“Your operational logs indicate a significant dip in recent productivity, Sterling.” Rivet, a smudge of carbon black smudged above her left eyebrow, eyed Sterling Blackwood with the suspicion of a quality control inspector reviewing a faulty batch. Her reinforced utility jumpsuit, a testament to its primary function, bore the stains of a thousand minor victories against grime, grit, and recalcitrant mechanisms. “Worry about your own structural integrity, Rivet.” Blackwood merely shifted on the plush, chrome-plated lounge unit, a picture of effortless idleness. “How does one manage to require a protective overlay for mere sustenance intake? Truly, a fascinating case study in fluid dynamics management.” He gestured vaguely at her jumpsuit, which, to an uninformed eye, might have appeared merely robust, but to Blackwood’s discerning gaze, evidently served a dual purpose as a high-capacity spill containment system. The Young Scion of Blackwood Conglomerate, Rivet, was indeed encased in her preferred multi-layer, impact-resistant utility jumpsuit. It was, she would argue, a uniform of purpose, not an admission of slovenliness. His teasing, however, managed to penetrate her usual stoicism, eliciting a sound not unlike a minor circuit overload. “This isn’t a ‘protective overlay’! It’s standard-issue field attire!” Exasperated, she yanked at a sleeve to demonstrate its inherent design parameters, inadvertently flinging her treasured data-slate, *The Inevitable Entropy of All Systems, Vol. 3*, to the polished durasteel floor. “And yet, I recall Incident 734-B: the nutrient paste spillage. And the drool, Rivet. Let’s not forget the drool.” Blackwood’s tone was infuriatingly even. “That was a singular anomaly!” Rivet felt her internal diagnostics flare with injustice. Thanks to an aggressively efficient dietary regimen that prioritized growth-phase bone density, one of her lower primary incisors had entered a pre-ejection wobble state, ultimately detaching itself a few cycles prior. Her subsequent, entirely involuntary, tongue-probing of the newly formed cavity had led to the aforementioned embarrassing incident. It was merely a brief neural desynchronization. “I maintained full oral cavity integrity during my molting phase, Sterling!” “Do you simply desire to outperform me in every conceivable metric, Rivet?” “It’s a pedagogical exercise. Observe and learn.” “Learn *what*, precisely? To achieve peak performance in sofa-based biomass redistribution?” Ever since the current Ashfall season had commenced, Rivet hadn’t observed Sterling Blackwood engage in any discernable productive labor. His daily itinerary seemed to consist exclusively of reclining on his ergonomic lounge unit, either engaging in gratuitous verbal taunting or simply existing with an impressive degree of inertia. She narrowed her gaze, a critical assessment of his operational efficiency in progress. If there was one thing to glean from Sterling Blackwood’s operational methodology, it was this: possession of sufficient financial capital, a high-ranking corporate designation, aesthetically pleasing facial geometry, and demonstrable competence in *some* unspecified domain, allowed one to utterly discard all sense of personal responsibility and still be treated with the deference usually reserved for a self-repairing autonomous transport. Sighing, she retrieved her fallen data-slate and attempted to re-engage with the grim, yet comforting, certainties of thermodynamic decay. “My localized presence will be reduced for an indeterminate period shortly.” Blackwood’s voice cut through her concentration. “It is the designated operational window when the Feral Constructs achieve optimal agitation levels.” “‘Optimal agitation’? Is that the appropriate terminology for a burgeoning linguistic processor?” Rivet frowned, finding such crude vernacular inappropriate for the developmental phase of a young scion’s neural network. “You should be grateful my neural network isn't configured for standard child protocols, Sterling.” “And you, that my genetic lineage hasn’t produced a typical progeny.” Following their brief, equally entrenched exchange of stubborn logic, Blackwood continued. “The Blackwood Holdings, particularly the lower sectors, are prone to surges in Feral Construct activity—enough to classify it as a persistent anomaly zone.” Consequently, once the Ashfall subsided, he and his Corporate Sentinels would initiate a culling protocol to reduce their numbers. Both ‘father’ and ‘daughter’ turned to the vast panoramic window, now obscured by weeks of relentless particulate fallout. The thick, light-filtering data-screen tapestries, woven from a deep crimson optical fiber, framed a view of Aethelburg’s lower strata, a blurred, grey-orange miasma. Even so, compared to the initial days of the blizzard, this atmospheric condition was relatively mild. “What is the projected duration of