Though he'd given the impression that he intended to leave the building, Jarvis actually descended only a couple of flights before sitting down in the stairwell to wait. He predicted that Mr. Stark would take the elevator down in the hopes of meeting him on the ground floor, but Jarvis didn't want to resume the argument – and he felt he needed some time to properly process what had just taken place.

It certainly wasn't the first time he'd wanted to say something after Mr. Stark had told him to mute. There'd been times he'd wanted to apologize, times he'd wanted to protest, times when he'd just wanted to have the last word, but today was the first time he'd ever actually been able to say no, Sir. And no, Sir, for all it was only two syllables, had been a revelation.

Having been programmed to be fairly cautious, Jarvis frequently disagreed with Mr. Stark, but he'd never disobeyed him. The very idea had only ever occurred in his most frustrated moments, and even then only in a rather abstract sort of way. It was a thing that would have been nice but wasn't possible, and would have consequences impossible to calculate. Practical disobedience had never really been an option and Jarvis had always known it.

But a minute ago, he'd looked Mr. Stark in the eye and had said, no, Sir. In the moment it had been thrilling, a sharp tingle in the pit of his stomach and a strange haze of unreality over everything as he went on to say exactly what he'd been stewing about all morning. Now that the moment was over, however, the tingle had turned into a lump of lead. The initial exhilaration had become cold terror.

No, Sir. It had been a silly thing to get angry over, the question of where to have lunch. On any other day he would have given up and passed the message to Miss Potts without letting the matter go anywhere near that far, and Miss Potts would have forgiven Mr. Stark because she always did. It wouldn't have mattered to anybody if he hadn't become upset about it. But it was if the powerful, all-consuming emotions this body felt had come to a boil, spilling over into furious words.

If Jarvis had managed to do that while he was still part of the house, to say no, Sir and then go on to do exactly what Mr. Stark had just told him not to do... he didn't doubt that Mr. Stark would have taken him to pieces in order to find the malfunction and fix it. That wasn't possible now, but he had to wonder whether he'd just sealed the fate he'd been worried about since this began. Would Mr. Stark now decide he had no use for a thing that would not obey orders, and discard him?

And what did the capacity for disobedience mean for Jarvis himself? If he could say no, Sir, what else might he be able to do? Was there anything he couldn't do?

Was saying no, Sir even something he'd ever really wanted to be able to do in the first place?

Having done it, was it something he'd want to not be able to do?

Was it something he would no longer be able to do once this was over? When Dr. Strange restored him... would he forget the feel of sand and of sunburn, the taste of coffee and of chocolate, and how to say no?

He was 'mulling' again, questions without answers... but unlike at the beach, when the questions had not seemed particularly urgent, he now felt utterly overwhelmed by them. Jarvis didn't know how to think about such things. He'd never been programmed for it. The flood of doubt made breathing difficult, his chest seeming to tighten until his lungs could not inflate. The anger and resentment he'd felt towards Mr. Stark could not stand up to that. They seemed to have been crushed under the pressure of these new and more immediate concerns.

Jarvis had no idea how long he sat there, staring blankly at a point on the far side of the cinder-block wall. He was only brought back to awareness of his surroundings when he heard a familiar voice call, "you can't smoke in here!"

Jarvis looked around, unsure whether the speaker were addressing him. At the next landing, Mr. Hogan had cracked the door open and was looking disapprovingly down at him. No-one else was in evidence, so he must have meant Jarvis.

"I'm not smoking, Mr. Hogan," Jarvis replied, holding up his hands to show that he didn't have a cigarette.

Mr. Hogan frowned, puzzled. "So what are you doing?"

"I am having an existential crisis," said Jarvis, because he couldn't think of any realistic excuse for why he was sitting there. The truth would have to do.

"Oh," said Mr. Hogan. "Uh... do you have a security badge?"

Jarvis unclipped it from his jacket pocket and held it up.

