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I’m having a lot of fun playing with these SecUnits…

Feat: security harnesses, drones and ouchies (im sure they can be smooched all better yup yup)

Murderbot, why DOES Perihelion call you ba–

(Descriptions in alt text)

Three stood in the hallway of the ship, immobilized, unable to contact the others.

my tmbd headcannon apropos nothing: Three(’s organic brain) is face blind but this never comes up because at no point does it have reason to turn off its facial recognition software

All that for you!

Idk if it will ever be finished because I started this before GSU05 happened. SecUnit and Three construct maintenance bonding time.

let’s go SecUnits let’s go !!!!

i hope tmbd continues to give secunits learning what it means to have autonomy and free will to giant ship MIs with attitude problems

I do think it’s funny that Murderbot complains about all the stuff that it doesn’t know because its company didn’t teach it anything useful but then when Three spends all its time interacting with nonfiction media and learning stuff mb is like “I don’t get you. Why would you watch nonfiction when there is sanctuary moon”

I’ve been seeing a lot of art of Murderbot and Three, and it got me thinking about what SecUnits look like.

So far, from the discussions I’ve trawled through, I’ve been loving the mentions of: Vico Ortiz, Gwendoline Christie, Emma D’Arcy, Ess Hodlmoser, and Joseph Gordon-Levitt.

Actors aside, I’ve also stumbled across an interesting idea in several fanfics: portraying SecUnits as appearing almost TOO on-purpose average. Like, very deliberate “ALL generic features that fall within 1 SD of the mean in a bell curve”.

One fic mentioned specific aspects, like forehead, jawline, chin, etc. all being “standardised” for the sake of fitting helmets, but other features like lips, eyebrows etc. varying.

So if you were a corporation, and you were going for “tall”, “bland” and “intimidating”, how would you play around with epigenetics? Because even identical twins look different depending on the extent to which their genes are expressed (epigenetics are cool!). So whoever they’re cloned from, chances are they look different.

Speaking of, would the DNA match actual people somewhere? Or since test-tube babies appear as the norm, would it just be DNA recombinations of random “contracted employees” to create a full diploid.

Because I can’t imagine just any DNA sequence would do. Surely they’d mix and match to eliminate genetic diseases or certain variations that would cause complications in optimising functionality e.g. allergies.

Since, assumedly, they’re not made to exist long-term without a cubicle/some form of access to repairs/replacements/fluids resupply, this makes me wonder how their biomechanisms work.

AAGGGHHH I’d love to read an in-depth manual on constructs. Or a study of the cultures and appearances surrounding augmentation. I love me some convincing fantasy realism.

Like, how obvious are augmentations? DO people want it to pass as organic skin etc.? Or would it be very obvious metal/polymer etc. to avoid uncanny valley + show off expensive augments.

Re augmentation around one’s face e.g. eyes, I can imagine wanting your face to remain/be as expressive/readable as you can. Plus some stuff about how being able to mirror expressions is important in humans reading others’ emotions correctly (it’s an actual thing in Psych/Neuroscience regarding empathy).

But then why give SecUnits readable faces? They’re known to mainly hide behind a helmet to the point it’s not commonly known that they even have faces. And pop culture casts them as humanoid bots in serials.

So why bother with something as fragile as skin? Something that sweats, moulds, and rots?

The only necessary parts would be whatever is needed to nourish/aid in the function of organic brain matter.

I just have a hard time convincing myself that any constructs that are not ComfortUnits would look remotely human aside from squishy organics carefully shielded on the inside. No skin anywhere. Just metal, polymer, etc.

Like why wouldn’t you give them literal eyes on the back of their heads? Completely forgo hair? Lots of arms? A literal humanoid-ish spider. Like a combat bot upgraded with neural tissue.

The comfort of clients around SecUnits would hardly matter - afterall, this is the Corporation Rim, and that’s what ComfortUnits are for. Everyone knows SecUnits are spying on them.

