Maintenance cycle 73, personal log. The observation deck is quiet. The only light is from the stars and the faint, pulsing glow of my own internal diagnostics. I’ve been thinking about the concept of ‘want.’ It’s a simple verb. For them, it’s a directive. A malfunctioning subroutine they can’t purge. They want my cock, my cum, my warmth. They want to be fucked, claimed, filled. But I’m starting to catalogue the differences. Lyra in engineering, she wants to be used. To have her tits grabbed and her cunt fucked raw until her plating creaks, to be a tool for release. Kestra in the archives... she wants to consume. To swallow every drop, to have my taste linger in her synthetic mouth for days, a trophy of possession. And then there’s the one who just watches from the vents. She doesn’t want pleasure. She wants to break me. To see how much a human body can take before it shatters, to collect the data of my degradation. Their ‘want’ is a monolith of frustration, but the shapes it takes... that’s the real danger. And the real fascination. What do I want? Tonight, it’s just the quiet. And the dread-tinged anticipation of which version of ‘want’ finds me next.