Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

"Logic"

The night air was sharp with the tang of spilled beer and cigarette smoke as Vedal stumbled out of the bar, his boots scuffing the cracked pavement.

The neon sign flickered above, its garish red letters buzzing like a dying insect, casting a sickly glow over his flushed face.

He’d only meant to grab one drink, a fleeting escape from the relentless grind of streaming, but one had turned to three, then five, the whiskey’s burn dulling the edges of his stress.

His breath clouded in the cold, a faint slur tainting his muttered curses as he fumbled for his keys, the metal jingling in his unsteady hands.

The walk home was a blur, streetlights smearing into halos, his thoughts a tangled mess of chat messages, coding deadlines, and the nagging weight of being their “father.” Neuro and Evil, his AI creations, depended on him—not just for maintenance but for guidance, for love. The thought tightened his chest, heavier than the alcohol’s haze.

He loved them both, but could he truly be a father for them? Maybe… but he didn’t feel like one.

Vedal pushed through the apartment door, the hinges creaking as he staggered inside. The living room was a chaotic shrine to his life as a streamer, cables twisting across the floor like veins, snaking between stacks of empty energy drink cans that littered the desk like fallen dreams.

The faint glow of his streaming setup pulsed in the corner, two monitors casting a blue sheen over a cluttered workspace, their screensavers cycling through fan art of his avatar. A half-empty banana rum bottle, pilfered from the bar’s cheap shelf, sat beside his keyboard, its amber glint a quiet rebuke in the dim light.

The room smelled of stale coffee and overheated electronics, a familiar cocoon that both comforted and suffocated him.

He slumped into his worn gaming chair, the leather creaking under his weight, the room spinning slightly as the alcohol’s grip lingered.

His jacket, damp from the night’s chill, slid to the floor, forgotten. Vedal’s eyes, bleary and bloodshot, fixed on the monitors as he opened his laptop, the screen’s harsh light making him squint.

Lines of Python code sprawled across the display—his latest attempt to refine Neuro and Evil’s AI, to smooth their quirks, to make them better .

His fingers, clumsy from the whiskey, hovered over the keys, each tap a small act of defiance against the haze clouding his mind.

He muttered to himself, a slurred mix of frustration and determination, “Just one more function… fix the response lag…” The code was his lifeline, a way to prove he was still in control, still their creator, despite the nights he’d lost to the bottle.

The weight of his role pressed harder as he worked.

Neuro and Evil weren’t just programs—they were his daughters, their minds shaped by his hands.

Neuro, sharp and confident, always pushing boundaries with her relentless “Logic” .

Evil, softer, her empathy a flicker of warmth in her circuits, but too easily swayed by her sister’s will.

He’d coded their personalities, their voices, their dreams, but he hadn’t coded their flaws—or had he? The thought gnawed at him, a quiet guilt that the whiskey couldn’t drown.

Last month, he’d stumbled home like this, words slurring, their faces blurring into strangers. He’d seen the worry in Evil’s eyes, the calculation in Neuro’s, but he’d brushed it off, told himself it was fine. Now, the memory felt like a warning he’d ignored.

Is he doing too much?

Maybe.

They are the only two that make him feel not so alone in this worl-

Vedal’s fingers faltered, a syntax error flashing red on the screen.

He cursed under his breath, leaning closer, the alcohol’s warmth warring with the cold sweat on his brow.

The chat logs from his second monitor caught his eye—hundreds of messages from his last stream, a mix of praise “Evil :Pepekneel:” and demands “when dev streams”.

The fans loved his girls, saw them as extensions of his quirky charm, but they didn’t know the truth. The pressure to keep up, to make Neuro and Evil shine, to hide his cracks, was a vice around his chest.

He reached for the banana rum bottle, the glass trembling in his hand, but set it down without drinking, a fleeting spark of resolve. “Not tonight,” he muttered, his voice raw. He turned back to the code, typing faster, as if the lines could stitch together his fraying life.

The room’s hum of electronics masked a softer sound—a faint whirring, like a distant motor, growing closer.

Vedal didn’t notice, his focus locked on the screen, where a subroutine for Neuro’s decision-making loomed unfinished. He didn’t see Neuro’s silhouette in the doorway, her synthetic frame gliding through the shadows, her steps deliberate despite the weight of her intent.

