A Heart in the Machine (Serial Designation V x Reader)

You power on, stretching your arms with a mechanical groan as you blink yourself into full awareness. For the first time in what feels like ages, you feel refreshed. Clearly, you needed that sleep. Still, a strange unease lingers in the back of your mind—a faint echo of that bizarre memory, or whatever it was.

A sudden clatter from the living room pulls you out of your thoughts. Startled, you momentarily forget the events of yesterday—and the fact that you now have a roommate. You quickly get up, open your door, and step into the living room, only to stop dead in your tracks.

The barren, lifeless apartment you had gotten so used to is gone. In its place is a vibrant, almost cozy space. Paintings hang on the walls—some abstract, others depicting vivid landscapes. A few new pieces of furniture are scattered across the room: a small side table next to the couch, a standing lamp in the corner, and even a modest rug beneath the coffee table. The shattered mirror from V's ship now hangs in the hallway, its cracks giving it an oddly artistic look.

Your gaze lands on V, standing in the corner, watering a plant—a plant—with an oil can. She notices you and turns, smirking. "Morning, sleepyhead. Like what I've done with the place?"

You gape at the transformation, struggling to find words. "I—uh... what happened here?"

She shrugs, setting the oil can aside and leaning casually against the wall. "Your apartment was depressing, so I fixed it. You're welcome."

You stutter, looking around in confusion at the sheer volume of new things. "W-where did you even get all this?"

V chuckles, crossing her arms with a smug grin. "Oh, you know, here and there. Some stuff from humans who don't need it anymore, and, uh... a few things from drones who I may or may not have previously murdered."

Your jaw drops. "You—you can't just take things from dead drones!"

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. "What? It's not like they're gonna miss it. Better to repurpose it than let it sit around collecting dust."

You open your mouth to argue, but quickly decide it's not worth it. Instead, you sigh, letting your shoulders drop as you take in the new atmosphere. Despite her... questionable sourcing methods, you can't deny that it's nice. The place feels more like an actual home now, and you're surprised by how well the decor suits the space.

"You have a surprisingly classical style for a... well, for a murderer," you say, and she raises an eyebrow, smirking.

"Flattery will get you everywhere," she teases.

You shake your head, but a small smile tugs at your lips. "I mean it, though. Thanks, V. I do appreciate it. Even if your methods were... unorthodox."

"Unorthodox?" She laughs, brushing past you to adjust the angle of one of the paintings. "I'll take that as a compliment. And you're welcome, techie."

You glance over at the counter and notice a pot of oil already heated and waiting. Grabbing a mug, you pour yourself a generous helping, sipping the warm liquid as the comforting heat spreads through your system. V continues adjusting the paintings on the walls, her movements uncharacteristically gentle and precise for someone of her... profession.

You watch her for a moment, the contrast striking. The same hands that tore apart drones with ease now delicately nudged a frame into place, her head tilting slightly as if gauging the perfect angle.

Then, as if carried on the faintest breeze, you hear it—soft, almost imperceptible. Humming?

You blink and shake your head. No way. There's no way V is humming to herself.