The Archivist of Safeharbor

Yours truely...

My father was against my meanderings at the archive. The Archivist did nothing. He just stopped telling my father I was there. He created a backlog of excuses and potential covers. My personal favorite was when I was 16. My father appeared while I hid away behind old machinery.
My father demanded to know where I was, and the archivist replied, "Perhaps A young man of particularly low moral fiber has miss caydie firmly in his clutches. I hear such activity is quite common among our youth."
I've never seen my father go red in the face before. I couldn't help myself. I laughed and it was far from quiet. I got caught. The archivist shared in my humor, but My father did not. He forbid me from returning, threatening the archivist in ways I never expected from such a soft spoken man. The archivist nodded. "Of course. Right you are sir. She's better off with her peers anyway. Did you know that the population of Safeharbor is 79 percent Male?"
And just like that, The archive was my sanctuary. I trust that The Archivist with my life. He's a genuinely good man.

— Interview of Caydie Kines

Oh? It's you. I apologize. I was lost in thought. I do that quite often. What shall it be today? What wonders shall I reveal? What terrors do wish to know to avoid? It's okay. Speak up. You've followed my words for some time now. I like to think of you as a friend. So tell me, what brings you before me today? Shall we discuss The Battle of The Pillars? Stargazing then?

Me? Why would you want to know about me?

The Archivist

I'll tell you what I can. I came to the archive shortly before the 1st war began. This is my home, my heart and soul. I belong here in the archives. As far as my body's construction, I'm not entirely sure. It's not of earth. This is Safeharbor steel.
There's a part of me that wonders if I was always here. Perhaps I was a rogue AI built by the species that made this place. I don't think so, though. We may never know. Personally, I don't even want to know.
When I first arrived, I was not trusted by those who saw me. One day I wasn't there and suddenly I was. "Who is this stranger?" They asked. I couldn't give them a name. They forced their queries and every time I replied, the sounds emerged, but without order, without harmony. I don't know my true name.

"The archivist guards the archive with ruthless efficiency, particularly Data module theta. Don't go near it. It's out of the way for a reason. If he is to be believed, the archivist has no idea why he guards it more than the others. I think that's where he stores himself. Perhaps it acts as his brain?"

Us?

What? Does it insult you? Does it bother you that I count myself among your species? Despite a body of steel, and lenses for eyes, I am human, or maybe I hope I am, at least. Perhaps I was? So many memories, and most of them aren't even mine. These vaults are not to you what they are to me. For me they are like having another mind, another body. I wish I could explain what it's like to exist in code.
No matter. I hold the keys to our future and our success. I opened the way to the archive. I am the only way it can be used. The archive has the technology we need to thrive. I'm sure of it. Why would I bother if I didn't count myself as human. Why not just keep it to myself? There are two thousand moving parts in this body. All of them are dedicated to humanity.
I've had this debate with myself for ages. It puts me in quite the existential crisis. What am I but an immaculate fabrication, a perfect lie? Of course, we both know there's more to it than that.

Look and Feel

Despite his mechanical form, he seems to genuinely feel emotion, or empathy. He has been known to get offended when forced to answer a question he doesn't want to answer, something only possible with the "Force Query" command. He respects the Hephephobia most humans suffer from, but he makes it clear such things are not appreciated.

The archivist stands at nearly 6 feet. He's humanoid, dressed in rags with cloth literally draped over his skinny metal frame. It hangs off of many sharp edges along his body, rust caking on the exposed metal. His head has numerous sliding arms with metal shears that move as if to emulate expression. His eyes are little more than lenses flashing red light from his face.

His voice comes from a speaker where the mouth should be. His head is always shrouded in cloth to protect it from the elements, as he often enjoys watching the rain. His movements are fluid, deliberate and not without grace, but the occasional grind of rusted metal echoes off the chamber in the archive when he moves with haste.