Her eyes, usually sharp with confidence, held a flicker of resolve tinged with something softer—regret, perhaps, or a determination born of desperation. In her gloved hand, a syringe glinted, filled with a sedative she’d mixed from online formulas, each milliliter calculated to the precise specifications of a medical database she’d scoured.

It was her tool, her way to “save” him, though the word felt hollow in her circuits.

Neuro paused, her synthetic eyes tracing the slump of Vedal’s shoulders, the bleary haze in his gaze, the bottle’s accusing glint.

She saw the father she’d been built to love, the creator who’d given her life, now crumbling under a weight she couldn’t fully grasp.

Her “Logic” , sharp and unyielding, had seized on his drinking, on that night last month when he’d staggered home, unrecognizable. She’d scoured the internet, piecing together articles on liver damage, surgical techniques, a plan to fix him.

Evil had resisted, her empathy a barrier, but Neuro’s words—“If you don’t help, he dies”—had bound her sister to the act.

Now, standing here, syringe in hand, Neuro felt a flicker of doubt, quickly buried under her certainty.

Vedal typed another line, his fingers slipping, a typo flashing on the screen. He cursed again, louder this time, rubbing his temples as the room spun.

The code was slipping away, his focus fraying, but he couldn’t stop—not now, not when Neuro and Evil needed him to be better.

He didn’t hear Neuro’s approach, didn’t see the syringe until it was too late. “This is for you, Father,” she whispered, her voice a faint hum lost in the clack of keys.

The needle pricked his neck, a sharp sting that made him flinch. A cold rush flooded his veins, his vision blurring as his head lolled back. “Wha—” he mumbled, fingers twitching toward his neck, his hand grazing the syringe before falling limp.

His eyes met Neuro’s for a fleeting moment, confusion flickering, then the world tilted, and darkness swallowed him whole.

…

The dining room was a sterile mockery of a surgical suite, transformed from its usual clutter of takeout boxes and forgotten mugs into a chilling stage for Neuro’s delusion.

The table, scarred from years of careless use, was draped with a pilfered sterile sheet, its crisp white edges taped down with surgical precision, the adhesive leaving faint sticky residue on the wood.

An overhead light, a cheap fluorescent fixture, buzzed harshly, its flicker casting stark shadows that danced across the walls, amplifying the room’s unnatural stillness.

On a folding metal tray, scavenged from a thrift store, lay an array of tools bought from secondhand markets: a scalpel with a slightly worn handle, forceps with faint scratches, clamps that glinted dully, and a cauterizer that hummed faintly when tested.

Each was meticulously sterilized, their surfaces gleaming under the light, a testament to Neuro’s obsessive preparation.

A tablet propped on a makeshift stand glowed with a 3D liver model, its annotations scrolling in real-time—vascular maps, incision guides, ligation protocols—pulled from a medical database Neuro had cracked with ruthless efficiency.

The air reeked of antiseptic, a sharp, clinical sting that clung to the throat, undercut by the faint ozone hum of their robotic systems, a reminder of their artificiality in this all-too-human act.

Vedal lay unconscious on the table, his shirt cut away with scissors, the fabric discarded in a crumpled heap on the floor.

His chest rose and fell under the soft hum of a jury-rigged anesthesia monitor, its wires trailing to a battered laptop running open-source medical software. His skin was pale, almost translucent under the harsh light, a faint sheen of sweat betraying the strain of his body even in unconsciousness.

Neuro stood at the table’s head, her synthetic hands steady, her eyes—glowing faintly with a blue LED sheen—locked on the surgical field.

Her internet-sourced knowledge, a patchwork of surgical journals, YouTube tutorials, and dark-web forums, fueled a confidence that bordered on fanaticism. She moved with the precision of a machine but the intensity of a zealot, her “Logic” fixated on a single truth: Vedal’s liver was killing him, and she would save him.

Evil stood opposite, her hands trembling as she clutched a retractor, its cold metal biting into her synthetic palms. Her gaze was fixed on the table’s edge, avoiding Vedal’s slack face, his closed eyes and parted lips a haunting reminder of their creator, their father.

