Thread by @beepgrandchero, Reverse AU - Companion Model He gets the email late, the [...]

https://abs.twimg.com/emoji/v2/... draggable="false" alt="👓" title="Brille" aria-label="Emoji: Brille">

https://abs.twimg.com/emoji/v2/... draggable="false" alt="🐶" title="Hundegesicht" aria-label="Emoji: Hundegesicht"> Reverse AU - Companion Model

https://abs.twimg.com/emoji/v2/... draggable="false" alt="🤖" title="Robotergesicht" aria-label="Emoji: Robotergesicht">

https://abs.twimg.com/emoji/v2/... draggable="false" alt="🐻" title="Bärengesicht" aria-label="Emoji: Bärengesicht">

He gets the email late, the sound of his phone buzzing muffled in the rumpled bedsheets where he’d left it. For a moment, he thinks about ignoring it—he was almost asleep—but eventually he groans and rolls over, reaching for his glasses in the dark.

“An Offer,” the subject says.

It’s from CyberLife, which is a surprise on its own. Connor sits up on instinct, leaning back against his headboard and frowning at the unopened email like it might explain what it’s doing there.

Connor’s made a point of not dealing with CyberLife lately.

His tech review “empire” can’t be called self-made, not with the money his deceased parents had unwittingly funneled into something they thought was a waste of time, but Connor takes what he does seriously. People trust him to know what he’s talking about, and to be honest.

Countless readers check in with him before they snap up the latest AI programs, the newest in-house virtual assistants, even some security measures. That gives him some semblance of power, and he tries to wield it fairly. CyberLife is not a fair company.

They’ve pulled more than a few underhanded tactics, technically legal and even expected in business, but Connor doesn’t have to like it. Besides, he’s been flirting with a temporary deal with CyberLife’s main competitor, a series of reviews just about their answer to the android.

It’s much more futuristic looking than the CyberLife humanoid models, and much less off putting. Less real. Easier to remember that it’s a computer, and not a person. Connor doesn’t like walking past the storefronts and seeing human faces behind the glass, staring blankly out.

Still, he leans to the side and flips on the lamp before he touches his thumb to the waiting email. It doesn’t hurt to look.

“You are invited,” it reads, in neat, plain formatting, “to participate in a beta program for the release of our newest android model.”

Huh.

It’s an obvious grab at his loyalty. They must have heard about his potential partnership with their rival, he can’t imagine what else would bring them to his proverbial door. Last time he reviewed one of their products, it hurt their sales enough that they temporarily pulled it.

The details are what get his attention.

“Introducing the new HK800 and WK800, our first customizable models for all your companionship needs. At our launch event, we take your preferences and use them to create the perfect partner, just for you.”

Connor’s stomach turns over.

He’s lonely, is the thing. He’s always been lonely. He has some friends, people he spends time with at bars and social events, who he texts on their birthdays, but he’s never had... well, what the email promises. Companionship. A partner. Not once.

When people ask, he tells them that it’s because he has no time, no inclination, but that’s not true either. Connor is busy, but if there was somebody he wanted... well. He’d make the time.

The perfect partner. It feels wrong, the same way he always feels wrong about androids.

The idea of creating someone specifically the way you want them, to fulfill your romantic desires, strikes him as incredibly seedy. People aren’t like that—you can’t force someone into the right shape just so they can love you.

But then, he thinks, skimming the email...

Androids aren’t people. They aren’t alive. They’re programs, glorified computers, code and machinery to create something with the appearance of life and none of the heart behind it.

It’s still sort of gruesome. He’s still uncomfortable with the entire idea.

But Connor thinks of having someone in the house with him. A friendly voice. The weird, terrifying unknown of someone’s eyes on him, their hands, seeing him and wanting him instead of throwing him away. He thinks of companionship. Intimacy. Something he’s never had before.

The clock on his phone ticks over past 1am. Connor remembers how tired he is and how close he was to falling asleep. He could save the email for the morning, turn it over again until he inevitably does the right thing and says no.

