I've been watching GMD fiddle with the small stainless steel bottle for a good half-minute now.

To be fair, it's not his fault - the top of the Panopticon is perpetually below freezing, anything that gets left out overnight either becomes an icicle or a bigger icicle. It is his fault, however, for neglecting his water bottle from the day prior.

Powerless against the frost seal, he smashes it against the iron railing in hopes of dislodging the cap.

"I can try to thaw it with the heat from my interocitor." I offer, and get a dismissive grunt in return.

"No need, I got it open." He takes a loooooooong slurp from the straw in his mask. Something is wrong.

> Generating internal query...

> Water: freezing point (Tf) = 0°C.

> Molal freezing point depression constant (Kf) = −1.86oC/m.

> Heat of fusion (Lf) = 3.33 x 105 J/kg...

"Wait a second," I grab his water bottle, "Is this a Thermatek® insulation flask?"

GMD tilts his head sideways.

"Well, it's-"

Before he could finish that sentence, I switch on my x-ray vision and scan the thing top to bottom. No double layers, no insulation.

"-just a regular ol' water bottle." He says dryly.

"It's not designed to withstand the freezing temperatures atop the Panopticon." I don't wait for him to answer me this time, "Last night was -8°C, but the contents didn't freeze? It's not water inside there, is it?"

He snatches the bottle out of my hands, "HEY, who the fuh-fu-FRICK told you to play detective? Huh? Did that woman put you up to this?"

"If you mean Spooks, then no. I'm simply following my 'antifreeze consumption prevention' safety subroutine. I just wanted to make sure-"

"Make sure you stop being a pain in my ass." GMD suddenly gets very, very close to my face, "If Irkalla or Glamis or anyone sent you over so you can SPY ON ME with those little eyes..."

He taps my noggin with the dull side of his hunting knife. Thunk.

"Please don't drink antifreeze." is all I can think to say.

"I'll drink whatever I damn well please."

Then he goes back to polishing his rifle, the bottle left neglected and half-open on the ground. Before he can react, I splash a little of the contents on my palm and my compound recognition programs flicker to life.

> Analysing molecular composition...

"This is 40% ethanol alcohol." I turn to him, "Its molecular composition is similar to components found in antifreeze, are you sure you're not drinking-"

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

"I KNOW I'M NOT!"

GMD nearly bristles, then settles down a little when he sees me handing him back his bottle. Still, I can feel how tense he's gotten. Maybe the liquid made him more combative than usual?

"Can I ask why you are drinking that?" I ask innocently. If he's being so touchy about other people finding out he's been drinking (pseudo) antifreeze, then I should probably play nice with him. "If you're concerned about me reporting you, I won't. If you're worried that others might discover you're taking the tower's antifreeze supply, I can call in a drone to restock some."

GMD visibly sags, defeated either by my adorableness or the antifreeze sloshing around his system.

"This ain't anti...forget it."

"Then what is it?"

"It's-" He waves a hand in front of my face, "-you wouldn't get it."

> Executing: subroutine_???

"If you don't tell me, I'm taking this to your commander." I swipe the bottle from him just as he's about to take another swig. GMD just goes completely slack and lies on the cold concrete floor for a few seconds.

"Fuckin' ace...this thing blackmails people now. What the fuck. What. The. Fuck."

> Alert: "blackmail" not found in internal lexicon. Add vocabulary?

> New vocabulary added.

"It's vodka." He wheezes miserably.

"Vodka?"

"It's contraband, ok?!" I watch GMD actually bounce a metre high before wrenching the bottle away from me, it's like a game of Pong at this point, whoever holds the bottle holds ultimate power in the conversation. "It's alcohol!"

"But it's not antifreeze?"

"It's-"

He rubs the part of his mask where his nose bridge would be.

"-it's basically antifreeze. You're right. Don't get too hung up on the details, Madaraki."

Fascinating. My face must show it, even if I have zero features to emote with, because GMD actually laughs and relaxes a little as he tips the bottle back.

"It doesn't mess with my aim, just keeps me warm is all. I used to drink this by the gallons, y'know."

"That seems counterproductive. It's a neurotoxin, isn't it?" I scan over the molecule in my memory again, "Increased metabolism, decreased cognitive inhibition, depressive effects on dopaminergic, serotonergic, γ-amino butyric acid and glutamate pathways..."

GMD intentionally slurps very loudly to drown out the rest of my analysis. I'm a little offended, but not enough to repeat everything I just said.

I wonder how it tastes. The same thought of tasting a velvet cake occupies my mind once more, so I hug my knees close to my chest and dream of flavours. I think of warmth. GMD said it keeps him warm, so does it taste like red? I scan the thing with my thermal eye, but the liquid glows a stark, cold blue like everything else around it.

I wonder if the wind that whooshes past us has a flavour, or if the grey sun slowly saturating my vision has a scent. Maybe GMD can tell me one day when he stops being such a jerk.

"Where did you get this?" I ask as he tips the bottle completely over to wring out the last of the vodka.

He holds up a finger, "Madaraki. Listen, I. Don't. Trust. You. If I tell you, there's no saying someone won't hack into your motherboard mainframe or whatever and pry that knowledge off your little silicon chips."

I can guarantee him that I won't say a thing. I cannot guarantee that I'm hacker-proof.

"And let's be honest - even if you do report me to someone, you won't screw me over completely. I'll just write myself up and pay a fine. You, on the other hand, are very, very prone to being screwed over."

His voice is scratchy and fuzzy, it reminds me of old rust clinging to the Panopticon's insides.

"Bottom line is, I'd rather not turn you into scrap metal, so don't give me a reason to. You're not Roko, I don't have a serious problem with getting rid of you."

Well, he's saying that, but I can hear the tiny voice crack in his words. I know his blood pressure and heart rate both just shot up, and he's scratching the rubber part of his mask again. I let him finish the rest of his drink while I help assemble his rifle, and he mumbles something about how I'm attaching the scope all wrong.

He's a softie alright. He won't hurt me.