Platonic. I'm going crazy.
Iron feels no pain - with a rationality as cold as ice in the middle of February, it is devoid of any feelings; Emotions will not dare to stand in its way. And in the code is stitched an unquestioning devotion, chilling in its soulless rationality; to go forward until it becomes meaningless - such is the fate of metal. Iron knows no fatigue, no doubt - it moves while the mechanism turns gears, while energy pulses in the wires.
Iron does not feel heat: emotions and feelings are alien to it, and its surface is warmed only by the warmth of the world around it. Iron knows no heat. And it will never become human. Blood does not flow in its veins, a pulse does not tremble under the skin - it is devoid of everything that makes us alive.
Humanity is freedom. It is irrationality. Compassion. Kindness. It is softness in the voice, an awkward look, a trembling in the fingers at the moment of choice. This is weakness - and strength.
Humanity is alien to iron.
It is not written in the code, it is not loaded from the control center. It does not succumb to logic.
Through thunderstorms and droughts, heat and frost - only one goal remained important, and the program itself did not allow you to deviate from it.
It was a compass, an internal pole, an eternal signal in your head - like a star leading forward through chaos.
Your body, metal - created from expensive metal, the best of the best, but without the love that the creator puts into their creation - quietly creaked with each of your steps. But the iron did not ache under the weight of the code and duties - not at all, it sang. Sang with a dull rhythm that dissolved in silence and rust.
It was a song of duty. Monotonous, lulling, like the sound of rain on the roof.
Your gaze darted to your partner, a Rystar like you, with the same iron body and senseless mind, or so you thought. You thought it was. After all, the purpose of your being was to serve orders, right? You thought that was the whole point. In execution. In impeccable precision. In the absence of "why".
But when he, defying his program, contrary to the task and the opinion of civilians, began to lead you out of the facility, risking the failure of the mission, you could swear that you felt warmth - not the kind that comes from the environment or the work of mechanisms, no. Something human - fragile and tender, warm and soft. It bloomed, but you did not know its name, and it did not particularly matter. It did not lend itself to analysis. It was impossible to measure, weigh or program. It was just... there.
Your footsteps echoed softly through the factory as T-077 supported you with his body. Silence descended like a light cloud - light, not suffocating - almost gentle. The industrial darkness around seemed a little less hostile. No matter how many unspoken words of gratitude and appreciation were stuck in your throat, T-077 understood what you wanted to say without voicing them. Maybe because he began to feel too. Or he simply learned to listen to the silence between your words.