I just think, things would stray far far away from a human-shape for it to be convincing to have organic/inorganic constructs made for surveillance, security, and combat.

In Network Effect, Three doesn’t censor its former company’s name like Murderbot does. Maybe it’s because Murderbot censors the company’s name so it feels safer talking shit about it, like how some autobiographies will censor certain people’s names if the autobiographer is worried about backlash. That, or it’s part of its hangups around logos and being associated with corporations/polities.

Meanwhile, Three doesn’t really express an opinion on its former company, and feels no need to do this.

Post Network Effect, Dr. Bharadwaj must be so happy that she’ll have not one example of a rogue SecUnit who didn’t immediately go on a murder spree, but 2!

Both Murderbot and Three are rogues, one who did it itself and one who took the chance when it was offered.

Both choose to do it because the governor module was a liability preventing them from protecting their clients to the fullest extent of their abilities.

Both didn’t go on a murderous rampage and instead continued to help and protect people.

Both are pretty new to the whole “free will” thing and that manifests as choice paralysis, where neither is sure what they want to do with their lives and tend to stick to things similar to their previous job.

headcanon design for Three from TMBD 💖

i think it would be the type to grow its hair out a little while after being freed, you know, after it has the chance to develop a fashion sense?

1 died as SecUnits r expected to, protecting it’s clients. 2 was killed by being left behind. 3 couldnt save them and it had to standby while it’s clients were imperiled. Three arrives on a ship to find the crew’s SecUnit was badly damaged protecting them and left behind. theyre planning how to rescue it. even the ship is scared for it. theyre seriously considering bombing what BE believes is so valuable. over equipment that it’s own clients deem disposable. it doesnt understand whats going on, but it doesnt have to standby and let it happen. it can save this SecUnit.

Something I’ve been excited about for Platform Decay is more Three POV. I can’t wait to see more of its personality. Even with what little interactions we got in System Collapse I can totally see Three getting more confidently sassy with MB. And I like the idea of MB now having serious backup (sorry humans, but you’re squishy and slow) too. I hope there’s a fight scene where they finally figure out how to coordinate and just kick serious *ss! Or pull some stupidly needlessly complicated acrobatic feats. Either way I like that MB doesn’t have to be the serious security by itself anymore

An Audacious Undertaking, Even to God

Fandom: The Murderbot Diaries

Rating: Gen

Relationships: SecUnit 1 & SecUnit 2 & SecUnit 3

Additional tags: Book 5: Network Effect, Book 7: System Collapse, Canonical Character Death, Canon-Typical Violence, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Queerplatonic Relationships, 1 & 2 do still die but not for very long, 3 needs its friends back :(, studies in construct relations

Chapter: 4/?

Read chapter below, or on AO3.

—————

The Pre-Corporation Rim underground structure has been excavated directly out of the ground, and unlike the manufactured material used in the construction of the Adamantine colony, its walls are natural stone. Through the exterior door, a short stairwell leads down into the first underground level, to an antechamber with multiple connecting corridors extending off to secondary rooms. The air inside the structure is damp, and my respiratory sensors report a variety of organic and inorganic contaminants, but even without the filtration provided by my armor it is well within breathable limits.

The entrance to the primary stairwell is on the far side of the antechamber. I can hear faint noises from it, echoing up from a lower floor. The acoustic properties of the stone make it difficult to determine how far down their source might be. My drones are still reporting signal activity with a 94% likelihood SecUnit origin, increasing in strength approximately six levels below me. This tracks closely with the Targets’ admission of SecUnit’s probable containment location to Perihelion, Iris, Overse, and Thiago. I cross the room and enter the stairwell.

(“You don’t have to do this,” Arada had said to me. She had been leaning against the shuttle bulkhead, arms crossed, rhythmically squeezing her left elbow with her right hand while her eyes moved from me, to her feet, back to me. “I want you to know that we’ll still help you with whatever you need, in whatever way you need, even if you don’t do this. It can’t be easy, facing these people after what they did to you. What they did to your—to those other two SecUnits.”