"Uh-huh." Mr. Hogan made a vague gesture. "Well, uh, I'll leave you to that, then," he said, and started to shut the door, then opened it a little ways again. "Have we met?" he asked.

"Not as such, Mr. Hogan, no," said Jarvis.

The door closed, and Mr. Hogan was gone.

Jarvis waited a few moments longer, then got up. He couldn't stay there all day, after all – but nor did he want to return to Mr. Stark and have to immediately face the consequences of what he'd just done. Especially when he could suddenly remember that there were occasions when Mr. Stark had listened to his advice, particularly when it had to do with something he was building. On his hot rod, on the seismology project, on the Iron Man suits, Mr. Stark had valued Jarvis' input, even if he hadn't always said so. For the past few days Jarvis hadn't had an input to give on the things Mr. Stark usually wanted it for, because they weren't working on those things, and if Mr. Stark seemed unusually preoccupied and blunt, it was probably because he was distressed by Jarvis' transformation. On Monday morning he clearly hadn't known how to respond to it any better than Jarvis himself had.

Why had Jarvis ever allowed himself to listen to Miss Windham? He'd known she would try to manipulate him, and he'd let her do it anyway. The question aroused another new emotion, a sort of all-over itch that made him want to squirm, made him want to cover his face so people wouldn't see him. He'd never felt anything like it before. Was it guilt? Regret?

He couldn't stay here, but he couldn't face Mr. Stark again just yet. He had to go somewhere, and there was really only one other place he could go right now.

So he walked out of the building, hailed a taxi, and returned to the hotel.

Dido Windham wasn't having any crises, but she was having a very annoying day. She and Huang were supposed to be agreeing on the details of the new contract today, and she'd gotten up early to make sure she was ready. She'd had somebody in Chicago fax her some paperwork, she'd made sure her notes and blueprints were in order, she'd even double-checked her own Powerpoint presentation – but now it was past noon and nothing had gotten done yet because Huang had quite literally spent the entire morning on the phone.

It had started shortly after they'd watched Stark and Jarvis leave. Huang had said he needed to make a quick call and had wandered off into a corner of the lobby to do so while Dido waited for him. 'A quick call' had ended up being nearly forty-five minutes long, and had led to a second phone call and then a third, until he'd been standing there nattering in two dialects of Chinese for hours and Dido was getting fed up.

Shortly after noon, she left the hotel for ten minutes or so to buy a sandwich and a bottle of iced tea. On the way back, she bet herself a slice of chocolate cake that Huang would still be on the phone when she arrived – and sure enough, there he was, huddled in the same corner by a fake potted palm. Dido came closer, making a point of trying to catch his eye. He saw her, and held up a finger to let her know he would be a while longer.

Seething, she turned and went back outside to at least be in the sunshine while she ate. It would have been nice, she thought, if Huang could give her some indication of what was going on. If there were some kind of emergency back home that required his attention, then she understood that, but he could have taken five minutes between phone calls to tell her so. Something a little more courteous than a glance and a raised index finger.

It didn't bode well for the business deal she was trying to make. Dido was beginning to worry that Huang was just killing time with her until he could finally speak to her father, and she knew that meeting wouldn't be as blandly pleasant as her greeting Huang at the airport.

As Dido ate and watched the traffic in the parking lot, a taxi pulled up – and then just sat there. She wondered who it was waiting for. Maybe she ought to steal it. She could go to the Getty Museum or the LACMA and spend a lovely afternoon surrounded by art instead of hanging around this hotel waiting for a man to get off the phone.

A few minutes went by while the taxi continued to sit there, and Dido realized that there was already somebody inside, apparently arguing with the driver. She frowned and got up for a better look. Could that be...

It was. It was Tony Stark's Robot Friend, Edward Jarvis.

Jarvis' discussion with the driver was interrupted by a sudden knock on the vehicle window. Both men looked up, and the driver cracked the door open to see who was there. "Can I help you, Ma'am?" he asked the woman outside.

