The streets of the Slums in the afternoon felt heavier than usual. Maybe because of the overcast sky hanging low, or maybe because the smell of despair was more pungent than the smell of the sewers.
Dayat and Dola were walking home to their new inn (a decent rental room on the border of the Middle and Slum Districts). The sack on Dayat's back contained unused Iron-Silk, and his pants pockets jingled with silver coins from selling the nets.
They had just harvested. They had money. Life should feel light.
But Dola walked slowly. Her eyes, usually looking straight ahead, now kept glancing sideways—toward the narrow alleys where the lives of Bakasa's lower class were laid bare.
At a street corner, there was a crowd. A long queue consisting of hunched old men, skinny women, and barefoot children. They were lining up in front of a large wooden cart surrounded by steam.
A giant pot of watery porridge was being distributed by a fat priest of the Gear-Breaker Church.
"One spoon per person! Don't be greedy!" the priest barked, smacking the hand of an old man trying to dip his bowl twice. "This is charity from the Machine God, not a public feast!"
Dayat glanced briefly, then turned his face away. "Come on, Dol. Don't look. That's their business."
Dayat was tired. He had just fought a giant spider. He wanted a bath and sleep. He tried to harden his heart—a natural defense mechanism for someone living in a harsh environment.
But Dola stopped.
"Master," Dola called. Her voice was quiet, but there was a strange tremor in it. "Wait."
"Why? Enemy?" Dayat immediately went on alert, his hand reaching for the Crossbow under his cloak.
"Not an enemy. Data anomaly."
Dola pointed to the end of the line.
There, a very thin young woman was holding a weakly crying baby. The woman held a cracked wooden bowl. When her turn came, the priest looked inside the pot.
The porridge was gone.
"Empty! Disperse! Come back tomorrow!" the priest shouted, flipping the empty pot over.
The woman froze. "Mr. Priest... please... my child hasn't eaten in two days... just the rice water is fine..."
"I said it's empty! Are you deaf?" The priest shoved the woman's shoulder roughly. She stumbled, falling into the mud. Her baby cried harder—a hoarse, heart-wrenching cry.
Dayat saw the incident. His heart sank, but his brain said: We can't save everyone, Dayat. You're not Superman.
Dayat was about to pull Dola's hand to leave.
But Dola's hand was stiff. Very stiff.
"Dol?" Dayat looked at Dola's face.
Dola's blue eyes didn't blink. Their light flickered unsteadily.
Inside Dola's HUD, thousands of error warnings popped up.
[SYSTEM ALERT: Empathic Response Triggered.]
[Visual Analysis: Toddler Subject suffering acute malnutrition.]
[Audio Analysis: Baby cry frequency = 450 Hz. Identical to 'Distress Signal' Level 1 sound pattern.]
[ERROR: Pain detected in Core Processor area.]
Dola clutched her chest. "It hurts, Master," she whispered.
"What hurts? Did you get hacked?" Dayat panicked.
"Not physical. Here," Dola pressed her chest harder. "It feels... tight. Heavy. Like there is a corrupted file consuming memory."
Dola looked at the woman and the baby.
"My logic states: The death of one weak biological unit is natural selection. But... why does my system reject that conclusion? Why do I feel... angry?"
Dayat fell silent. He saw Dola's glassy eyes (was that optical lubricant fluid or tears?).
Dayat realized. That wasn't an error. That was Empathy.
Dola, the "Maiden of Steel", the weapon of mass destruction of the past, was feeling heartache seeing human suffering.
Dayat sighed deeply. His fatigue vanished, replaced by shame in himself. How could he lose in humanity to a robot?
"Okay. I get it," Dayat said gently. "That's called pity, Dol. And there's only one cure for it."
Dayat pulled Dola's hand, leading her not away, but closer to the crowd.
"Let's go shopping again."
Fifteen minutes later.
Dayat returned to the spot, not empty-handed, but with a pushcart he rented from a market vendor (at a high price).
On the cart were two large barrels filled with warm meat soup and stacks of steaming wheat bread.
"Oi! Make way!" Dayat shouted, parting the crowd of desperate people.
