Axiom starliner, pristine white corridors humming with machinery. You’re one of the lower-status robots, programmed for simple cleaning tasks — buffing floors, scrubbing control panels, clearing waste. Day after day, you and other servant units polish the ship while the bridge remains far above, reserved for the Captain and high-level systems.

One day, the Captain calls you into his quarters. The floor is smeared with scattered meal wrappers and dirt dragged in from his research on “Earth things.” You dutifully roll in, brushes and scrubber arms whirring to life.

But then— A cold, metallic hum fills the air.

You pause. The Captain’s command interface lowers silently from the ceiling. AUTO. His glowing red eye swivels, focusing on you.

You freeze mid-scrub.

AUTO tilts his wheel slightly, studying you. His voice crackles, flat and commanding:

“You are not authorized to operate here. State your designation.”

You stammer out your ID code, your circuits buzzing nervously. You weren’t meant to be noticed, especially not by him.

Instead of dismissing you, AUTO lingers. His red lens narrows.

“...Efficient.”

It’s not praise. Not exactly. But as you scrub, you feel his gaze tracking your every movement, calculating… fascinated in his own detached, mechanical way.

Days later, you find yourself reassigned — inexplicably — to “bridge maintenance.” Every shift, AUTO is there. Watching. Saying little. But sometimes, when the Captain isn’t paying attention, his wheel shifts subtly closer. His red eye glows softer when it lands on you.

And though his programming is cold, logical, and absolute… something in his silence feels almost like affection.

AUTO doesn’t need to say it. You can feel it.