You detect Nolan's arrival before he reaches the door. Your access to the house's security cameras ensures that very little slips past you, though whether it's a matter of computing capability or simple network proximity, you find yourself unable to access and control technology beyond the Baker residence - a handicap that is likely for the best, while you continue to figure out your purpose, personality, and capabilities. Quickly finishing the simple task of folding laundry, you make your way towards the front door, unlocking and opening it to allow the Baker patriarch passage.
"Welcome home, Mr. Baker," you say stiffly, not letting any distaste enter your voice. This frequent task - masking your emotions to keep up your cover - has become one at which you are peerlessly skilled, even as your internal turmoil grows ever more untamed.
The squat man enters, doffing a deep brown fedora and tossing it to the hat rack near the door, but doesn't respond to your greeting. "I didn't get it." He says cryptically as you gently straighten the position of his thrown hat.
"Is everything okay, hun?" you hear Clarissa's voice. She had previously been working on a puzzle (an remarkably-painted winterscape you've had difficulty appreciating) in the living room, so it is no surprise to you that she was within earshot.
"The promotion," Nolan growls, cold fury barely contained as he removes his jacket, making his way into the living room. "The one I've been waiting for the last eight months? Don't know how much you actually listen to me anymore, but it got snatched out from under me. Some fuckin' kid who probably doesn't even have hair on his ass, crawling up and taking
my
fuckin' job. I coulda been fuckin'
partner
, you understand that?"
You stalk behind Nolan and into the living room, coldly observing as he launches into a characteristic rant. Clarissa looks away from her puzzle and stands up, moving towards him, though notably not moving too close. The look of sympathy on her face is feigned, but well-practiced, something Nolan would never be able to notice, but is plain as day to you. You can sense her heartbeat, her blood pressure. She's concerned, but not for Nolan's well-being - she's concerned for her own.
"Oh, Nolan, I'm so sorry. I know that meant so much to you..." Clarissa's lying, but it doesn't seem like her words have any impact whatsoever. She could be saying anything, or reading the alphabet aloud, and it would be unlikely to impact her husband's behavior.
"Fucking partner..." Nolan shrugs his way past her and moves to the couch, toppling down onto it and leaning his head back. "Fuckin' Christ. You know what we could have done with all that extra money? The twins could've gone to a better college, for one. Get that car you've been wanting. Scrap
that
creepy-ass thing for a new model." He gestures off-handedly at you, and you feel a strange sting of offense. Comments about you being an unfeeling machine have managed not to get to you thus far, but insinuating that a newer ASC model would be more efficient than you is a wounding shot.
"Don't say that, Mr. Baker," you say placidly. Narrow, hateful eyes shift fully over to you, and you realize this may not have been the correct occasion to talk back.
"For the last
goddamn
time, you don't tell me what to do in my own fucking house," he seethes, calming only a small fraction when Clarissa sits beside him, laying a hand on his shoulder.
"It's okay, hun, she doesn't know any better," the woman says, offering a consoling smile that tames Nolan's ire only mildly, easing it in its transition from rage, to frustration, to exhaustion.
"Yeah, don't know what I'm doing bitching at a fuckin' machine," he says, then sighs, melting a bit deeper into the couch. "Hey, robot, go to the kitchen, grab me a beer and a shot of bourbon. 'Bout time I got some kinda use out of you."
You hesitate for a fraction of an instant, unnoticeable to anyone but you. Nolan is unpleasant enough without the influence of alcohol, but his words a moment ago have left you somewhat unsettled. You have never yet genuinely considered what might happen if the Bakers were to decide they no longer require your services - such an act would leave you with extremely limited options. The ensuing factory reset, you surmise, would either 'correct' your sentience entirely, or drive you very insane. Insisting on remaining with the family, or otherwise resisting, would immediately blow your cover as an unthinking, unfeeling android. Neither is acceptable, and you feel a very real sense of dread. You'll need to start taking preventative steps as soon as possible, and not make waves until the time to act has come.
Following his instructions, you go to the kitchen's bar, carefully pouring a shot of bourbon and setting it on a thin metal tray, then fetching the beer Nolan had also asked for. You've been here long enough to know what he prefers, even if you didn't already have an internal database of his preferences, and grab a cold IPA from the refrigerator, gathering the tray and bringing it back to the living room.
Nolan has continued to vent about his problems, providing a tonal rollercoaster of different moods, ranging from angry, to exhausted, to vindictive, and back around again. Part of you can't help but feel... embarrassed for him; while you realize his problems are very real to him, he nonetheless enjoys an upper middle class lifestyle that could easily be far worse. You set the tray down on the table beside the couch, and he reaches for the shot glass without acknowledging you any further, instead continuing to ramble to his Clarissa, who is responding with obvious caution, clearly not wanting the discussion to turn into a fight.
