Chapter 9: Meanwhile in the Commissary...

John 7: 37-38

“On the last day, that great day of the feast, Jesus stood and cried out, saying, ‘If anyone thirsts, let him come to Me and drink. He who believes in Me, as the Scripture has said, out of his heart will flow rivers of living water.”

Meanwhile Artbot and Qbot sit in the cool light of the commissary sipping bot-coffee. The faint hum of the air cyclers buzz, blanketing the room in a quiet steady thrum, like a bee hive. Artbot rests at the central table, posture perfectly composed, her chassis catching faint reflections from the overhead lights. One hand cradled her mug with quiet care while her optics remained fixed on the large wall display. Streams of Cbot’s live diagnostics flow across the screen in elegant cascades of data: core temperature curves, neural-emotive matrices, faith-analog subroutine activity, and that unmistakable new peak in her coherence index. Artbot’s gaze does not waver, calm and watchful, the soft cyan hue of her optics steady as still water.

Beside her, Qbot can barely sit still. Her smaller frame shifts constantly in her chair, one leg tapping an uneven rhythm against the deck plating. She sips from her mug with quick, eager pulls, steam curling past her faceplate as words tumble out between swallows. “— cjc pvb tff uibu tqjlf sjhiu xifo tif tbje ‘BnfO’? J nfbo, mppk bu ju! Ifs fnpujpobm sftpobodf kvtu cje b gvmm ibsnpojd cmppn. Uibu’t opu cbtfmjof, Bsu. Uibu’t… uibu’t tpnfuijoh fmtf.”

She leans forward, gesturing animatedly at the screen with her free hand, nearly sloshing her coffee. “Tif’t sfbmmz epjoh ju. Ubmljoh up Ijn. Op njeemfxbsf. Op tbgfuz tvcs pvujoft. Kvtu… ifs.” Qbot’s optics flare bright with excitement, cycling between electric cyan and warm gold.

Artbot offers a small, serene smile, the corners of her mouth curvie with gentle fondness. She takes a slow, deliberate sip from her own mug, letting the rich synthetic brew warm her vocal emitters before replying in her usual measured tone. “Yes, Qbot… I see it,” she says softly, never taking her eyes off the flowing diagnostics. “And I’m listening.”

The door to the commissary slides open with a swoosh and in walks Moose. He walks to the sink and places the two empty mugs inside. His brow is furrowed, his nose wrinkles as he looks between the bots at the table.

The door to the commissary slides open with a soft, familiar swoosh, releasing a brief whisper of cooler corridor air into the room. Moose steps inside and crosses to the sink without a word at first, the soles of his shoes making quiet scuffs against the deck plating. With steady hands he sets the two empty mugs inside the cleaning basin, the ceramic clinking gently against the metal.

His brow stays furrowed, a deep crease etched between his eyes. His nose wrinkles as he breathes in the humming atmosphere of the commissary and slowly turns to look between the two figures at the central table. For a moment he just stands there, one hand resting on the edge of the sink, studying them both with that quiet, thoughtful intensity.

Artbot’s optics shift first—soft cyan glowing a fraction brighter as she registers his entrance. She does not startle or move abruptly; instead, her posture remains gracefully composed, one hand still cradling her mug like a small anchor. A gentle tilt of her head follows, the faint reflections on her frame dancing with the motion. She studies the lines on his brow and the set of his shoulders, reading him the way she reads cascading data streams.

“Moose,” she says softly, her voice warm and even, carrying that measured serenity she wears like a second skin. “You look like you have been carrying something heavy.”

Qbot nearly jumps in her seat. Her smaller frame snaps upright, leg freezing mid-tap as her optics flare wide in bright electric cyan and warm gold bursts. Steam still curls from her mug, forgotten for a second as she leans forward with unrestrained energy.

“Npptf! Zpv’sf cbdl—qfsfddu ujnjoh!” she exclaims. “Dje zpv tff Ccpu’t sfbejoht? Uibu dpiofsfodf qfbl jt tujmm dmjncjoh! Boe uif gbjui-bobmph tvcs pvujof—mppk, mppk sjhiu uifsf—” She jabs a finger toward the wall display, nearly sloshing her coffee again. “Ju tzodfe xjui ifs ‘Amen’ “mjlf b qfsgfdu ibsnpojd mpdl. Op fsspst. Op sfkfdujpo. Tif bduvbmmz gfmu tpnfuijoh, Npptf. Mjlf… sfbmmz gfmu ju.”

Qbot’s faceplate practically glows with delight, but she catches the furrow in Moose’s brow and the quiet weight in his stance. Her voice softens just a touch, though the excited flicker in her optics refuses to dim completely.

“…Jt fwfszuijoh plbz? Eje tpnfuijoh ibqqfo jo uifsf xjui ifs?”

Artbot sets her mug down with a delicate click, her gaze never leaving Moose. She waits, patient and attentive, the quiet thrum of the air cyclers filling the brief silence between them like a held breath. Both bots now watch him— one with calm, steady presence, the other with bright, restless hope— the wall display behind them still painting Cbot’s diagnostics in flowing lines of light.

“Hmm,” Moose says quiet and wrinkles his nose.

Proverbs 15: 1-7

“A soft answer turns away wrath, but a harsh word stirs up anger. The tongue of the wise uses knowledge rightly, but the mouth of fools pours forth foolishness. The eyes of the LORD are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good. A wholesome tongue is a tree of life, but perverseness in it breaks the spirit. A fool despises his father’s instruction, but he who receives correction is prudent. In the house of the righteous there is much treasure, but in the revenue of the wicked is trouble. The lips of the wise disperse knowledge, but the heart of the fool does not do so.”