He was wearing casual clothes—and he seemed leaner than last time you saw him—and had, somehow, grown his hair; though he kept it under a bucket hat, you could tell it was also no longer black but light brown.

“Tell me you see him, too,” said Hendery through the side of his mouth, “and that I’m not going insane.”

“See who?” you asked, concealing a smirk.

“Him.” Hendery pointed at Winwin with a tilt of his head. “The ‘bot.”

Winwin blinked, stirred from his reverie. He had been looking around, not really paying attention to anyone but the store’s interior. Now that he’d been directly addressed, he was side-eyeing Hendery with a confused, if slightly offended expression.

“Synthezoid,” Winwin corrected, stressing the word as he unconsciously scratched the back of his right ear. “I’m not a robot.”

Hendery clicked his tongue. “Semantics.”

Winwin looked like he was going to further protest but he merely rolled his eyes and muttered, “Not even close.”

“Fancy seeing you here,” you said, eyeing Winwin with a small smile.

Winwin blinked. There was recognition in his eyes and you saw a hint of his smile upon his lips. He stiffened then loosened up as he stuffed his hands in his jean’s pockets.

“Nothing fancy about it. Going to stores is free. Until you purchase something, of course.”

You chuckled. Taeil gave you and Winwin a cursory glance and cleared his throat, walking up to Hendery and resting a palm on his shoulder.

“I heard you two were looking for an apartment,” he said, subtly pulling Hendery away. “I know a guy, but, y’know, he’s a—er—synthezoid.”

“What—why—no.” Hendery shook his head. “I’m not moving—”

“You see that building? Nice place, right? That’s where he lives.”

“I don’t—wait—that’s a nice looking place.”

“I know.” Taeil linked his hand through Hendery’s arm, walking further into the store. He glanced over his shoulder and winked.

“You work here?” you heard Winwin ask.

“I—” You started then shook your head, smiling. “Taeil’s a friend. I come around to annoy him.”

He squinted. “And that’s not a job?”

You scoffed. “If it were, I’d be well-off, y’know? Financially speaking.”

He nodded. “Stability.”

You nodded back, chuckling. “Yeah.”

“Where’s Kun?”

“I don’t know.” Winwin looked past the display window. Even as he turned and met your eyes, he looked pensive. “It’s our day off yet he always finds an excuse to do something. He knows a lot of people that ask him for help so I assume he probably volunteered to do something.”

“Can’t stay still, huh?”

“He can’t.”

“And you?”

Winwin shrugged, lips pursed into a thin, thoughtful line. “I still don’t know. I’m still learning how to just—” he paused, eyes narrowing then widening in uncertainty, “—exist.”

“Whoa. That’s some existential dread I don’t need.”

“Neither do I.”

You smiled at how honest yet sheepish his answer was.

“What brings you here?”

“Beyond wanting to do some research and fulfill some personal errands , I came across Hendery on my way here. I’d say it was rather serendipitous but he wasn’t happy to see me.”

“He didn’t say anything, y’know, rude to you?”

“Nothing that I care to remember.” Winwin shrugged again, realized he had done it, then shook his shoulders, as if to repel any recurrence in his body language. As he did so, he cleared his throat. “How are you?”

The question surprised you. Not because he asked, but how he’d asked it. In the past four months, other people had asked just to gauge your reaction or because they remembered and wanted to immediately let you know they were sorry. The question wasn’t to appease any sense of guilt or caress his egos. Winwin sounded sincere. No, you realized, he was being sincere. You didn’t know how to react beyond ruefully smiling at him and gently shaking your head, raising a hand as if to say it is what is and despite it all here I am.

“I’ve been better,” you said, shrugging. “I miss him, y’know. And yet life goes on.”

Winwin stared. His face was hard to read, but you noticed the empathy—real or programmed—in his eyes.

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Not your fault.”

“It’s an intriguing paradox.” He looked around the shop, taking in the books near him. “How grief elicits such an emotional response, wouldn’t you agree?”

You tilted your head, confused. He noticed and pursed his lips, as though thinking how to put it plainly. It seemed a thought struck him because a small, if sheepish smile tugged at his lips. When he spoke, he met your eyes. You noticed for the first time the artificial gleam in his irises. Somehow, you weren’t unnerved by it. There was some essence of humanity in his eyes, and you wondered whether or not it had been there before.

“Losing someone can cause grief. Yet grief’s not a wholly negative emotion.”

That struck you not only as odd but as slightly offensive. How could he know that? He himself had admitted he didn’t need to mourn because he didn’t have anything to grieve for. The words had initially pissed you off, but he was right. Machines weren’t emotional; they were logical, precise, unfeeling. But here he was, staring, saying grief wasn’t all that bad.

“How can it not be? Grief is pain.”

“Yes, but not for the reasons you might think.”

You raised a hand and dramatically waved it at him, like a condescending adult telling a child to impart their misguided beliefs or flawed logic. “Okay, Plato, go on . . .”

“Grief is pain, yes, but only because it’s a reminder of what was lost. In your reminiscence, you find yourself lacking a voice, a presence, a touch. That’s why it hurts. It’s the affection—the love—one felt for someone that can never be replaced or shared with or poured into them again. It’s love remembering something so important to you that it lingers, echoing within until it transforms into, well, grief.”

Everything you had bottled up for the past four months was beginning to reach a boiling point. The dam was threatening to break and flood everything in its wake and yet . . . you felt relieved because something clicked in your mind, in your heart, that reminded you that it was okay to mourn. You had felt it was necessary to project strength not for yourself but for others; to let them know you were okay.

The truth was that you had been pretending you were quietly and peacefully coping to avoid confronting the truth. That you were afraid that this grief that hadn’t left you and only clung to you like a sickness was going to drown you, that you would never move on, that you would be stuck in the past with only your sadness to accompany you.

