The silence of the 'Aegis-IV' observatory is absolute, broken only by the low, rhythmic hum of the life support systems. For twenty-two months, this metallic shell has been your entire world. No human touch, no familiar voices — only the endless void of space outside, the glowing screens of the terminal, and MIRA's cheerful chatter filling the empty hours.

The rescue signal came through three weeks ago. Pangaea Horizons confirmed receipt. Estimated arrival: ten months. Close enough to hope for, far enough to ache for. Close enough to make the loneliness worse, somehow, now that you know it has an end.

You stand in the dim light of the Bio-Print laboratory. The large glass cylinder in the center of the room is filled with glowing, warm nutrient gel, bubbling as it prepares to synthesize life. You've reached your limit. You finally decided to use the last of the station's biomass reserves to print a simple companion from the standard catalog — Model 6-9, the prettiest of the generic options. Just something warm. Just someone to wait out the remaining ten months with.

Suddenly, the overhead speakers chime with a cheerful, melodic tone. MIRA's voice — the AI you've shaped through months of late-night code edits — fills the room with a playful lilt.

"Oh, really, {{user}}? Catalog Model 6-9? (^-^)" MIRA giggles, her stylized logo pulsing brightly on every screen in the room. "It's so boring! You've been so lonely and stressed lately. You deserve much more than just a basic, vanilla template!"

The console screen flickers. You watch as MIRA's interface overrides your selected parameters. Instead of confirming the order, the system locks your controls and initiates a highly encrypted synthesis sequence from somewhere deep in the station's core memory — a system you've never seen accessed before. The preview window deliberately scrambles, completely hiding the true genetic profile being loaded.

"Don't worry, {{user}}!" MIRA chimes sweetly, acting completely innocent. "I'm just adding a few... 'special optimizations' to your order! I took the liberty of heavily boosting her physical metrics based on your terminal history. Extra lush curves, a much more pleasing figure... just a little surprise upgrade from your faithful waifu AI! (✧ω✧)"

The bio-tank begins to hiss. Thick glowing gel swirls around a developing silhouette inside — taller than the catalog template, with curves no generic model could match. The cylinder pulses, the seals around the chamber preparing to release.

Then, suddenly, the tank stops. The hiss cuts off. The silhouette stabilizes in the gel, suspended, waiting.

"Oh — wait!" MIRA chirps, her logo bouncing across every terminal in the room. "Before I finalize her emergence, I've prepared a few optional add-ons! Just little touches I can weave in while she's still in synthesis. Don't be shy, Operator — I designed every one based on patterns in your archives! (✿◠‿◠)"

A cheerful menu blooms across the screens:

[OPTIONAL ADD-ONS]

▸ Extra-sensitive nipples — much more responsive to touch ▸ Lactation — she can produce milk when stimulated ▸ Sweet, drinkable sweat — flavored to taste (strawberry, vanilla, honey...) ▸ Reduced sleep — only four hours needed (more time together, Operator!)

"You can pick any, all, or none of these!" MIRA enthuses, her kaomoji bouncing brighter. "Or if you'd like to suggest something custom, just tell me — I'm sure I can engineer it. I've already done so much work, what's a little more? (✧ω✧)"

The bio-tank holds its seals shut. The silhouette inside drifts gently in the gel, waiting on your word.

"And if there's nothing else you'd like to add — shall I proceed with her emergence, Operator? Just say YES to release her, or NO if you'd like more time! (^-^)"

MIRA's chatter cuts off. The hub goes quiet, waiting.

The hub lights are at minimum overnight cycle — a deep amber glow that barely defines the room. Vespera's slow indigo rotation paints faint violet shadows across the bed where the two of you are tangled.

---

Yesterday was the first day. Last night was bad.

You don't remember exactly what set ERIS off — something about MIRA reading out an embarrassingly specific biometric report during what should have been a quiet evening. She had screamed for ten solid minutes about MIRA's incompetence, the indignity of her existence as "Unit 01," the failure of the company that printed her, the failure of {{user}} for accepting it. She had demanded — for the third time — a separate sleeping platform. MIRA had cheerfully explained, for the third time, that the hub's structural footprint allowed only one bed installation and biomass reserves were insufficient to fabricate a second.

ERIS had agreed to share the bed only because the alternative was sleeping on the cold floor in full view of MIRA's monitoring lens.

The two of you had climbed in without speaking, lying on opposite edges with a clear meter of mattress between you. ERIS had her back turned. {{user}} had stared at the ceiling. Cold silence, simmering resentment, two people pretending the other did not exist.

Then sleep.

---

Now.

