The first order of business was camouflage.
2B, standing in the middle of Ishmaart's sweaty barsaati in her pristine, battle-ready black-and-white dress and blindfold, was a walking, talking red flag. An "international fashion model" in Karol Bagh would cause a riot. An "international fashion model" holding a glowing sword would cause the army to show up.
"Pehla kaam," Ishmaart announced, clapping his hands. "Tumhara… uniform change karna padega. Local blend." First thing, we have to change your uniform.
2B tilted her head. "My combat attire is optimized for efficiency and threat projection."
"Yahan threat project mat karo," he pleaded. "Yahan log ghar ki chiriya ko bhi dekhte hain. Tum toh…" He gestured at her. Don't project threat here. People stare at a house sparrow here. You look like… "Tum Star Wars ki heroine lag rahi ho. Chalo, shopping."
He still had a fat stack of cash. He took her to Sarojini Nagar market, the kingdom of cheap clothes and sharper aunties. The journey was an education. 2B analyzed the auto-rickshaw as a "primitive combustion-powered transport with substandard suspension." She scanned the crowds, her head moving with mechanical precision, logging every potential threat—from a yelling vegetable seller to a particularly aggressive cow.
Inside the crowded market, chaos reigned. 2B moved through it like a ghost, people unconsciously parting before her serene, blindfolded intensity. Ishmaart dragged her to a stall overflowing with colorful salwar kameez.
"Ye wala?" he asked, holding up a bright pink one with gold embroidery.
[Analysis: Fabric: Polyester-Cotton blend. Dye: Chemical-based. Tactical Utility: Low. Camouflage Rating: Poor. Color is highly visible.]
"Too visible," 2B stated flatly.
Ishmaart sighed. "Nahi, 2B. Yahan 'visible' matlab fashionable hai. Chup chap pehen lo." Here, 'visible' means fashionable. Just wear it.
After much debate (Ishmaart arguing aesthetics, 2B analyzing durability and ease of movement), they settled on a simple, elegant cream-colored salwar kameez with minimal embroidery, and a matching dupatta. He also bought her a pair of simple leather chappals and, crucially, a pair of large, dark sunglasses to replace the blindfold. "Log blindfold se darte hain," he explained. People get scared of the blindfold.
Back in the room, 2B changed with clinical efficiency. When she emerged, Ishmaart's breath caught. The outfit softened her lethal edges. With the sunglasses, she looked like an incredibly serious, devastatingly beautiful college student from a rich family. The saffron thread and quartz crystal still hung around her neck, peeking above the kameez.
"Waah!" he grinned. "Ab bilkul local lag rahi ho!" Now you look totally local!
"My mobility is reduced by 12%. The dupatta is a potential entanglement hazard," 2B noted, adjusting the scarf with a faint frown.
"Trade-off hai," he shrugged. It's a trade-off. "Ab chalo, ghar ka introduction karaate hain."
He took her to the small, ancient Hanuman mandir tucked in their galli. The smell of incense and marigolds was thick in the air. 2B's sensors went into overdrive.
"Elevated particulate matter from combustion. Floral aromatics. High concentration of human bio-signatures in a confined space."
"Shhh! Just follow me," Ishmaart whispered.
He bought a small pooja thali—a diya, flowers, a banana. He guided her to the idol of Hanuman, its orange paint bright under the oil lamps.
"Yeh Hanuman ji hain," he whispered. "God of strength. Protection. Hum unse ashirwaad lenge." We take his blessing.
He showed her how to light the diya, ring the small bell, and place the flowers. 2B mimicked his movements with exact, robotic precision, her face a mask of intense concentration behind the sunglasses. When she rang the bell, the clear, sharp tone seemed to surprise her. She did it again, analytically.
The old pujari, watching from the side, chuckled. "Nayi bahu hai? Sikha rahe ho?" New bride? Teaching her?
Ishmaart's ears turned red. "Haan ji… woh… bahar se hai." Yes, she's… from abroad.
