[ This time, he doesn't back down at the sudden aggression. Normally, he'd probably cower. Grovel. In the game of social selection, he'd be the appeaser, struggling for a semblance of calm. Not this time. His feet are firmly locked into the ground, palms spreading open at his sides.

She might be akin to a statue like this, but Madison certainly isn't. Taking hard, shallow breaths through flared nostrils―which the most basic of sensors for a machine her level would feel in their intensity― his shoulders heave with each one.

His eyes flicker over her features. ]

Yeah, 'cuz removin' advanced features the likes the world's barely seen is an improvement.

[ Firmly, boldly: ]

Y'are a machine, not a person. Maybe y'do need repairs. But that don't mean I wanna remove you from feelings, or from bein' you. You know be better'n that.