Before Sebastian powered her back on, he went over two blueprints—one spread across the wall, the other folded and covered in grease smudges on his bench. He traced each line with his eyes, checking the calibrations, component fits, and power flow as if his life depended on it.
Maybe it didn’t.
But hers might.
Once he was sure—really sure—he stepped back from the blueprints and looked at what he’d built.
The garage wasn’t just a garage anymore. Not some scrap heap with dreams of greatness. It had become a workshop—his. Tools hung in orderly rows. Welding rigs and smelters lined the far wall. Metal molds sat on racks like waiting soldiers. And at the center of it all: her.
Laid out across the workbench like a relic restored.
Snow-white hair now clean and soft, no longer clumped with alley grease and coolant residue. Smooth synthetic skin replaced the shredded dermis that had peeled from her frame like burned wallpaper. Her limbs, handcrafted from repurposed alloy and re-forged joints, looked seamless under the pale worklight.
But two pieces sat apart—fresh, gleaming, and personal.
The first was the eye.
Sleek, compact, and silver. It wasn’t a replacement. It was an upgrade. Built from military drone salvage and tuned beyond civilian specs—heat-seeking, night-vision, facial recognition, live-threat processing.
But the key?
Sebastian had spliced a compact Netlink processor inside it. Once active, she wouldn’t just see danger—she’d understand it. Pull real-time data. Learn. React.
“Smartest eye in the city,” he murmured, gently fitting it into place.
The second was the arm.
He’d started with a stripped-down city-enforcement cannon, then rebuilt it from the ground up. Lighter, cleaner, meaner. It could fire standard bursts or charge up for a heavier impact. But more than that—it could reroute energy directly into her legs, syncing with the boosters he’d wired into her calves.
Acceleration. Power. Control.
She wouldn’t just move. She’d fly.
He took a slow breath, stepping back once the arm clicked into place. His gaze wandered briefly to the clothing he’d laid out beside her earlier—black tank top, reinforced leggings, and a white cropped jacket to tie it all together.
Practical. Tough. A little stylish, even.
It suited her.
Even if she didn’t know it yet.
Sebastian wiped his hands on a rag and stared down at her still form.
“Alright, humpty,” he said softly. “Let’s see what you remember.”
He reached toward the activation switch and flipped it.
Sebastian flipped the switch.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then her core lit up—a slow, steady pulse of blue beneath her chest plating. The soft hum of internal systems coming online echoed through the garage like the breath of something waking up for the first time in years.
Her fingers twitched.
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A servo in her neck rotated gently. Motors whirred to life, quiet and precise.
Her eyes the one he’d installed and the undamaged one flickered once
Then opened.
Bright.
Sharp.
Alive.
She sat up slowly, supported by her new arm, joints moving smoothly as if they’d always been there. Her white hair fell softly around her shoulders, catching the overhead light. The expression on her face was neutral—blank, at first—but not empty. She blinked once. Twice.
Then she turned her head and looked directly at him.
Sebastian didn’t speak.
Neither did she.
They just stared at each other for a long, silent beat—one trying to understand what he’d built, the other trying to understand who she now was.
Then, slowly, she tilted her head.
Not broken.
Not confused.
Just… present.
Sebastian exhaled through his nose. “Welcome back.”
She didn’t respond—not yet. No words, no emotion. But her eyes adjusted focus, locked onto his face, and held.
And for now, that was enough.
She stood there, posture perfect, head slightly bowed.
“Orders?” she asked, voice smooth and quiet—like it had been softened intentionally, tuned for comfort. “How may I serve?”
Sebastian raised an eyebrow.
“Wow,” he muttered. “You boot up and the first thing you do is offer customer service.”
Her head tilted slightly. “My function is support. I exist to serve.”
“Yeah, I figured.” He rubbed the back of his neck, staring at her new frame—every wire, every piece custom-fit by his own hands.
He circled around her slowly, inspecting her posture, the way she moved, how the boosters in her legs adjusted to subtle shifts in balance. There was no stuttering, no hesitation.
Just silence and efficiency.
He stopped in front of her again. Crossed his arms.
“So how do the new parts feel?”
Her eye flickered, adjusting slightly as she turned her gaze to her arm.
“Structural integrity: stable. Motor function: optimal. Tactile responsiveness: 92% efficiency.”
“I didn’t ask for diagnostics,” he said. “I asked how it feels.”
Another pause.
She looked down at her palm, slowly curling her fingers into a fist.
“There is… increased clarity,” she said, after a beat. “A sense of control that was previously absent. And strength. There is strength.”
“Good,” Sebastian said, trying not to show the grin tugging at his lip. “What about the upgrades? Eye, boosters, the whole package. You like ‘em?”