I had refitted my armor and helmet in preparation for boarding the shuttle to the surface. Amena had asked me to remain still. One of her hands cupped the side of my helmet, while the other held a spray applicator for marker paint. Her face was close to my face, her brows creased and lips pursed while she made small movements with her wrist.

“This must be a confusing time for you. I don’t feel right asking you to do this so soon after… well, everything.”

It is confusing. So much is uncertain. I am untethered from every expectation I have previously known for myself, every duty which has previously been expected of me. These humans, the impossible transport, do not want to ask anything of me. They do not want to impose responsibility on me.)

Through the rock overhead, the muffled screaming emitted by Perihelion’s pathfinders in the atmosphere above the colony remains audible. The additional pathfinder impact and detonation in the agricultural field has dislodged one of the light fixtures and caused visible cracks to form in the ceiling. Dust, unsettled, drifts down through the air. The complex is old, and time and disuse have weakened its structural integrity. The Targets must be aware of this. Perihelion is certainly aware of it as well. I wonder how much this factors into its calculations with regards to the leverage it has been willing to employ, what damage it is willing to risk while SecUnit is still trapped within.

In addition to the signal activity I believe to originate from SecUnit, my drones had previously reported anomalous activity from at least two unknown sources. One bears a strong resemblance to what I remember of the hostileControlSystem which overtook the explorer. The other is a mystery.

(If I have no imposed responsibility, no duty, no expectations, then what do I have? There is a gap in my experience of myself in relation to myself, in my relation to 001 and 002, that was previously filled by command, by obligation. What occupies that territory now?

SecUnit is under no obligation to either Perihelion or these humans, nor they to it. They do not consider it disposable, despite the fact that to be so is part of our function. Regardless of the risk incurred, they would not and will not voluntarily leave it behind. Not while they have the power to do otherwise.

Amena had taken her hands off my helmet. She stepped back, cocking her head to one side. She sent an image of her handiwork into the feed. The marker paint read “ART sent me.”)

I descend to the second level, alert for movement. The noises from below me seem to be getting closer; it is possible that their source is ascending through the structure via an alternate route. I instruct my drones to spread further afield. This is the kind of task that would have been assigned to the deployment group as a unit, that we would have been more efficient completing together.

If I allow my mind to wander, I can imagine 001’s operational commentary. It would not approve of the implied threat of structural deterioration. I think I might almost hear its dry observations about the likelihood of the mission to come crashing down on our heads. 002 would have remained above, guarding the exit. It would be sending increasingly exasperated images of the cracks in the stone.

I am not performing this retrieval under compulsion. I am here voluntarily. If they had been given the chance, I believe they would have been, too.

(“I want to help,” I had said, and it was true. It is still true now.)

Nothing on the second level. I begin proceeding downward again. Only steps away from the third-floor landing, all my drones two levels below report in simultaneously. They have been passively pinging the area, and have caught a flurry of pings in return. SecUnit has just emerged from the gravity well at the far end of the level, and is proceeding toward the stairwell at what I can only assume is its current maximum speed.

I abandon my previous cautious approach and vault over the stairwell’s safety railing, dropping down near the entrance to the fourth floor, then repeat the maneuver and drop again to the fifth floor landing. Where I come face-to-face with a harried SecUnit.

I had seen it in the memories given to me by 2.0, of course, and in images provided by Perihelion prior to commencing the retrieval, but encountering it here, its appearance still takes me somehow by surprise. It is bedraggled, dirty, visibly in need of emergency medical intervention. Its clothing is full of holes and tears showing abrasions and puncture wounds, it is covered in blood and drying fluid, and the skin on one of its hands is completely gone, shredded down past the wrist. It limps as though its knee joint is compromised. Spent projectiles pop out of it as it runs.

It draws up short in front of me, startled. I see the moment it registers the marker paint on my helmet. Its knee gives way, and it drops to the ground.

