I'm only five minutes into mixing the inordinate amount of cake my uncle has requested and my arms are covered in flour up to my elbows. I'm quite glad I brought my apron. I would definitely have flour in numerous other places if not for it. It's a hideous shade of yellow, but, it does its job well enough, keeping the different elements from staining my clothes. I must say, I like our bowls at the bakery better, as they're made for mixing. The wide, industrial metal bowls in the pizza kitchen are not. As soon as I flipped the switch and the beaters began to spin, flour went flying in a poof of fine dust. I had thought it would, but, it was initially surprising. Still, it's not so big of a hindrance that it's slowing me down. I'm practiced enough to avoid making a mess of the countertops and surrounding kitchen with flying droplets. Fear of my mother's wrath in my younger days of baking ensured that. Making a mess of her kitchen is something no one wants to do.

I turn off the mixer, satisfied with the state of the ingredients currently within the bowl. From outside the door, I can hear a Queen song playing. Vikki must have figured out how to work the jukebox. It's nice of her to provide some background music while we work. She's such a sweet girl. I wish she wasn't so hard on herself. She doesn't realize how wonderful she is. Or, she refuses to. I do feel bad leaving her alone to do the cleaning, what with Aisling being on some sort of Automaton run, but, these won't take long. At least, I hope not. It's lucky that Uncle Sean saw fit to include a regular oven in this massive kitchen setup of his. I doubt cakes would do well in that stone pizza oven. Humming along with the song, I add the next few ingredients, following a memorized recipe. I'd like to get these done soon and move on to other things. The oven preheats behind me, already producing a bit of warmth in the otherwise cold kitchen.

When Uncle Sean offered me a position here, I was ecstatic. I've been saving up from what I make at the bakery so that I can eventually attend culinary school, but, at my current rate I wouldn't be able to go for a few years yet without taking out a loan. Which I would rather not do. The ridiculously high wage Uncle Sean offered with this position is exactly what I need to propel me along. Since I don't have school, I can do this job year round. I did the math and, if everything works out, I'll have enough in almost no time. I do enjoy working at the bakery, but, I would rather be a professional with a wide skillset. And baking gets a little old. There isn't much to it. Decorating is fun, but, I want some more variety in my creations.

I hum along with the song as I pour my first batch of batter into a round pan. This particular pan is so large that it took up most of the space in my bag. I'd had the foresight to bring ingredients in earlier today so that I'd have room for other supplies tonight. A three-layered cake this big is a bit of a challenge and requires many different components, quite a few of them not of the edible type. The pans themselves were the biggest issue, simply due to their size. It'll take another batch of batter to top off this pan and fill the next. Carefully, I scrape the bowl so that it's as empty as possible.

I'm so caught up in my work that I don't even hear the door open. Or the footsteps that must follow. I've never been terribly observant, but, one would think I would know when I'm no longer alone in a previously empty kitchen. It's not even until I've reached for the next ingredient to start my process again that I notice him.

I freeze, like someone hit the pause buttons on my movements. To my right, on the other side of the counter, I see a large blot of purple. It takes me a moment to process this. I don't recall anything that brilliantly purple in the kitchen before. Slowly, my gaze focuses and I realize it's a purple vest. My expression unfreezes and I frown slightly. A pair of folded hands rest on the countertop, in front of the vest, well-trimmed nails and long fingers giving an impression of meticulousness. Then, my eyes trail upward as I realize that the hands and vest belong to a male figure. My gaze slides over the purple vest, up to a blue bowtie resting at the base of a pale throat. I feel my eyes widen. I recognize that bowtie. I just straightened it not fifteen minutes ago.

Le Dia…

Unwilling to look but unable not to, my blood like ice in my veins, my eyes snap to his face.

As soon as I see him fully, a small shriek leaves me before I can stop myself and I take a step back, all thoughts of my current task forgotten.

He smiles, lips stretching crookedly over white teeth, and actually giggles slightly. His freckles, sprinkled over his cheeks and nose, stand out against his pale skin. A mop of strawberry blonde hair hangs over his forehead and around his ears. The little details, his freckles, his hair color, the way his cheeks dimple with his smile, seem to stand out to me dramatically. Detachedly, I realize that I hadn't noticed those things before. Just that he was a blondish male in brightly colored clothes. I know I'm staring, eyes wide. Another vague thought floats across my mind: he would be adorable if not for the madness lurking in his blue eyes.