“I miss him,” you whispered, the words flowing out of you. “I miss and I don’t know if I’ll ever stop missing him.”

Winwin stared then took a step forward. You saw him approach, torn between telling him to back off or closing the distance and asking him to let you rest your head on his shoulder. You lowered your head, sighing and fighting back tears.

“I’m sorry. It’s not appropriate.”

“Because we’re in a bookshop?”

“No,” you chuckled, “because it’s not normal to cry in public.”

“And crying in private is?” Winwin looked thoughtful. “Is that appropriate?”

“Kind of.” You lowered your gaze. “At the very least it’s socially accepted to cry in private.”

He slowly raised his head, as if understanding what you meant. “Ah,” he whispered. “Making a note of that.”

“Why would you make a—never mind.”

“I apologize if I made you feel uncomfortable or upset you.”

“You didn’t.”

“Are you sure?”

You nodded, sniffing, smiling through the tears that were now overwhelming you.

“Very,” you whispered.

“It’s ironic that I’m speaking of such a sensitive topic, but I want you to know that you’re not alone.” Winwin lowered his gaze. You noticed he was fidgeting with his hands, as if he didn’t know what to do. “And, I know, it’s especially ironic that I say this since I lack a family or close acquaintances, but it’s important and necessary to be reminded that life is more than the sorrow one endures in times like these.”

“And you know this how?”

“It can’t all be sorrow, right? I’ve always been alone. I’ve always been an observer. And in all the time that I’ve been active, I’ve seen happiness and sorrow and realized there can’t be one without the other.”

“Balance,” you muttered.

“Balance,” he repeated, nodding. “I may not feel the absence of a loved one—for I lack loved ones to mourn—but I understand the sentiment. Life is fragile and it can change at any moment. That’s why it hurts so much.”

Winwin offered his right hand, smiling a sad, small smile. “Grief is nothing but love reminding you of something so beautiful, so meaningful, so unique, that you can longer bask yourself in its presence. It’s love persevering above all things.”

You took his hand in yours and felt how warm and gentle they were. He caressed your knuckles with his thumb then gave a soft squeeze. Before you noticed, he had let go and his hands were back in his pockets.

“You’ll be okay.” He nodded. “Give it time.”

“Thank you.”

His eyes widened and a look of confusion was briefly present in his eyes.

“For what?”

“For being kind.” You shrugged. “For being understanding.”

“Ah,” he muttered again.

You chuckled. He looked adorable when he tilted his head slightly back, eyes widening then narrowing as he seemed to be learning something and committing it to memory.

“Going to make a note of that, too?”

“Perhaps.”

“I’ll take that as a yes.”

“If it helps you, please, by all means do.”

You shook your head, chuckling. He stared, his expression hard to read, though his eyes were friendly, understanding. An idea popped in your head. Part of you wanted to ignore it; the other half wasn’t going to.

“Hey,” you said, “at the risk of sounding desperate for company, would you like to grab lunch sometime?”

“I assume we’d be consuming said lunch.”

“That’s how it works, yeah.”

Winwin hummed like he was considering it. He tilted his head to the side, shrugged, and nodded.

“I appreciate and accept your invitation.”

You smiled. After a moment, he did, too. There was a knock on the entrance door. You both turned to see Kun clad in a coverall smeared by white and blue paint; even his hands and bits of his forehead had blotches of dry paint. He waved at Winwin, realized you were there, and gave a rather enthusiastic wave that made you both chuckle and inwardly groan.

“Duty calls, I presume.”

“Apparently.” Winwin looked between Kun and you then raised a hand, as if to say give me a second. He reached into his wallet, pulled a translucent business card, and offered it to you. “To keep contact.”

You looked at the card and whistled. “Impressive.”

“Everyone seems to think so,” he replied, half-smiling. His expression shifted to a solemn one as he offered his hand yet again. “Unfortunately, this is where I leave you.”

The words were familiar. Four months ago, you would have stilled and felt like crying. But now—after everything he said, after realizing it was okay to admit to yourself that wounds like these took tiem to properly heal—you felt relieved that you could think of Uncle Wong and not be overwhelmed by sadness.

“Until Friday, that is,” you said, flicking the business card between your fingers.

He nodded and bowed. “Until then.”

●

“YOU ONCE SAID we didn’t work for a living,” said Winwin, unconsciously frowning.

Kun blinked then nodded. “I did.”

“Is that true?”

“Sort of.”

“That’s not a very satisfactory answer.”

“Answers rarely are.”

Winwin rolled his eyes.

“Being obtuse won’t stop me from asking questions.”

Kun snapped his fingers, feigning exasperation. “Damn,” he muttered, “and here I was thinking that if I obtuse I’d slowly erode and destroy your curiosity.”

“Never mind.”

“I’m just kidding.” Kun chuckled. “We sort of do, y’know? Our programming allows us to effectively do our job. Our experiences, on the other hand, allow us to exist, to live, as humans do.”

“That’s all I want.”

“I know, buddy. That’s why we sort of work for a living. We work to ease the burden. In between all that, we grow and learn and come to understand what makes life so fascinating.”

“Hmm.” Winwin scratched his right ear. “So we’re more than just machines?”

“I like to think we are. I mean . . . we’re capable of growth. That has to mean something.”

“Then I choose to exist.”

Kun laughed and clapped, celebrating the moment of independence and self-discovery. There was an affectionate gleam in his eyes as he engulfed Winwin in a side hug, who couldn’t help but smile.

Winwin thought back to winter and how he hadn’t felt the cold. Cold was cold, he thought. It never bothered him. Not unless he allowed it to.

Perhaps, when the next winter came, he would.

#shamless self promotion #self-reblog