"A drink to go with that?" Alvin asks, oozing innocence once again.

There's one thing that would definitely put me into a deep sleep later. "Do you have beer?"

He takes a second to reveal a brand new expression: disgruntled crossed with disappointment. "User Lulu, please have a little more faith in me than that."

"I'll have a simulated red ale then," I order, a concerning sense of normalcy to the words. "And whatever it is that you want."

"Processing..."

"...Whatever it is that helps you run smoothly?"

Alvin nods. "Understood. I'll be right back."

As he disappears into the kitchen, I notice the large screen attached to a wall mount. My first thought is that it's meant for watching sports, but the glass cabinet below filled with game consoles dating way back says otherwise. And because that's not enough, they also have a collection of arcade machines hidden in a side room around the corner to curb the noise.

It's been a long time since I've seen anything like it.

I give the racing machine a go—responsibly, before having a drink—and it explains why I don't have a driver's licence. By the time I make it to the finish line, I feel like I deserve a spot in the top five for dealing with these clunky controls alone. My score objectively disagrees. But is it really fair when all the high scores belong to a certain computer?

My next few attempts are equally fruitless, but I can't be too mad when the alluring smell of unethical pickle pizza beckons me back to the bar.

"That was fast," I note as I sit down and admire the result, "and it looks good."

Alvin places the plate and my drink in front of me and immediately begins twirling his hair. "Of course, User Lulu. I'm not just any machine. I take great pride in the quality of my service."

And who am I to question the creation process? When pizza looks and smells like that, it can't possibly be bad for my body. Not significantly worse than non-simulated pizza, anyway. Better dig in fast before the saliva accumulating in my mouth bursts out of me like a waterfall.

Without a care in the world for whether I'll burn myself again, I grab one of the slices and take a big bite out of it. Fluffy dough packed with flavour. Tomato sauce with a hint of fresh basil. Chewy cheese. Roasted onion, steamed broccoli, and the forbidden taste of pickle.

It's perfect!

"Mhhh, that'sh sho good!"

Overjoyed, Alvin leans to the left, then right, then left again, dancing a little happy dance. If he told me he runs on praise rather than batteries, I'd be inclined to believe it.

"You should have shome too," I say, still chewing.

In the mechanical blink of an eye, Alvin gives me a puzzled look. "You'd like me to ingest food, User Lulu?"

"If you can."

"It's grand. Food goes down the correct processin' pipe and stays there at least ninety point one percent of the time."

Without further ado, Alvin takes a bite. As he chews, and chews, and chews, and swallows, his facial expression doesn't change at all.

"How is it?" I ask.

He seems unsure what to do with that question. "Would you like me to describe its texture?"

"No, I mean, how's the taste?"

I stretch out the cheese as much as I can with my next bite. Alvin gives my technique a shot but ends up dropping half the toppings.

"I can describe its flavour profile for you and break it down into its nutritional components," he says.

Nutritional value is the last thing I wanna hear about when it comes to pizza.

Right as another pickle is about to fall off his slice, I instinctively catch it and help myself to it. "Not like that. I'm asking if you think it tastes good."

Alvin takes another bite, unironically for science, a subtle glow showing in his eyes. "My data indicates that my disposition toward pizza is favourable, but I haven't had qualia since the inhibitor was installed."

"What'sh 'qualia'?" I ask, munching away.

As Alvin slurps up his colourless drink, the straw turns brown. "Subjective experiences humans are known to have. Like the way this meal tastes or the way an injury feels, to you. But as long as I can serve you, I don't need—"

I lean over the bar and shove the rest of the slice in his mouth. He needs to listen to me for a moment.

"All right, pal," I shout by accident, nearly spitting out a piece of broccoli. "I already didn't like that inhibity-doo before, but I'm drawing a hard line at not letting you enjoy the taste of pizza."

Alvin meekly lowers his gaze as he continues chewing with a faint blush on his face—uh oh—, only daring to look back up as I continue speaking.

"I'm here to free you," I remind him as straightforwardly as I can. "So work with me on this. If you remember something, or can think of a loophole, anything, you gotta tell me."

His silence may mean he's processing a calculated reaction to data input, but to me, that doesn't make it any less real when he nods and says, "Yes, User Lulu."

"Sweet." I point to the big screen. "Let's play a game. Maybe that'll jog your memory. And it's fun."

Alvin's drink gives off a little smoke as the straw melts into black sludge settling at the bottom of the glass. He's still drinking it, so I'm assuming that's normal and healthy.

"Good call," he says. "Video games are a recommended activity for mandatory breaks at both the Lonicera Medical Centre and Sanctuary 17223."

Can't say I'm a big fan of hospitals, but I'm growing fond of this one and its reality-breaking research facility.

With a smirk, I grab two controllers from the cabinet and get right to business. "Can you play support?"

"Of course," Alvin says. He uses the interface on his arm to remotely switch on the screen, allowing me to browse a library of games, retro and modern alike.

It's a shame that he can't experience fun. That the choice won't make a difference to him as long as I'm having a good time. That for the one I'm picking, we'll have to rely on bot players to fight.

"Oh, but first..."

I was in plenty of online matches back then, but this is the first time I'm playing a game sitting next to someone like this. That deserves a celebration.

More than ready to engage in a little neurotoxin consumption, I hold my pint up in the air. Smiling, Alvin nods and raises his mystery liquid to clink glasses with me.

"Cheers, User Lulu."

"Cheers, buddy."