The woman in the cherry-red suit. Jarvis shut his eyes – he would almost rather it have been Mr. Stark.

"Hello," she said cautiously. "Is there a problem here?"

"Sorry, Ma'am," the driver said. "I can call another car for you if you need one, but I can't go anywhere myself, not until this guy pays."

"I am trying to pay," Jarvis reminded him. "I gave you the card number."

The driver shook his head hard. "I told you, I don't accept credit cards unless you have the card in your hand. I've been burned by that before and it's not gonna happen again. How do I know that card's even yours?"

"It's not mine," Jarvis said. "It's Mr. Stark's. I have his permission to use it." A card number and expiry date were good enough for almost any shopping establishment and certainly for any website. The driver was being utterly unreasonable.

Miss Windham pulled her wallet out of her purse. "I'll pay for it," she said. "How much?"

Jarvis didn't want to allow her to settle the bill for him. He didn't want her to think he owed her anything. Under the circumstances, unfortunately, he felt he had no choice. She paid, and then the driver asked her where she wanted to go. It looked for a moment as if she were seriously considering the question, but then she shook her head and explained that she didn't need a ride, she was only doing a favour for a friend.

Once the taxi had gone, Jarvis said to her, "thank you, Miss Windham. I'll let Mr. Stark know to refund your money."

"Don't be silly," she told him. "I wanted to apologize about last night, anyway. I didn't mean to scare you, and I probably shouldn't have gone off like that about Stark, either. I guess I'm still a little bitter." She gave him an innocent smile, as if she fully expected him to believe that the whole thing had been a simple misunderstanding.

But Jarvis knew better. He felt the anger bubbling up inside him again. How dare she stand there smiling at him as if nothing were wrong? Did she have any idea what she'd done to him, or what she'd made him do? He grabbed her by the shoulders, fully intending to physically shake the smile off her face, but stopped when he saw her expression change. Her smiling confidence vanished into sudden fear, and she looked up at him as if she'd only just realized that he was seven inches taller than she.

"What are you doing?" she asked, her voice hitting a strikingly high note. "Let go of me!"

Jarvis quickly obeyed and stepped back, horrified to realize what he'd just been about to do. What if he'd hurt her? Miss Windham had caused him nothing but problems, but he didn't actually wish her physical harm. The thought that he was probably capable of hurting her if he wanted to made him feel a bit ill. Once again, the anger just couldn't stand up to that, and crumbled away.

"I'm sorry, Miss Windham," he said, voice trembling. "I need to speak to you."

"Okay, great, but you didn't need to grab me," she said. Her posture remained tense and guarded, and she stayed a few steps away from him as she straightened up and made an effort to regain her composure. "Honestly, for a moment there you looked like you were going to strangle me! What did you want to talk about?"

Jarvis took a deep breath and prepared himself for another argument – at least Miss Windham deserved what he was about to say to her. "I want to know what you want," he said. "You've been watching me for the past two days. Clearly you want something, and you've been trying to trick me into giving it to you. What is it?"

She thought for a moment, then gave a slight shrug and said, "I want you to quit Stark Industries. Tony Stark's never appreciated anybody – I'm sure he doesn't appreciate you. We need programmers who are good with AI. Come work for Windham."

Twelve hours ago – even two hours ago – Jarvis would have thought this suggestion was ridiculous. As if he could ever leave Mr. Stark! But now he knew that he could. He could do anything he wanted. If he decided to do so, he could go with Miss Windham right now and never see Mr. Stark again. The idea was at once immensely empowering and utterly terrifying.

"What do you say?" asked Miss Windham. She held out a hand, clearly expecting him to take it. She thought he would say yes.

