Murderbot Episode 7 review—Complementary Species— It bleeds, babysits, and battles mating kaiju in the most absurdly human chapter so far

Half soldier, half self-made sentience, Murderbot walks through the woods like someone who doesn’t belong to either world. The episode opens in retrospect: a memory sweetened by light and group laughter, now tainted by fear and uncertainty. In this game of bitter to sweet, truths spill out. Baradwaj remembers a misread confession of love, a crush mistaken for connection. Gurathin goes further—confessing to having been a corporate spy, originally sent to eliminate Dr. Mensah. That past was overwritten not by reprogramming, but by witnessing goodness. His switch to the Alliance wasn’t code. It was choice.

A thing too free to be forgiven

But no one trusts a choice made by something like Murderbot.

Their suspicion hangs in the air like smoke, even when it’s unspoken.

“Their unwarranted fear and distrust of me was starting to get a little annoying,” it says in voiceover, with the kind of bone-dry delivery only Skarsgård could give.

But underneath the deadpan humor is pain. Grief, guilt, and the constant weight of being considered a weapon on standby.

Haunted by memory, grounded by sarcasm

Mid-episode, in a quiet and strangely haunting moment, our socially-anxious SecUnit stares at a tree where another—dead—SecUnit has been absorbed into the growth—metal half-swallowed by bark and moss. It’s a disturbing image. Not a tomb, not a monument. Just… a thing that once was, and now is being repurposed by nature. The hallucination that follows is subtle, unsettling: is it memory? Trauma? Glitch?

Murderbot’s reaction is unexpected and entirely on brand:

“I should’ve downloaded more shows.”

There’s no dramatic speech. No philosophical spiral. Just this line—funny, melancholy, deeply human. It echoes his earlier wish to binge-watch Sanctuary Moon until his battery died. But now, in the woods, it’s no longer just escapism. It’s regret. It's a moment of clarity wrapped in absurdity. Because even when it could walk away, even when his governor module is long gone, something keeps him circling back to this clumsy little crew of idealists who don’t quite trust him—and whom it still protects.

This is Murderbot at its best: part tragic machine, part sarcastic TV addict, forever stuck between running and caring. And maybe that’s what makes it impossible to look away.

Empathy is a luxury, survival is protocol

The closer they get to escape, the more the crew insists on having feelings. Encircling the SecUnit like concerned friends in a wellness retreat, they chant the mantra:

“We can talk about this.”

“We can talk about this.”

But it isn’t moved. It’s irritated. Because all the well-intentioned empathy in the world won’t stop a five-ton alien predator. And sure enough, one shows up. Massive. Unstoppable. A thing that doesn’t care about humanity, trauma, or redemption arcs.

Instantly, the facade breaks. It steps forward with no hesitation.

“Go inside.”

If they stay out here, they’ll die. And then what’s the point of all this moral conversation?

It’s moments like this that lay bare what Murderbot really is: not just a protector, but a creature who calculates the worth of action in milliseconds. It doesn’t matter if they trust him. What matters is that it saves them anyway. Not because he’s ordered to. Not because he’s organic. But because somewhere along the way, it started to care—quietly, awkwardly, and with zero patience for group therapy.

The horror of the creature is real. It’s not just a background monster; it’s a reminder of the wild, unknowable dangers that exist beyond human systems. But its presence still draws a stark contrast to Murderbot. Both are powerful, both provoke fear—but only one was built to obey. One destroys out of instinct. The other chooses not to.

And even as Murderbot shields the team, it doesn’t claim heroism. It just keeps moving. Keeps making choices no one asked him to make. The kind of choices that hurt, and isolate, and yet feel more human than anything else on screen.

Because in this world, survival isn’t just about strength. It’s about deciding what kind of monster you’re willing to be.

A wound, a warning, a Murderbot

There’s no dignity in what happens next—just exhaustion and absurdity. Two giant creatures, fresh from a violent chase, are now… mating. Right on top of the crew’s transport. And instead of fighting back, the humans argue philosophy.

“Don’t electrocute them, they’re just animals!”