Reality slams into me then.

Good God…he's one of the automatons!

The automaton cocks his head, still smiling brightly.

"I'm terribly sorry, poppet. I didn't mean to startle you!"

He talks. The automaton apologized to me. And he's British. Why is he British?

"It's alright…" I hear myself replying without even really meaning to do so, my voice airy and distant, "I was just caught up…baking…"

He glances down at my workstation. Despite his smile, his eyes are filled only with a cold curiosity. I shiver without meaning to.

His smile widens.

"Oh! I understand completely, love!" he reaches out and snags the container of cocoa powder, "Baking is one of my passions!"

I'm still in a state of shock. I'm speaking with the automaton. Maybe this is one of their functions? For guest interaction? With a preprogramed personality? They weren't like that in the past, from what I remember, but, Uncle Sean could have updated them…My memories are very vague. I'm not sure that they even look the same as what I recall from my childhood. I don't remember them being so scary. I'm more frightened than I've ever been before. This thing was supposed to be charging on stage, not wandering around. Do the others do that too?

The automaton looks back to me when I don't respond. His smile fades just a bit.

"Poppet? Are you quite alright? You look a bit pale."

Though his tone is concerned, there's something like dark amusement in his expression. Just a hint of it, but, it's there.

I shake myself. It must be that this is some weird interaction function. There's no other explanation. Best to simply deal with it as well as I can.

"I'm fine," I give him my own smile, the one that Vikki calls my 'shot through the heart smile', nervously wiping my hands on a nearby towel to give some semblance of cleanliness, "I just didn't expect to see you off stage."

His expression abruptly changes to surprise. He stares at me for a long moment, seeming to be attempting to process something. For a moment, I think I see something like awe on his face. Then, as suddenly as the surprise came, it's gone, replaced by that odd, lopsided grin.

"Ah! Yes, well, once we're charged up, we're able to wander for a bit. And it's been so long, I thought a good stretch might be in order."

I eye him, a bit warily. So, the others can wander like him. Which means they probably are. I only hope that Aisling and Victoria don't run into them and freak out.

"That makes sense…I can't imagine being stuck on stage all the time is pleasant…" I murmur, glancing down at my workstation, "…Um, I'm Grace. Grace O'Leary."

I feel a bit stupid, introducing myself to an automaton. My hand extends toward him almost of its own accord, shaking slightly. His blue eyes flicker down to it and surprise again registers on his face. My body is almost on autopilot, my mind feeling oddly detached from it. After a moment, he places the cocoa back on the counter and reaches out to grip my hand.

It's a shock, the feeling of his skin. His hand is warm and soft and dry, like a real person. His slender fingers gently wrap around mine smoothly, without any of the jerking that might be expected from a machine. I glance up at his face again to find that he's watching me, almost warily. When he catches my gaze, that smile of his returns, even bigger than before. He gives my hand a gentle squeeze, almost like he's being very careful with me, as though I'm something delicate.

"Oliver Kirkland, dear," next thing I know, he's pulling my hand up and pressing his lips to my knuckles, his eyes still on my face, "It's very nice to make your acquaintance."

Color immediately blossoms across my face. I can feel the way my cheeks heat up in response to the feeling of his very realistic lips on my skin. I've never been greeted in quite that way before. My boyfriend has kissed my cheeks, or pecked me on the lips, when greeting me. There's something so…refined about this, though. And the way his smoothly accented voice almost purrs out those odd little pet names….

Catching the smugness lurking under his sweet smile, I stiffen slightly. He knows. He sees what kind of effect he's having. He might even have been going for this kind of response.

I stop myself. He's an automaton. A robot. A very realistic robot, but a robot nonetheless. He's been programmed to pour on the charm, that's all. I give a small smile in return and gently extricate my hand from his.

"It's nice to meet you too, Oliver."

