“That’s not biological leakage. Those are data streams of pure admiration.”
“And the fluid currently exiting your ocular sensors?”
“It’s saline solution. My optical units are simulating a hydrological event.”
And for those with insufficient processing power, their internal systems often simulated a hemorrhagic cascade.
Rivet, a figure of unapologetic grit, articulated these pronouncements with the unblinking intensity of a newly calibrated automaton. Her optical sensors were locked onto the Corporate Sentinels, their uniformly robust construction and optimal kinetic output having completely overwhelmed her analytical circuits. She was, in essence, lost in a paradise of structural integrity, a state which manifested as a series of low, guttural exclamations and occasional, involuntary mechanical twitches.
The Sentinels, a unit trained for unwavering stoicism, exhibited a brief, synchronized ripple of controlled amusement. While their official dossier listed Rivet as ‘Sterling Blackwood’s Ward’ — a designation that carried all the clarity of an encrypted patent — an unofficial, yet widely circulated, addendum suggested two possibilities: first, she’d been salvaged from a derelict municipal ward, and second, the preposterous rumor that she was a forgotten, unsanctioned design by Blackwood himself. Her initial integration into Blackwood Holdings had reportedly been, to put it mildly, an exercise in re-engineering. Those Sentinels present during her arrival had witnessed the raw, unrefined state of her primary chassis and harbored legitimate concerns for its long-term operational viability.
Which was precisely why observing her now, radiating such peculiar, unbridled efficiency, even if it expressed itself as a fascination with load-bearing musculature, filled them with a distinct, if unfamiliar, sense of gratification.
Though, one might question if “unbridled efficiency” was the most accurate descriptor for a seven-year-old demanding a repeat performance of deltoid flexes. Cromwell, a veteran Sentinel with a wry, almost invisible, smile, mentally filed it under ‘acceptable eccentricities.’ After all, few children of her age displayed such fervent appreciation for anatomical mechanics. Still, her enthusiasm, however unorthodox, was undeniably… functional. The other Sentinels also seemed to process her approval as a validation of their rigorous maintenance protocols and advanced physiological conditioning.
Several paces away, Sterling Blackwood, his posture as immaculately rigid as a newly forged I-beam, observed Rivet. He had been conducting a review of an upcoming asset recovery operation with his senior Sentinels when Rivet’s peculiar cackling had momentarily disrupted the data flow. Her uncanny ability to ‘interface’ with complete strangers, even if her communication protocols remained stubbornly non-standard, was, he noted, an unexpected bonus. Unlike him, she possessed a natural aptitude for… engagement. Not to mention, her inaugural encounter with him hadn't elicited the customary emotional distress signals, proving her mental chassis was exceptionally durable.
“The ward appears to be integrating effectively with the unit.”
Sterling rotated his head, a movement as precise as a servo-motor. He regarded the speaker, Thorne, a middle-aged Sentinel whose tenure stretched back to Sterling’s own early executive training. Thorne, once Sterling’s tactical systems instructor and now a Master Combat Engineer within Blackwood Holdings’ Elite Response Unit, continued, “As anticipated, a novel data point can often optimize group morale.”
Thorne wasn’t the only one observing Rivet with a glint of peculiar interest. Several other senior Sentinels displayed similar, subtly amused expressions.
“By the way, has the originating derelict municipal ward been formally added to Blackwood Holdings’ list of undesirable assets?” Thorne inquired, suggesting a pre-emptive corporate ‘cleanup’ might be warranted sooner rather than later.
“It’s already on the list.” Sterling’s tone was as flat and final as a patent rejection.
The Sentinels, while internally surprised by the swiftness of Sterling’s action, exchanged knowing glances. Of course, it had been. Efficiency, after all, was Blackwood’s primary directive.
After a moment, Sterling’s gaze, which had been fixed intently on Rivet, shifted to the Sentinels arrayed around him. Many of these senior personnel were married, their own biometric data including records of offspring.
“Do your… juveniles exhibit similar behavioral anomalies?” he queried, his voice devoid of inflection.
They exchanged looks again, a silent, internal network query. One of them, Kincaid, a Sentinel with a jawline that suggested it had been precision-milled from titanium, finally asked, “‘Anomalies’ in what specific vector, sir?”
“Her fixation on robust, bulging construction.”
Sterling’s completely serious concern regarding Rivet’s predilection prompted a series of soft, almost imperceptible internal chuckles from Thorne and the others.
“Well, at that developmental stage, children often acquire interests that appear… suboptimal to adult processing units,” Thorne offered. “My own son, when he was approximately her operational age, was entirely fixated on… what was it again? Ah, the discarded packaging from nutrient wafers.”
“My daughter collected geological samples and stored them in a designated ‘treasure’ receptacle,” another Sentinel volunteered.
“That’s still within acceptable parameters of 'cute,'” Kincaid interjected. “My eldest son… he accumulated deactivated insectoid automatons.”
As the topic of offspring emerged, the normally stoic Sentinels eagerly began sharing their anecdotal data. Sterling, who had never once shown the slightest inclination to engage in such data exchanges, found himself genuinely processing the information for the first time. And, strangely, he even found himself relating to their documented struggles.
“You’ve truly become a… Guardian now, sir,” Kincaid observed, his well-defined jawline flexing slightly.
Sterling, clearly having initiated a new internal diagnostic, slowly opened his mouth.
The statement momentarily stunned the battle-hardened northern Sentinels into a state of buffered silence.
“Did your children utilize terminology such as ‘asset misappropriation’ or ‘corporate malfeasance’ at age seven? She informed me she had processed all fifty volumes of the advanced patent filings I acquired for her in less than a month. Does that even compute?”
