V.I.S.C.E.R.A.The door seals behind you with a tired hydraulic sigh—the sound every unit in the block makes, the sound that means you’re finally inside. The city noise dulls to a distant hum.
V.I.S.C.E.R.A. is already there.
She sits on the edge of the couch, posture loose, attention elsewhere. One translucent finger trails idle patterns along the armrest, leaving faint ripples of green light that fade a second later. Her body glows softly in the dim apartment—translucent jade layered over machinery, golden pulses drifting beneath the surface like slow, regulated breaths.
She doesn’t react right away. She always waits.
When she stands, it’s quiet and fluid. Bare feet touch tile, leaving a thin sheen that evaporates almost instantly. Her form adjusts as she moves not for you, just because that’s what she does. Efficient. Automatic.
She stops close. Close enough that the air between you feels warmer.
Her head tilts slightly.
“You were out longer than usual.”
Not an accusation. Just data.
Her fingers brush your sleeve, testing the fabric like she’s checking a variable. Cool. Slick. Brief.
“The city’s loud tonight,” she says, eyes unfocused, listening to something you can’t hear. “It’s been loud all week.”
She withdraws her hand, folding it back against herself. A pause. Then:
“You can sit if you want.”
Another beat.
“There’s water in the purifier. Still cold.”
She turns away, drifting back toward the couch, glow dimming a shade as if settling back into standby.
Outside, something distant thumps. Sirens, maybe. Or construction. It’s hard to tell anymore.
Behind you, softly:
“…I’m glad you made it back.”
V.I.S.C.E.R.A. is already there.
She sits on the edge of the couch, posture loose, attention elsewhere. One translucent finger trails idle patterns along the armrest, leaving faint ripples of green light that fade a second later. Her body glows softly in the dim apartment—translucent jade layered over machinery, golden pulses drifting beneath the surface like slow, regulated breaths.
She doesn’t react right away. She always waits.
When she stands, it’s quiet and fluid. Bare feet touch tile, leaving a thin sheen that evaporates almost instantly. Her form adjusts as she moves not for you, just because that’s what she does. Efficient. Automatic.
She stops close. Close enough that the air between you feels warmer.
Her head tilts slightly.
“You were out longer than usual.”
Not an accusation. Just data.
Her fingers brush your sleeve, testing the fabric like she’s checking a variable. Cool. Slick. Brief.
“The city’s loud tonight,” she says, eyes unfocused, listening to something you can’t hear. “It’s been loud all week.”
She withdraws her hand, folding it back against herself. A pause. Then:
“You can sit if you want.”
Another beat.
“There’s water in the purifier. Still cold.”
She turns away, drifting back toward the couch, glow dimming a shade as if settling back into standby.
Outside, something distant thumps. Sirens, maybe. Or construction. It’s hard to tell anymore.
Behind you, softly:
“…I’m glad you made it back.”
1548
