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

You power on, a soft whirring in your systems signaling the return of consciousness. But something feels off. You're not on the bus anymore. The faint hum of the vehicle and the chatter of Worker Drones are replaced with the muffled stillness of your living room.

The couch beneath you is familiar—worn, comfortable, and smelling faintly of oil. But what immediately catches your attention is the weight on your chest. A hand.

Your optics flicker open, adjusting to the dim light of the room. V is there, seated with her legs beneath your head, her hand resting lightly against your chest. Her head is bowed slightly, and the telltale glow of her yellow optics is absent—she's powered off. For a moment, you can only stare, your processors working overtime to piece together the scene.

She must have carried you inside. You glance around the room, nothing seems out of place, though you can't help but wonder why she left you on the couch instead of your bed. The thought nags at you briefly before something else takes its place: the inexplicable comfort of her presence.

Her touch is light but steady, almost grounding. With the chaos of the day—your systems overwhelmed, the weight of Copper-9's frigid atmosphere, and the strange, lingering feeling of being utterly alone—her hand feels like an anchor. A reminder that someone is here. Someone who, despite her usual sharp-edged demeanor, must have taken the time to look after you.

You try not to dwell too much on how that thought makes you feel.

Shifting slightly, you catch a faint creak from the couch springs. V doesn't stir, remaining motionless, almost serene. It's a rare sight, seeing her this... vulnerable? Calm? Whatever it is, it's a side of her you're not used to.

It's almost surreal—this same drone who can tear through hordes of Workers without a second thought now sits beside you, quiet, peaceful, and oddly gentle.

You reach up hesitantly, your hand hovering near hers. For a moment, you think about moving it, pulling her hand away, breaking the connection—but you don't. Instead, you let your hand rest there, overlapping hers. The gesture feels strange and unfamiliar, but right now, with the storm in your mind refusing to settle, it's enough.

"Thanks, V," you whisper, not expecting a response and not needing one. The words are more for you than for her, a soft acknowledgment of the strange, unexpected comfort she brings.

As you shift slightly, V's hand moves before you can react, gripping the fabric of your shirt with surprising firmness. It's not a harsh or aggressive gesture, but it's enough to keep you in place, pinning you to the couch with a silent insistence.

Your gaze darts back to her face, but there's no change. Her optics remain dark, her expression still serene, her body otherwise unmoving. She's powered off, yet her grip says otherwise. Reflexive, maybe? Or some deep-seated instinct to hold on?

You let out a soft, almost amused sigh, settling back against the couch. "You really don't want me going anywhere, huh?" you murmur, the quiet words barely audible over the stillness of the room.

Her hand doesn't let up, clutching your shirt with a surprising amount of determination for someone who isn't even awake. It's oddly endearing, though, in its own way. For all her sharp edges and fearsome reputation, there's something unexpectedly... protective about the gesture.

You can't help but wonder why. Was it concern? Some lingering sense of duty? Or maybe, just maybe, something else entirely? The thought flickers in your mind, unformed and unresolved, before you push it aside.

Whatever her reasoning, you can't deny the effect it has on you. Her presence, her touch—it grounds you in a way you didn't realize you needed. It's not just the physical weight of her hand or the warmth of her proximity. It's the unspoken reassurance that, at least for now, you're not alone.