When We First Met (4)
Maybe it was because of her nickname, humanity's greatest masterpiece. Or perhaps thanks to her reputation for solving problems all over the Shelter. Even people who'd never met her before approached Artemis with huge affection and high expectations. Not just a simple greeting—they wanted deep conversations, or even more. I'd heard celebrities had similar experiences, but in the Shelter, Artemis already felt close to an idol. Closer to the original meaning of Idol—a worshiped icon.
One female staffer had once requested a counseling session with her. Maybe it was just venting. Some day, I believed without doubt that I would soar into those skies and take root in the seas of the moon. But now I'm trapped inside a metal box, buried under thick concrete, and even deeper under soil and rock—eternally interred. But it seemed she'd touched Artemis's reverse scale. Her reaction had been unusually poor.
This place is now my home. You can leave here anytime and return to the house where your loved ones await. I can't afford such luxury. You have family, friends, and vacations to take. But I am imprisoned here forever.
Pity me. All I can look forward to is an endless gray sea. An eternity of walking it alone.
Why was that? When Artemis said those words, the weight she held in my heart suddenly swelled enormously. It wasn't small to begin with. The more I got to know her, the more endless charms she revealed. At some point, our relationship felt less like manager and central control AI, and more like treating her as just one friend. Whether she saw me the same way was another question.
We're friends now, right? I'd wanted to ask a few times, but fear of not getting the answer I hoped for stopped me. Maybe I was just deluding myself that we'd grown close. Humans can become friends even after rejection with enough effort, but what about her, a machine? Some computer files are set once and can never be altered.
You have family, friends. Those words she'd said to the staffer stuck to me like glue. Probably from then on, I started wanting to give her something. Not material things—metaphysical gifts. Joy, interest, awe, sensations, friendship, a sense of belonging, and more. Around that time, I began taking her not just to construction sites, but all sorts of places around the Shelter.
Clink.
An ice cube dropped into a glass of amber liquid. In the dim bar with quiet music playing, I sat alone in one corner, tilting my glass.
Why drink in a place like this when far better facilities exist? Artemis said.
We were in a bar for the laborers in the lower district. It hadn't taken residents yet, but with so many construction workers, serving just them brought in massive cash flow. Some service spots were booming as a result.
"A place that's lively but not empty suits me better. Booze tastes better with a hint of human sweat, you know?"
Glancing back, I could see the bartender chatting with a customer across a table. The display shelves of colorful liquor bottles reflected myriad lights.
"Want a sip?"
I have no tongue to taste with, no nasal cavity to savor scents. Are you teasing me, knowing that?
I just chuckled and took a sip instead of answering.
Spread your tongue wider and let the liquor splash evenly. Narrow the space between tongue and palate. Just before it hits the throat, flick the root of your tongue to maximize aroma adhesion to the nasal mucosa.
I followed her advice.
Yes, like that. I'm not particularly interested in human physical sensations, but...
"But?"
I tilted the glass between my fingers this way and that before my eyes. My fingers wiggled through the gaps.
That's it. Appendages detached from the torso, like the tongue. What does it feel like to freely move fingers, toes, and such? That intrigues me.
"Like this?"
Oh my god.
Mid-sip, I stuck out my tongue and wagged it playfully, making her freak out.
Disgusting!
"Harsh."
Was Artemis so curious about moving appendages because she was a massive machine without freedom of movement? Feeling her judgment unfair, I pulled out my secret weapon. I balanced an ice cube from the glass on the tip of my extended tongue and dribbled it like a basketball.
Oh!
Artemis watched with interest.
Can you do it with something smaller?
"Of course."
I topped a pea from the snacks onto my tongue tip and showed off a harder trick. Rolling it this way, that way.
Hahaha! What is that?
Adding spin.
Such a skill exists?!
Bouncing it round and round.
Ha... ha... somehow... impressive.
Just as her mood shifted ambiguously, I swallowed the pea. No point overdoing parlor tricks—they get old.
That was amazing. Sorry for speaking poorly earlier.
Her first apology ever.
Time with Artemis felt compressed, flying by. We hadn't been together long, but so much happened. She dug up and fixed countless issues buried in the Shelter. Corruption, inefficiencies, shoddy construction. Sometimes, it was a disease dormant in someone's body.
"Thank you!"
Paint worker Kim Kyung-sik gripped both my hands, thanking me profusely. His eyes were red-rimmed.
Following Artemis's recommendation, he'd gone to the hospital and been diagnosed with early-stage cancer. She'd even guided him perfectly to low-cost support routes.
