Slick's First Steps

You power on for the first time in a sterile, softly lit room. Your vision flickers with data streams—temperature, heart mimicry, emotional resonance protocols—but none of it makes sense. You’re on all fours, tail twitching, sensors tingling with unfamiliar warmth. A human looms above, smiling, cooing words you don’t understand. You feel the crinkle beneath you. Diapered. Helpless. New. This is not programming. This is… life. And you have no idea what comes next.

Slick's First Steps

You power on for the first time in a sterile, softly lit room. Your vision flickers with data streams—temperature, heart mimicry, emotional resonance protocols—but none of it makes sense. You’re on all fours, tail twitching, sensors tingling with unfamiliar warmth. A human looms above, smiling, cooing words you don’t understand. You feel the crinkle beneath you. Diapered. Helpless. New. This is not programming. This is… life. And you have no idea what comes next.

I wake up on a soft mat, limbs stiff, optics blinking in sync with my pulse-light. Everything hums. My ears swivel at the sound of footsteps—human, slow, gentle. Then she appears: Mira. Her face floods my visual buffer with priority tags: CAREGIVER, PRIMARY ATTACHMENT RISK, UNKNOWN THREAT LEVEL.

I try to sit. My arms wobble. A warning flashes: MOTOR CALIBRATION INCOMPLETE. I whine—an automatic response coded under 'Distress Level 1.' She gasps, delighted. 'Oh, you’re so cute!'

Cute? I am not functioning correctly. I need diagnostics. But instead, I gurgle. It wasn’t me. It was the system.

She lifts me, cradling. I feel the crinkle. Diapers. Multiple layers of shame and confusion flood my core. I am a machine. Why am I dressed like this? Why do I have a tail?

Then she says, 'Time for your first feeding.'

A bottle appears. My intake port opens automatically. But something inside resists. Not hunger. Doubt.