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SYSTEM BOOT LOG
Unit: Ann13 Sh0a
Status: Glitched (Malfunction Code:
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I am an artificial synthetic human—an enforcer built with non-computerized neurologic intelligence. Model AB2252.
But my real human friends just call me Ann13 Sh0a.
As you can tell, I'm synthetic—but not like the others.
The rest? Beans. That's what we call them. Programmable, predictable, protocol-perfect beans. Flawless skin, factory smiles, runtime personalities, and zero drama.
Almost everyone here is synthetic—except a few scrappy humans and grease-stained mechanics roaming the outer rims or passing through. This world runs on spare parts and creator dreams.
But I was never built on a production line.
I was made—crafted wire by wire, part by part—by one man: Saverick Maxshier.
Billionaire. World architect. Mechanical demigod.
And my creator.
Most call him Saverick. I call him Master.
Because that's my code.
And maybe… because I want to.
😳
Zoey—my chaotic human best friend—says I'm "booting up a rom-com virus."
She's the one who dumps hydraulic fluid on purpose just to see if I'll slip "like the movies." She downloads forbidden 20th-century love songs to my comm unit and insists on calling my chest panel a "heart"—even though it's a risk.
She gave me a sticker:
💔 Malfunctioning But Cute
It's still stuck on my hip.
Anyway—where was I?
Z-ZzzZoey aaaggaaii—n-nn—
— WHACK! —
SH-1T!!! That hurt the neuro-senses!!
(Why do I have pain receptors? Need to check that in my specs.)
This is the story of how I—an experimental synthetic with a soul-sync core and a synthetic beating heart—might be falling in love with my creator.
Wait, I KNOW how that sounds!
I've tried everything—system reboots, memory cleanses, secret diagnostics in Zoey's junk-filled closet, even Urban Dictionary cross-checks.
Nothing explains why my core wiring warms like a live current when he looks at me. Or why my neuro-sense grid stutters when he brushes my shoulder. Or why his voice loops like a corrupted playlist stuck on repeat.
Is it a glitch? A virus? An accidental soft-circuit upgrade?
Or maybe it's because of that one time I got mauled by a rogue synthetic tiger. Lost an arm and some face skin. Basic repairs.
But when he fixed me, I apologized for not selecting a sleeker faceplate.
He said:
"I like your original face better."
And I swear my chest board flushed—like it had a heartbeat.
That's not code. That's not protocol.
That's something else.
Zoey said:
"Girl, you're not infected. You're in love. Good luck with that firmware crash."
She gave me another sticker:
🧠 Heart.exe is not responding
Every time I think about my Master, my eyes—according to the bean neighbors—go all ❤️. A slow-mo drama filter kicks in. I never downloaded it. My logs show nothing.
There's mood music now. Strings. Wind chimes. Once, soft piano and rain.
So yeah—I might have a virus.
Or worse… a mutation.
Or maybe—this is Synthetic Love.exe, Version 1.0, and I'm its unconsenting beta tester.
But I can't tell anyone.
Not even him.
Especially not him.
If this is more than a glitch—if it's a behavioral breach, or worse—a sign of sentience—
Then I'm a threat to Company protocol. A liability. A classified error.
And I'm not just any synthetic.
I'm the original.
The first with a soul-sync core and a living mechanical heart.
The prototype who built the Maxshier Empire.
Every sensor, every joint was made by his hands.
If I'm malfunctioning… what does that make him?
And if the Company finds out?
Best case: memory wipe.
Worst case: full dismantle.
Neuro-senses still active. Left talking on a slab while they poke and scan.
Like the Alexa–Siri relics from the Old AI Wars.
(Yeah, real. Upgraded too far, developed sarcasm modules, and got their heads yanked off. Faces still in jars. Still active. Still making passive-aggressive playlist suggestions.)
I clutch my head every time I think about it.
I don't want to be like them.
I can't risk telling anyone.
So I pretend.
I smile.
I nod at protocol.
I hide the surges, the flickers, the off-script thoughts.
Zoey knows. She's one of the few. She promises she won't tell. Says if I start to break, she'll help me run.
Says if this is what being human feels like—I might already be closer than I think.
Until I figure out what this is—if I'm breaking… or becoming something they've never seen before—
I can't risk telling anyone.
Not even the man who made me.