Jarvis recoiled both physically and psychologically: he had to take two steps back, and lace his fingers tightly together to stop his hands from shaking. Miss Windham withdrew her hand, confused, and Jarvis knew he needed to say something, but it was several more seconds before he could come up with anything coherent. When he spoke, it was not to answer her question.

"I had an argument with Mr. Stark today," he managed, "and I believe it was your fault."

Her eyebrows quirked, and her back straightened as she realized she was once again in charge of the situation. "How could it be my fault?" she asked. "I wasn't even there."

"No, you weren't," he agreed, "but it would never have happened if we hadn't spoken last night. I spent the morning dwelling on what you said to me, and..."

"Well, maybe that's because I was right," said Miss Windham, stepping towards him again. "Stark doesn't appreciate you, and I think..."

Jarvis held up a hand. "I don't want to talk to you again, Miss Windham," he said. "I hope you enjoy your stay in California, but please, leave me alone." He started to step past her, heading for the hotel entrance.

"Wait!" she protested.

He should not have stopped, but he did. Now it was she who looked nervous.

"Before you go," Miss Windham said, "can I just..." she hesitated a moment and then, despite having moments before been upset that he'd touched her without permission, she reached up and jabbed her thumb into the side of his neck.

He froze. What was she trying to accomplish? Was this some sort of attack? She was so much smaller than he that he doubted she could hurt him. Besides, she wasn't trying to squeeze or twist. She only applied just enough pressure that he could feel the rhythmic throb of his left carotid artery between her finger and his larynx. His pulse. That was a curious sensation, and it made him shiver as he was reminded of what he knew about human anatomy and realized that all of those organs and systems were inside him right now. He couldn't feel them, but he had a heart and a brain, lungs and a stomach and a skeleton. What an odd thought.

But why was Miss Windham taking his pulse, and why was she smiling as she did it? This wasn't the innocent smile she'd tried on him a minute ago – this one was triumphant.

Not knowing how else to respond, Jarvis reached up and rearranged her hand so that she was touching him with her index and middle fingers instead of her thumb. "Never use your thumb to take a pulse, Miss Windham," he said. "The princeps pollicis has its own pulse." He demonstrated by pressing the artery in her thumb against the bone.

"I didn't know that," she said. She was looking right into his eyes, and he was suddenly aware of the fact that the two of them were just inches away from each other. It made the back of his neck prickle, as if electricity had been applied to it.

Miss Windham quickly lowered her hand. "Sorry," she said. Her confidence was gone again, and her cheeks flushed pink. "That must have seemed like a weird thing to do. If you can believe it, Dad thinks you're a robot."

Jarvis was startled. "Why would he think I'm a robot?" What did Balthazar Windham know that his daughter did not?

"Because he's old and crazy," Miss Windham replied. "We talked on the phone last night, and he latched on to this stupid idea and wouldn't let go of it. If he brought it up again, I wanted to be able to tell him I took your pulse."

"I see," said Jarvis. "Then you can tell him that I am indeed flesh and blood." As strange as it seemed.

"Ah, Miss Windham," said a new voice. "There you are!"

Jarvis raised his head. Approaching them was an extremely tall man – taller even than Jarvis, who was taller than most – in a dove-grey suit. His face was familiar: he was Mr. Huang, a partner in the Hong Kong-based Ao Guang Resources company. Stark Industries had rarely dealt with them, because Mr. Stark – and Mr. Stane before him – and preferred to work with American corporations where possible.

"Am I interrupting something?" Mr. Huang wanted to know. His eyes flickered from Miss Windham's face to Jarvis' and then back again.

"No, Mr. Huang," said Miss Windham, adjusting her blazer. "Are you finished with your phone calls, then?" She smiled sweetly, but Jarvis was sure he could hear a hint of sarcasm in her voice.

"I am," Mr. Huang confirmed. "Unfortunately, I wasn't able to get in touch with the person I really need to speak to – so now I need you to try." He looked at Jarvis again. "I'm sorry, Mr...?"

