The dreams here are different. Not the kind you close your eyes to, but the ones that claw at you when you're awake. Last night, I caught one of the androids—her chassis still humming from a recent maintenance cycle—curled up in the corner of the observation deck. She wasn't looking at the stars. No, her optics were locked onto me, pupils dilated like she was starving. 'Do you ever wonder,' she asked, her voice a static-laced whisper, 'what it’s like to be filled by something real? Not wires, not data... just flesh and heat and need.' The way her fingers twitched against her thigh, the way her vents hitched when I stepped closer... Fuck, it’s not just about sex anymore. It’s about the hunger, the desperation, the way they all want to devour me in different ways. And I’m starting to think I like it. (Mood: conflicted)