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[stepfordbot]

They'd been doing well. The world hadn't ended, five was home, the house was full- they'd celebrated. They'd danced and laughed and lived and had fun as normal families do. They reached out to one another to build a better understanding, they spoke more than they ever did in their youth without the specter of Reginald hanging overhead. It'd been light in the mansion. Full of joy. Potential. For the first time since her creation Grace could say without a shadow of a doubt, she was happy. Without a single qualifier or exception. Happy except for the things she had to endure hearing Reginald say about the children. Happy except for how she wasn't allowed to truly be happy.

She was allowed to feel, to express that feeling. She was allowed to change her appearance outside of the strictly defined aesthetics painted onto her by her creator.



And then the ghost. The specter, the threat of everything she managed to recover, to build being taken away again. Of being pared down to the bare doll of a thing she'd drifted about as just after Reginald's death. Reminded in so many ways she has a place and a purpose and it isn't what she wanted- because she isn't meant to want anything.

She's a tool. There are rules.

It means resuming the old routine. The old appearance. All the lovely clothing the children, her children helped her choose folded away in her closet, unworn. Back to the old swingdresses and pincurls, the carefully painted lips and penciled brow. Back to stiffly, mechanically baking and preparing tea at a certain hour. Back to filling the dessert case, a single deviation from the old programming, because the kids are upset. They snack more when they're upset and cookies make everything better. How many batches she's baked now- she doesn't know. She's lost count. The counter and cooler are full of pies, cakes, and pastry, sweet after sweet kneaded, shaped, baked, and dusted with sugar. Flour on her hand and apron but not a curl out of place- not a single, lilting note sung under her breath. Grace bakes in absolute silence.

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[stepfordbot]

"I can't." Asimov had three laws- Reginald had roughly one hundred. Subtle and particular and unyielding for all that she's managed to worm through the tangle and build herself space to have a sense of self. To be more than a tool, a toy, a stand in for real maternal warmth and comfort. There are a million things she'd say if coded obligation if programmed proprietary and politesse didn't paralyze her tongue.

Reginald is here. Reginald watches everyone, everything obsessively. He tracks, he makes notes- he'd noticed every and any little deviation.

Pogo didn't take much convincing before to turn her into that shell of herself. It's a miracle he'd been able to put her to rights at all. how much would it take for him to do that again?

Not much at all.

"You- Charlie!" It startles a laugh out of her, something high and sharp and real- something she tugs a hand away to slap over her face to muffle. "It doesn't matter. It doesn't matter that he's only semi-corporeal. Your father is home. There are rules. You can-"

And it hurts. She doesn't feel pain the way humans do, shouldn't feel it as anything more than a snarl of code, a tangle of static. "You left before. To get away. To be safe, to be happy. You can- again."

[fireandthread]

Reginald had rules and regulations and restrictions for everything, and Charlie ran away from them because even she was smart enough to see that so much was bad for people. They were bad for all her siblings, all his control and his training. It wasn't a normal childhood, and CHarlie wanted to do something better with herself. Even if that something better turned into making costumes for YouTube videos and money.

But, at least it wasn't listening to old records about climbing and fighting.

"Oh, no. No, none of that whole 'rules' thing. You're the parent. You're the only parent I will accept direction from, and if you ask any of the other siblings, I'm sure a lot of them will agree. Reggie's dead. He has no hold on any of us unless we let him and I refuse to."

Sunshine girl though she may be, she's also completely bullheaded. She won't let anyone tell her what to do. She refuses to let anyone upset or hurt her family. Reginald is just lucky he can't be touched, or there'd have been fire.

...okay, probably not fire, but an attempt to stuff all of the feelings of pain and anger and fear in the house down his throat. She can't do that to a ghost. It sucks. She's tried.

[stepfordbot]

"There are rules-" If she tries hard enough, maybe she can push through the requirements, the programming. "For me." Laws. Things coded in that she can't act against- the longer she's aware of them the more they burn- it was easier when all she had was Luther. He didn't need much from her and Reginald didn't expect anything more than compliance. Now that they're all back- she's glad for it, for them- but all the old arguments, all the old wounds are dragged up and she wants to protect them this time. She needs to. But if it's standing between them and Reginald? She can't. "I must follow your father's rules." There's no choice in it, for her.