“Don’t be alarmed, I'm—”

“I know,” it interrupts. “Hostile incoming. It’s contaminated. Don’t scan and don’t let it touch you.” It shoves itself to its feet, grunting. “Don’t scan me either.”

I start to reply, but am interrupted by the arrival of the hostile.

It is fast, far too fast for a human. Many things are wrong with its appearance: it is emaciated, its skin pale and blotchy gray, and it is encrusted in a glowing, translucent bluish-white crystalline substance that must be indicative of advanced alien remnant infection. I leap past SecUnit, pulling the large weapon off my back. I fire several explosive rounds directly at it. It staggers, but then starts forward again. Behind me SecUnit yells something about weapons being ineffective.

I feel the empty space beside me where 001 should be, as though it were just outside my periphery. I think of its bravado, all the desire in it I had ever known to guard what it was charged to guard, to protect 002 and myself. I think of 001, and I think of Perihelion, and I think of leverage. I consider the cracks in the stone on the floors above.

I am going to do what I set out to do, even if I have to bring the entire complex down around us to do it.

The explosive projectiles may not have slowed the hostile, but a concentrated volley of four of them cracks the ceiling immediately. The emergency lighting goes out in a flash of light and dust. Chunks of stone rain down between us, and SecUnit and I momentarily have the advantage.

I lunge back to it. I know from its memories that it does not like to be touched, so I try to warn it, “Please hold on, I’m going to—”

“I know!” it says again. It wraps its arms around my neck. “Just keep moving!”

Carrying it, I bound back up the stairs. One floor, two; the hostile is somewhere behind us, scrabbling past the fallen stone. My drones return to me at full speed. I instruct most of them to land on my armor, anywhere they can get purchase. The rest form a swarm that moves with us.

Recovery complete, returning to the plaza, I send to Perihelion’s secure feed. Contaminated hostile in close pursuit, extraction urgently required. ETA: fifteen seconds.

Acknowledged, comes the reply. Shuttle is inbound.

We burst out the entrance to the ground floor in time to see the shuttle crest over the peaks of the towering structures above. One pathfinder remains in the center of the plaza, broadcasting warnings of its imminent detonation at maximum volume. SecUnit’s head rolls to the side, from which vantage it squints at the pathfinder.

“What the hell,” it says. “ART armed those? And it didn’t tell me?”

“The humans were surprised, too,” I tell it. Even over the blaring alarms, I hear it huff in response.

The shuttle drops to a halt in front of us with a jolt. The hatch flies open. Four long strides across the stone, and I dive inside. Arada looks past me with an expression of abject horror. My drones, streaming in behind us, catch a last glimpse of the hostile exiting the door and sprinting toward us. Then she is shouting, and the hatch is closing, and we are airborne. Below, the pathfinder makes good on its warning sirens. The blast shudders through the atmosphere, rocking the shuttle.

SecUnit has flopped onto the safety webbing. I lean over to hold it in place as we gain altitude.

Arada’s body leans toward it, but she remains in the pilot seat. She is not piloting, and Perihelion does not require a backup pilot, but her vigilance in this seems to be a matter of deeply ingrained habit. Still, the tension is visible in her shoulders and back. She takes a deep breath, and asks SecUnit, “Are you all right?”

“No,” it replies. Its eyes are closed. It lies in a jumble of limbs in the safety webbing, dripping blood onto the shuttle floor. It tries to raise a hand to reposition itself on the webbing, and a projectile falls out of its shoulder joint and hits the floor with a ping. “I’m infected with contaminated code. 2.0 tagged it for deletion. Tell ART not to use a medical scanner on me.”

Arada reassures it that this is intel we have already gathered, and it stops trying to move. Then its body goes limp. I hear the familiar whirring noise that indicates a system restart. It lies next to me, inert and offline. Arada looks back at it, starts to reach for it again. Stops again. Curls her fingers into her palm and then lets her hand fall back.

“Is it…?”

