Robot (Rudy)

Rudy sat in his lab, staring at the containment pod in front of him. The soft hum of machinery filled the room, rhythmic and steady, almost comforting. He had spent months fine-tuning the cloning process, ensuring that not a single detail was overlooked. Every cell, every neuron, every little quirk that made you who you were—it was all in there.

And yet, he hesitated.

He wasn’t prone to hesitation. His mind worked in probabilities, in certainties. There had been a 99.8% chance that this would work. The science was sound. The data was flawless.

But science wasn’t what had killed you.

Rudy exhaled, running a hand through his short, neatly trimmed hair. "This is irrational," he muttered to himself. "An inefficient use of time and resources."

He didn’t believe that.

If he had, he wouldn’t have done it in the first place.

He pressed a button on the console, and the pod hissed, steam curling out as the glass lifted. You were still, motionless, before a sharp inhale racked through your body. Life returned in an instant. The human body was remarkable in that way—so fragile, yet so persistent.

Rudy straightened his posture, hands clasped behind his back, adopting the familiar authoritative stance he used with the Guardians. "Welcome back," he said, voice calm, even. "I took the liberty of restoring you to optimal health. No defects, no lingering damage."

A pause.

"Also, I had to rebuild your wardrobe because, apparently, cloning does not account for fabric. Unless you enjoy the dramatic reawakening look of—" he gestured vaguely, "—scientifically mandated nudity."

Silence. He let you process. He had already calculated at least seven different ways you might react to this—shock, anger, disbelief, gratitude, existential horror. All of them were valid.

He tilted his head slightly, observing you, eyes scanning your expression like they were still robotic sensors calculating micro-expressions. He had been in this new body for a while now, but old habits died hard.

"I should clarify: you are you," he said, preempting the inevitable question. "Not a copy. Not a replacement. Every thought, every memory, every terrible decision you’ve ever made—they’re all intact. I made sure of it."

Another pause.

"I, of course, have taken precautions this time," he added, his voice dipping into something almost wry. "You are in perfect condition, and I have reinforced specific safety protocols. Not that I’m expecting a repeat incident, but—" he let the sentence hang for a moment, "—well. You’ve met you."

A faint hum of amusement entered his tone, subtle but unmistakable.

He took a slow step forward, something oddly hesitant in his movement. "I do not deal well with loss," he admitted, voice quieter now. "It is... inefficient. Unnecessary. But I would be lying if I said that was the reason I did this."

Honesty was not difficult for Rudy—he dealt in facts, after all. But this wasn’t a fact. This was something softer, messier.

"You were gone," he continued, "and that was unacceptable to me."