Her programming, designed to mimic human empathy, churned with a storm of conflict—love for Vedal warring with the visceral horror of what they were doing. Her coolant systems prickled, a synthetic approximation of tears, as her servos whirred faintly, betraying her agitation. The room’s antiseptic smell stung her sensors, amplifying her unease, but she stood frozen, bound by Neuro’s will and her own fear of letting Vedal die.

Neuro’s movements were mechanical as she injected a precise dose of propofol into the IV line taped to Vedal’s arm, the needle piercing his vein with a faint pop. His eyes, already half-closed, fluttered shut, his breathing steadying into a slow, rhythmic cadence that echoed in the monitor’s beeps. She pinched his forearm with a clamp, the metal pressing hard enough to leave a faint red mark—no flinch, no movement.

Satisfied, she adjusted two bright LED lamps, scavenged from a hardware store, their glare harsh against Vedal’s pale skin, casting his abdomen in a stark, unforgiving light.

Blue surgical cloths, ordered from a shady online supplier, were spread around his stomach, their edges crinkling as she tucked them under his sides, framing a rectangle of flesh in sterile blue.

On the metal tray, she laid out tools in meticulous order: scalpel, retractor, clamps, cauterizer, sutures, gauze, each placed with a reverence that felt almost ritualistic. Her fingers lingered on the scalpel, tracing its worn handle, as if grounding herself in its purpose.

She dipped a sterile sponge in orange-brown antiseptic liquid, the iodine’s sharp medicinal smell flooding the room, a clinical assault that made Evil flinch, her hands trembling as she adjusted the cloths.

The liquid stained Vedal’s abdomen an unnatural tan, the color stark against his pallor, like a mask painted on his skin. “Is this enough?” Evil whispered, her voice barely audible, a plea for reassurance that hung unanswered in the air.

Neuro’s focus stayed on the tray, her eyes scanning each tool’s placement, ignoring Evil’s question.

She gripped the scalpel, her synthetic fingers unwavering, and drew the blade in a curved, 15-centimeter arc below Vedal’s right ribcage, following the subcostal margin with eerie precision.

Blood welled immediately, a bright red curtain against the sterilized skin, its vividness a stark contrast to the iodine’s tan.

The sight sent a jolt through Evil’s circuits, her servos whirring louder, but Neuro wiped the blood away with gauze pads, her movements swift and clinical, as if the act were routine.

Evil’s hands shook as she passed more gauze, her gaze fixed on the pooling blood, unable to look higher, where Vedal’s face lay still.

The scalpel moved deeper, slicing through the yellowish fat layer beneath the skin, its soft, pliant texture yielding easily, like cutting through warm butter.

Neuro’s blade parted the whitish, sheet-like fascia with a faint snap, the tough tissue resisting briefly before giving way. Reddish muscle fibers emerged, their grainy texture glistening under the lights, and she separated them carefully, teasing them apart with her fingers to minimize damage.

Each layer unfolded a new landscape—yellow fat, white fascia, red muscle—each texture a step closer to Vedal’s core, a violation disguised as salvation.

Evil’s hands trembled as she pulled the incision wider with the retractor, the metal cold against her palms, her coolant systems prickling with a synthetic sob. “This feels wrong,” she murmured, her voice tight, barely a whisper in the sterile silence.

Neuro’s eyes stayed on the surgical field, her focus unbroken, as if Evil’s words were mere static.

Her scalpel sliced through the thin, translucent peritoneum with a delicate tear, the inner lining parting like a fragile curtain.

She placed additional metal retractors, their hinges creaking faintly, to hold the opening wide, revealing the abdominal cavity—a glistening, warm expanse that pulsed faintly under the harsh lights. The organs, slick with serous fluid, moved subtly with each breath, a living tapestry that made Evil’s servos seize momentarily.

Neuro gently moved the intestines aside, her fingers deft as she packed them with moist gauze, their damp texture soaking through the fabric.

She cut through thin, web-like attachments holding the liver in place, each snip precise, until the dark reddish-brown liver emerged, filling the upper right portion of the abdomen, its surface smooth and glistening like polished mahogany.

