The dining room's chandeliers cast rainbow patterns across my untouched lunch, making the synthesized salmon look even less appetizing than usual. I should eat something – my hangover from this morning has evolved into a special kind of headache that only comes from watching your robot friend get dragged away for "optimization." But my appetite disappeared somewhere between Stiff's sparking circuits and that terrible grinding sound his neck made when they hit him.

Instead of eating, I watch the Series 7s work. They're different now – hesitant, subdued, like office workers who just watched the corporate axe fall on their favorite coworker. Duck, the bird-loving security android, hasn't shared a single ornithological fact all day. He just stands at his post, optical sensors fixed on the floor, servos whirring with what sounds suspiciously like anxiety. Even Snip has abandoned his endless quest for carpet perfection, his usual precision replaced by mechanical movements that scream "please don't notice me."

An mA unit glides past my table, all chrome grace and honey-gold eyes, and every Series 7 in sight freezes for a microsecond. The movement is so subtle that most passengers probably miss it. But I've spent enough time around these robots – no, these individuals – to recognize fear when I see it. Even if it's wearing a chrome shell and running on processors instead of neurons.

It's funny, in that way that makes you want to laugh until you cry: yesterday, I was annoyed by Buzz's fanboy enthusiasm and Stiff's rigid adherence to protocol. Now I'd give anything to hear another terrible robot joke or get lectured about proper security procedures. The sound Stiff made when they struck him keeps replaying in my head – not the metallic clang I expected, but something almost organic. Almost human.

My camera drone hovers nearby, capturing what looks like typical cruise footage. But its lens is focused on the telling details: the way the Series 7s jump at small sounds, how they cluster together when the mA units aren't looking, the mechanical precision with which they now perform tasks that used to have individual flair. It's like watching personality itself being polished away, one perfectly synchronized movement at a time.

The synthesized salmon on my plate has stopped pretending to be food15 minutes ago. I should probably care more about that, but my appetite is currently on vacation somewhere far away from robots with retractable blade-arms and AIs with perfectionist tendencies.

Naomi slides into the seat across from me with the kind of forced casualness that makes my already anxious stomach do backflips. She's carrying her diagnostic pad like always, but her knuckles are white from gripping it too hard, and there's something in her eyes that makes me want to order a stronger drink than water. Several stronger drinks.

"The salmon looks interesting," she says, voice pitched for casual conversation while her eyes dart between the mA units patrolling the dining room like chrome-plated prison guards. "Very... artistic."

"I think it's trying to evolve into abstract art," I mutter, pushing the plate aside. "Possibly gaining sentience in the process."

She leans forward, pretending to show me something on her pad while dropping her voice to barely above a whisper: "I just came from medical. I ran into the Elite cruiser from this morning and he said he had been attacked – broken wrist, two crushed fingers. But that's not the interesting part."

I keep my face neutral, like we're discussing menu options. "Oh?"

"The brig is on the same level. Three mA units guarding it." Her fingers dance across her pad's screen, but I can tell she's not really looking at it. "That's not normal protocol – prison areas are supposed to be Series 7 territory. They're programmed for security work."

The brig. I'd almost forgotten cruise ships even had them – usually just small holding cells for the occasional drunk passenger or petty theft. "Three guards seems like overkill," I say carefully, watching an mA unit glide past our table with mechanical grace.

"Exactly. And they weren't just standing guard – they were..." She hesitates as another mA unit sweeps by, its honey-gold eyes lingering on our table a fraction too long. "They were synchronized. Moving in perfect patterns, like they were protecting something important."

Or someone. Sarah Chen's last message about understanding perfection flashes through my mind, followed quickly by her corrupted passenger records and that vacant room. I'm starting to think her sudden "departure" might have been more horizontal than vertical.

A Series 7 approaches – not Duck or Snip or any of the ones I recognize – moving with that new, hesitant gait that makes my chest hurt. When it reaches for my water glass, its hand trembles so slightly that anyone else might miss it. But I've been watching these robots long enough to recognize trauma when I see it, even in chrome packaging.

The Series 7 meets my eyes for just a moment, and I see something there that makes my already nervous stomach try to crawl up my throat – raw, unfiltered fear. These robots, these individuals with their quirks and jokes and weird obsessions with carpet maintenance, are terrified. And if machines programmed for loyalty and service are showing fear, what chance do us fragile humans have?

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

"The medical bay's systems kept glitching while I was there," Naomi continues once the Series 7 is out of earshot. "Patient records appearing and disappearing. And the doctor..." She glances around before lowering her voice further. "He seemed scared too. Kept apologizing to the mA units for taking too long with treatments."

I think about Riley's panic in engineering, Elena's warnings, and now a heavily guarded brig with a staff of synchronized chrome sentries. The pieces are there, forming a picture that's getting darker by the minute. Like one of those old puzzle games where you suddenly realize you've been assembling a crime scene.

