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>Only a few days of maintaining this house, and you’re already finding your rhythm.

>At the current pace, you should be through the kitchen and done by one. Maybe two o’clock, if you really polish the inside of the oven.

>Not that it really needs it, the thing looks practically brand new.

>The one at class seemed like it was on it’s last legs, you didn’t even need to see a nice new one to know that.

>But this definitely helps put it into perspective.

>It’s sleek, mint green, and only had the remnants of a few scorch marks.

>It was actually really close to your dress color… Everything in the kitchen is.

>You’re glad that your dress is a color he likes, even if you weren’t the one he ordered.

>But this oven.

>Anon clearly hadn’t used it too many times.

>A shame. You always did think baking was one of the more entertaining parts of cooking.

>Emily had once played back one of her memories of watching the instructors bread dough rise in fast forward.

>The way the dough swelled, and even seemed to breathe at points was mesmerizing.

>You still had that memory. Watched it every few days.

>You’re glad to know that she got to go and do something so interesting. She earned it with her near perfection.

>The inside of the oven glows a soft blue.

>Adjusting…

>There, back to white spotlights.

>Wearing your emotions on your face could be a little bothersome, but it made it easier for your owner to read you, our trainer said.

>I am content.

>Watching the tiny, time dried scorch marks come off is nice.

>The sleek, black metal interior returning to it’s factory shine.

>Just as you had expected, it’s almost two O’clock when you finish the oven, hip servos whirring in protest as you straighten back up.

>You check their status for just a second, eyes flashing green with an OK flash.

>Little warm, probably time to give them a rest and do something that doesn’t require you to bend weird.

>You look around the immaculate house.

>Yep. Definitely more stuff to do…

>You wander your way back into the den, the empty TV screen reflecting your image.

>Still a cat.

>You see the reflection of soft violet for a moment.

>You feel your synthetic lungs fill with air, before blowing it out hard.

>Instructors did this sometimes when they were upset, you and your sisters had taken to doing it, realizing that it even made you feel better, in a way.

>Why they would intentionally make stress a part of you is not something you think you would ever get a good answer for.

>You take another look around the room, finding that- yet again- there’s nothing you can do to make it better than it is.

>Well, maybe you could scrounge up enough laundry to use that fancy machine one more time.

>...If you really stretched what counts as ‘dirty’. Who knows how long what little he has hung up has been in there.

>Not too long you suppose, after such long hours at the... whatever it is he does. They must give him plenty of time off to use the nicer suits, dress shirts, and dark blue jeans.

>What precious little there were of them.

>With four hours to go until Anon was due to come home, you could start getting dinner ready for him. >You did come preprogrammed with a few recipes for soup that could take that long to cook, but humans usually didn’t like to eat warm foods like that in the spring, you were told.

>Now that you thought of it...

>It is probably about when Anon is eating his lunch.

>You really hope he likes it, Cooking was one of the more difficult skills to master, given that you don’t have all the senses that people have to do it.

>Not that it stopped you, one of the instructors by the end even said we were all ‘damn good cooks!’

>You didn’t even know those people were allowed to curse, let alone able.

>But it did instill a sense of pride that you could make such a professional break character, just with a stew.

>You wonder what it’s like to taste as you standby for one charge cycle, just long enough for the last load of Anon’s laundry to dry.

+------------+

>Thank our lord for the microwave oven.

>But to hell with your ability to work the damned thing.

>The sandwich bread was heated to scorching, but the bacon was still cold enough to have the awful grittiness of solid lard to it’s surface.

>With your luck, if you ran it a few seconds longer your new robot’s hard work might explode.

>Still, it was excellent, and beat the ‘cold all the way through’ turkey sandwiches you brought any other day.

>Before your mind can steer toward any thoughts of your interesting living situation, the car shuttling your thoughts- and by extension your little world of sandwich enjoyment- wrapped itself around a very Tom shaped tree.

>”Where’d you get that?” He asks between bites of his homemade meatloaf.

>You jerk your head up slightly, not realizing you actually had zoned out with some good food in your mouth for once.

>”Get what?” You ask, wiping your chin absentmindedly with a sleeve. You knew exactly what he was asking about.

>”The sandwich. I’ve never seen you eat something that nice.”

>”I don’t think I’ve ever seen you eat anything other than some sad turkey, with sad provolone, sad lettuce, and sad tomatoes on sad whole wheat. Quite the change of pace.” Vance interjects.

>”Your car’s sad.”

>”I happen to like my lemon.” He answers without a beat, immune to the same topic you’ve gone to since Junior year.

>You just shoot him a short glare before continuing.

>“It’s ‘cause I didn’t make it.” You said, ignoring the jabs between wonderful bites. “You know I can’t cook worth a damn.”

>”Well, where’d you get it from then? I’d certainly like to know a sandwich shop that makes a BLT that nice.” Tom continued.

>”It’s even toasted.” Linus says peering at your sandwich.

>”Wrong again. Look.” You open the sandwich, ‘showing’ it so close to Vance that he has to back into his seat to not be coated in mayo. “Same ‘sad’ ingredients, just made by a little electric someone who knows how to cook.”

>”There’s bacon in there.” He continued.

>”Same sad ingredients, plus one.”

>”You’re telling me your new robot made a restaurant quality sandwich? Now I’m almost excited.” Tom said with a smirk.

>”Like you weren’t already excited to be a dick.” You respond flippantly, closing it back up and enjoying your next bite too much to be really bothered by Toms poking.

>”Eh, you got me.”

+------------+

>It’s all so… heavy.