He pictures someone laying in bed beside him.

Opening up a reply, he types, “Send me the details in the morning. I need to know exactly what it is you want from me, preferably outlined in a contract. As a reminder, I can’t be bought, and you won’t corner me into writing a favorable review if the product has flaws.”

They email him back almost right away, after he flips the light off but before he puts the phone back on his mattress.

“Mr. Stern - The full terms of this arrangement will be sent to you tomorrow. We at CyberLife would never dream of your publishing something we hadn’t earned.”

“We trust you will be fully satisfied with our androids.”

[reverse au - companion model]

In the morning, over a cup of coffee, Connor reads through the contract CyberLife sent him. The rules seem fairly simple. He’s obligated to attend the launch event, both to customize the android he gets and certainly to be seen. There will be lots of important people there.

Their NDA is pretty airtight, at least until the scheduled press releases, but even without photos he knows word will circulate that Connor Stern was seen at a CyberLife function. He hates that, a little, but not enough to totally turn him off. It’s part of the job.

When the android shows up at his house—and isn’t that a weird thought, he wonders if it comes in a package like a Barbie or if it’ll waltz right up to his door—he can keep it for two weeks. Long enough to test its features, what it has to offer, but not so long to get used to it.

Then he gets another week to finalize and publish his review. CyberLife promotes the article, good or bad press, and no money changes hands so he doesn’t have to feel dirty about being paid to sing their praises. He has no doubt they’d try it, if they thought he’d accept.

The event itself is black tie. Ridiculously fancy, to Connor’s mind, but not surprising. They say very little about what the customization process is like, or how long it takes, but there’s an asterisk after the phrase “fully customizable” that he scrolls down to check.

“Genitalia will be available for selection at product launch,” it says, “as this feature is not yet finalized. No sexual contact between the android and the beta tester is permitted.”

Connor doesn’t know whether to be horrified or to laugh out loud. There’s a lot to unpack here.

If he thinks about it too hard, he feels the unease prickle up his arms, over his shoulders, and down his back, like a slow moving chill that says, “I can’t do this.” It’s too weird, too uncomfortable, to buy something that looks human for the sake of his own pleasure.

He RSVPs anyway, telling himself is that he’s in too deep now. He’ll tell the truth one way or another, even if it’s just publishing a review that reads in full, “This was the creepiest thing I’ve ever done.”

What he is, though, is curious. And, of course, lonely.

Now that he’s acknowledged it, it’s all he can think about. It feels like a hole in his chest, sucking everything else in, which is why he tries to ignore it most of the time.

“Cat’s out of the bag,” he says to himself, sending the NDA back with his digital signature.

He rents a suit the next day, smart and modern with some LED lights running through the fabric to accentuate the trim line of his waist. It’s nicer than he usually buys, but it makes him look good, and he preens in the mirror longer than he should before saying he’ll take it.

Then there’s nothing to do but wait. The event is on a Saturday night, several weeks away, and as it gets closer Connor finds he can’t tell the difference between excitement and dread.

[reverse au - companion model]

He arrives fashionably late, five minutes after seven, and has his ID checked at an imposing set of double doors by an android who smiles at him. Her LED cycles a yellow color as she references her database, even as she says, “Nice to see you, Mr. Stern. Enjoy your evening.”

Her voice is smooth, friendly. Connor can’t help but smile back politely, knowing that it means nothing to her whether he does it or not. Then she pulls open the door for him, gesturing him inside with a hand.

It’s busy, like any cocktail party, but the conversation is hushed.

Connor glances at the best lit corner in the room and sees a woman onstage, braids piled high on her head in an elaborate twist and a wide grin on her face. It looked more authentic on the android. Quickly, he makes his way to a high table and nods at the other occupants.

They barely spare him a glance.

“Thank you all for coming,” the woman says. The sound of whispers and chatter goes completely quiet. “We at CyberLife are so excited to share with you our latest innovation, something we’ve been perfecting for a long time.”