He seemed a bit put-out when I took my hand back, but, when I speak, he's all sunshine and rainbows again. Now that my head's cleared a bit from the original shock of seeing him, I find myself turning wary. Audience interaction function or no, I don't like that he just wandered in here of his own accord and started speaking with me. And he's one of the more pleasant-seeming ones from the stage. I can't imagine how frightening it would be to run across one of the others. That very tall one, for example. Or the brutish one that had been on the end opposite the unkempt blonde man. That might be a bit unfair on my part, judging them on appearance. They might be perfectly civil, like Oliver. Something in the back of my mind tells me not to be taken in by his civility, though. He puts on a cute front, but there's something lurking in those too-realistic eyes of his. Something not at all pleasant.

"Well, poppet, now that introductions are out of the way…"

Oliver's voice pulls me from my darkening thoughts. To my surprise, and trepidation, he's circling the island, coming to my side to join me. My heartrate seems to double in speed. With the counter between us, his presence was a bit diminished. Now, though, he's with me, nothing between us. I find myself gripping the edge of the counter tightly, forcing myself not to back away as he comes to stand beside me. I have a feeling that fleeing would be a mistake, like it would cause that hint of madness in his eyes to escalate.

"How might I be of assistance?" he finishes, leaning against my side of the counter, just a few inches separating us.

I know that my surprise registers on my face. I hadn't expected that. I'd been so caught up in his sudden appearance that I'd almost forgotten about the cake altogether. I'd also really thought that when he said baking was one of his passions, it was just something he was supposed to say to keep conversation going. It seems he really meant it, though. How deep does this programming go?

"Assistance in….baking?" I ask to clarify.

He hums an affirmative, seeming amused by my response. A bit self-conscious, I look down and brush off my horrid yellow apron a bit to give my hands something to do.

"Oh, um…" I turn my gaze on the assembled ingredients, "Well, I'm making a three-layered chocolate cake with vanilla frosting. Just something simple for the big opening tomorrow."

Oliver shifts closer, seeming to take stock of what I have assembled. I peek up at him to find that he's smiling again, this one much more genuine than the last. It's a bit of a shock, really. Another thing that's too-real for the automaton.

"Something simple, you say?" he muses, pushing his pink sleeves up over his elbows, "Shouldn't take too long, then."

I glance down at his pale arms and find that his freckles seem to be present there as well. I almost want to reach out and trace the skin there, to see if it's as real as that of his hands. Such attention to detail on this automaton…

"Grace, love," my eyes snap up to Oliver's, "Why don't you measure these," he gestures towards the ingredients, "And let me work my magic here, hm?"

I blink rapidly, a bit taken aback. Work his magic?

"Um, alright…"

I nod and begin doing as he asked. I'm used to working with others in my mother's bakery, so, it isn't difficult to do as he so. As I measure, he takes what I give him and mixes it. He manages to do it without the obnoxious poof of flour that I got, keeping everything in the bowl and somehow looking as dapper as ever. I find myself watching him, wondering again just how deep that programming of his goes. He's rather skilled at baking it seems. I can't think of any reason an automaton would need to be able to bake, though. As we continue, with just a few comments and questions between us, I realize that he's not just skilled, he really seems in his element. Like doing this centers him. There's actually something like pure happiness in his expression.

I frown slightly. He's so emotive. It shouldn't be possible for him to be so human. I know very little about computers, but, I do know that this sort of artificial intelligence is too advanced for a mere performance automaton. Emotion, personality, situation adaptability, those things shouldn't be within his capacity. He's held a conversation with me, which should have been awkward due to pre-programmed responses, but, that wasn't the case. Ever since he walked through the door, he's been behaving as a normal person. If I hadn't seen him on stage earlier, I wouldn't have known he was an automaton. He could have been a random man who just wandered in and started up a conversation. This must be surprisingly advanced artificial intelligence. There's no other possible alternative. He isn't alive. He's a machine. A frighteningly adaptable machine.

I watch as he brings the batter to a perfect consistency and pours it into the pans I prepared for him. Sensing my eyes on him, Oliver glances over at me.

"Yes, poppet?" he asks.

Again, that dark amusement touches his voice. I feel the color in my cheeks flare again in response to having been caught staring. I look away quickly, scrambling for something to say. I couldn't very well tell him what I'd been thinking.

"Sorry…you're just very good at this…"

Bravo, Grace. That's the kind of reply that would earn me a deadpan 'really?' look from Harry.