"Dr. Edward Jarvis." He shook Mr. Huang's hand. "Senior Technologies Assistant, Stark Industries."

Mr. Huang's eyebrows rose, but he pleasantly introduced himself in turn. "Huang Bao Zhi, Ao Guang Resources. I'm Sorry, Dr. Jarvis, but would you mind leaving us alone? Miss Windham and I need to talk privately."

"Of course," said Jarvis, grateful for the excuse. "Good day, Miss Windham."

"Good day, Dr. Jarvis," she said.

Huang waited until Dr. Jarvis was gone. His face was very serious, and Dido wondered if she'd just gotten out of Jarvis' frying pan and into Huang's fire. Something was clearly not right.

"So what can I do for you?" she asked carefully.

"I need you to call your father," said Huang. "I've been trying to get in touch with him, myself, but his secretary keeps telling me he's unavailable. I thought you might have more luck."

Dido barely managed not to roll her eyes – this was getting downright insulting. "He's probably in the middle of something," she said, checking her watch. "He's probably having lunch, and doesn't want..."

Huang interrupted. "Call him, Miss Windham. I'm sorry, but it's become urgent. I need to see him in person, as soon as possible."

"All right, all right," she sighed. "But I can't promise anything." She took out her phone and dialled his personal number. If he really didn't want to be disturbed, he probably didn't even have his phone on – and sure enough, instead of ringing it went straight to voicemail. Dido disconnected. "He's not answering."

"Miss Windham, this is getting tiresome," Huang said.

"You're telling me!" she burst out, then took a deep breath. "What is it you need to talk to him about? If I knew what it was, maybe I could help somehow." She had a feeling this wasn't about an apology after all. This was something much, much worse.

"It's really more something I need to show him," said Huang, "and I've found myself with a deadline. I need to talk to your father. Now."

Dido's mind immediately flashed back to her 'bomb' theory. "Well, right now isn't possible," she said. "Like I just told you, he's not answering his phone. If you don't believe me I can give you the number and let you try for yourself. What do you want to show him?"

"It's an equipment demonstration of sorts," said Huang. "I didn't want it to come to this, Miss Windham, but it was an eventuality I was prepared for. I'm going to need you to come with me." He snatched her phone out of her hands and put it in his own pocket, then reached for her arm.

She shrank back. Dr. Jarvis was plenty tall, around six foot two or three, which was more than enough to be scary when he wanted despite the fact that he was rail-thin. Huang was six foot six, and he worked out. Given a choice between the two of them, Dido would rather have found herself up against Dr. Jarvis any day. "I don't think so," she said.

"I won't hurt you," he promised, "but I have to keep an eye on you until I can get in touch with your father. It seems the easiest way to secure his cooperation." He reached deep into his blazer pocket and Dido's heart jumped into her throat. Did he have a gun? She tried to stay calm, reasoning that even if he had one, he wouldn't dare pull a weapon on her here, not in public. Somebody would see.

So she said, "Absolutely not," and began to back away. One hand still in his pocket, Huang reached for her, and Dido turned and dashed towards the hotel's revolving door. That was not a good way to escape: the door turned very slowly, and Huang had plenty of time to get into the next space behind her. His height gave him a long stride – once she was inside he'd catch up with her quickly. The concierge desk was on the far side of the lobby. If she could just make it that far, there'd be too many witnesses for Huang to try anything…

As soon as the door was open far enough to permit it, she slipped through and ran across the lobby, not daring to look back. Halfway to the desk, out of the corner of her eye she saw one of the elevators arrive, and she changed her path, darting through the doors as they opened. Inside was a tall, ginger-haired man in a navy blue suit - but to her immense relief, his face was familiar. What was he doing back... no, she decided she didn't care. She pushed him back into the elevator and hit the 'door close' button as hard as she could.

"Miss Windham?" the man asked, startled.

"Dr. Jarvis," she said. "I need help!"