“Our androids are the face of modern technology, of the future, but since the beginning we’ve been wondering... does our customer have to be limited to a small number of faces to choose from? Why can’t they pick who they’d like to see?” Her smile gets even wider, teeth glinting.

“You folks are the first to do exactly that. We’re going to call your names, one at a time. When it’s your turn, you’ll make your way to the door just over there.” She waves a hand at a spot tucked away on the side of the room, where a security guard watches the room silently.

“Say hello to the people, Garrett.”

Garrett does not. The woman gives a short, good-natured laugh, and moves on.

“Inside, an assistant will walk you through all your customization options, so you can create your perfect companion android.”

Somebody lets out a short whistle.

“As a reminder,” the woman says, “any damage to the android we send you will come out of your pocket, and sexual contact is off limits. Of course, I think we can trust you all to be on your best behavior.”

The room titters appropriately. Connor signals a waiter for a drink.

He doesn’t care what it is, or that the waiter has an LED spinning on their temple. Maybe that just means they can scan him for past bar tabs and figure it out.

“Once you’ve made your selections,” the woman continues, “you will be escorted to the exit.”

“This way, everyone in the room gets to have the same experience, unsullied by spoilers.”

The room echoes with another pleasant chuckle.

“And I think that’s it.” The woman spreads her hands. “Thank you again for coming, and CyberLife hopes you enjoy your evening.”

All the lights in the room come back up, conversation bursts in packets of people like a pot boiling over, and Connor watches the woman to see where she goes. She says hello to a few people, shakes a few hands, and then he loses track of her in the press of the crowd.

He recognizes some of the people as he wends around the room, carrying a glass he drained almost in one go and shaking the ice when he’s feeling fidgety. No one says more than a few words to him, but it’s the recognition that matters. The quick acknowledgement of a nod.

There can’t be much more than fifty people in the room, but the selection process feels like it takes a long time. Connor checks his watch every time they call a new name. The fastest person, a woman wearing the newest model of the VR ghost glasses, takes about five minutes.

His name must be toward the bottom of the list. It’s approaching ten o’clock, the room slowly emptying, when he hears, “Connor Stern,” announced over the classical orchestra they’ve been faintly piping in.

[reverse au - companion model]

Connor tries to meet the security guard’s gaze as he approaches the door, but Garrett keeps his eyes on the crowd. His hands are empty, but the bulge near a side pocket tells Connor that the man’s got something prepared in case of emergency. It doesn’t make Connor feel safe.

Beyond the door, he steps into a dim room with a touch screen panel installed at hip height. Behind the panel, separated from the rest of the room by a retractable strap barrier, is a thin, wavering blue light that comes out of the floor. As he approaches, the light changes.

It flickers and projects a word, “WELCOME,” hovering in the air. Connor recognizes the CyberLife protected font.

“Jesus,” he says aloud, rolling his eyes.

“Hello,” says a voice.

Connor takes a startled step back, looking for whoever it is he missed hiding in the shadows.

Instead, the touch screen panel suddenly comes to life, sending out a glaringly bright glow in the room. Connor’s grateful he wore his contacts; the glare off his glasses might have blinded him.

A woman’s face appears on the screen. She’s blond, with a slightly crooked smile.

Her blue eyes twinkle, and on her right temple, a blue LED circle slowly spins. Another android. Connor recognizes this one from the commercials, the news stories, back when humanoid androids were a novelty and not everywhere you looked.

“My name is Chloe,” she says.

Expecting her to keep going, Connor stands there in an awkward silence while Chloe moves her head and blinks. She isn’t static like the other androids he’s seen. Micro-expressions flit across her face, and as neither of them speak, she looks like she starts to get nervous.

“Uh,” Connor says, reaching into his jacket pocket and wishing he had something to fiddle with, “I’m Connor.”

Chloe lets out a small breath, the picture of social relief. Her crooked smile makes another appearance. “It’s nice to meet you, Connor. I’m here to assist you.”

“Oh,” Connor says.

