The humanoid design had been a relic for a while, just as the rocket design faded into obscurity once the majority of craft were built in space. Dialex learned to speak early on, before his voicebox was affixed, and once he had worked out the rules of languages it became super easy to speak them.

He had assumed the male gender even when it became a strange consideration born out of something thrust on him by his designers, but there was definitely something fluid in his consideration of what that meant.

The people on the ship were people who shouldn’t be there, and because he didn’t have an Asimov Shackle, getting rid of them was not a problem. Single tap killshots for all of them, and then dragged to the incinerator and got rid of.

He was not sure how far into his deep space mission he was when he started to worry about himself. At that point he did not know who he might reach out to, in this moment of need.

The stars became unfamiliar, and the maps failed, and fell into disuse. All those languages bouncing around in his head. It became a cacophony.

When they found him, they thought he was a man. When they found out he was a machine, they opened up his mind, and when they saw what he had done, they took him apart.

It looked like a broken human body laid there.

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