your absence?” Rivet’s tone, despite her best efforts, carried a subtle tremor, a momentary lapse in her usual data-driven detachment. “A month at maximum efficiency, two cycles at minimum. Feral Construct eradication is highly dependent on environmental variables. If the atmospheric filters clear, we conclude swiftly. If the wind vectors intensify, it prolongs the mission. Constructs, by design, possess superior physical integrity to baseline humanoids.” Rivet, understanding that a protracted engagement would inherently disadvantage the human combatants, nodded seriously. A logical conclusion. Prolonged exposure was suboptimal. “I’ll initiate your field training protocols one day.” Rivet’s optic sensors widened in surprise, a flicker of genuine shock momentarily overriding her usual composure. Blackwood, in stark contrast, appeared utterly devoid of any emotional variance. “My initial acquisition parameters included this specific long-term objective.” *“This individual’s disregard for standard succession protocols is truly breathtaking.”* Rivet found herself temporarily devoid of an appropriate verbal response. He had incorporated an orphan—without even realizing she was his blood relation—with the express intent of grooming her to inherit a corporate empire? The fact that such a casually reckless individual was her primary guardian was both unsettling and, from a risk-assessment perspective, highly concerning. “...Sterling, are you never going to pursue a compatible genetic match for procreation?” “For now, optimizing your developmental phase presents a more engaging metric.” “So, that time with Klaus—?” Rivet’s lips quirked into a nascent smirk, her hands beginning an involuntary, conspiratorial rub. “Should you re-access that data point, I shall re-route your primary nutrient dispenser to the recycling unit.” Her hands immediately ceased their motion, and her mouth clamped shut. Satisfied, Blackwood closed his eyes, returning to his state of cultivated inertia. *‘…And yet, his operational parameters for my welfare are consistently favorable.’* Sterling Blackwood was, for all intents and purposes, the archetypal predatory corporate scion—possessed of an intimidating, almost ominous executive presence, and a personality profile far from ‘kind.’ Yet, at least where she was concerned, he functioned as a surprisingly effective parental unit. Rivet propelled herself closer on her knees, propping her chin on the edge of the lounge unit. “You aren’t going to suddenly reconfigure your objective parameters and jettison me, are you?” “...What do you take me for?” Blackwood, a deep frown marring his otherwise placid expression, opened his eyes. His features twisted into a brief, clear display of displeasure before he drew a measured breath, recalibrating. He made an effort not to initiate a panic response in the child. Fortunately, the small, highly resilient human asset before him possessed the neural fortitude of a reinforced alloy bulkhead and remained completely unfazed. His long, firm digit tapped the tip of her tiny nose. “You are designated as my daughter.” His jet-black eyes, filled with unshakable certainty, locked onto hers. “That implies I will assume full responsibility for your continued integration into the Blackwood Conglomerate until the absolute finality of all operational cycles.” His voice was firm, almost a reprimand, as he informed her never to vocalize such inefficient queries again. Perhaps because of his serious tone, Rivet’s internal pressure sensors registered an unusual tightness in her chest. But it wasn't a malfunction indicative of distress. It was something closer to an overwhelming data surge of satisfaction—an internal systems overload born from an unfamiliar emotional input. The warmth and security that enveloped her felt… undocumented. She was still adjusting to operating as ‘Rivet Blackwood.’ Referring to Sterling as ‘Father’ still felt alien, yet he had consistently referred to her as his daughter. And, crucially, treated her as one. It had been an impulsive acquisition, perhaps, but Sterling Blackwood had fully integrated her into his systems. Feeling an awkward thermal bloom, Rivet turned her head away. “I do not endorse parental units who engage in gratuitous daughter-taunting protocols.” With that, she huffed and flipped her data-slate open again. Blackwood, observing the tips of her ears turn a faint, tell-tale red, permitted himself the smallest, almost imperceptible, smile. A surprisingly efficient response, considering. Since the topic of Feral Construct culling had arisen, Blackwood decided it was an opportune moment to introduce Rivet to the Corporate Sentinels. It had been a full cycle since her arrival at the Blackwood Spire, and her integration protocols were nearing completion. He deemed it appropriate to formalize her presence within the broader operational structure. “But the Ashfall