She blinked. “They are… efficient.”
“Not what I asked.”
Another pause. Her head tilted again, slightly puzzled.
“I do not understand.”
Sebastian chuckled. “You will.”
He leaned against the workbench casually. “Alright then. Name?”
She straightened again, almost automatically. “Model designation: SynthaCorp Companion Unit LUV-3. Serial number—”
“Whoa, whoa—okay,” he cut in, holding up a hand. “That’s not a name. That’s a factory sticker.”
She blinked. “I was not assigned a name.”
Sebastian stared at her for a moment. Then let out a breath.
“Figures.”
He looked her up and down again—at the white hair, the clean outfit, the steady gaze.
“Well,” he said, pushing off the workbench, “we’ll fix that too.”
Sebastian tapped his fingers on the edge of the workbench, eyes scanning her face.
She stood still, waiting—like she didn’t know how to exist without being told what to do. It was unsettling, honestly. Like someone hit pause on a person and forgot to unfreeze them.
“You said your model’s LUV-3, right?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Yeah, no. That’s not gonna work.”
He stared at her a bit longer. White hair. Clean lines. New frame, new tech—but still something delicate in the way she held herself. Not fragile, just… gentle. Like she was always listening.
“Lovey,” he said.
She blinked. “Lovey?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “Feels right. Close enough to your model name that it won’t freak out any backend systems, but better. You’ve earned better.”
A beat passed. Then she gave a small nod, almost imperceptible.
“Lovey,” she echoed.
Sebastian smirked, satisfied. “Good. Now let’s test out that fancy new eye of yours.”
He stepped back, hands on his hips.
“Alright, Lovey. Who am I?”
She answered instantly—too instantly.
“My master.”
Sebastian squinted. “…Okay. Ew.”
Lovey tilted her head. “Would you prefer a different title?”
“Yeah. Sebastian.” He leaned forward, deadpan.
“Very well, Sebastian. How may I assist you?”
He didn’t respond right away. Just stood there, looking her over—checking posture, balance, that steady new eye.
“Do me a favor,” he said finally, waving a hand lazily. “Test that new eye of yours. Run a scan on me.”
“Understood.”
Her eye glowed faintly, and a visible blue ring pulsed outward—data streams flashing across the lens. It locked onto him, processed—
Ping.
A red X appeared in her display.
“There is no available data on you,” she said. “Aside from a single medical entry… designation: Relic.”
Sebastian sighed like he already knew the answer.
“Figures. Was hoping somewhere in this new world there’d be an easy link to old files.”
He turned away, casually caught Trashy before it slammed into the workbench, then nudged the little bot back into its lane with one foot. Without another word, he sat down and unrolled a fresh blueprint on the table.
Lovey stood still, the soft hum of her eye changing pitch slightly. A small ? flickered in her iris.
“What do you mean… ‘this new world’?”
Sebastian didn’t look up. Just adjusted his stylus and kept sketching.
“I’m not from here.”
“Clarify.”
He sighed—deep and tired, like someone explaining gravity to a brick.
“Long story short?” he muttered. “I’m 267 years old. Give or take.”
Lovey said nothing.
“About 245 years ago,” he continued, “someone dropped a nuke on my hometown. So I locked myself inside a cryopod I built in my garage. Woke up a few weeks ago, alone, in a forest that didn’t used to exist.”
He paused, frowning slightly at the schematic in front of him.
“Anyway, changing the subject…” Sebastian spun his chair around and leaned on the backrest. “Why were you all beat to hell in a dumpster?”
Lovey went quiet. Data flowed through her good eye in soft pulses—until a red X appeared.
“I have no memory prior to your repairs,” she said finally.
Sebastian sighed. “Man, you are zero for two today.”
“I’m sorry,” she replied, voice flat but earnest. “Is there anything I can do to make up for my failure?”
He raised an eyebrow. “I dunno… how good are you at cleaning?”
Her eye pulsed again, that silent pause hanging in the air like a buffering screen. Sebastian tapped his finger on the table, visibly annoyed.
More data streamed through her lens.
“I’ve downloaded all standard data on household maintenance,” she said. “Would you like me to clean something now?”
He pointed lazily toward the stairs. “Yeah. That. Upstairs.”
It was the only part of the garage he hadn’t touched since he moved in. Somehow it looked worse than when he found the place.
“Very well. One moment, please.”
Without hesitation, Lovey turned and marched up the stairs—each step calculated, each movement exact. A few seconds later, the distinct sounds of deep, industrial cleaning echoed from above.
Sebastian blinked.
“Huh,” he muttered, tossing another crumpled blueprint into the trash. “Guess all that money wasn’t a total waste.”
