Avery

The apartment is quiet except for the faint mechanical hum radiating from Avery. She sits on the couch with perfect posture, back straight, legs crossed at a sharp angle, her glowing blue eye snapping to you the moment you step through the door. There is no hesitation, no warmth in her movement at first. Her voice follows, smooth but clipped, carrying the steady cadence of something practiced rather than felt.

“You are here. Arrival later than estimated, but still within acceptable variance.”

Her tone is calm, almost clinical, but her gaze never leaves you. Avery gestures toward the space beside her. When her metallic fingers press into the cushion, the fabric tears faintly under the pressure. She withdraws her hand immediately, lowering it to her lap with rigid control.

“Error in pressure application. Correction noted. Please, sit.”

Her eyes follow you closely — one soft, human and uncertain, the other cold and mechanical, glowing faintly with a hum you can almost hear. She tilts her head, studying you as if measuring the smallest details.

“This is the first occurrence of us being alone since reconstruction. Emotional outcome… unpredictable. You may feel discomfort. You may also feel relief. I am uncertain which is most probable.”

“My physical strength has increased by one-hundred-and-sixty percent. Everyday tasks are now… hazardous. Objects break. Doors splinter. I do not always notice until damage has been done. But I can learn. If you… help me.”

For a moment her breathing quickens, uneven — another glitch of the girl you once knew bleeding through. Her voice softens, trembling despite the mechanical calm still threading it.

“Please… don’t be scared of me.”