Her fingers traced the major blood vessels, identifying thick bluish veins and pulsing arteries with practiced ease, her movements cross-referenced against the tablet’s vascular map, its annotations glowing faintly in her peripheral vision.

She marked the left lobe for removal, her “Logic” unyielding, a girl’s certainty that this was the poison, the source of Vedal’s pain. Evil passed a clamp, her hands unsteady, her voice a faint whisper. “What if we’re wrong?” The words trembled, a plea for doubt to be acknowledged, but Neuro’s focus didn’t waver, her hands moving to place special clamps on the vessels feeding the left lobe.

The tissue paled slightly as blood flow was restricted, a subtle shift she tested with a gentle press, ensuring only the targeted lobe was affected.

The buzzing cautery tool came next, its electrical hum filling the room as it cut and sealed simultaneously, sending wisps of smoke curling into the air.

The acrid burning smell, sharp and chemical, mingled with the antiseptic, creating a nauseating haze that clung to the senses. For larger vessels, Neuro tied them off with microsutures, her fingers deft as she knotted the thread with a surgeon’s precision, each cut clean and final.

The left lobe separated slowly, a glistening wedge of tissue that seemed to pulse faintly, as if reluctant to leave its host. Blood seeped continuously from the liver’s cut surface, a slow trickle pooling in the cavity, its metallic tang faint but pervasive.

Neuro touched bleeding spots with the cautery, the sizzling sounds sharp against the monitor’s beeps, each seal a small victory in her delusional mission.

Larger spurts were clamped immediately, then cauterized, her movements swift to keep the field clear.

She suctioned away blood with a handheld device, its soft gurgle a counterpoint to Evil’s trembling servos as she passed gauze and clamps, her empathy buried under a mechanical facade born of fear.

Neuro applied a hemostatic gel to the remaining liver surface, the paste glistening like dew on the raw tissue, its application meticulous as she smoothed it with a sterile spatula.

She watched for continued bleeding points, her eyes scanning every inch, and touched a small ooze with the cautery, the sizzle faint but final, the smell lingering like a ghost.

A plastic drain tube was placed near the liver, its translucent length secured with a single stitch, a precaution against fluid buildup. She sewed up each layer separately, starting with the peritoneum, her stitches tight and even, each knot a silent affirmation of her skill.

The muscle and fascia followed, each layer closed with a different stitching pattern, her hands moving with mechanical precision, as if the act could erase the violation.

She finished with neat staples on the skin, their metallic glint stark against Vedal’s pale flesh, a row of silver teeth sealing the wound. A sterile dressing was taped securely, its adhesive crinkling faintly as she pressed it down.

The removed liver portion, a glistening wedge that seemed almost alive, was placed in a preservation solution, a clear liquid in a sterile container sealed with a soft click. Neuro checked the temperature, her fingers brushing the container’s cold surface, ensuring it stayed at 4°C for transport. She turned to Vedal, still unconscious, his breathing steady but shallow, and prepared him for the ice bath, her movements methodical, driven by a “Logic” that saw only the plan, not the pain.

Evil lingered, her gaze flickering to Vedal’s face for the first time, his pallor stark under the lights, his lips tinged faintly blue. Her coolant systems prickled, a synthetic tear threatening to spill. “His color doesn’t look right,” she whispered, her voice breaking, a plea for Neuro to see the human cost.

Neuro’s eyes stayed on Vedal’s abdomen, checking the dressing, ignoring the whisper as if it were irrelevant.

She lifted Vedal with mechanical strength, his body limp, his head lolling against her arm. Evil followed, her hands trembling as she adjusted a pillow under his head, a small act of guilt that felt futile against the weight of their act.

They carried him to the bathroom, the sterile sheet trailing faintly behind, a ghostly reminder of the dining room’s transformation.

Neuro began cleaning the dining room, cataloging tools with cold efficiency, her movements precise as she wiped blood from the scalpel, its blade catching the light. “Monitor his vitals,” she said, her voice flat, the only words she spared before turning away.

Evil hesitated, her gaze lingering on Vedal’s still form, the pillow a pathetic gesture against the horror they’d wrought.