"Accha, accha. Bhagwan sab theek karenge," the pujari said, smiling benevolently. He came over and smeared a tilak of red vermilion on both their foreheads. 2B's head jerked slightly at the contact, but she remained still.
[Foreign substance applied. Composition: Turmeric, Slaked Lime. Non-toxic. Cultural significance: 'Blessing'.] Her internal monologue was audible in her tone.
As they left, Ishmaart explained, "Ab log sochenge hum shaadi-shuda hain. Respect milti hai." Now people will think we're married. We get respect.
"Deception is a tactical necessity," 2B concluded, accepting the logic.
Language was next. Ishmaart became her full-time ustad. He started with basics, pointing at objects.
"Yeh 'rotí' hai." This is bread.
"Rotí."
"Yeh 'paani' hai." This is water.
"Paani."
Her pronunciation was flawless, accentless. She learned at a terrifying speed. Within a day, she was forming simple sentences. "Yeh kamra ganda hai." This room is dirty. "Bahar ka noise zyada hai." The outside noise is excessive.
He taught her the essential Hinglish mix. She grasped the pragmatism of it instantly.
"'Chalo' means 'let's go'. 'Haan ji' means 'yes, with respect'. 'Kya scene hai?' means 'what is the situation?'"
"Understood. Query: Is 'Yeh kya bakchodi hai?' an appropriate situational assessment?" What nonsense is this?
Ishmaart choked on his chai. "Uh… only with me. Only with me."
Cooking was the real test. Ishmaart's culinary skills peaked at making Maggi. But he had to maintain the facade of a normal household. He bought a small stove, a pot, and basic groceries.
"Today, we make chai," he declared, the master of his domain.
2B watched, sensors analyzing every step. "Water temperature is suboptimal for maximum tannin extraction from the tea leaves. You have added ginger and cardamom, variables not in the standard 'chai' algorithm."
"Algorithm nahi, andaz hota hai," he said, stirring. It's not an algorithm, it's 'style'.
When he poured the milky, sweet tea into two glasses, 2B held hers, analyzing the steam. She took a small, precise sip.
[Analysis: Liquid. Temperature: 67°C. Constituents: Water, milk proteins, caffeine, sucrose, polyphenols, gingerol, cineole…]
"Bas, analysis band karo!" Ishmaart laughed. Stop analyzing! "Kaisi hai?" How is it?
She paused, her head tilting. The purely analytical light in her eyes behind the sunglasses seemed to soften by a micro-fraction. "It is… inefficient for nutrient delivery. But the sensory input is… complex. Acceptable."
For 2B, it was a rave review.
Days blended into a strange, new routine. Ishmaart, the galli philosopher, became a guide to an ancient, chaotic world for a soldier from a dead future. He taught her to haggle with the subzi-wala (she used probabilistic market analysis to argue prices). He explained festivals, movies, the complex social hierarchy of a Delhi galli.
She, in turn, organized their microscopic room with military precision, optimized their meagre budget with AI-level efficiency, and stood as an immovable, silent guardian whenever a nosy neighbor or a curious goonda came too close. Her mere presence, now draped in cream cotton but radiating unwavering intensity, commanded a wary respect.
One evening, as they sat on the roof watching the hazy sun set over a sea of concrete, eating pao bhaji from a street vendor, Ishmaart felt a weird sense of peace. The cosmic dread was still there. The purple potato still loomed. But here, now, he had built a tiny, bizarre pocket of stability.
2B finished her portion, placing the plate down exactly. "The nutritional variance in street food is high. But the flavor combinations are… logical." She looked at him, the dying sun reflecting in her dark glasses. "Our partnership protocol. It is functioning within acceptable parameters."
He smiled. "Haan, 2B. Bilkul theek chal raha hai." Yes, 2B. It's working just fine.
He had merged a weapon of a lost war with the noisy, vibrant, stubborn life of an Indian galli. He had given a killing machine a dupatta, a taste for ginger chai, and a crash course in Hinglish.
The Multiversal Dukaan now had its first permanent staff. And she was currently running a diagnostic on the best way to optimize the rotation of the ceiling fan.