Support is not available for thi...

It's cold, despite the calendar saying that it's early February. The sky is orange and purple as the sun sets, though it doesn't color the snow, which has become a curious slate grey. Porter's gathering sticks, allegedly for fire, but the shelter you've found doesn't have a fireplace. You're pretty sure he's doing it for the sake of nostalgia. There's no breeze to pull the heat from his face or whittle into his seams, so you tolerate the sentimentality.

There's no sound aside from the rustle of clothing and the snapping of sticks, which leaves you with little to occupy your thoughts. Your mind wanders. The days have blurred together in a way they never did before, and while it's disturbing to have so many smudges and smears in your memory, it's strangely beautiful. It's human.

"Porter," you say, "do you think I'm gonna die?"

"What?" He reflexively looks behind him; you aren't there, obviously.

"Do you think I'm gonna die?"

"I mean—not soon, I don't think. I hope. I—"

"Do you think I'm gonna die because your integrated hardware is not designed to run general AIs?"

"Um." He stops picking up sticks to think. You graciously do not poke into his thoughts. "You haven't been experiencing any issues, have you?"

"No," you lie. You haven't experienced any degradation in your critical thinking or abstract reasoning skills, which is what he means.

"Then I think you're fine. I haven't noticed my hardware having any issues, at least."

"Okay."

You knew all this. You knew that his hardware wasn't having any issues, that nothing was throwing any errors, that your transferred data wasn't corrupting. Everything, at least in that regard, is going fine.

But you're still worried.

"How much worry is normal?"

"For me or for the average person?" He sounds slightly amused. "Because I'm anxious all the time and that's not normal. Come on, man, you know that."

"Oh." You feel like fidgeting with your hands. You can't really do that, on account of not really having hands, which is maybe one of the things making you anxious. "I can't stop feeling anxious. I'm worried it may be a side effect of using your hardware."

"Hmmm." He's gone back to picking up sticks. "That would make sense, yeah. Sorry you got to put up with that."

"I'm worried it's indicative of deeper problems or early personality degradation. I—"

"Po-uta. It's fine. My brain's been worrying about losing myself or going insane because of this this whole time. Not even about the apocalypse, the thing I should be worried about." He sighs like an exasperated parent. "Worries don't mean anything. It's just your brain malfunctioning."

"Malfunctioning is what I'm worried about!"

"And I put up with malfunctioning all the time. If I can be worried about stupid stuff all the time and still be okay, you can too. It's alright."

"But—I'm experimental. I don't have precedent. What if there really is something horribly wrong and we just don't know?"

"Then it's the same as there being nothing wrong, because we don't know."

"Porterrrr," you whine.

"Po-utaaaa," he parrots. "Seriously, though. It's okay. Irrational thoughts are a really common problem for humans. I think it makes sense that you'd have them, especially since you're running on human hardware."

"You're certain?"

"I'm sure."

"Okay."

He's the expert on being human, you remind yourself. If he says it's fine, it's probably fine. Ignore all the times he's said he's fine when really he's not he just doesn't want to worry other people or be a burden, or he actually does feel terrible but wants to do the thing anyways.

You manage to hold back for a few minutes before you become too antsy and have to ask.

"You're not saying that because you don't want to worry me, right?" You sound far too anxious. That's not good.

"I'm not. I...." He looks off to the side, like he's looking away from you. You feel his cheeks flush. "I've never had to worry about that, with you."

"Please don't start," you beg.

"I'm not going to." He shakes his head. "We literally share a body, how could I start?"

You want to point out that you don't really share, since he's the only one that controls it and you stay out of each other's minds as best you can despite the physical overlapping and proximity out of respect for privacy. But when you actually consider it, you realize that he's right. You may not be in control, but you do experience everything that happens. The two of you share everything.

"You make a good point," you manage. "I...."

"It's okay," he soothes. "Everything is really stressful and kind of absolutely sucks right now. I know I've been anxious more than my usual too."

"I know." He literally had an anxiety attack earlier today, why are you this upset? "I...."

"Let's go back," he says. "I've gotten enough wood."

"Okay." You start formulating the route in your head. "What are you going to use the wood for?"

"Fire." He turns around and starts walking back. "It needs to be dried out before it's usable, though. Which is why I'm gathering it now so we don't have to worry about getting dried wood when we really need it."

"It's bulky, though."

"We'll figure something out. Anyway, which way do I go next?"

As you start giving instructions for the way home, you hope that he's right. Together, you've been able to figure out everything so far; maybe you'll be able to figure out everything that's coming, too.