Chapter Text
The Counselor calls it his delivery date; like he’s too stupid to get the double meaning.
“Today is a very special day,” he says as they exit the building, holding open the door a company car. It’s clean and sleek, polished to shine, but small enough not to attract too much attention. “Today is your birthday.”
He spends the ride prattling on about what it means to enter the world, to become a part of society, blah blah blaaaah. It’s nothing that Church hasn’t heard before a dozen times over. Every single moment in the workshop for the past two weeks has been preparing for this; tests upon quizzes upon simulations upon tests. All of it meant to prepare him to meet his new guardian.
Who, apparently, doesn’t really want to meet him.
The Counselor rings the buzzer once, and waits for nearly a minute. He sends Church what is probably meant to be a reassuring smile before he presses the button again, returning his hands to their resting position, clasped behind his back.
Finally, their response is announced with a burst of static. “Who is it?”
A man’s voice, Church notes. Well, he can work with that. Maybe they can talk about sports, or something.
“A representative of Necessity Labs, sir.” The Counselor says smoothly, as though he hasn’t been standing outside the front door for what is now two minutes and twentysix seconds.
“I’ve dealt with enough representatives in the last few weeks, thanks.”
The Counselor just forges onwards smoothly, his voice honeyed by the smile on his face, sincere or not. “There’s a rather critical matter I’d like to discuss with you. If you’re busy right now, we can always come back tomorrow. Or the next day. We can certainly come back any time that would be more convenient for you.”
There’s a part of Church -- a tiny, begrudging part -- that thinks oh, you clever piece of shit as the intercom goes silent.
Another seven seconds, and then: “Fine. Fourteenth floor. Let’s get this over with.”
“Counselor.” The man behind the threshold says the title without much emotion, his face carefully passive. Church scans him from top to bottom and back again, taking note of his appearance; from the faded jeans, to the clean sweatshirt, to the blond streak that’s a few weeks past needing a fresh bleaching. Everything about his posture screams defensive, the body language version of get off of my porch.
The facade cracks when he looks down, but only for an instant. Church catches it nonetheless, cataloguing the way his eyes go wide and his mouth hangs slack for a moment, before it’s replaced by clenched teeth.
“What. The fuck. Is this.” He says, his voice low and dangerous.
The Counselor places a palm on Church’s back, nudging him forward gently. “This is your new Triple P Sim, of course. Necessity Industries wanted to make clear its gratitude, for your understanding and patience, particularly while the will is--”
“Is this some kind of joke?” He mutters so low that it’s practically a hiss, interrupting as though the Counselor hasn’t said anything, and Church risks a sideways glance to see how that goes over.
But the representative has still got that infuriatingly calm drone: what Church has come to think of as his Subject Voice. “Is there a problem, David?”
“Don’t call me that, we’re not friends.” NotDavid replies instantly, as though it’s a kneejerk reaction. Shaking his head, he points at the bald man before him, jabbing an index finger towards his chest. “And I know what that is. I also know that I was very, very specific about getting a different model. I don’t want this one.”
Church shrugs expansively, tapping his chaperone’s upper arm and taking a step towards the elevator. “Welp, you heard the man. Can we go back to the labs, now? I didn’t even get to talk to Tu--”
“You. Stop talking.” The man turns his hand to point at Church, without moving his eyes from the Counselor.
“Excuse me?” Church protests, taking the step back towards the both of them, brows knitted and shoulders raised.
He’s completely ignored.
“You were very specific, officer Washington.” The smile on the Counselor’s face never seems forced; but out of habit, Church takes a peek at his vitals, and notes with some petty pleasure that his pulse is spiking slightly. Probably thanks to the nearly six feet of muscle and stubble that’s starting to crane over him.
But, even that doesn’t seem to stem the words. “Unfortunately, the Director was quite insistent that unit Alpha is the only unit fit for field testing at the moment. He was also quite insistent that you be the first to receive an active model. As a… Show of goodwill, as it were.”
The explanation doesn’t go over well. “I don’t really care what the Director was insistent about.” Washington spits, folding his arms. “I didn’t want one of these in the first place, so if you want me to play along with your little publicity stunt, you’re going to have to give me a different model. Any of them." He jerks his head towards Church, still refusing to look at him. "As long as they don’t look like him.”
The change takes place faster than the human eye can follow. Hiked shoulders shift into fully raised hackles as Church steps forward, getting between the two of them. “Hey! What the fuck, dickweed!” He throws an arm out; pushing the Counselor back, but more importantly, communicating his frustration. “What, I’m not good enough? You want some pretty, petite maidbot? C’mon, I’m a conversasim! I can read your emails as well as anybot else. This is some next level discrimination, fuck.”
As Church catches the illusion of breath, the stranger levels a stare at the Counselor, his jaw still clenched. “... You people can never just make it easy, can you?”
The Counselor’s voice doesn’t change at all. “It’s my job to make things as easy as possible, officer.”