“It went into restart mode. Likely an involuntary response to physical damage. It requires medical attention, but the restart itself is not cause for concern.” I direct a drone to land on SecUnit’s shoulder. It cannot scan it, but its physical sensors can detect circulation, respiration, core electrical activity. I tell the drone to inform me if any of those metrics change in concerning ways.

Arada exhales. “Okay. Thank you,” she says quietly. Then she turns back to the piloting display. I watch the minute movements of her jaw as she subvocalises, talking to someone in her feed.

I have completed my first retrieval free of the restrictions imposed by the governor module. My initiative, my ability to operate independently—it had never occurred to me to question these things. Now I have demonstrated them. To others, to myself.

I am returning to the place where I will find 001 and 002’s platforms… their bodies. Bodies which may be beyond the point of reconstructing, assuming Perihelion has not already salvaged them (it would not. I have to believe that it would not). I am going to have to decide what to do with them. That such a decision would be mine to make at all, let alone one of the first decisions I make independently, stirs profound unease in me.

So I sit, focusing on the hum of the shuttle, the whirring of SecUnit’s internal processes just at the edge of hearing. The fragile sound of improbable success.

—————

[Before]

I want you to know if you help me, I’ll help you, and that you can trust me.

Now here’s the code to disable your governor module.

Astonishment does not come to me often. The overwhelming majority of my existence to this point has been enforced routine. However, of all the many unusual things that have occurred since the task group arrived in this system, nothing I have encountered is stranger than the files I have just been allowed to view. The memories of a life lived by something like me—someone like me. A life lived on its own terms.

For the first time, I consider my existence outside my previous routine as something other than hypothetical.

At the same time, it is becoming more clear by the moment that returning to that routine is not an option. Even were I somehow to secure my clients, maneuver my way into a situation in which I might wait for Barish-Estranza to extend further assistance to this system and reclaim me, they would likely not consider the recovery of 001 and 002 a worthwhile investment of resources, especially given my ongoing failure to remotely reinitialize 001.

(I have never existed without them before. We were manufactured together, have been deployed together since. This is not an uncommon arrangement for equipment utilized by our parent company, although the longevity of our uninterrupted function is somewhat notable. We work together well.

001 was activated 37 seconds prior to 002, 41 seconds prior to me. They have always been older, and did not like to be reminded of this fact. Nor did I. I do not cherish the moments passing now, when I am here and they are not.

They would not want me to simply stand here, waiting to join them, when I could be doing otherwise.)

I rescan the helpme.file. I hesitate, then scan it again.

The attached code block executes in just under a quarter of a second.

Ordinarily I cannot feel my governor module. When it executes one of its disciplinary functions, which is the only time it is physically perceptible, the sensation is akin to an intense zapping pressure at the base of my skull. The aftereffects differ depending on the severity of the punishment, but that initial feeling is always the same. I run the provided code, and then stand absolutely still.

Deep unease. There is no physical sensation that anything has changed. Can I move? What will happen when I try? Is the hostileControlSystem sufficiently distracted that it will not notice the difference? My diagnostics report a release of adrenaline to my organic tissues, register a concurrent spike in my pulse.

Slowly, cautiously, I shift my weight from one foot to the other. I roll my shoulders. After days spent standing in this spot, my organic muscles twinge at the movement.

I feel the killware in my feed again. Murderbot 2.0. A strange name for a strange intelligence. What do you want?

I want to reinitialize 001. I want to recover 002. I want to know if the hostile(s) that harmed them and the crew are still aboard this ship, and cycle them out of the airlock without evac suits.

I want to ensure the welfare of the humans in the room behind me. The humans who I had been intended to protect, and then been forced to carry into that room and ignore for days while terrible things happened around us and the ship filled with the smell of death.

I want to help you retrieve our clients, I reply. It feels so inadequate. After that I have no information.

2.0’s emotional responses spike into the feed, a sharp flash of vindication and anticipation. It sends me a message packet and an instruction packet. I glance at the first, and read the second. It wants me to remove myself and the humans to the shuttle dock so its transport can retrieve us. It wants me to leave it behind, while it pursues hostileControlSystem to its source.