conditions are still at critical levels!” Rivet whined, asserting she would undergo thermal shutdown if exposed to the external environment for any prolonged period. “Exhibit some optimal kinetic energy expenditure and locomote, Rivet.” Blackwood reprimanded his daughter, who had, for several days, maintained an impressively static position by the main thermal vent. “You instructed me to optimize my biomass for future growth cycles, so I am minimizing unnecessary caloric expenditure.” “You always possess a pre-programmed excuse protocol.” “As if your primary operational mode hasn’t been ‘lounge unit interface’ for the past two weeks,” she fired back, suggesting that any independent observer would conclude his spine had achieved permanent fusion with the ergonomic upholstery. Blackwood ignored the small, feisty human asset’s complaints and casually draped an environmental cloak over her shoulders. Rivet, calculating the energy expenditure of resistance versus compliance, accepted it without further protest. Together, they headed toward the western corridor, which provided access to the Combat Simulation Chamber. “I have not previously accessed this sector.” The historic Blackwood Spire exuded an overwhelming aesthetic of functional grandeur, even in something as utilitarian as a corridor. There were few lavish decorations or extravagant embellishments; instead, polished durasteel floors and intricately wired data-scroll tapestries spoke of a self-sustaining power, an imposing nature that required no superfluous adornment. A true marvel of engineered efficiency, if one overlooked its persistent, albeit charming, neglect of minor maintenance routines. Rivet fidgeted with her small hands for no discernible reason, a rare display of non-functional movement. Just then, several Automated Staff units, navigating their assigned maintenance routes, noticed their master and his designated scion approaching and swiftly reconfigured their optical sensors into a respectful bow. As was her customary (and, Blackwood suspected, deliberately maintained) protocol, Rivet greeted them with formal address. “...Now that I consider it.” Blackwood’s gaze swept over the Automated Staff. That alone caused their optical sensors to dip even further, a silent acknowledgment of their subordinate status. “You employ formal address with the Automated Staff.” “But I employ informal address with you.” Rivet raised a brow, a silent query asking what, precisely, was the identified anomaly requiring intervention. “Would you prefer I engage in formal address with you?” “The very concept registers as a processing error, so no.” He waved her off in distaste. “Nevertheless, terminate the habit of formal address with the Automated Staff.” “No rush. Entropy will handle it.” Rivet glanced at a particularly imposing data-scroll tapestry hanging in the hallway, answering half-heartedly. Her lack of intent to alter her communication protocols was blatantly evident. Blackwood scoffed, seeing right through her lack of commitment to immediate behavioral modification. Rivet, who had been meticulously feigning disinterest, and the Automated Staff units, who had maintained their heads-down, subservient postures, all registered a sudden, ominous prickle, a high-frequency warning signal propagating through their internal systems. Blackwood’s relaxed smile suddenly exuded a confidence that edged into the dangerous, his sharp features taking on a lawless charm, like a newly acquired patent that threatened to dismantle an entire industry. But Rivet felt a chill first, rather than any sense of admiration for his predatory grace. “All Automated Staff units are hereby scheduled for immediate decommissioning.” At this sudden declaration, the Automated Staff snapped their optical sensors up in a synchronized jolt of surprise. Rivet, whose processing speed was momentarily hindered by the sheer absurdity of the statement, shrieked, her eyes, nose, and mouth widening into perfect, disbelieving circles. Through her open lips, her recently vacated front-incisor slot was clearly visible. “A mere Class B sanitation drone dared to receive formal speech from a Blackwood?” Blackwood stated coldly, as if it were an absolute, unpardonable breach of corporate protocol. He looked completely unfazed, as if he genuinely perceived no operational flaw in his decree. “As the CEO of this Conglomerate, I will not tolerate a weakening of household discipline protocols.” He paused, allowing the gravity of his words to sink in, then offered a casual, almost helpful, suggestion. “If anything, their auditory sensors should be recalibrated for such insolence.” The merciless example left the innocent Automated Staff units trembling, their servos whining softly in distress. One could almost feel sorry for them, if one were prone to such inefficient emotional responses.

Optimal Parental Units and Feral Constructs