He doesn’t seem bothered by the door slammed in his face.
“So. Alpha, is it?”
Having gone from the labs to the car to the apartment, there’s no dirt to kick out of his shoes, and the sim pushes past Washington into the living space proper. “Ugh. No. Look, just call me Church.”
“I’m not going to do that.” The answer is instantaneous, and sharp. Church doesn’t react externally, but makes a note of the vehemence; militant atheist, maybe?
Whatever the reason, this is a sticking point. He crosses his arms and stands up a little straighter. “Uuuuuh, well, that’s my name. So if you want me to respond, you’re going to have to use it, buddy.”
Washington pinches the bridge of his nose, a sigh escaping through it. “I thought you things were supposed to be, I don’t know. Helpful. Or at the very least, obedient.”
“Hah! You wish.” As if to make his point, Church flops down onto a threadbare couch and puts his heels up on the coffee table, settling into a depression in the cushions like he’d always been there. “Nah, if you want one of those, you’re gonna have to get yourself a T2T or something like that. We’re all about being as close to ‘human’ as possible -- except, you know, better.”
“Right. So, you’re an asshole.”
“Hey! You’re the one who judges books by their covers.” He leans forward, a scowl pulling at the bottom of his mouth. “Seriously, what was up with that? I’ll have you know that I’m one of the better looking models in the pool, dipshit. You’re lucky!”
“Yeah, I can see that.” His new guardian says drily, grabbing the toe of his sneaker and shifting his feet to drop them to the floor. “Look, I’m barely here lately anyway, so just. Try to stay out of my way.”
Church rolls his eyes, his mouth screwed up disapprovingly. “Uh, hello? Not that I don’t appreciate the leeway, but I am sort of supposed to be sort of helpful. I’m not gonna do your dishes or anything, fuck that. But I can take your messages, manage the budget, you know… Maybe organize your docs, and shit.”
“Don’t. H-- I have a system. I like them how they are.”
Sims don’t need to breathe, strictly speaking; the bellows in their chest cavities work as a cooling system, allowing air to circulate just above the heat sink at their core. That air doesn’t even need to have oxygen, and unless their liquidproofing is damaged, they can function just fine underwater.
But some things have more than a biological purpose. So Church heaves the mother of all sighs, sinking onto the couch and practically oozing down the pillows. “Come oooooon! You’re telling me that they finally send me out for consumer testing, and you don’t even want to use me?”
Despite the flush creeping up behind his freckles, the man scowls at that, before he turns and stalks into the kitchen without another word.
“Hey! What the hell, dude! I’m talking to you!” Church swings his weight onto his heels, trotting after him. “Are you at least gonna give me something to call you? I assume we aren’t friends, so apparently ‘David’ is too forward.” There’s something akin to a smirk tugging at one side of his mouth, and he clasps his hands behind his back -- he learned a lot from the Counselor, and not all of it during lessons -- tilting his head a few degrees in an affectation of curiosity.
The answer isn’t as swift as before; but after a few long moments with his hands flat on the counter, the stranger finally deigns to reply. “Washington is fine.”
Church rolls his eyes again, and leans against the refrigerator. “Alright there, Wash.” He doesn’t know why he settles on that, but it just feels natural. He’s already calling up the Necessity employment records, scrolling through and coming up emptyhanded for David Washington; for any Washingtons at all. He tries Washbourne, then George -- just in case. Nothing. Maybe his initials are D. M. V.?
His train of thought is interrupted by a single syllable, soft and quiet. “Don’t.” It’s almost lost in the ambient drone of background noise that makes city life what it is. Church probably only catches it because his audio receptors are tuned for it; the engineers seemed to think that if they whispered, he wouldn’t know that they were talking about him. He’s made a habit of nosiness ever since they loaded him with the prototype for their new security system. Without asking.
So, for a given value of hear, he hears something that he’s probably not supposed to. It would be easiest -- safest, at least -- to pretend otherwise, let sleeping dogs lie.
In his short life, Church hasn’t made a habit of easy, or safe.
“Fine, Washington it is, then. But if I call you what you want, then you gotta call me what I want.” He folds his arms, still scowling. “And that’s Church. None of this unit or serial number bullshit. Like, fuck! The one thing I was looking forward to out in the socalled real world, and I get sent out to the one douchebag who won’t even respect that.”
He can’t see Washington’s expression, but he can see him hunch over another degree and lift a hand to run his palm down his face. “Fine. Fine. Whatever you want, Church.”
“Alright. Glad we had this chat.” His tone is sardonic, but Church is more than a little smug; he’s won the first confrontation with his new guardian. And hopefully, in the process, set the standard for any future altercations. He turns back out of the kitchen to explore the apartment; get used to his surroundings, and maybe stake out where the power outlets lie.
But his audio is still tuned to low voices, and before he leaves the room, he catches something Washington mumble something under his breath.
“You always have to get your way.”