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This little ficlet is intended to be a companion to/extension of this comic by the ever-amazing Phix, posted here with their permission. Happy reading!
Emotions are dangerous.
It is the central tenant of his programming, one of the few things that had to be drilled and practiced after the initial download.
Human emotions cannot be predicted, only responded to. They follow no protocol, no logic, come and go faster than the spark between synapses.
Dangerous.
He knows that he does not experience emotion, and he knows that this is to his advantage. He does not feel, he perceives. Observes. Gathers data. He knows he must understand the outward signs of human emotion, he must use this data to select which response protocol to follow, based on the probabilities of emotional response. He does not experience emotion, and therefore the emotion of others can be analyzed.
There is no reason, when a young human boy calls out to him by a name he does not know, that he should not be able to respond to the emotions he is expressing.
“Marco!”
It is dark, and they are alone on this stretch of narrow road; there is no one else for the human to be addressing. His name is not Marco, therefore the young man cannot be addressing him. He does not have a name, just a designation, 11.22.33, referring to the date of his completion. The technician he reports to with the greatest frequency sometimes calls him ‘November.’ He cannot find a logical reason for this informal designation, (he was told it is a ‘nickname’) but he has recorded it as a secondary signal to respond.
There is no signal response to Marco. He is being addressed by mistake. He continues walking.
“Marco, wait!” There is a note in the voice he recognizes as the early stages of hysteria. This means the situation should be addressed.
Emotions are dangerous.
He pauses and turns one-quarter turn. “You are mistaken, sir.” he says, in the tone he knows is perceived by humans as ‘politeness.’
“Wait, please! Marco, I know it’s you...why are you running away from me!”
Initial attempt to disengage has not been successful. He turns fully to face the human following him, this time recording his identifying features. Age nineteen, plus or minus two years, skin tone consistent with Caucasian descent, build slender, height medium, eyes--
Eyes do not immediately process, for two reasons. They are a non-standard color that initially throws his analysis, far lighter than an average shade of brown. They might be called golden if gold was an appropriate descriptor for human eye color.
They are so melted with a mess of emotions that he has to forcibly halt the analysis protocol. Emotions are dangerous emotions must be registered but so many emotions are fighting each other disbelief joy sorrow uncertainty desperation want hate pain, fucking pain that he cannot keep up. Pain, it all comes down to pain cracking apart those golden eyes.
“I do not understand you, sir,” he says as the analytical protocols embedded in his mind race to catch up. “I am not Marco. You are mistaken.” He begins to walk again, this abnormal encounter has taken an unnecessary amount of time for its minimal importance.
“No,” the boy whispers. Were his hearing at human levels, he doubts he would have heard it. “You’re Marco. You are Marco!” The voice rises, almost cracks, and a hand closes tight around his arm. He will keep walking and the boy will have to choose between letting go, and having his fingers broken.
He stops.
“You’re Marco. Marco Bodt. I’m not mistaken, I’m not mistaken how could I be? This is you, dammit. I can’t be wrong about you...”
He turns his head, aware as he does so that there is no reason for it. The human boy’s eyes are glassy with tears but he seems to be refusing to let them fall, the hands gripping his arms tremble.
“I’m...I am not--” [value untrue]“I am not Marco” [value untrue]“you are mistaken” [logic error]
He detects an unknown sensation behind his left eye, it must be recorded as it is historically the weaker of his eyes but the sensation fits no criteria.
“It’s me. Marco...it’s me, it’s Jean…” zshahn, the name takes too long to spell itself out inside his head, a soft whisper that doesn’t quite fit the language he knows. The boy’s voice Jean his name is Jean it’s important why breaks, his shoulders slump and his bowed head presses into his back.
It is a fact [value untrue] that he is not [value untrue] human, although his anatomy is similar. He maintains conscious control of all bodily functions, and yet the moment the human boy (Jean, his name is Jean) begins to cry there is a too-long stretch in which his heart does not beat. For a moment his senses report he is being damaged, breathing has become difficult consistent with something squeezing hard on his chest, consistent with his skipping heartbeat but there are no physical forces involved, just the loosening grip on his arms.
“I am not human,” he repeats, and there is no physical reason that his voice should sound so rough, as though his throat is constricted. He pulls away, turning to face the human boy crying silently (Jean, his name is Jean). “Watch.”
He drags a finger diagonally across the palm of his right hand, and the hidden seam splits at the pressure, edges drawing back across the gunmetal-gray bones of his extremities. The fine, glittering artificial nerves throw a spiderweb of reflections across their faces before his skin closes again and the seam seals itself invisible.
“I’m not your Marco,” he repeats [errorerrorerrorerror] in what his programming tells him is a gentle tone.
Emotions are dangerous. Emotions cannot be predicted, can barely be anticipated, and Jean catches his left hand in both of his. He doesn’t think to resist when the human boy spreads his fingers open.
He is no longer crying, there’s a hardness behind his eyes, although the emotion in them hasn’t changed (pain, pain, pain fucking pain) and the slender tips of his fingers leave a trail of heat on his silicone skin.
“They wouldn’t let me see your body,” Jean says softly. “They told me there was nothing left of you…” And then Jean kisses his hand, kisses the center of his palm and he’s not human, he’s not human but until Jean’s lips leave his skin he does not breath.
He doesn’t notice immediately, when Jean lets him go, he keeps feeling his fingers, his lips against his skin even though [logic error] the contact is gone he still feels it [errorerrorerrorerror] and his fingers curl on their own, clench shut as though there’s something in his hand he’s trying to hold onto before it flies away.
“You don’t remember me,” Jean whispers, he brushes the tips of his fingers against his lips as though he too still feels the broken touch, and he smiles clashing against the echoing pain in his eyes. “But you’ve still got your scar.” He holds up his own left hand, and there’s a faint blade scar old and faded across the pads of his first two fingers. “I’m not mistaken.”
He knows he is not human, he is artificial. Emotions are something he must understand although he will never experience them himself. This is an advantage.
He is not human
He was created for a purpose.
There is a faint, jagged scar across the pads of the first two fingers on his left hand, and he has never seen it before.
[LOGIC ERROR CRITICAL]
“I love you, Marco.”
error error error error error error error error error error error