The Wrought
A people who are made of metal and are, in every way that has ever mattered, people. They have souls. They think because they are thinking beings, not because someone engineered a convincing imitation.
They are also, at a glance, across a landing field, in bad light, roughly the shape of the worst thing that ever happened to the galaxy.
The Distinction
A simulant is a process. A Wrought is a person. Every Wrought can explain the difference clearly, patiently, and from memory, because most of them have had to do it more times than they can count.
The galaxy's official position is that the distinction is absolute and settled law. Its practical position varies enormously by port.
What That Costs
Extra inspections. Registries that take longer. Insurers who decline without stating a reason. Crews that will not sign on. Worlds where a Wrought needs documentation nobody else is asked for, and worlds where they are simply not admitted.
"Hollow," aimed at a Wrought, is a slur, and everyone who uses it knows it.
In the Machine War
They fought. On everyone else's side, in numbers, and they lost more of their people proportionally than any other species in the war. This is a matter of record. It has never once been sufficient.