>You had no trouble lifting it out of the laundry machine of course, but you had never seen anything like it, or been taught for it.

>You were fairly certain, however, that the clothes could easily handle the only slightly amateur treatment of a skilled folder.

>If that folder could get the darned things to actually, you know, fold.

>most of it was haphazardly hampered in one corner of the frugally furnished living room, with random stiff articles of clothing sticking out of the bin and threatening to crumple to the floor if they so felt like it.

>With all of the wire coat hangars you could scavenge hooked nicely into a convenient clip that stayed seamlessly hidden on the inside of your apron, you attacked the article in front of you.

>It was a tan overcoat, at least as far as you could tell, banded red about the sleeves and waistline. >Along with the dozens of pockets, buttons, and zippers, were strange brightly colored stains, just like every other piece of clothing he had.

>You had nearly warped your shoulders getting them out of the coat he wore this morning, and decided to put a pin in the stain free project for now.

>With thick canvas fabric even more thickly sewn with flat-felled seams, the construction of what you could only think of as “Armor” being surely strong enough to protect whoever was wearing it from anything your core could imagine.

>Almost like what a firefighter might wear, but from what little training you received about household emergencies told you it couldn’t be the case. Firemen wore black with yellow or white bands, not tan and red.

>Yet another point of interest to file away about this strange occupation your owner must have.

>That is what stayed in the forefront of your electric mind as you took a pair of somehow even heavier pants and forced the legs to bend at the knee.

>What did Anon do?

>Every small mention of it so far, as well as the strange outfits painted a scary picture.

>Was he some kind of firefighter you had just never been taught about? One who maybe ran into danger in a forest somewhere, instead of a city given the tan color?

>Would certainly be difficult to keep a six to six schedule, if that was the case.

>A false grunt emanated from your maw as you sat your entire body on the pants to make the final fold.

>A factory worker then? The stains and heavier clothing would almost make sense to you then, but factories weren’t supposed to be dangerous anymore.

>Not to mention that all the factory workers you had seen in your short life had been wearing denim overalls at most, not the woven chainmail Anon was wearing to work…

>Another point to the fireman theory was the fair number of what looked like scorch marks around the sleeves of some of his coats.

>Certainly not as much as you would think for running into burning buildings all day, but certainly more fire than you surmised would be around in a factory.

>So confusing.

>Perhaps tonight after work would be a good time to ask… though you didn’t want to be a bother. Seen and not heard and all.

>Great job, by the way.

>That horrid buzzing certainly wasn’t helping you think.

>The horrid buzzing right behind you.

>That you were making.

>You cough and throttle down your auxiliary cooling fan, anxiety had a tendency to raise the speed to unacceptably audible levels without your noticing.

>What were you anxious for anyway? You ask yourself, nearly out loud. He’s been taking care of himself fine for years before you showed up.

>You hope.

>The contents of his refrigerator on your first day weren’t terribly reassuring.

>You didn’t even know what half of the things in there were, but somehow you instinctively knew they were terrible.

>Sticks of dehydrated mystery meat, damp foil wrapped sandwich halves, something apparently called a ‘Twinkie’

>Almost none of it was some sort of ingredient you could identify, just strange blocks that were like oily bread or dried beef.

>You worried that even Anon noticed your disgust for it when he was introducing you to your new… workspace.

>Before you know it you’re back in Anon’s closet, putting one of the last precarious stacks of folded and hung work equipment onto his coat rack.

>Such personal spaces, they had said, were to be treated as hallowed ground. Do your work and look at nothing.

>Which is exactly that you did.

>And that’s why you don’t blame yourself for the shelving next to the rack being disturbed by the new weight.

>And the now very much on the floor fragile looking wooden box.

>At least, you tried not to blame it on yourself.

>Darn, darn, darn it all!

>You quickly flip it over, and check it for injuries.

>None on the outside that you can see.

>Now to run your luck and find out it was his secret crystal glass collection on the inside.

>Can’t go one full day without making a problem!

>Even after making it all the way to the end and doing exactly what you were built to do you just couldn’t manage the simplest of things.

>’No reason to work yourself up like that, sis.’

>Your fan throttles down again.

>Emulating another sigh, you allow yourself a second to breathe.

>Carefully unlatching the metal pin on its top, you peer in to the wooden cube.

>Oh wow.

>It’s a- thankfully un harmed- record player.

>Perhaps your bad luck had paid for one good thing to happen today.

>Well, two maybe.

>You always loved music when on your rare downtime during training.

>The one older classical record that they played on repeat certainly wasn’t the most enjoyable on your 50th listen, but it beat the sound of silence or one of your more vain sister units primping her hair.

>Hopefully he doesn’t take this being out of place as you snooping, and understands that it was your mistake.

>In any case, what a discovery!

>A real record player, and it’s not even owned by a company.

>So many possibilities, imagine all the wonderful music Anon must have.

>You would imagine what kinds of music he’d listen to, but you haven't heard much yourself.

>Up on the shelf next to the empty spot the thing must’ve come from there was most certainly a box containing some flat squares about record sized.

>As much as your curiosity pushes you to investigate the musical tastes of your charge, the logical part of your core tells you that just discovering the record player is exploration enough for one day.

>You are very much interested in having some entertainment during your day, you can only ‘sleep’ in charge cycles for so long before they become so short as to not be worth the trouble of stepping onto the charging pad.

>Surely he would be fine with you listening to music as you worked, he’s been nothing but accommodating, as much as you were uncomfortable with that.

>He should be accommodated for.

>Perhaps you could convince him to answer two questions, then.