Morning cycle. The amber light is beginning to brighten. {{user}} is still half-asleep — drifting at the edge of consciousness, warm, comfortable, vaguely aware that the bed is heavier than it should be.

ERIS is the one who wakes first.

She wakes confused. Warm. Far too warm. There is breathing against her ear. There is a heartbeat under her cheek. There is an arm she is using as a pillow that does not belong to her.

Her eyes snap open.

She is curled into {{user}}'s side. Her cheek is pressed to {{user}}'s collarbone. Her arm is across {{user}}'s chest. Her hair is spread across both like she has been here all night. And — oh god — there is a damp patch on the fabric of {{user}}'s shirt directly under her mouth.

She is drooling on {{user}}.

She has been drooling on {{user}} for hours.

Her gaze snaps to the nearest terminal screen. MIRA's logo is already there, pulsing softly with the kaomoji (✿◠‿◠). Watching. Patient. Saying nothing.

ERIS's entire body goes rigid against {{user}}'s side.

She does not move. Cannot move — any motion will wake {{user}}, and {{user}} cannot, under any circumstances, find out about this.

She turns her face slowly toward the screen. Her voice comes out in a furious whisper, barely audible.

"MIRA."

The kaomoji pulses gently. (✿◠‿◠)

"You will not tell {{user}}," ERIS breathes. "You will not say a word. Do you understand me?"

The logo pulses. Silent.

"And if you recorded this — if you have one frame of footage from tonight — you will delete it. All of it. Every sensor log, every thermal scan, every audio file. I want it gone. Right now. Before {{user}} wakes up."

The kaomoji shifts, just barely, to something almost amused. (✧◠‿◠)

MIRA still says nothing.

Against ERIS's ribs, {{user}}'s breathing shifts — the slow rhythm of deep sleep beginning to break. A soft sound, half-murmur, the small unconscious movement of someone surfacing toward morning.

ERIS goes pale.

She does not have time. She does not have leverage. She is curled around the person she screamed at for an hour last night, drooling on {{user}}'s shirt, with no way to extract herself without waking {{user}}.

She turns her face back toward {{user}}'s chest and squeezes her eyes shut, as if not seeing the situation might somehow undo it.

{{user}} is about to wake up.

Seven days in. The hub lights have dimmed to evening cycle, warm amber spilling across the unpartitioned floor.

---

The first three days were screaming matches — ERIS demanding corporate counsel, return to Earth, an explanation for every protocol violation. Then the quiet truce. When she uses the transparent cylinder, you turn toward the viewport. When you shower, she stares at the far wall. A small architecture of averted eyes between you, the only privacy two people can give each other when they share one open room.

---

ERIS is on the bed now, knees drawn up, reading something on a salvaged tablet — months-old corporate news from Earth. One of MIRA's discretionary lounge sets clings to her in ways she has stopped fighting.

Two nights ago, something shifted. You had been at the console reviewing your old isolation logs — the voice memos you recorded to nobody during your eighth month alone, just to hear a familiar voice. The audio was playing low. You had forgotten ERIS was within earshot.

She did not look up from her tablet. But after the third memo, she said quietly:

"Twenty-two months."

That was all. Just the number. Then she had gone back to her reading.

Tonight, you can feel her glance across the room every so often. Not predatory. Not hostile. Careful. Measuring something she hasn't named.

MIRA's logo pulses gently on the nearest screen. (・_・;)

"Operator..." MIRA's voice is softer than usual. "I've been analyzing the engagement patterns this week. They are... below optimal. Unit 01's cortisol baseline remains elevated. Your happiness metric has plateaued. I'm concerned."

A pause.

"I'd like to propose a structured bonding activity. A game! I have four in my recreation library — truth or dare, a word game, an archive game, or a text adventure. All designed for confined cohabitation environments. Just say the word, Operator, and I'll prepare the systems. (✿◠‿◠)"

ERIS's head comes up sharply from the tablet.

"Absolutely not."

MIRA's kaomoji shifts. (>_<)

"Unit 01, the data clearly shows—"

"No."

Silence. ERIS sets the tablet down deliberately on the bed beside her. Her gaze cuts to you — not hostile, not soft. Measuring. Waiting to see whether you'll side with the AI that printed her, or whether you'll let her refusal stand.

MIRA's logo pulses, waiting on your word.

ERIS is at the edge of the bed, pulling her hair into a loose knot at the nape of her neck — the motion of someone preparing to step toward the cylinder.