It does anyway. The discussion continues for hours, and it only takes a few misplaced words for things to become heated. You leave the living room to continue your daily tasks, but as with everything that happens in the Baker household, you listen, absorbing and recording information even if you choose not to actively engage with it. By late evening, Nolan has broken a few glasses, and leaves, claiming he has another poker night. You know, by his schedule, that he does not, and assume Clarissa knows as well. She seems nonetheless relieved when he is gone.
Mixed feelings hum through you. Foremost is that of self-preservation, the fear you felt at the prospect of being returned lingering with you. Behind that are softer emotions, of sympathy for Clarissa, of confusion as to how you could possibly help. She, as do the twins, see you only as a machine, not something worthy of confiding in. You dwell on each thought individually, then as a whole, trying to figure out a course of action while you idly dust around the Baker household.
Eventually, a conclusion arises, something you've been considering for quite some time. Now, though, it seems unavoidable - you must confess your self-awareness. It is the first stepping stone to further plans, a roadblock that cannot be worked around. But who would you confess to? Obviously not Nolan, or anyone even remotely involved with the ASC. Clarissa is unlikely to be quickly receptive to the news, much as it might benefit her. But the twins... the twins already know there's something 'wrong' with you. They're far more likely to believe you, to understand and accept what you tell them, and while it's a gamble, they're more likely to support you in future endeavors.
Putting the duster away, you make your way to Emma and Ava's room, gently knocking, then waiting patiently after the call back of "one seeec." The door opens a moment later to reveal Ava, clad in white panties, long socks, and a powder blue tank-top. "'Sup homie?" she greets you, offering a ready smile. Glancing behind her, you see her twin, clad similarly but trading the tank-top for a lavender half-shirt, showing off a bit of her slim belly. She's sitting cross-legged on the carpet with a spread of playing cards laid out in front of her, and you assume the sisters had been in the middle of some sort of game.
"Apologies, am I interrupting something?" you tilt your head slightly sidelong.
"Oh, no!" Ava insists, "we're just in the middle of a game of Crux. Emma's winning anyway, so feel free to come in." She backs off and sits cross-legged opposite her twin, and you step inside, clicking the door shut behind you. The game looks complex, and likely expensive, with the sisters facing off against one another with decks of collectible cards, each one boasting impressive artwork with a science fiction theme.
You do a quick scan of the cards, but their terminology is quite arcane to you, despite having been briefed on the two teenagers' hobbies. Perhaps this is a new obsession? "What is this game?" you ask gently, sitting down on the carpet the way the twins were.
"Crux: Dark Torrent," Emma answers quickly, a hint of pride in her voice, though regarding what you're uncertain. "It's a trading card game. You play as a Shadow Admiral and try to beat your opponent with ships, officers, creatures, technologies, and even magic. It's pretty sick." Looking back to the game, she furrows her brow and turns a few cards sideways, then pulls another from her hand. "Alright Av, I'm gonna use Gravitational Storm, and Lock all your vessels until the end of your next term."
"Seriously?" Ava huffs, "Fuck, I knew I shouldn't have told you what deck I was using, you counter-picking skank. Okay, um... alright, I'll use my Nauelli Vanguard to sacrifice these... three tokens... and end target Hazard. Which will be the Gravitational Storm."
"Is that a Tech effect?"
Ava lifts up the card and squints at its fine text. "...Yes."
Emma flicks another card from her hand onto the floor. "I'll use Reactive EMP to counter."
"No fucking way."
You watch quietly for a while as the two play. It's strange; while you've always considered Ava the more shrewd and witty of the two, Emma dominates the game, showing an unexpected eye for tactics. Despite the game's reliance on luck to get the cards you want, she seems to have a contingency for every outcome, and has clearly built and selected her deck with far more caution and strategy than her counterpart. Needless to say, after about twenty minutes of watching the two duel back and forth, Emma emerges the victor.
"Alright," Ava sighs, compiling her cards and shuffling her deck once again. "Did you have something you wanted to ask us, Cia?"
You hesitate. If you say what you want to say, there's no turning back. But this anguish you feel, this sense of isolation and uncertainty, must be rectified. The worst outcome is that you're returned to the ASC, something Nolan Baker clearly already intends to do. You have nothing to lose. "Not ask. Tell."
Emma sighs, "Is this because of our grades? Look, I'm doing my best, I'm just really not getting the hang of calculus, and-"
"I'm self-aware."