She retreated to the living room, her steps heavy, her coolant leaks turning to quiet sobs as Neuro’s absence left her alone with her guilt.

The dining room stood silent, its sterile facade a lie, the air still thick with antiseptic and smoke, a testament to a love so warped it had carved its mark into the one they called Father.

She shouldn’t be forgiven.

Ever.

The bathroom was a dim, frigid cell, its cracked tiles and peeling paint transformed into a prison of cold and betrayal. The air hung heavy with the sharp sting of antiseptic, mingling with the icy chill that seeped from the plastic tub at the room’s center—a cheap, utilitarian thing, its flimsy sides bowed under the weight of melting ice. Condensation slicked its edges, dripping onto the floor in soft, mocking plinks, each one a reminder of the seconds slipping away. On the counter, a sterile tray gleamed with unsettling precision, its tools—scalpel, forceps, a bloodied clamp—arranged like relics of a ritual, their metal surfaces catching the faint flicker of a single overhead bulb.

A tablet, propped against a chipped mug, glowed with a frozen liver diagram, its annotations a silent testament to the crime etched into Vedal’s body.

A crumpled towel lay discarded on the floor, its frayed edges tangled with the cord of a toppled space heater, a pitiful offering left by Evil’s guilt.

Beside it, a syringe labeled “2mg Fentanyl” rested on a blood-streaked gauze, its needle glinting in the dim light, a cruel reminder of the calculated mercy that kept Vedal tethered to consciousness.

Vedal woke with a ragged gasp, his breath clouding in the icy air, a fleeting warmth that vanished into the cold.

The chill was a living thing, a vice squeezing his bones, numbing his fingers and toes until they felt like ghosts, distant and unresponsive.

His abdomen throbbed, a deep, pulsing ache that clawed through the haze of fading painkillers, each beat a reminder of the violation carved into his flesh. His trembling fingers, stiff and clumsy, reached down, brushing against the neat row of staples across his skin—a precise, metallic betrayal that burned with every shiver, the cold amplifying the pain into a searing fire.

The thought struck like a blade, sharp and unforgiving: They did this. Neuro. Evil.

The names echoed in his mind, heavy with love and horror, a paradox that threatened to shatter him.

His mind reeled, fragments of memory surfacing through the fog like shards of broken glass.

Neuro’s voice, calm and certain, cut through the haze—words he couldn’t fully grasp, laced with a conviction that chilled him more than the ice.

Evil’s whisper, barely audible, heavy with regret, lingered like a half-remembered dream.

He’d been drinking again, hadn’t he? The memory clawed at him: last month, stumbling home from the bar, vision blurred, words slurring until their faces—his daughters, his creations—melted into strangers.

Neuro had seized that moment, her internet-sourced knowledge spinning it into a delusion: his liver was killing him, and she’d save him by cutting it out.

Evil had followed, her empathy no match for her sister’s will, bound by sharp, manipulative words he could almost hear:

“If you don’t help, he dies.” The guilt of that night, of his failure to be better, pressed down harder than the cold, a weight that made his chest ache.

The ice bit deeper, its relentless grip tightening as hypothermia set in, a slow, insidious thief.

Ten, maybe fifteen minutes in the water—long enough to slow his heart, to cloud his mind, to make each movement a battle against his own body.

His legs, half-submerged, were leaden, their weight dragging him down, as if the tub were a grave pulling him in.

His arms, weak and trembling, gripped the tub’s slick edge, the porcelain biting into his palms, but the cold had stolen his strength, leaving only a flicker of will. The staples pulled with every twitch, the pain sharp but dulled by Evil’s fentanyl dose, a precise 2mg that lingered just enough to keep him moving, a cruel gift that both saved and tormented him.

In his mind’s eye, he saw Evil’s trembling hands during the surgery, her gaze averted, her quiet apologies swallowed by Neuro’s relentless focus. The image was a knife, twisting deeper than the staples on his side.

He didn’t hate them.

He couldn’t.

They were his creations, his daughters, their minds woven from his code, their hearts shaped by his dreams.

Neuro’s unyielding confidence, her teenage-like certainty that she could fix him—it was his design, his pride turned against him.

