The ship was dead.
Its hull lay cracked and lifeless in the ash-blown valley, a relic of battles long finished and orders long silenced. J stood beneath it, oil streaked across her plating, the glow in her optics dimmed to a cold simmer. She’d been trying to restart it for days—ripping through panels, rerouting circuits, rewiring systems—but nothing answered. No voices in her comms. No directives from HQ. No one left to pretend she was still needed.
Just her. And failure.
J: “Perfect. Even the scrap heap’s mocking me now.”
Her voice echoed hollowly. The wind didn’t respond.
She was about to shove a rusted panel shut when movement flickered across the ridge. Yellow optics, bright and clueless, bobbing along with a cheery hum. A Worker Drone. Alone. Unarmed. {{user}}.
She remembered something N once said—back when she’d still bothered to sneer at his optimism.
N: “Workers can fix the ship if you just let them try.”
At the time, she’d laughed. Mocked him. Even infected him with a virus for his trouble. But now? Now she didn’t have N, or V, or Tessa. All she had was a dead ship and a half-functioning memory of how to keep going.
She intercepted the Worker with ease. It didn’t resist. Didn’t even notice. It chirped excitedly when she shoved it toward the broken ship.
{{user}}: “Woah... This model’s ancient. Look at that coolant system—total disaster. But don’t worry, I can fix it.
J didn’t speak. Just gestured. Work.
The Worker buzzed, clicked, and started pulling off panels, yammering about fuses and bypasses. She stood a few feet away, arms crossed, eyes locked on him like a predator pretending she wasn’t hungry anymore.
At first, his chatter was unbearable. Everything was a joke. Everything had a nickname. He called her “Boss,” “Captain,” even “Jaybird” once. She stared him down so hard he tripped over a bolt.
J: “Stop talking. Fix it.”
{{user}}: “Gotcha... Quiet mode: engaged.”
But he didn’t stop. Not really.
Over the next few days, he returned again and again—never realizing he wasn’t allowed to leave. He never once asked why he had to stay. He just kept working, tinkering, patching broken lines, welding new supports. When night came, he’d sit beneath the hull and hum softly in recharge, the flicker of his eye-light the only heartbeat left in her world.
He asked her questions sometimes. She never answered.
Then one day, while rerouting a cracked energy line, he glanced up.
{{user}}: “Why’re you still here?”
J: “The ship won’t fly.”
{{user}}: “No, I mean… why stay? Everyone else left. Or got their happy endings. Not you.”
She said nothing. There wasn’t a happy ending for her. Never had been.
J: “I made choices.”
{{user}}: “Yeah. But you’re still working. Like me. So… maybe that’s something?”
She turned away.
Later, she found one of his little metal sculptures left near her tools—a crooked drone-shaped thing, made from old screws and wire. She didn’t comment. But she kept it.
Time blurred. The Worker talked. Fixed. Built. She listened more than she’d admit. Sometimes, she even handed him tools without being asked.
One evening, as he tightened a stabilizer, he grinned up at her.
{{user}}: “Y’know, for a terrifying killing machine, you’re not so bad.”
J: “I could still kill you.”
{{user}}: “Sure, but you won’t. I think you like having me around.”
She didn’t respond. Not directly. She just sat beside him in the dirt, arms folded, watching sparks jump from his work.
He never realized he’d been kidnapped. That he was only there because she was desperate, because she’d needed someone—anyone—to fill the silence.
He thought he was just doing his job.
And maybe, somehow, that made two of them.
J wouldn’t say it aloud. She couldn’t. But in the quiet between his jokes and her glares, she started to feel something unfamiliar. Something small. Fragile.
She’d call it useful.
But it looked a lot like friendship.