As if the real danger would be offending the wild.

Never mind that these same people were terrified of Murderbot—a being who makes decisions, saves lives, and asks for nothing in return.

They mourned the attacker it killed, they questioned its every move, but now they whisper reverently about instinct and nature and letting things be.

It’s almost funny.

Actually, no. It’s hilarious.

You don’t trust the robot who saves your life, but you do trust the alien kaiju couple having public s*x on your roof.

That’s the crew in a sentence.

And through it all, Murderbot remains silent. The episode ends not with a monologue, not with an epiphany, but with a wound. He’s been injured—physically, yes. But also symbolically. It bleeds alone, no one notices, and it doesn't announce it. That’s not how it works.

It just lowers himself, sits in the quiet, and stares. Watching, processing, enduring. No drama. No music swell. Just a machine learning how to feel, and a group of people still not sure if it counts.

Murderbot goes full Tokusatsu

Just when things begin to settle, the episode flips the board like a Saturday morning tokusatsu show. Out of nowhere, a sleek, high-tech SecUnit drops from the sky—shining armor, exaggerated gestures, robotic voice repeating “Please remain calm.” It’s a visual punchline straight out of Power Rangers, but it doesn’t feel cheap. It feels surreal. Absurd. And that’s exactly the point.

Because this isn’t a heroic arrival. It’s a disruption.

Murderbot, usually ten steps ahead, admits it didn’t detect it coming. And that’s terrifying. This intruder wasn’t just a surprise—it was a threat it couldn’t predict. For the first time, the thing built to anticipate and control outcomes is blindsided.

Then the real twist hits: the new SecUnit has destroyed the nest of the alien creatures. The ones that had just finished their sky-shattering romantic escapade. And that was the fatal mistake. Because provoking nature might be forgivable—but provoking a mother? That’s suicide.

The revenge is swift, brutal, and poetic.

In seconds, the so-called advanced model is torn apart. The camera lingers on the severed head, blue fluid spilling from the wrecked neck joint, a grotesque echo of violence usually reserved for humans. It’s a reminder: just because they’re made of parts doesn’t mean they can’t be punished. Just because something is manufactured doesn’t mean it’s invincible.

And once again, Murderbot watches all of this unfold—not as the monster, not as the savior, but as the witness. This time, the story isn’t his to end. It just observes as instinct, grief, and consequence collide in a single moment of beautiful, ridiculous destruction.

The episode ends, but the cycle doesn’t

After the gore and spectacle, there's a beat of stillness. The kaiju mother—an enormous, unsettling thing that shouldn’t move with grace but somehow does—returns to collect her eggs. The destruction quiets. The ground splits. And with alien elegance, she vanishes into the earth, part sandworm, part primal grief.

The crew watches, shaken, humbled, briefly grateful.

They thank Murderbot—finally—for saving them.

And for a moment, it feels like things have shifted.

But the peace doesn’t last.

Gurathin collapses from fever. Panic rises. And just like that, the fear returns—not of illness, but of Murderbot. The same old cycle.

They want to go back to the Habitat. Murderbot warns them: that path leads to death.

But Mensah, with her weary conviction, says:

“We’re going back. It’s what we do.”

Not “what we must do.”

Not “what makes sense.”

Just: “it’s what we do.”

A statement laced with pride, but hollow in logic. A philosophy wrapped in moral superiority that dismisses Murderbot’s lived experience—yet again.

Because for all their talk of trust, of inclusion, of understanding… when it matters, they don’t really listen to him. Not when it counts. Not when it conflicts with their ideals.

The episode ends not with a resolution, but with that familiar silence.

Murderbot doesn’t argue.

It doesn’t plead.

It just watches them choose the path it warned against.

That’s the tragedy. It protects them. It even loves them, in its own strange, quiet way. But it’ll never truly be one of them.

Not because it can’t be.

But because they won’t let it.

Rating with a touch of flair: 5 out of 5 alien kaiju mating rituals on top of your getaway vehicle.

Because no one does sci-fi absurdity, sorrow, and sarcasm quite like Murderbot.