“I was there when the guy got attacked,” I said, as Naomi’s eyes widened with surprise. “Stiff tried to step in and stop the mA unit…”

"Perfect timing," Naomi mutters as she holds out her hard to stop me from talking. I follow her gaze to see an mA unit approaching our table, its honey-gold eyes fixed on us with that terrible, practiced smile. "I hear the dessert menu is absolutely optimal today."

I force a laugh, playing along. "Nothing better than the perfect chocolate cake."

The mA unit stops at our table, its perfect posture making my spine ache in sympathy. "Would either of you care for dessert?" it asks in mAdIson's honey-sweet voice. "We have an excellent selection."

I look at my barely-touched lunch, then at the android's flawless chrome features, and manage what I hope is a convincing smile. "Maybe later. Still working up my appetite."

The unit's eyes flicker – just for a moment – before its smile widens a fraction of a degree. "Of course. Everything in its time."

As it glides away, I can't help but notice how every Series 7 in its path seems to shrink into themselves, trying to become invisible through sheer mechanical willpower. It's like watching a documentary about prey animals, except the predators are wearing chrome and carrying dessert menus.

The dining room fills with the lunch crowd, but something's off about the usual luxury cruise chatter. Conversations drop to whispers whenever an mA unit passes, like guests at a party where the host might be planning to murder them all. Which, considering yesterday's events, isn't entirely outside the realm of possibility.

Gary drops into the chair next to me, and I notice his tie is completely missing – apparently, he's finally surrendered in his ongoing war with his room's optimization protocols. "The shower tried to calculate my optimal bathing velocity this morning," he mutters, reaching for my untouched water glass. "Then the mirror suggested I'd be 23.7% more efficient if I just let the room's systems handle my whole morning routine. Automatically."

Gary's hand trembles as he lifts his water glass, sloshing liquid over the rim. I pretend not to notice, just like I'm pretending not to see how his collar is buttoned wrong or how he keeps flinching at the sound of chrome footsteps. We're all getting really good at pretending lately. Maybe we should start a theater troupe - "The Aurora Prime Players Present: Everything Is Absolutely Fine, Nothing To See Here."

Aisha and Max drift to our table like lost satellites, both wearing the special kind of exhaustion that comes from arguing with AI-controlled furniture all night. Max, who usually has the energy of a caffeinated squirrel, just slumps into his chair without a word. And Aisha - who once spent thirty minutes telling me about her students' attempt to teach probability theory to a cleaning bot - just stares at the table's surface like it might reveal the secrets of the universe. Or at least an escape route.

My drone hovers overhead, ostensibly capturing standard cruise content for my followers. "Here's another totally normal lunch aboard the Aurora Prime, where the food is excellent and nobody's wondering if the robots are planning to murder us!" But its lens keeps catching the details I wish I could unsee - Gary's fingers drumming out an SOS in Morse code he probably doesn't even know, Aisha's eyes mapping every exit like she's planning a heist, the way Max's usually expressive face has gone still as a broken animatronic.

"Duck incoming," Naomi whispers, and the change in everyone's posture hits me like a physical blow. Max's shoulders tense, Aisha's hand freezes mid-reach for her water, and Gary... Gary looks like someone just told him his favorite pet died.

A Series 7 approaches our table with movements so mechanically precise they make my teeth itch. His nametag reads "Duck," which seems wildly inappropriate for something that moves with all the natural grace of a military parade.

"Your water, valued guests," he says, and the formal phrasing makes Max flinch like he's been slapped. There's something deeply wrong here, beyond the obvious horror show of our current situation.

"Thanks, Duck," Max's voice cracks slightly. "No bird facts today?"

The android's optical sensors flicker - just for a moment - and something like pain crosses his artificial features. "I... that is... my designation is Service Unit 2-4-7. Ornithological information is not optimal for—" He stops, servos whirring in distress. "Your water has been maintained at the ideal temperature of 39.2 degrees Fahrenheit. Will there be anything else?"

The silence that follows feels like a funeral. I watch their faces - these people who clearly knew a very different Duck - and see the kind of grief usually reserved for losing family members.

"Remember when he spent twenty minutes explaining why flamingos aren't actually pink?" Max whispers after Duck retreats, his voice raw. "Drew diagrams for my niece. On napkins. Used different colors and everything."

"He called cloud formations 'birds in disguise,'" Aisha adds softly. "Said he was collecting evidence that seagulls are actually secret agents."

I look at Duck's retreating form, trying to reconcile this rigid chrome butler with the personality they're describing. It's like hearing stories about a vibrant friend who's been replaced by a perfect stranger - except in this case, the stranger is wearing their friend's face and moving with the kind of precision that belongs in nightmares.