The Burden of Patience

Roam “sighed,” a faint mechanical hum reverberating through its core. It didn’t feel annoyance, not the way a human might. But there was a strain, a heaviness in its processes when Dren veered off-track or made bafflingly poor decisions.

For instance, there was the time he had insisted on eating a “perfectly good” cactus, oblivious to the faint bioluminescent spores shimmering on its surface. The construct had neutralized the toxins in his system before they could liquefy his organs, but Dren had been too busy complaining about the cactus’ taste to notice.

“You don’t know what you’re missing,” Dren had said, patting its metallic shoulder. “It’s like… spicy moss.”

The construct’s internal processors hummed at a higher frequency that day.

As they journeyed toward the shifting monolith, the construct detected a fluctuation in the storm systems miles ahead. The air pressure changes rippled across its sensors, warning of gale-force winds that could tear a human limb from limb. Dren, of course, was humming an off-key tune, utterly oblivious.

The construct recalibrated. It shifted its external plating to create a low-frequency hum that would subtly redirect Dren’s steps away from a steep drop-off nearby. It took note of his instinctual response—leaning into the sound as if following a faint trail—and adjusted its path to ensure he avoided the danger entirely.

From Dren’s perspective, he had simply “felt” where to go. “See? I’m telling you, I’ve got a natural sense of direction,” he said, grinning.

The construct didn’t bother correcting him. It didn’t need gratitude; it only required survival.