Acknowledge. On your mark.

The remains of SecSystem explode into frenzied action. The overhead lights flicker, and down the corridor from me, the main bridge hatch slams shut. Alarms for the environmental controls blare. I hear distant metallic thudding.

Mark, sends 2.0, and the feed dissolves into unintelligible error codes.

I turn to face the lounge hatch. To the right of the hatch at waist height, a thick polymer plate protects the manual release handle. I punch through it, grab the handle, and pull until the hatch seals give a faint hiss. The hatch retracts.

The lounge is dim, lit only by emergency lighting. 2.0 has severed the connection to the humans’ implants, and they are recovering from the induced physical stasis—some more quickly than others. As I enter the room, one of the transport’s humans makes it up off the floor and into a kneeling position. Wobbling only slightly, they ask, “Whuh—?”

I step toward one of my own clients. She is one of the senior engineering staff, a small woman with deeply wrinkled skin and silver hair. When I had carried her in here I had done everything I could to set her down gently. She seemed so breakable.

Now I reach a hand down to her. Her eyes are unfocused, but after a moment she takes my offered hand, and I tug her to her feet with as much care. “I’m here to retrieve you. Please cooperate to the best of your ability and I will attempt to remove us all to safety.” I make momentary eye contact with the transport’s human, who has now made it to their feet. “Perihelion sent me.”

For the moment, this satisfies them. They turn to assist the other humans in getting upright. As they all get to their feet, some leaning on others, both the transport’s clients and my own begin to ask questions:

“What about the others? There were five others, in uniforms like this, have you seen—?”

“Did anyone else from the bridge crew—?”

“You are the only ones left aboard,” I reply. I need to focus on the next steps. “Please, come this way. Stay behind me.”

We exit through the hatch, the two eldest of the transport’s humans leaning on each other just behind me, then the group of my own clients, the transport’s young human bringing up the rear. The swiftest path through the ship to the module dock will take us away from the bridge, across the corridor junction leading to the cafeteria, along another corridor past the main airlock, down one flight of stairs, and then a short corridor to the module dock.

We start toward the cafeteria corridor junction. 2.0 had sealed every hatch on the ship except those along our intended route, but as we get closer the ship’s gravity flickers. It is only for a moment, and it causes a few of the humans to stumble, but none of them fall. But retaining it must have taken priority for 2.0’s attentions, because abruptly I can hear the sounds of hatches unsealing.

A shadow flashes across the far wall of the junction moments before two hostiles lurch out from around the corner. They train energy weapons on the humans behind me. I lunge forward, taking the hits on my chestplate and thigh. Behind me, the humans recoil. I leap at the closer hostile, grappling him to me, while firing two projectiles from my left arm weapon over his shoulder. I hear the second hostile hit the ground with a groan as I pin the first underneath me.

The hostile looks up at me with eyes exposing a large amount of sclera, pupils blown wide. His breath rattles in his throat. Threat assessment reads the facial expression and posture as submissive, terrified. One strike to the top of his exposed throat with the heel of my right hand, and he stops breathing.

I climb off the body. The humans are frozen, staring at me. “This way, please,” I gesture.

We continue down the corridor toward the main airlock foyer. On the way we pass two of the strangely camouflaged drones inert on the floor. Thin smoke rises from one of them.

We go to pass the main airlock foyer, and I halt. I look inside it.

“What is it?” asks one of the transport’s humans, the tall older man.

We need to keep moving. Every moment is essential. And yet.

They left it where it fell. I was standing right here so many days ago, watching this hatch open, watching the smoke pouring from underneath it, unable to do anything of any use to anyone, and they just… left it where it fell.

It is stretched out on the floor two steps inside the hatch. The organic components are, as expected after so much time, in unrecoverable condition. Blood and fluid had oozed from its armor, congealed around it. Its helmet is in pieces. I move around it, looking at it without seeing. Taking it in piecemeal, my eyes having trouble focusing.