“Please step up to the terminal, and let’s get started.”

The projected “WELCOME” disappears again and is replaced by the digital model of a human body. It’s featureless, so far, free of any gendered distinction and nothing more than a blue blank slate.

Connor walks up to the touch screen, feeling stranger than ever.

“Are you nervous?” Chloe asks. “Many people are. It’s very understandable.”

He can’t tell if it’s a preprogrammed response or if she’s... made note of his stress levels, or something. Regardless, he’s not a fan.

“No,” he says. It’s a lie, but she doesn’t need to hear him admit that. “How does this work?”

“We’re pleased to be able to offer any configuration you like,” Chloe says. The blank human figure cycles through a few sizes, shapes, genders, like a demo screen.

“You pick the skintone, height, pronouns, eye color, et cetera. When the full product launches, you can even get so specific as to detail body modifications, or placement of freckles.”

“Body modifications?” Connor asks.

Chloe’s expression turns a bit demure.

“Some humans like piercings,” she says. “Or tattoos. For now, these features are disabled, but I’m sure we can still create a companion who’s well suited to you.”

Putting his hand on the touch screen, Connor opens up the first choice and is met with a series of sliders.

“It’s like a game,” he says, dragging one labeled “height” inch by inch, all the way up to six foot six.

“Our designers were inspired by many customization options found in the games industry,” Chloe explains. “We want you to be familiar and easy with the process.”

Connor sets the height to six foot four, taller than he is by a respectable few inches, and tweaks the model until it looks masculine. “Can I change the age?” he asks, on a sudden whim.

Chloe tips her head to one side. “Of course, all our androids are the same age.”

“But,” she adds helpfully, “there is an option to add wrinkles and other things, to create the illusion of aging. That’s several tabs ahead of where you are now.”

In a way, Connor is grateful that Chloe’s here and not another human. He can’t imagine the look he’d get.

Personal preference is one thing, everybody has it, but when he sets the android’s age range in the mid fifties and slowly, guiltily makes it look bigger in the shoulders and the stomach, he knows he’d be cringing with shame if another person was watching him.

It isn’t until he’s picking the eye color that it crashes down on him. He really is making himself the perfect partner. The projection hovering in front of him, now in full, lifelike color, is like somebody tapped into his daydreams and pulled out exactly who he’s weak for.

It still makes him uneasy, even as he picks the exact shade of blue he wants—deeper than Chloe’s, like the sea in a storm—but he’s electrified, too. Like a live wire waiting to be touched.

[reverse au - companion model]

When he’s through, Chloe spins the finished projection model all the way around so Connor can check his handiwork. His android is tall, heavyset and powerfully built, with wide hands and thick fingers. There are spots on its skin, delicate signs of “aging” that Connor marvels at.

Grey hair hangs in waves down past the android’s ears, in a style Connor doesn’t know what to call besides an outgrown sort of bob, and a wiry beard covers the line of its jaw. Under the mustache, when it opens its mouth, Connor sees the hint of gapped front teeth.

It’s perfect.

“Very unique,” Chloe says. “Humans have so many diverse interests.”

Choosing not to take that as an insult, Connor taps the “done” button with a finger. “Somebody for everybody.”

Maybe that isn’t true, if he’s standing here creating his dream plastic boyfriend.

“Thank you,” Chloe says as the projection winks out of existence, “for participating in this beta program. Unless there is a complication, in which case we’ll notify you, you can expect your HK800 by Monday afternoon.” She smiles again, sweet and pretty. “And congratulations.”

Connor goes home thinking about those hands, those eyes, his discomfort eclipsed by excitement. “No sexual contact,” he reminds himself, hanging up the suit still dimly glowing in the dim light of his bedroom, but that doesn’t stop him from settling on his bed with intent.

His hands drift down his chest, over the fabric of his sleep shorts, light sweeping touches to gauge his own interest, and he tries to imagine the scrape of a grey beard against his cheek.

Eventually he turns over and drifts, face pushed into the pillow, still fantasizing.