Oliver just chuckles.

"Lots of practice, love."

That draws my attention back. He's a stage performance robot. How could he have 'lots of practice'?

He picks up the biggest pan easily and moves to the oven, pulling the door open and releasing a wave of heat. I follow with the other two, my arm shaking slightly with the strain of carrying the medium one with all of the batter inside. Oliver slides the first pan in and turns. Seeing me struggling he 'tsk's and takes the pan from me.

"No need to strain yourself, poppet. I could've gotten that."

I give him a smile as he puts that pan in as well.

"It's alright, Oliver. You've helped so much already and this was something I volunteered to do."

He steps back, letting me add my smaller pan. Then, when I'm clear, he shuts the door.

"Nonsense. I offered my assistance, and my assistance I'll give."

He glances towards the clock on the wall. Following his eyes, I see that it's now 12:35. That hadn't taken long at all. I hope that Victoria's done alright without me or Aisling. I glance at Oliver and realize she might have to hold out a while longer. I'm not sure how to get away from him now without being rude…

The automaton hums absently to himself, wandering back to the counter we'd been working on and going about cleaning up.

"So, poppet, tell me about yourself," he says as he puts the ingredient containers back into my canvas bag.

I can tell from his tone that it's a request, not a demand, but, it's one that cuts off any thoughts of escape I had. Starting a conversation like that promises for a long interaction.

Sorry, Vikki…

I open my mouth to reply, to ask what he wants to know, already mentally running through some things to tell the increasingly strange robot, when I'm cut off. A scream, loud and frighteningly short, pierces the air. My eyes widen and I whip towards the door, moving before I even process what I heard. Aisling doesn't scream. She's never been a screamer, even when we were little. I suppose that, to someone who can't hear well, a distress call doesn't mean much. Which means it had to be Vikki. What's happened? Vikki isn't a big screamer either, which means that she's truly terrified. The last time I heard her scream like that was when we were kids and her brother jumped at her after convincing her to watch a horror film with him.

A hand closes around my wrist with enough strength that I jerk and am stopped mid-step. I look back at Oliver, panic flooding me.

He isn't smiling now. There isn't a hint of that previous adorable playfulness in his expression. He looks quite serious. I tug at his grip, trying to pull away. His hand is like a manacle, unmoving. He isn't holding me very tightly, but, I suppose that part of his being a robot means that he's stronger than I am by far. Through the closed door, I can hear Vikki shouting.

"Get the hell away!"

My panic mounts. One of the other automatons, maybe more than one, is scaring her. That has to be it. I have the sudden horrible thought that not all of the automatons are as kind as Oliver, not all of them like to bake and chat. The previous owner was found brutally murdered one night. What if it was one of these automatons? When that thought comes, I struggle more, pulling uselessly against him.

"Let go of me, Oliver!"

In response, the automaton yanks me closer. I feel fear for myself now. What if Oliver isn't as kind as he's been acting? What if he was just biding his time? Robot or not, what if he's not so audience friendly as I thought?

I squeeze my eyes shut, bracing myself for pain.

It never comes. I collide gently with Oliver's unyielding form. As soon as I'm close enough, his hand leaves my wrist and his arms wrap around me. It would be like a hug if not for the constrictiveness of it. This is meant to keep me from leaving, not to offer comfort. He's only slightly taller resulting in a somewhat uncomfortable embrace where my chin is tilted up and pressed against his shoulder.

"I'm afraid I can't do that, poppet," I tense further at the dark tone in his voice in my ear, "You see, the others aren't as accepting as I am, and I don't want you to get hurt. Not now that I finally have you…"

Surprise at his concern is overrun with another flash of fear. I don't even have time to process the last part of what he said. I'm stuck on one word.

Hurt?!

All I can think is that Vikki is out there, with the possibility of being harmed by one of these frighteningly realistic robots.

It liiiives! Sort of. This chapter was just kinda hanging out on my tablet until I finally said 'screw it' and posted it. More is coming! Promise! Thanks to Crystal Gem Emerald for the first review. I hope you enjoy the update!

A special sneak peek will go to anyone who can guess who, exactly, is terrifying Vikki at the end of this chapter. And to anyone who can guess the identity of the missing automaton, who will appear in the next chapter.