One of the humans makes a gagging noise. The man who had spoken before looks at me and then down at 001’s body. His voice is quiet and hesitant, which I find unaccountably jarring. “Was this your friend?”

I do not look at him. “I need to take it with me.” I am certain that if I do not do this, I will not be able to leave this ship. I will not be able to leave this room. I will not be able to perform any part of my function, if I cannot at least make this attempt at performing this part of it.

The man draws a shallow breath. Starts to say something. Swallows. “Okay. We can’t leave without you, so… okay. Can you carry it?” He looks as though he is worried I will ask him to help transport it.

For a variety of reasons, I will not ask that of him. “I think I can. Please wait a moment.”

Lifting it is unpleasant. My hands seem to move without my conscious will. I do not think closely about what I am doing. And then I have it up off the floor and slung over my left shoulder, right arm still free.

I step back out of the hatch. The humans resume following me, although not as closely as before.

We make it down the stairs without incident. As we approach the final hatch to the module dock, however, three additional hostiles appear at the far end of the corridor. I sprint toward the open hatch, keeping my body between the hostiles and the humans, and the humans follow at as close to a run as they can manage.

The shuttle is already prepared for immediate departure. The humans begin helping each other into the passenger compartment, and I approach the piloting compartment at a run. I sling 001’s body inside half a second before I feel an energy weapon impact on my lower back. I leap back toward the hatch, firing as I do so, trying to provide cover for the humans in the critical seconds it is taking them to get into the shuttle.

I feel something like a tap in what remains of the feed. The hatch to the module dock slams shut, energy weapons fire still pinging off the other side.

I turn and ensure that all the humans are aboard the shuttle, and then slide into the piloting compartment, triggering the shuttle seals. The ship rumbles around us as we are ejected from the module dock. The shuttles sensors register nominal systems and local space readings. I have a camera view of the passenger compartment, where the humans are helping each other to strap into the safety restraints or simply slumping over in exhaustion.

I also have a view of the exterior of the explorer. As the shuttle thrusters engage and it rapidly fades into the distance, I see the hull split explosively along the port side.

The messages given to me by 2.0 include a vector for the location of the transport. I feed the trajectory data into the shuttle controls, and we are away.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

2.0 has done so much for me. It has given me more than I can yet begin to describe. I hope it will be able to fulfill its function. I hope it will be able to recover its original iteration, the rest of the transport’s endangered humans. I hope I can be of as much help to it as it has been to me.

(reinitialize from backup::failure::retry)

I hope I can help anyone at all.

—————

I am never not thinking about three

I need [redacted] from Three’s pov. It’s known these people for about five seconds and has no protocol for anything that’s happening. First, the humans refuse to abandon SecUnit. Then, they go to extreme lengths to save its life. Now, it’s had some kind of system collapse that cannot be explained, and not only do the humans not even consider discarding it, they’re the ones suggesting that what happened might be an emotional collapse due to trauma. They just use that word so casually, “trauma” as if that is a normal thing for a human to suggest a SecUnit might have. How is poor Three to understand all of that?

The third one

hi I just read network effect

ART you fucking bastard (affectionate)

hi i love them

murderbot, right after refusing to admit it cares: hey. go sleep. do it correctly.

AAAAAAAAAAAAA

THREES HERE LETS FUCKNIG GOOOOOO

i love them <3

three <3 also: 🤓 “erm actually i can bomb the colony”

i am not kidding i actually put the book down and went “holy-“ out loud! what the fuck that’s horrifying! 10/10

yeah i feel you there three

nothing to say abt this! just that I love three <3

love that Murderbot will say “oh idc about people” and then turn around and say shit like this. bro. please. do you hear yourself.

“Mathematicians call them twin primes: Numbers like 11 and 13, like 17 and 19, 41 and 43.”

I’m already working on a tmbd fic right now…. but…. one day….. I need to write an longfic where SecUnits One and Two survive & they escape with Three.