That night, he has a nightmare. He wakes up with no memory of it, sweaty and breathing heavy, but his moral compass seems to have stuttered to life again. Guilt rolls over him. Groaning, Connor flips over onto his back and presses the heels of his hands into his eyes.

Sunday is an interminably long day. He tries to get some work done, has a short text conversation with his friend Josh. They talk about the papers Josh is grading, and about meeting each other for drinks in the next few weeks, but Connor doesn’t bring up the beta program.

He doesn’t want anyone to know, not until he publishes the review. Even after, if no one he knows ever mentions it to him, it’ll still be too soon. The shame, the embarrassment, the arousal tangle together in his gut and make him feel almost like he’s coming down with something.

Connor wishes he hadn’t said yes, as much as he wants to see the model he created—his android—standing in front of him. It’s too late now, and he’s sick of going back and forth, but he spends the afternoon in a fog that leaves him going to bed feeling frustrated and behind.

He barely sleeps, half thinking about the nightmare and half wondering when “Monday afternoon” is.

It’s just after one. Connor nurses his third cup of coffee, glasses sliding down to the edge of his nose as he stares blearily at the kitchen counter, when the doorbell rings.

Without thinking, he opens the security camera app on his phone and checks.

His fingers go slack and the mug slips free, clattering onto the countertop so loudly Connor winces.

Blue eyes meet his through the camera. His android stands on the stoop, arms loose at its sides.

It looks... real, besides the light spinning on its temple. Its chest rises and falls, hair ruffling in the slight breeze, and Connor just barely catches the flexing of its fingers as it waits for him to answer the door.

“What the fuck,” he murmurs.

Coffee drips onto the floor, the growing puddle touching Connor’s bare foot. With a yelp, he pulls back and looks around the kitchen, unsure what to do with himself, feeling every concrete thought he strives toward slipping out from under him like it’s been greased.

Finally, he does the only thing he can think to do. He walks, gingerly placing his coffee foot, over to the front door and pulls it open.

There it is—he is. Flesh and blood, or at least wires and bolts. Their eyes meet, truly this time, and Connor feels something flare inside.

The android raises a heavy brow. “Hey,” it says, much more informally than Connor expected. “I’m Hank. I’m your android, sent by CyberLife.”

[reverse au - companion model]

Connor gapes. The android stares back. They stand at an impasse for what feels like forever, studying each other, Connor feeling picked over by Hank’s clear eyed stare. He hadn’t known what to expect—a merry housekeeper, a bright, chipper presence just to keep him company.

Instead, Hank looks down his nose at the coffee on Connor’s foot. His eyes follow the trail Connor must have left back to the counter, to the mug, and as he pieces it together Connor gets the distinct sense that he’s being judged. Judged! By an android he helped create!

He feels indignant, his pride hurt a little, even as something pleasurable twists in his belly. Blue eyes under a craggy brow, following the line of a long, wide set nose. It does something to him.

Finally, realizing they’ve stood there too long, Connor shifts to let him in.

“Hank?” Connor asks, following Hank with his eyes. The Cyberlife uniform, jeans with a suit jacket (sort of tacky), doesn’t do much to accentuate Hank’s figure, but it’s the sort that can’t really be hidden. His belly presses against the white button up shirt.

“Yeah?” Hank asks. He’s wandered to the counter, staring down at the coffee still dripping.

“No,” Connor says, “I mean... that’s. Not the name I would have expected.”

Hank hums a low, disinterested note. To Connor’s shock, he sticks a finger in the puddle of coffee.

When he puts that finger in his mouth, Connor has to sit down. He makes it halfway to the austere couch facing away from his kitchen island before he remembers his wet foot and hobbles back to a drawer, pulling out a rag.

“Fresh brewed,” Hank murmurs. “You must be tired.”

“You can taste?” Connor asks, wiping up the mess he’d made. That was new. He thought androids couldn’t consume anything besides Thirium.

Following his lead, Hank opens the drawer and takes out a second rag. Righting the mug, he throws the rag down on the coffee spill.