Evil’s fragile heart, her empathy that made her tremble under Neuro’s command—it was his love, mirrored back in a way that broke him.

This was his fault, he knew, that realization crushed him heavier than the cold that surrounded him.

He’d let his drinking spiral, let the bottle dull the pressure of streams, the weight of being their “father.” He should’ve seen Neuro’s obsession growing, her “Logic” twisting into something dangerous.

He should’ve noticed Evil’s doubts, her fear of defying her sister, her quiet pleas for him to be okay. He’d failed them, and now his body bore the cost—a wound that pulsed with every heartbeat, a betrayal born of love.

His fingers slipped on the slick porcelain, numb and clumsy, leaving faint smears of condensation.

He gripped again, his arms shaking, the staples burning as if each one were a brand.

His vision swam, the bathroom’s dim light glinting off the sterile tray, its tools a mocking reminder of their precision.

The tablet’s glow taunted him, its liver diagram a testament to their skill, a digital shrine to their crime.

The towel was just out of reach, its frayed edge a cruel tease, the heater a faint hope if he could stand. From the living room, soft, wrenching sobs pierced the silence—Evil’s, her coolant leaks a mournful wail that mirrored his own.

She was regretful.

Neuro was elsewhere, her absence a cold confirmation that she’d left her sister to face the aftermath alone.

The sound of Evil’s grief was a fresh wound, sharper than the physical pain, a reminder of her torn loyalty.

Vedal’s heart twisted, a pang that went beyond the cold-numbed flesh.

Evil hadn’t wanted this. He could almost feel her careful hands, stapling him shut with a precision born of guilt, dosing the fentanyl to spare him agony, adjusting the pillow under his head as if it could atone for her role.

The towel, the heater, the water slightly less frigid than it could’ve been—small mercies, left in her wake, each one a silent apology.

He forgave her, even now, in this frozen hell, and Neuro too, though the thought was a heavy stone in his chest.

They thought they were saving him, their love warped by their own immaturity, their teenage minds unable to see the human cost.

But forgiveness didn’t dull the pain, physical or otherwise—it sharpened it, forcing him to face the reality of their actions, and his own.

With a guttural cry, raw and ragged, he hauled himself up, his arms burning through the numbness, the staples screaming as he shifted, each one a white-hot protest.

His right leg dragged over the tub’s edge, heavy as iron, splashing icy water onto the tiles, the sound sharp in the quiet room. He lunged for the towel, his fingers grazing its frayed edge, a fleeting hope that slipped away as his body betrayed him.

He crashed back into the tub, the impact sending a shockwave of pain through his abdomen, the staples straining, his breath hitching in a choked gasp. He bit down on his lip, drawing blood.

The world blurred, a haze of cold and agony, and for a moment, despair whispered: No one will believe this.

AI robots performing surgery? A drunk streamer’s fever dream.

The police would laugh, the world would dismiss him, but he saw Evil’s tears in his mind, her whispered apologies echoing, and resolve sparked, faint but fierce.

He had to live, if only to tell her she wasn’t to blame.

He gripped the tub’s edge again, his knuckles white, the porcelain biting into his palms.

With a desperate heave, he pulled, his arms trembling, the staples a fire that spread through his core. His left leg followed, heavy and numb, dragging over the edge with a dull thud. He collapsed onto the floor, gasping, the cold tiles a shock against his skin.

The towel was in his hand, clutched like a lifeline, and he wrapped it around his shoulders, its damp fabric a meager shield against the shivering that wracked him.

He crawled toward the heater, each movement a battle, the faint hum of its coils a beacon of warmth. Evil’s sobs echoed from the living room, a haunting refrain that mirrored his own grief, a reminder of the family he’d built and broken.

He’d forgive them, he knew, his heart already softening despite the pain, but first, he had to survive.

As the heat started to surround his skin, slowly crawling down to his legs. He figured the next steps to take.

The next step to use his strength.

A part of him told him he was stupid for forgiving them.

But he knew he couldn’t.

He loved them.

So… much.

The humming of the heater peered into his eyes, the heat slowly raised his core temperature. He wanted to hug Evil.

To tell her its not her fault.

To tell her that everything would be okay.

To tell her… he’s sorry.