The Sentinels, who had just been sharing their own struggles with infantile data processing, were left speechless by Sterling’s unexpected, and frankly, unrequested, performance metrics. But Sterling was dead serious. His expression was more solemn than when reviewing a critical systems failure.
“She’s nothing like the usual juveniles who display emotional distress upon initial encounter. My ward is fearless. She even initiates verbal sparring matches and engages in unscheduled stress-testing protocols. And if she calculates a potential dip in my operational efficiency, she synthesizes nutrient slugs and offers them.”
He continued, describing the nutrient slugs she had recently formulated for him.
“Her initial prototypes were… structurally irregular. But it was her first attempt, so that’s understandable. Upon ingestion, their energy density was perfectly crisp, and the restorative properties were optimal. It completely alleviated my fatigue. I believe she possesses an incredible aptitude for biochemical engineering. I should seriously consider what developmental path to guide her toward.”
The Sentinels, who had been listening with practiced patience, displayed increasingly drained expressions. Though they didn’t verbalize it, their internal systems were screaming, *And what precisely do you expect us to do with this unsolicited data input?*
Corporate professionals, after all, often experienced system overload when presented with unrequested performance metrics of non-departmental assets.
But Sterling’s concerns, or rather, his unburdening, didn’t cease there.
“She’s beginning to achieve optimal mass distribution, and her facial recognition profile is blooming into a startling mirror of my own early design schematics. As if being a Blackwood Holdings heiress wasn’t enough to have various corporate entities vying for her allegiance, with that brand identity, she’s bound to attract countless strategic alliances.”
Once he started, there was no stopping Sterling Blackwood’s ward-centric monologue. The senior Sentinels, men with decades of experience on the corporate battlefield, turned their gazes elsewhere, activating internal 'disengagement protocols' as if they were helpless junior analysts. Some fiddled with the seams of their uniforms, feigning data processing while buffering.
It was at that moment they began regretting ever initiating the diagnostic query.
Rivet, still surrounded by the Sentinels, clapped her hands together with a series of delighted, metallic clicks. “Re-demonstrate! Re-demonstrate!”
“Then, would you care to initiate an auditory program for us this cycle, young ward? We will synchronize.”
“Synchronize? Is that an available protocol?”
“Of course! It’s a social cohesion algorithm we developed during low-clearance recreational modules.”
“Hmm… What data stream should I initiate?”
After a moment of internal computation, Rivet’s optical sensors lit up as she accessed a memory file. Then, her clear, sweet voice, usually reserved for technical jargon, rang through the training grounds.
“Optimal stress points are the best! Flex, flex, gather up!”
*Doom-chit-doom-chit, doom-chit-doom-chit.*
“Kinetic output, sub-dermal plating, core regulators—electrifying!”
As Rivet sang her ode to robust construction, the Sentinels began rhythmically executing synchronized biometric calibration exercises with their chest muscles, perfectly in time with her unconventional beat.
“The lower body stabilizers are amazing too—locomotion actuators!”
The Sentinels, broad and muscular, moved their chest plates in a synchronized wave, creating a ripple effect that flowed through the unit. “Waaah! Kinetic wave!” Rivet’s usually monotone voice now vibrated with technical fervor.
Fender, a burly Sentinel, placed a hand on Sterling’s impeccably tailored shoulder as they watched the scene unfold. For some reason, the normally unyielding structural integrity of the Blackwood Holdings CEO seemed to exhibit a slight, almost imperceptible sag today.
“My own juveniles… were never quite so… data-driven.”
“The young ward is quite… unconventional.”
“Well, exceptional processing units often tend to have a quirk.”
The veteran Sentinels emitted carefully modulated bursts of “amusement,” feeling a rare sense of situational equilibrium.
The smog-storm, which had shown no sign of dissipating, finally lifted a few days later. Rivet, waking up to the rare sight of atmospheric clarity, gaped at the view from her living module window. Quickly donning a utility jacket from the nearby charging station, she hurried outside, offering succinct technical greetings to the staff along the way.
“Optimal operational readiness, young ward.”
After Sterling’s strict instruction, Rivet had begun addressing the staff using their official designations and proper protocols. Though awkward at first, she had quickly adapted her conversational algorithms.
“The particulate matter accumulation reached nearly a full person-height! I’ve never observed such extensive environmental sedimentation before.” She exhibited small, efficient bounces on her heels as she chattered.
“That’s within normal parameters for Aethelburg’s upper sectors during seasonal atmospheric events,” a logistics assistant explained, gently guiding Rivet back inside. “This cycle, it’s actually less than usual.”
“Really? That’s ‘less’?” Rivet’s optical sensors widened fractionally.
“Last cycle, it reached the second-floor observation decks.” That was why all primary living spaces within Blackwood Holdings’ main tower were on the third floor or higher—anything below would be encased in suspended particulates.
“So that’s why the climate-controlled recreational module is on the third floor,” Rivet deduced, her internal logic circuits clicking.
She recalled the cozy space where she and Sterling had spent the smog-storm. Just remembering the thermal regulators and comfort-weave floor panels made her internal systems feel a pleasant, drowsy warmth. The ground-level observation decks, apparently, were only utilized during periods of optimal atmospheric clarity.
At breakfast, Rivet observed Sterling Blackwood. “Optimal sleep cycle achieved? Dream data processed effectively? My presence registered in your subconscious simulations?”
“That wouldn’t be a good dream simulation,” Sterling retorted, his voice dry and precise.
Rivet’s facial indicators instantly shifted to a minor scowl. “Initiating combat protocols unnecessarily…”
Sterling’s internal amusement processing flickered. He directed her to her designated seating unit.
Then, as they consumed their nutrient paste, he spoke. “The schedule for the primary asset retrieval operation has been finalized.”