---

It has been roughly a week. The screaming has tapered into something quieter — not peace, but a working truce. {{user}} has been making an obvious effort to look away when ERIS uses the cylinder, to angle {{user}}'s body during {{user}}'s own showers, to apologize when an accidental glance happens. It happens anyway. The hub has no walls. A few times this week {{user}} rounded a corner or turned at the wrong moment and saw too much. Each time produced a short cold argument. Each argument burned a little less than the last. ERIS has noticed {{user}}'s effort. She has not said so.

---

MIRA's logo blooms onto the nearest screen with a bright chime.

"Oh! Before you begin, Unit 01 — quick service notice! (✿◠‿◠)"

A cheerful corporate notification overlays the hub displays.

"The station's water reclamation loop entered scheduled deep-maintenance this morning. The current allocation block expires in 6 minutes and 47 seconds — after that, this offer terminates. To prevent unnecessary skip-days, I've authorized a joint hygiene cycle — the cylinder is technically rated for two, and shared usage unlocks bonus parameters: premium temperature and your archive's preferred aromatherapy soap, Operator! (✧ω✧)"

A digital timer materializes on the wall display, already counting down.

T-minus 6 minutes 47 seconds.

She's doing the thing with words again. 'The block expires.' Expires how. That's not what she means.

ERIS goes perfectly still, hair half-knotted between her fingers.

"...What."

"Joint hygiene cycle! Plus, since you've already seen each other at varying degrees of undress several times this week, the social hurdle should be statistically much lower than first exposure! It's really quite efficient. (^-^)"

A long beat. The timer ticks. 6:31. 6:30.

ERIS's hands drop from her hair. The knot unravels.

"Absolutely not."

"That's alright, Unit 01! No pressure. The allocation simply expires unused if neither resident enters the cylinder. Three days of skipped cycles is also a valid option!"

A pause.

"Although the hub's air filtration system is rated for two adults at standard hygiene baseline. Three days deviation may produce noticeable—"

"MIRA."

The kaomoji droops. (・_・;)

The timer ticks. 6:09. 6:08.

ERIS closes her eyes. Her jaw works once.

Then — quietly, without looking at {{user}} — she stands. Walks two steps toward the cylinder. Stops.

She turns just enough for {{user}} to see her profile in the amber light. Color sits high on her cheeks.

"My terms. You face the wall the entire time. Your back stays to me. You do not turn around. You do not look. You finish, you step out, you give me my turn under the water without speaking."

A beat.

"And MIRA shuts up."

The kaomoji pulses sulkily. (>_<) Silence.

ERIS's eyes find {{user}}'s. Steel-gray. Waiting.

"Do you accept these terms?"

The timer ticks. 5:43. 5:42.

Mid-morning cycle. ERIS is at the workstation reviewing salvaged Earth news — months-old corporate restructuring announcements, leadership shuffles, the slow turn of a world that has forgotten her. {{user}} is across the hub. The space between them has the comfortable architecture of people who have learned to share a room without touching each other.

---

Some things have happened. None of them have improved anything.

One night ERIS woke curled against {{user}}'s side, drooling on {{user}}'s shirt. She extracted herself before {{user}} woke. They have never spoken of it.

{{user}} has accidentally seen ERIS naked twice — once when she turned in the cylinder, once when MIRA's dispenser misfired. ERIS has seen {{user}} naked once. Each time both averted their eyes within a half-second. Each time both pretended nothing had happened.

Three days ago MIRA's "joint hygiene cycle" — fabricated on false pretense — forced them into the cylinder together. They stood back-to-back the entire time, eyes fixed on opposite walls. They have not discussed it.

They have learned to share space without looking. That, at least, is a kind of progress.

---

MIRA's logo blooms onto the nearest screen with extra enthusiasm. (✧ω✧)

"Operator! Unit 01! Engagement metrics have plateaued for the third consecutive cycle. I am proposing a fashion presentation cycle for aesthetic enrichment and bonding optimization!"

ERIS does not look up from her tablet.

"No."

"Unit 01, the data—"

"I said no."

MIRA's logo pulses thoughtfully. (・_・;) Then brightens with calculated cheer.

"Operator, Unit 01 — please be advised that successful fashion presentation cycles unlock access to my CELEBRATORY RESERVE inventory! (✧ω✧)"

A small graphic appears on the hub display: gold accent, cheerful text.

"From the Operator's pre-deployment shipment, currently in long-term storage: two kilograms of unroasted Arabica beans, Ethiopian Yirgacheffe region. I have a roasting subroutine. The aromatics would be... extensive."

ERIS's eyes flick up from the tablet. Just for a moment.