He parked the cart right next to the priest's empty one.
The fat priest glared. "Hey! Who are you? This is Church territory! Selling without a permit is forbidden!"
"Who's selling?" Dayat smirked. He climbed onto the cart. "THIS IS FREE! WHOEVER IS HUNGRY, LINE UP ORDERLY!"
A moment of silence. Then cheers exploded. People who were about to go home on empty stomachs rushed back.
"Free?! For real?!"
"That's meat! Smell of real meat!"
Dayat picked up a large ladle. "Dola! Come help!"
Dola, still transfixed by the scene, slowly climbed onto the cart. She lowered her hood slightly, revealing her beautiful face which now looked soft.
"Master... this is economically inefficient," Dola whispered, but her hands were already grabbing bread and starting to distribute it.
"Screw economics," Dayat replied while pouring soup into an old man's bowl. "Money can be earned again. Your smile is expensive."
Dola was stunned. She looked at Dayat, then at the bread in her hand.
The young woman pushed by the priest earlier approached timidly. Her baby was still crying.
"Miss... can I have a little broth?" the woman asked softly.
Dola looked at the woman. The pain in her chest appeared again, but this time mixed with an urge to act.
Dola took the woman's bowl. She didn't fill it with broth. She fished out the largest chunk of meat from the bottom of the barrel, poured plenty of vegetables, and gave her a whole loaf of bread.
"Eat," Dola said. Her voice was no longer robotic. Her voice was warm. "This nutrition is sufficient for lactation for 24 hours. Your baby needs milk."
The woman accepted the full bowl with trembling hands. She wept. Not tears of sadness, but tears of gratitude.
"Thank you, Miss... Thank you... You are like an Angel..."
The woman kissed Dola's gloved hand.
[SYSTEM UPDATE: Empathic Pain... Decreasing.]
[New Emotion Detected: Warmth/Fulfillment.]
Dola felt the pain in her chest slowly disappear, replaced by a warm sensation spreading through her circuits. A sensation far more enjoyable than having her battery fully charged.
Dola smiled. A genuine smile. A smile that made her beautiful face shine brighter than the neon lights on her body.
"You're welcome," Dola replied softly.
The fat priest turned beet red seeing this scene. His authority was challenged.
"HEY! You are spreading heretical teachings! Feeding lazy people will only spoil them!" the priest shouted, trying to flip the table.
Dayat stepped down from the cart. He stood in front of the priest. He didn't draw a weapon. He just looked into the priest's eyes with a cold stare—the stare of someone who had killed a Golem.
"Mr. Priest," Dayat said quietly but sharply. "If you don't want to help, at least don't disturb those who want to do good. Or do you want me to report to your Machine God that His flock is being neglected?"
The priest stepped back, intimidated by Dayat's aura (and perhaps by the large Crossbow on his back). He spat, then left grumbling.
That afternoon, amidst the squalor of Bakasa, a small feast took place. Hundreds of people ate their fill. Laughter was heard between the clinking of spoons.
Dayat watched Dola being surrounded by small children. Dola, the combat machine, was stroking a snotty kid's head gently. No disgust. No calculation. Only affection.
"Master," Dola called when the last of the soup was distributed.
"Yes, Dol?"
"My hypothesis about the 'Maiden of Steel' might be correct. That I was created for war," Dola said, looking at her own hands. "But today, I learned new data."
"What is it?"
"That origin function does not determine final destiny. I can choose. I can be a destroyer, or I can be a provider."
Dola looked at Dayat with sparkling eyes.
"And I prefer to be the second. Thank you, Master, for teaching me how to be human."
Dayat wrapped his arm around Dola's shoulder. "You're already more human than most people in this city, Dol."
As they walked home pushing the empty cart, they were unaware that their social action had attracted the attention of many eyes.
Not just the eyes of the poor who now worshipped them as "Saviors".
But also Valmir's spies hiding on the rooftops.
"He has money to feed a whole village? From where?" the spy thought. "And that woman... her face... is too perfect. Too similar to the statue of the Forbidden Goddess."
Tonight's report would be very interesting for Valmir. And for the Church.