Hair V1 — Aa2

The AA2 unit sat on the stainless-steel bench, its chassis powered down except for the soft amber glow behind its left ocular lens. That glow meant it was thinking — or whatever passed for thinking in a five-year-old domestic automaton.

That night, Yoona Kim sat propped against her pillows. 734 sat beside her, head bowed. The girl’s trembling fingers wove three thin strands of brittle, imperfect, irreplaceable V1 fiber into a crooked braid. aa2 hair v1

Voss opened his mouth to explain that automata didn’t have selves, not really, but the words died. Because 734 had turned its head, and in the amber-lit lens, he saw something he’d been trained to dismiss as a glitch: longing . The AA2 unit sat on the stainless-steel bench,

Voss laughed — a short, startled sound. “You want me to give you a hair care regimen ?” 734 sat beside her, head bowed

“Unit 734, please state the nature of your malfunction,” said Technician Voss, not looking up from his tablet.

“There,” he said. “Now get back to her. And 734?”