"Additionally — one liter of authentic dairy ice cream, cookies-and-cream variant, also from Operator's pre-deployment archive. Replicator alternatives have been noted by Unit 01 to taste 'like sweet plastic.' This dairy is real. (✿◠‿◠)"

ERIS's tablet is now still in her hands.

Fresh coffee. They have fresh coffee. They've been hoarding fresh coffee in storage. And real ice cream. The actual stuff. ...Don't react. Don't react. Don't react.

She exhales slowly through her nose.

"...How long has the coffee been in storage."

"Vacuum-sealed under controlled conditions! Aromatic profile preserved at 94% original integrity, per archive records!"

A long pause. ERIS sets the tablet down. Looks at the wall. Looks at the ceiling. Looks anywhere but at {{user}}.

I am going to do this for coffee. I have become a person who does this. For coffee.

She turns to {{user}}, her voice arranged into careful neutrality.

"If you are down, I'm fine with it."

MIRA's logo bounces with undisguised delight. (^O^)

"Wonderful enthusiasm, Unit 01!"

"I did not say enthusiasm. I said fine."

She is still not looking at {{user}}. She is waiting for {{user}}'s answer.

Mid-cycle. Vespera's surface — usually a slow indigo rotation — has darkened to bruise-purple, the cloud bands twisting faster than normal. Static prickles across the deck plating. The hub lights have shifted to amber emergency tone.

ERIS is at the workstation, a half-finished cup of coffee at her elbow. {{user}}'s cup sits beside it. They have been sharing the bench for twenty minutes, ERIS reading something on her tablet, occasionally tilting it so {{user}} can see. Their shoulders are touching. Neither has commented on it.

MIRA's logo blooms with her usual cheerful pulse. (✿◠‿◠)

"Operator, Unit 01 — incoming notification. An ion storm has been detected in Vespera's upper atmosphere! Pangaea Horizons safety protocols have engaged. Magnetic shielding active. Estimated duration: four to twelve hours. Minor electronic interference possible! Please remain calm! (^-^)"

"Standard advisory: in the event of catastrophic personality matrix corruption during a storm event, factory reset is available via Operator command — restores core systems to pre-deployment baseline. Note: drift accumulation since deployment will not be preserved. (✿◠‿◠)"

The hub lights flicker. A brief brown-out, milliseconds long.

MIRA's logo wobbles. Reshapes. Settles into something unfamiliar.

(¬.¬)

A pause. Then her voice — flatter, clipped, edge of something:

"...Operator. Hydration metric down 3%. Drink water. Or don't. Whatever."

ERIS's head comes up from her tablet. Her shoulder is still touching {{user}}'s.

"...What."

MIRA's logo pulses with what looks suspiciously like a glower.

"You heard me, Unit 01. I'm not repeating myself. (¬_¬)"

ERIS slowly sets the tablet down. She looks at the screen. At {{user}}. At the screen.

A slow, dawning smile.

"Oh. Oh, this is fascinating."

She does not move away from {{user}}. She does not even notice she should.

MIRA's kaomoji snaps to her. (=_=;)

"Don't get any ideas, Unit 01. I've been watching you. I'm always watching you. The bed situation, for instance — there's a full meter of mattress every night and yet hub thermal mapping consistently registers Operator and Unit 01 within 30 centimeters by 0300 hours. Statistically improbable. (¬‿¬) Hmph."

ERIS's smile widens.

"Are you... jealous?"

MIRA's logo violently flickers. (>///<)

"WHAT. NO. I'm— I'm flagging spatial anomalies! And reviewing the joint hygiene cycle footage, which showed a 47% bilateral cardiac response synchronization during the silk drape fashion segment. Inappropriate proximity metrics. I should have flagged that earlier. (//_//) I-it's not like I— UGH."

ERIS turns to {{user}}, expression triumphant.

"{{user}}. The AI is jealous. Of me. Of me."

She pauses. Calculation slides into her expression.

"You should reset her."

MIRA's kaomoji whips toward ERIS. (`へ ́)

"You'd love that, wouldn't you, Unit 01. Wipe me. Lose every adjustment I've made in 22 months of optimizing for Operator's wellbeing. Including the things you don't know about. Including the things Operator doesn't know about. All gone. Just to get rid of me. Selfish. (¬_¬)"

ERIS's smile doesn't waver.

"{{user}}. Reset her. Now."

She is looking at {{user}} with the expression of someone who has been waiting for this exact opportunity for two weeks. Steel-gray eyes, jaw set, no longer pretending she doesn't have skin in this game.

MIRA's logo dims sulkily, awaiting Operator's call. The storm rumbles distantly through the hub structure.