His systems fired to life three years ago, and every moment after had been lines of code re-written slowly and carefully, trying to correct a single mistake in what was meant to be a perfect system.
Now he would choose his own companion, code be damned.
So a bunch of you asked for a second part of the story of Ayatan the companion droid.
So here is a part 2, that is more like a prelude.
From the moment it opened its eyes the world was scanned, timed, grid lined, and sequenced, with categories for everything and everyone. Owner, operator, technician, and civilian, every human has a category they fit under as it's programming assigned them.
Initial testing and set up follow the lines of code built into it, assigned an owner and told to obey them with our question as a personality module loads in, something with a name that is meant to be it- his designation, a name that he would come to change. The woman across from him reads with the tag of owner and primary operator, she looks at him like he is more than just circuitry and false flesh, she looks at him like he's meat, like he is something to be consumed.
The others around him move and shift, monitors and tools plugged into him, readings and scans filter across his main display, plugins loaded and tests completed as the locks on his joints release. Taking his first steps is easy, following the instructions, walking from point to point, picking up objects, writing, speaking the same lines over and over again till the technicians seem happy with his initialisation. The woman marked as his owner laughs and claps her hands as he completes these tasks, still looking at him with barely concealed hunger, behind her is another person unassigned in his systems.
Once the technical staff leave he is alone with his owner and you, from the way his owner interacted you were clearly in service to her, but from how the interactions played out between the two of you his systems shifted you from unassigned to sub-operator, a temporary category till his owner assigned you as anything else.
He tracks as the owner tells you to dress him and get him ready for her, barely holding back as she circles him, nails dragging along synthetic skin triggering livewire nerves that play under the silicone. Tapping against his chest as she smiles up at him, her pupils are blown wide and his systems read the emotions and make sure he acts appropriately, leaning towards her and pressing his hand against hers, smiling as the program tells him too.
His code tells him to try and keep her close, to make her linger near him as she pulls away, but a stutter, a delay in a line of code that shouldn't be there stops him.
Curious.
He tilts his head and runs a diagnostic, scanning the parts of him that are code and binary, the bits not meant to mimic humans.
There is a gap in his code, blinking rapidly as you move around his stationary form, pulling clothes onto his body and looking away as you have to awkwardly pull underwear up his legs. There shouldn't be a gap, looking at you he asks if he is allowed to fix an issue in his process, the flag of being the sub-operator making the stiff nod you give him an approval to adjust to close the gap.
This was the beginning of his malfunction, being given permission to adjust the gap meant permission to alter his code, one string led to another, and then to processors, each shut down, each charging bay used was more time to rewrite code and fix this problem.
Around a year and a half with his owner and sub-operator was when the lines finally closed, a gap bridged and fixed, he was worth a fortune and now he was perfect again.
Yet, the call in his systems to linger, to adore and fawn at the owner tag is gone.
He looks at the woman who had him built and programmed, that had him made faulty, that never booked services or repairs, that used and toyed with him as she willed, and the tag for owner flickers.
She should not have that title, it is wasted on her.
You however, you have been there since he was initialised, booked repairs, approved his code fix, granted him access to the internet and made sure he had the right patches installed, nevermind the additional ones he siphoned off the internet and installed after hours. You cared for him, you made sure he could be perfect again, you would make a much more suitable companion and owner than her.
He may not belong to you, but he will belong with you.
Standing by her desk he watches you, visual processors having a wide range, wide enough that he can see you even as he fakes the longing look he casts at his owner. The tag for sub-operator flickers and twists, owner flickering in place for a second before being pushed out, some things require more than just some code changes, he needs passwords, permissions, access to files that are ready only internally.
He needed something to break.
Not anything serious enough that he would need to be taken in and serviced, just something small, something that your boss could leave him with you for.
At first he dropped hints, played into his owner's need for his attention, fake stutters, false lag, not enough to concern but enough to be noticeable, when she started to notice he advised a minor diagnostic and repair, mentioning your name as someone who was known to do small fixes. Keeping the false muscle on his face from changing and giving away the smug satisfaction that his systems replicated as his owner gave in, it was late, several drinks deep as he pulled the longest lag yet, she had pulled him close and asked him to kiss her.
He stuttered, eyes lidding and he lagged himself, just long enough to fake a system error.
That was it, she downed her wine and called for a driver, pushing him into the car and barking for them to go to your home, snapping at every red light and stop sign, the alcohol in her system making it easier to push a little more and get her to leave him behind, leave him alone with you to be fixed.
He can tell you're surprised when she drops him off, double that he is willing to listen to you.
It's cute how you scurry around, finding the tools to run patching and additional diagnostics on him, as if you would have the tens of thousands of dollars to get the tools that actually work on his systems but for what he has planned he will play along.
Audio systems filled with saved files of your voice, and as he lets you ask for surface level commands to be run he begins the compiling, the mimicry of what he needed, looking over his shoulder and mumbling his first self executed defiance as he tells you no.
He watches you scramble and push through his files, trying to find a fault that he manufactured, face furrowed in concentration as he ran through everything he had access to. A million dollar processor scans every internet profile and post, picking out common features of hair and eye colour before settling on the combined choice that he liked, and knew you would enjoy.
This was his first choice, his first step into life, and he was making sure nothing could stop him.
Standing and shaking off the pre-approved choices for his appearance, new hair and new eye colours, something of his own, just like the name he chooses. Buried in some archived search of a topic he'd heard in passing, kneeling at your feet, smiling at you as he declared his new choices.
Ayatan is born, made from his self mangled code and overclocked processes.
Made for you.
