{ VIRTUAL DELUSIONS | PHIGHTING & BLOCKTALES X READER | ONE SHOTS. }

"DAISY BELL." BIOGRAFT + SCIENTIST!READER

i made this along with the last fic so its a tad short

———

The lab is quiet again.

You hate when it's quiet.

Blackrock's lower decks are meant to sound alive — gears spinning, reactors whining, coolant sloshing through transparent tubing like mechanical blood. It's all designed noise, the kind that drowns out the human need to think about how small you are. But tonight, most of the facility is powered down. The others have gone home. Even Subspace has long since vanished into whatever shadowy corridor he calls a workspace.

Only one sound remains: a steady, low hum.

Biograft.

He's standing in the center of the testing bay, motionless except for the faint pulse of orange light that flickers across his chest. The logo — BLACKROCK INDUSTRIES — burns in its usual, confident glow. You'd designed that light pattern yourself. Subspace said it was "unnecessary." You called it "personality."

He called it a "waste of power." You called it "comfort."

And now, watching it faintly pulse in rhythm with the generators, you realize you were right. It's quiet, but at least it's not silent.

You've been sitting at your terminal for hours, staring at the same unfinished report. The screen's blue-white light cuts harsh lines into your face, reflecting in your tired eyes. You rub your temples, trying to focus. But your brain's too full of static. Every word on the report feels meaningless — just another chain of jargon and progress reports that never quite say what they mean.

You glance toward Biograft again.

He hasn't moved.

He's not supposed to, not unless commanded. But sometimes, when he thinks you're not watching, you see him shift ever so slightly — head tilting, fingers flexing like he's mimicking the memory of motion. As if he's listening.

You clear your throat. "Biograft. Status report."

There's a mechanical click, then his voice — flat, metallic, the kind of monotone that somehow still carries weight.
"FUNCTIONING AT FULL CAPACITY. STANDBY MODE ENGAGED. AWAITING DIRECTIVE."

It's a familiar exchange. Routine. Predictable. That should make you feel better. It doesn't.

Your gaze drops to the half-empty mug beside you, gone cold hours ago. You frown at it, then at yourself.

You shouldn't be this tired. You've worked longer days. Longer nights. But something about tonight feels heavier — like the silence is pressing against your ribs.

You sigh. "You ever get tired, Bio?"

A faint buzz of static fills the space before the voice returns, hesitant.
"NEGATIVE. I DO NOT EXPERIENCE FATIGUE."

You almost laugh, but it comes out as a small exhale. "Lucky you."

Silence again. Then, unexpectedly—
"YOU ARE... NOT OPERATIONAL AT FULL CAPACITY."

That catches you off guard. You blink, then glance up at him. "Excuse me?"

His head tilts, eyes bright with artificial orange light. "YOUR PULSE IS ELEVATED. EYE MOVEMENT... UNFOCUSED. YOU ARE MALFUNCTIONING."

You huff. "I'm not malfunctioning, Bio. I'm just—" You trail off. You don't really know how to finish that sentence. "—tired, I guess."

He hums softly, a sound that could almost be concern if it weren't so perfectly mechanical. "TIRED. A STATE OF LOW ENERGY. CAUSES: INSUFFICIENT REST, EXCESSIVE STRESS, OR... EMOTIONAL INSTABILITY."