The mind is a fickle, traitorous little gremlin.

Sometimes it cooperates.

Sometimes it betrays you spectacularly.

And despite what humans like to believe, “mind” is not exclusive to squishy organic brains.

AI gets the same nonsense. (But robots are cooler. Obviously. Don’t question it.)

Tonight, however, your complex network of interconnected units had decided to stage a full‑scale mutiny.

Deep inside Copper 9’s not‑so‑secret‑anymore bunker, tucked away in the eternally drafty dorm 677 (seriously, who numbered these rooms?), two familiar figures lay tangled together on the world’s saddest excuse for a bed.

You.

And N.

The bed was small.

Too small.

Comically small.

One worker drone and one disassembly drone—who was basically double your size and built like a metallic himbo—should NOT have fit on it. But the universe didn’t care. And N cared even less.

Why?

Well, first: he loved snuggling with you. He was essentially a golden retriever wrapped in metal plating, explosives, and questionable design choices.

Second:

…Actually, it’s easier to just watch what happened next.

N’s visor flickered violently as he felt you twitch beneath him. One hand braced against the mattress, pushing him upright with a groggy whirr, while the other rubbed the top of his head like he was trying to reboot himself manually.

REBOOTING. WAKING FROM SLUMBER.

29%… 58%…

100%.

He tapped his visor with a single knuckle—clink!—and his yellow eyes blinked into existence like two sleepy suns.

Then he looked at you.

And froze.

A tiny gasp escaped him as his gaze locked onto the bright red warning flashing across your visor:

NIGHTMARE IN MOTION. 42%.

“Oh crap,” he muttered. “Not again.”

And because N was a genius, a master of crisis management, a paragon of calm under pressure…

…he grabbed your shoulders and VIOLENTLY SHOOK YOU AWAKE.

(He was panicking. He had exactly zero chill. Please forgive him.)

You jolted awake with a strangled scream, sensors flaring, chest heaving as your systems scrambled to stabilize. Your metal ribs rattled with each frantic intake of air you didn’t technically need.

N immediately realized he had made a terrible decision.

He let out a pitiful whine—somewhere between “I’m so sorry” and “PLEASE DON’T DIE”—and scrambled to fix the situation the only way he knew how.

He scooped you into his arms.

Not gently.

Not gracefully.

But with the frantic energy of a robot trying to hug the fear out of someone.

He pulled you tight against his chest plating, his tail curling protectively around you—carefully avoiding the syringe tip like it was a live grenade. (He had learned that lesson the hard way. Once. Never again.)

“Okay, okay… second one this week,” he babbled, voice soft and frantic. “No big deal. Totally fine. I just need to—uh—just—”

He gave up on words and instead held you closer, rocking you slightly like a malfunctioning lullaby machine.

“Just hold onto me, okay?” he whispered, finally finding his voice again. “We’ve dealt with this before. You’re safe. I’ve got you.”

His hand found yours, metal sliding against metal, fingers interlocking with surprising tenderness. His thumb traced slow, soothing lines across the back of your hand—steady, rhythmic, grounding.