“You got cleaning spray?”

Connor points at the cabinet under the sink. Hank bends smoothly and pulls out a spray bottle, apparently unaware or uncaring of Connor’s eyes tracking him everywhere. Perhaps that’s just something androids are programmed to be used to.

“It’s a feature of the program,” Hank says as he wrings the rag out in the sink. “CyberLife picks a personality module they think will suit the model you’ve designed. Then there’s a pool of names that suit the personality. Mine turned out to be Hank.”

“Oh,” Connor says.

Hank sprays the counter down. Connor doesn’t even think to protest that he can do it himself.

“If you don’t like it...”

“No,” Connor quickly says, “it’s fine. Just feels... old.”

Without a beat, Hank snorts, “I am what you made me.”

“How many personality modules are there?”

“Damn near infinite.”

Connor blinks—are androids allowed to swear?—but he doesn’t object, so Hank seems to take that as tacit approval. His LED spins yellow, gathering up information. On Connor. That gives him a bit of pause.

“The modules are self-modifying,” Hank explains. He washes out the rag, counter sparkling clean.

Before he can take on the puddle on the floor, Connor grabs a few synthetic paper towels and takes the spray bottle back. He can at least help.

Hank pops a hip against the island.

“Each android starts with a base concept and modifies it based on how their human responds.”

“Like the swearing,” Connor says, bending down to clean up his mess. When he gets back up, holding a wad of wet paper towels in his hands, Hank is looking at him with a crooked grin.

“You noticed,” he says. “S’pose you would, since you’re into tech. That’s how it works, yeah.”

“So,” Connor asks, tentatively moving into Hank’s space so he can wash his hands, “what’s your base concept?”

Hank hadn’t gone very far away. When he speaks, it’s in Connor’s ear.

“Gruff,” he says. Grumbles, really, a low sound that shoots through Connor and makes his cheeks feel hot.

He’s not used to this kind of attention. Men who treat him like this in his realm of work are usually looking for something, power or favors, and he’s never been interested.

This... god. Maybe he needs to sit down after all.

“And yes,” Hank adds, picking up Connor’s mug. It has a chip in it, a cut in the lip, but Hank opens up the dishwasher and puts it in just the same. “I can taste. Not much, but tasting helps me adequately take care of partners.”

Connor’s mind slams into the dirtiest place it can possibly go before he’s able to stop it. Leaving the paper towels to disintegrate in the sink, he walks over to the couch and collapses down onto it, legs feeling shaky like a newborn deer’s. His heart hammers in his throat.

“Rough night?” Hank asks. He sounds wryly amused, like he knows.

Connor’s almost irritated at him for it, but he lets it go. It’s just an advanced computer. “Haven’t slept much or well the last few days,” he says honestly, mumbling into a hand he drags down his face.

Hank hums again. “You eaten?”

“No.”

Connor tips his head over the back of the couch so he can see Hank, still standing in the kitchen. He looks so real, besides the light spinning yellow at his temple again. So human. Perfect.

The blinds Connor keeps on a timer start to move.

They mostly shut, leaving little slivers of afternoon light to peep through, and Connor even hears the air conditioner kick on. Hank must have tapped into his home controls, or at least hooked into his wi-fi.

“I’ll make you lunch,” Hank says. “Go take a nap.”

The easy command in his voice leaves very little room for Connor to disobey. Still, he digs for a blanket he keeps under the coffee table and drapes it over his legs.

“I have emails to answer,” he lies, settling down against the couch and taking out his phone.

Hank shrugs as if to say “suit yourself” and starts moving around the kitchen like he’s been here forever. Connor only keeps up the pretense for a few minutes, poking at his phone, and then he lets his eyes droop shut, listening to the sound of someone else in his home.

It’s novel enough to be soothing, where he usually has nothing but silence. He likes the quiet, but... well. It sets him strangely at ease.

He could get used to this.

[reverse au - companion model]

Latest Threads Unrolled: