Work Text:
Picture the scene.
You’re standing in a ballroom, surrounded by people who would look down on you if they knew what you did. The room is chrome-coated and the thudding pulse of music seems to come from nowhere. Everything is bright and light and clean and you feel like all of your flaws are being illuminated.
The truth is, people are mostly staring at you because you look stunning. Your dress is flowing silver, backless but high-chested, clingy and sleek; you tense every time someone gets close to your exposed skin.
You thought people would be more alarmed by your choice of partner, but at a costume ball, almost everyone has a mask hologram of something projected over their face. A humanoid robot doesn’t stand out that much; with a clever wireless hack you coded, he doesn’t even set off the metal detectors. Despite the discomfiting lack of security here tonight, it’s not like you’re the only one with a robot, even if the others are only mobility assistance mechs.
But yours is different. Yours is real. Yours runs his hand down your bare back because he knows it will elicit a full-body shudder from you and he loves you for it.
Yours is more human than any of the people in this room, and you love him for it.
You won’t walk for days. At least, that’s what it feels like. You can’t feel your legs and you can’t bring your body to move and you love it.
The air is heavy, weighed down by the scent of sex and metal. As if on cue, your partner sits up and looks at you, camera eyes scanning your body as you breathe in heavily. He is probably calculating how long it will be until you are receptive to skin contact after the sensory overload.
“Amy, would it benefit you if I opened the window to let in some fresh air?”
“Please,” you mumble, though it comes out more as a tired moan.
The mattress shifts beneath you as he stands and walks to the far side of the room. Your eyes trail over him as you try to collect yourself, marvelling at the fluidity of his movements; they’re so human, you sometimes forget you programmed him, built him. His idiosyncrasies are uncodable. You’ve seen him stroke the wings of the mechanical birds you build, seen him tense while watching a child fall over on the street below and cry at their scraped knees, felt his gaze upon you when you’re lost in thought or coding. He feels so much more strongly than half the humans you’ve met.
He’s undoubtedly human in your eyes, but that doesn’t mean his being a robot is a bad thing; if anything, it’s better.
The sex is unbelievable; even in your wildest dreams – and let’s face it, they were a significant factor in your building him in the first place – you didn’t think it could be this good. Sex with your ex-boyfriend was just mechanical. And that was before things went bad. By yourself, it was great, no issues there. But with him ? Your body aches longingly with the memory.
He can read you so well; it’s all that matters to him. He knows where to touch you, knows if you’re on the brink and how to keep you there or pull you over the edge. It’s all stored in his memory banks, readily accessible and constantly being appended.
You only wish that he could feel it too. When you programmed him, you installed what you refer to as a positive feedback loop; he’s happy when you are. He loves watching you come apart (though it took him a while to conceptualise what an orgasm is, being unable to feel it himself) and he insists that it’s enough for him but you want to give him something more, a physical sensation in addition to an emotional one.
He regards you smiling at nothing and situates himself back on the mattress beside you. You extend your hand to him to indicate you’re ready for skin contact again, smile bright as he intertwines your fingers with his and brings them to his hard, plastic mouth in a facsimile of a kiss. He can’t feel anything, but the gesture makes your chest go tight.
“Was it better this time?” he asks. “Now that the phallus has been attached?”
The corners of your lips curve upwards once more. “Was it better for you ?”
He contemplates this for a few seconds. “Yes. I felt a greater sense of agency. I was the one responsible for your sexual satisfaction instead of an object and it made me happy.”
You blush slightly at his matter-of-fact use of terminology, but bring his hands to your lips to kiss each of his touch-receptive fingertips. It’s the only place he has sensation, and it means everything to hear his synthetic gasp as he feels your pouted mouth. You wonder where he picked that up from.
“It felt better for me too.”
Remotion: become a better you.
The logo flashes up on the giant screen behind the stage and the pulsing music fades. You feel disgusted at yourself just for being there. The masked masses around you cheer and clap as your mother steps forward. Calculated smile firmly in place, she surveys the crowd. Her expression only falters when she sees your robot lover put an arm around your waist. Camera flashes fire off like strobe lights as she approaches the microphone; had any of them caught that expression of distaste she tried so hard to hide? She shouldn’t have let herself slip like that.
“Friends,” she greets the room. “Friends from near and far. You have my deepest gratitude for being here today.”
The crowd titters in appreciation as she establishes eye contact with a few people, makes them feel valued, important.
“Many of you have already encountered the wonder that is Remotion and I am confident that your lives have been revolutionised because of it. For those of you who have yet to experience this miracle, please enjoy this short presentation.”
She gestures fluidly at the screen behind her where the Remotion logo fades, replaced by a pan shot of a crisp, white laboratory. The professional, relaxed-sounding voice of an American female fills the room, 3D kanji subtitles floating on top of the projected video.
“Reinvent. Reimagine. Remotion. Remotion: become a better you.
“Think about your life. What do you like about it? What you don’t like about it? Imagine what it would be like to invent a you with only the emotions you want to feel. Imagine realising your full potential, exceeding all of your own expectations. Imagine not being held back by fear or sadness.”
Imagine losing the qualities that make you human, more like. You know what happens when a person is no longer held back by their fear. Your fingernails dig into your palms.
“With Remotion, you don’t have to imagine. Your path to self-actualisation begins today. With an unprecedented 100% success rate, you can put your trust in our world-class neurosurgeons.”
You scoff. Who did your mother have to bribe for that lie to be allowed to slip through? An impressed murmur circulates through the crowd; it makes you feel on edge.
“‘I used to suffer from depression but with Remotion, I’ll never be sad again! The procedure was quick and simple. I was released from the clinic the very next day and it didn’t even leave a scar. Nobody should have to feel sadness. Everything is better now I can only feel happy.’”
Bile rises in your throat and you tear your eyes away from the screen. Even through their hologram masks, it’s easy to tell who’s had the procedure in the crowd around you; their eyes are either brimming with tears of joy or blank and void of any emotion. Just because they can’t feel sad anymore doesn’t mean they automatically feel happy instead.
“I should call you Spock.”
It’s an obscure reference, you know, and your robot takes a moment to process it. He stiffens suddenly. “You think me unfeeling?”
“What? No, no, of course not! That’s not what I meant!” You step further into the room as he turns to face you, and place your hand on his arm when you reach him. “I meant your quirks and mannerisms and how you’re so logical, always striving for knowledge.”
“Would it not make more sense to call me Data? He was a robot.”
“Well, maybe, but that’s not my point. I think that Spock felt things more deeply than anyone, loved more than anyone could understand.”
You know him better than you’ve ever known anyone, better than your ex who you’d been close to since childhood, but the depth to which he feels and understands things still surprises you. He knows you still get scared that said ex will come looking for you one day to the extent that he offered to conceal a weapon inside his chest cavity for you; you don’t think you could get away with carrying one on your person at all times. It’s what you were working on before you started thinking about his name, brainstorming the materials you’d need for something lightweight and capable of firing concentrated pulse waves.
Your robot reaches to the counter beside you and passes you your tablet which wants your fingerprint to sign off on the materials delivery; who knew optical amplifiers would require this sort of authorisation? The device beeps as you speak your name to confirm the order and your robot smiles with relative success considering he can only move his lower jaw.
You turn around and head to the living area, knowing he’ll follow you. He is the first to take a seat, resting his arm on the top of the sofa so he can wrap it around you when you sit beside him, relax into him and lean your head on his shoulder as he brings his fingers to your hair. He rubs a few strands between his forefinger and thumb, marvelling at the texture. The two of you are content just to sit there for a few minutes and your eyes close as his fingers move to stroke at your scalp.
“You know what?”
“What is it, Amy?” He pitches his voice low and quiet and you pick up a hint of seduction.
“I think you should choose your own name. Because people name their pets and you’re not a pet. You’re more than that. You’re…”
He presses his plastic mouth to the side of your head and you ache .
“Thank you. I will take some time to contemplate.”
If you listen carefully enough you can hear his processors speed up ever so slightly as he browses the internet for something suitable.
“Andrew.”
Your brow furrows and you move your head to look into his eyes. “How come?”
“On 17 th December 1999, the film Bicentennial Man was released. It told the story of a robot who gradually became more human in order to die beside the woman he loved. I think that is fitting.”
He moves his eyes from yours, instead focusing somewhere behind your right shoulder. You fling your arms around his neck. His body is hard while yours is soft, but it doesn’t matter, not when he hugs you close and you feel his fingers on your back. You press your lips to his and it shouldn’t feel real but it does. He moves his lower jaw forward just slightly and your knees feel weak.
“Andrew,” you say once you’ve pulled back, enjoying how the name feels on your tongue. “Andrew.”
“Amy.”
Andrew clasps your hand in his and even though his face is made from plastic and reflects the ballroom lights, you can see the concern etched into his features. He has a habit of monitoring your vitals and can sense your unease. His thumb rubs circles over the pulse point in your wrist and you feel the tension leave your muscles.
He’s so much more human than anyone else in this room and you love him for it.
“Would you like me to get you a glass of water?”
“Yeah, let’s get away from the stage.”
He leads you towards the bar at the back of the room as the pre-recorded voice goes on to address the politicians and prison officers about the removal of violent or other undesirable emotions. Legal lobotomies. Your head aches. The beginnings of panic clutch at your chest.
You’re itching to get back home and resume work on the articulated mouth you’re putting together for him. You’ve never quite managed to get his lower jaw right and cringe as you remember the numerous occasions it has detached from his face. He asked to have touch sensors in the lips like he does in his hands and the two of you are figuring out how to get the sensitivity just right.
Andrew passes you some water he took from a drone making its rounds and traces his fingers along the small of your back, distracting you from the now distant murmur of the Remotion presentation. Stepping closer to him, you lean your head on his shoulder, comforted by the warmth his processors generate.
An enthusiastic smattering of applause startles you from your reverie and you notice the Remotion logo is displayed on the screen again. Your mother looks radiant as she takes the stage once more. Her watermelon smile almost looks ripe.
“Thank you, thank you. I don’t doubt some of you have already figured out why we’ve gathered you all here this evening. So without further ado, it is my pleasure to make this announcement at last. Remotion is going worldwi—”
Glass shatters. The audience scurries away from the windows. Footsteps crunch on the broken shards. A man staggers forwards. Your entire body tenses.
Leo Kristoph is the horror story Remotion doesn’t want to go public. And like the best horror stories, parts of them stay with you no matter how hard you try to shake them off. They still have a hold on you.
“Amy, I’m not afraid any more. What’s the point in living if you’re always bogged down by thinking about consequences? I’m going to do it: Amy, go out with me. I’ve wanted you since we were children but my fear was holding me back.”
Your heart flutters. He’s so confident, not even stuttering like he usually would. The only thing betraying him is the way he scratches at the back of his head periodically; he can even keep eye contact. His earnestness is endearing.
You’re nineteen, you’ve just finished a masters degree in advanced robotics and your parents have bought you your own apartment with a built-in lab. The muscles in your cheeks contract and your words are tinged with joy:
“Yes, I will.”
“We predict that with this new increase in availability of Remotion procedures, Japan’s Gross National Happiness score will increase by up to 71%. This will lead to increased worker productivity which will then result in increased GDP…”
It’s all lies. It’s all hollow. Your stomach churns.
“Amy, kiss me,” Leo demands, taking the TV remote and cutting off the recording of your mother as she states further positive repercussions of Remotion.
“I’m not in the mood.”
He kisses you anyway and it tastes bitter. You pull away but he doesn’t stop. Maybe this is what you need, just to forget for a while. He grips your arm tightly and it doesn’t feel as comforting as it used to.
“Why the fuck can’t you be happy, Amy? For you of all people it’s so fucking easy and you can even do it for free!”
“But that’s not the point, Leo! I don’t want to live if I can’t feel anything, even shit like this. What’s the point?”
“Your parents have helped so many people to be happy! Why won’t you let them make you happy, Amy?”
“I’m not like my mother! And those people, those people they’ve ‘helped’, they’re barely human! They—”
You hear the slap of his hand across your face before you feel the impact.
“No! To be human is to be fearless, to strive for perfection and never give up!”
Your cheek burns as you cover it with your hand. Realisation dawns. He has no stress response. He can’t manage his anger. He’s always scratching at the back of his head.
“What did they do to you?”
There are hints of mania in his smile. “I’m not afraid of anything! Consequences mean nothing to me! You should let them help you too, Amy, then we’ll both be perfect!”
Dysautonomia. Damage to the autonomic nervous system. A hypothalamus that doesn’t do its job properly anymore. He can’t distinguish between wrong and right. It’s not his fault.
It's not his fault. It’s not his fault…
Your bones still ache when you think about him and your skin tingles with the memory of the dermal regenerator you had to use so many times, the areas you could never reach screaming out as if the wounds have opened afresh.
Your legs don’t want to support you anymore. As his eyes scan the room, you notice that the crowd seems to have parted; there is no one between you and him. Your gazes lock and he staggers forwards, far too close, close enough for you to see blood scabbed over on his knuckles and bruises on his hands. His eyes are wild and you can’t associate his smile with happiness.
He hasn’t changed. He can’t.
“You fucking hypocrite!” Leo spits. “I thought you hated all of this. I guess it’s kinda funny that now I hate it too.” He shakes his head and his body quakes with held-in laughter.
You want to say something, ask why , but the words won’t come. A few people in the crowd are swaying with dazed, amused expressions on their faces.
“This company… It gave you to me but then it also took you away. Now I’m going to take you back.”
“Amy, this man is mentally unstable and releasing an insufficient amount of norepinephrine.” Andrew touches your shoulder. “For your safety, I suggest we depart immediately.”
It's as if Leo doesn’t even hear him.
“Why, Amy? You were always so keen on fucking feelings and emotions and experiencing everything, but now you’re here, here , at this event that stands for everything you say you hate with a hunk of scrap metal! It’s not a real man, not like I am.”
“ He’s more of a man than you ever were!”
Again, the words don’t seem to process. You think that surely, your mother should have interrupted this by now, done something , but as you look up towards the stage, you see her knuckles turning white where she grasps onto the podium, lips pressed together and eyes wide.
“If it weren’t for you, Amy, I wouldn’t have got the procedure in the first place! I wouldn’t see things and be in pain all the time. If you hadn’t left me, I wouldn’t be alone. You were the only one who could handle me.”
The vein in his neck throbs; you’re startled by how quickly it pulses.
“But I couldn’t! You were going to kill me if I didn’t leave!”
“Not kill you… Amy, I was going to make you happy. Say you’ll let me make you happy.”
His steps towards you are jagged, barely coordinated, and all of a sudden he’s too close. You can’t react fast enough.
He lunges at you; you can’t tell if time slows down or speeds up in this moment. The sound of plastic breaking under incredible force snaps at your eardrums and you feel a rush of cool air on your arm as Andrew moves swiftly, ripping the concealed gun out from his own chest. You hear the vague spark of electronic circuits being broken before the harsh bang of the weapon being fired. Andrew’s aim is precise and calculated; glass shatters once more. Leo looks directly behind him at the broken window and it’s just enough distraction. You don’t even think before grabbing your lover’s hand.
“Run!”
The weapon in his other hand clatters to the floor as you pull him to the exit. A few people chuckle as you push past them, others remaining stoic. If you were to look back, you wonder what your mother’s face would have looked like, if she would have fled by now or not.
Leo roars behind you. You pick up the pace.
“How can you call that human? No human could tear their own chest open!”
He chokes on air. You shouldn’t turn around but you hear him fall to his knees. His face is red. He claws at his own chest, fingers scrabbling aimlessly, but he collapses, muscles contracting.
A damaged hypothalamus can’t sufficiently regulate one’s heartbeat.
Movement ceases.
Don’t people usually swarm around a dead body? Don’t they at least panic or call an ambulance from their wrist implants? Everyone backs away. You have to leave.
Before you turn around you glance at the stage once more, but your mother’s gone, probably meeting with the press for damage control. Image has always been so important to her.
The metal detectors scream behind you this time as you exit, but you don’t stop. The cold night air stings at your eyes and tears run down your cheek but you keep going. It hurts to breathe in by now and you hear the sirens as police cars approach the ballroom but you carry on. Music spills out of night clubs, thudding and rhythmic; it only spurs you on.
The city hall looms ahead of you, prominent even against the neon of the other buildings. As if reading your thoughts, Andrew squeezes your hand and you run around to the side of the building. Since they got rid of the robot guards (“They scare the tourists,” claimed government officials), the security has been somewhat lax, so it isn’t difficult for you and Andrew to break in.
He squeezes your hand again as you make towards the elevator, and as you press the call button and hurry inside, you wonder why you’re still running. You jab at the button that will take you to the roof, inhaling deeply as you lean your back against the wall.
“Are you okay?”
You’re still shaking. Your feet are sore from running all that way in high heels and your skin is bitten from the chill of the night air. You’re not okay, but you will be.
“I should be asking you that question.”
The lift comes to a halt and the doors open to a short corridor with another door at the end. Andrew doesn’t respond as you push open the unlocked doors and lead the way to the roof. As you head towards the balconied edge, you wish you had a cigarette, anything to calm you down a bit, but you left your purse back at the ballroom.
“I’m okay, Amy.”
You turn to face Andrew, wincing at the gaping hole in his chest panel. Sparks fly from various exposed circuitry when he moves, but from what you can see it’s mostly cosmetic, nothing you can’t fix, nothing that’s affecting him too badly. Reassured for the time being, you look out over the railing.
The thudding music sounds like a heartbeat from this high up; the city is alive in its nightlife. The City Hall, the building you’re on now, used to be the highest one in Tokyo back in the twentieth century, but now you can count at least ten that surpass it. Zeppelins flashing hiragana advertisements float past slowly, trailing stars in their wake despite the light pollution. Gazing up at them somehow grounds you, more so when Andrew puts his arm around your back and pulls you to his side, angling his chest away should he start sparking again.
“Did you know I dreamed you up on top of this building years and years ago?”
“I did not know that, Amy,” he replies, voice quiet.
“Yeah. I’d just got my masters in advanced robotics and then Leo happened… I… I wanted someone who could feel all emotions, someone who would embrace the human experience, not someone like him. You did know he got Remotion to get rid of his fear, right?”
“The thought had occurred to me.”
He sparks again. Seeing him this way brings back memories of when you were building him. It looks like his wireless card has been damaged; he can’t connect to the internet.
It really is just you and him in this moment.
“This place was my escape,” you continue. “Way back, when I was little, my mum used to say that every star was a lost soul trying to get home. It sounds stupid, but it’s something that stuck with me.
“You- thinking of you got me through the worst parts of my life. Writing the software, coding the AI algorithms, it helped me deal with what was going on and realise I deserved better. You’re so much more than I ever dreamt you’d be, you know that, right?”
“Amy…” You don’t know whether the tremor in his voice is due to his exposed circuitry or raw emotion. “You are the reason I am .”
His plastic shell is cold but you pull yourself closer, resting your head on his shoulder.
“Being human isn’t about being flesh and blood. It’s not about competing to be the best, striving for perfection. It’s about feeling, experiencing everything even if it’s completely shitty; it’s about living .” You move your head from his shoulder to look into his eyes. “Andrew, you’re alive. You’re so much more human than any of those people were tonight.” You press your forehead to his and close your eyes. “And I love you for it.”