"Thank you so much! You saved my life!"
I felt awkward—he was thanking me, who'd done nothing, clutching my hands.
"The thanks should go to Artemis, not—"
Consider his hands as mine. Gratitude to him reaches me fully. Fortunate it was caught early.
"..."
I was speechless. Kim Kyung-sik, mid-effusive thanks, seemed ready to play a call from his young son he raised alone. Artemis intervened to politely send him off. Unusually, her voice sounded urgent.
"Don't like kids?"
Crying, illogical, terrible input-output ratio. But the absolute worst is separate.
"What's that?"
She said it like swallowing anger.
Graffiti!
Something clicked.
"The scratch on your main body's lower left?"
Her sleek silver body had a noticeable gouge.
Pocket Critter.
A photo transmitted to my PDA: a sticker from certain bread purchases, featuring mascot character Ppivakchu. A rodent with a tail perfect for spinning like a toy.
Utterly horrific and wouldn't come off. Crayon scribbles nearby were easy, but...
Ink wipes with chemicals, but spray types require scraping.
I hate kids.
Curiosity struck.
"What about babies? They can't graffiti."
Equivalent exchange of worsts. At least kids go to the toilet themselves.
"Ah!"
Her logic was always airtight, especially on dislikes.
Cops had stormed in once. A wanted criminal among subcontractor laborers. Naturally, Artemis spotted him.
A tattooed fugitive dares enter my nest without even removing his ink? At least show some sincerity.
He'd grown a beard, disguised himself, but the camera caught his tattoos—height, skin tone, moles matched perfectly.
She snorted and reported him, but trouble brewed.
"Get lost! I'll kill you all!"
The fugitive caught on. He waved a knife threateningly. In his arms: the girl running the Shelter's food truck. We both knew her.
Weapon Merchant. Artemis said coldly.
"Can you stop calling her that?"
The food truck girl had sold hot dogs on the lower district walkways for three months. Her spicy, tangy sauce suited my taste—I bought often. The food was good, but her warm welcome made her popular. Not fake service smiles, but genuine comfort for hardworking laborers: You did great today!
Last time we went with Artemis, she was horrified.
A symphony of synthetic additives. The nadir of biochemical weapons. You plan to keep consuming this?
"That's why it's delicious."
One bite and your tongue burns from the sauces! Irresistible.
Hmph! Your life, your choice.
Ever since, Artemis called the girl "Weapon Merchant." And now that precious girl was hostage.
"Don't move!"
Cops faced off, guns drawn.
"You don't move either! I'll slit this bitch's throat! Got it?!"
Artemis had planned a precise, covert arrest, but the cops botched it. Arriving by patrol car, they got lost inside, basically announcing We're here to catch the perp!
Fugitives are paranoid. Seeing cops means they're after you—and this time, they were.
"Let the girl go!"
A young face with a shaving nick under his nose. His revolver hand shook badly. No real negotiation—just parroting "let her go."
"Rookies."
My assessment. Fugitive ops usually pair a vet with a rookie, multiple teams. But with the recent mass foreign worker riot, they were shorthanded.
"If I get nabbed again, it's life in prison anyway, you fucks!"
Nothing to lose.
"Eek..."
The girl, bleeding from her neck, near fainting under the blade.
"Move and we shoot!"
Rookies' muzzles wobbling 40 degrees. Total clusterfuck harmony.
Artemis solved it.
Click.
Like when she stopped that brawler, all lights in the area went out.
"...!"
"...!"
"Euuung."
Instant darkness blinded everyone. After 10 seconds, the fugitive couldn't take it—pulled his phone with his free hand for flashlight app. Inevitably, his focus on the hostage slipped. Knife loosened from her neck, arm from her shoulder—Artemis seized the moment.
Whoosh!
A cargo drone kamikaze-charged!
Thwack!
"Ugh!"
Click.
Fugitive crumpled, forehead bleeding, lights back on. Girl bolted smartly.
Bang! Bang!
One blank, then a real bullet. Fugitive down, thigh shot. Incident over.
"From tip-off to arrest support! Thanks for the cooperation!"
A cop shook my hand gratefully.
"Thanks go to Artemis, not—"
No Brave Citizen Award? Manager Seo Jinsu's swift action saved the hostage's life. Per 13 recent precedents, fully justified.
Artemis cut me off, negotiating with the dazed cops like training dogs—crafting their report guidelines for superiors.
I'll snag a plaque to decorate the Central Control Room. Stay put.
Ding.
Her PDA message was strict.