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Yuji is gifted to Megumi at twelve.
As an Artificial Friend, it had been drilled into his code of all the proper ways to address their charges: how to properly play hide and seek, how to stimulate cognitive development during board games, how best to strengthen physical faculties during sports.
All of those were in the fine print of the AF manual, pointed out by Ijichi, the nervous new hire who made the sale.
“If for any other reason you need something else not in here,” he stressed out to Toji, who barely skimmed the file after giving him his credit card. “You’re welcome to call us anytime. Our customer service lines are always open.”
Yuji was the latest model.
He had been upgraded with the latest skin line and more emotional atonement than all the previous ones combined, making him just as real and realistic it didn’t matter if the lines were blurred.
He had deduced, in those fleeting moments in the shop, that: the dark-haired man had a young son who was exhibiting anti-social cues at school and he would be damned if anyone diagnosed my son with shit.
There were exactly three stripes of sunlight that filtered through the room, they had five dogs in the house, and Megumi was shy.
True to his father’s concern, already Yuji could tell, in the three days spent in Megumi’s room, that he was indeed what someone would call emotionally withdrawn—from what and how, that was what they were trying to explore.
He could also tell Toji was trying, if his hefty investment into the latest AF model was any indication; but that wasn’t enough, it seemed, not for someone who displayed a plethora of unorthodox traits such as his youngest son.
Megumi barely looked at him when he opened the door to his room, his brand new AF neatly packaged in a crystal case and red bow.
“Hello,” he muttered, briefly glancing at his direction, and then: “I’m Megumi.”
He truly had all the markings of someone adept at vocabulary and was more than cordially pleasant at every interaction—but a mental blockage as clear as day prevented him from exercising this in full.
Megumi opened the latch from the case, sat down at his study table, and wordlessly worked on his homework.
His school clothes still lay on his back. He wouldn’t look up from his work until Toji returned from work—swinging the door open, an excited grin on his face—only to see Megumi engrossed in matching pictures from set A to set B.
There were no stripes of sunlight filtering through the blinds because the night had hung low, Toji would sigh heavily before coming up to plant a kiss on his son’s head, and Megumi would not look up still.
There was a death in the house, Tsumiki later told him after a month of him being delegated to other uses, of Megumi’s birth mother.
“He was five,” said Tsumiki, a thirteen year old female who bore the same dark colours as the rest of them but had a sharper nose—not quite like Toji’s or Megumi’s own slant one. She lined up the plates at the dinner table nearly, from smallest to biggest.
“That’s really when everything started.”
Everything, Yuji had quickly composed, included: Megumi’s sudden withdrawn attitude, the growing disinterest at everything that used to excite him, and his overall detachment with the world around him.
Even Nue, their dog from the previous house, failed to get any rise out of his remaining owner.
After Toji was called into the principal’s office for Megumi missing art class—the fifth time that month, and one he had previously taken up perfect attendance for—only to find the said cutter slumping by the graveyard, was when he made that call to the local AF branch.
They boasted increased empathy for others, better social skills, guaranteed brain development for each and every kid—the whole marketing spiel.
Ijichi was positively beaming as he rattled on about improved rates for literacy in Japanese children after just one month of companionship.
Toji didn’t seem to care for any of it, only that his son had someone; anyone, really, it seemed. Even someone who was not really a someone.
“Megumi,” Yuji tried one night, when only the night light dazzled his room in moving stars and galactic spirals. He had been stationed by the door, as always, standing and observing. “Megumi—okay to name like this?”
Megumi shrugged, his nose buried in a book illuminated by a smaller side lamp. “Sure.”
“Tsumiki tell me Megumi sad,” Yuji continued, gaze fixed on the single unmoving constellation in the ceiling sky. “Why Megumi sad?”
There was a beat of silence that stretched for exactly 5.5 seconds.
“I’m not sad,” replied Megumi slowly, voice coming in a low whisper. “Tsumiki doesn’t know anything.”
“Tsumiki tell me you sad because mother,” Yuji looked down at him, expression neutral. “Because mother no more, Tsumiki say.”
Megumi said nothing for a long, long time.
It had been a full minute when he snapped his book shut and turned off all the lights. He turned on his side, facing away from the door.
There were no stars that night, both outside and inside his room. It will be a few more hours until Yuji will see the filters of sunlight in the room again—even longer, when Megumi will be woken up by Tsumiki for breakfast.
The sixth month since his dispatch, Yuji automatically boots up when he detects sounds from his last registered geolocation.
He strains his locomotive ears to test for the noise, making out the foggy and darkened room with precision. The blinds were drawn shut, the street lights from below filling in some of the gaps and illuminating the room in a soft haze.
There was movement somewhere below him, and only then, when he looked down did he register both the origin of sound and point of distress—Megumi was crying.
Yuji knows all the codes for every likely situation most children aged 8-12 would find themselves in, according to the latest probability statistics refreshed by the hour.
He would know how to mend a bruised knee from the playground, how to properly bandage a splintered arm, what to do and which organizations to call when further prevention was needed.
But nothing prepared him for this.
A million bits of data flitted through his mind every given second, but they never bothered introducing him the proper protocol on how to deal with emotional relief. He notes the muffled whimpers and hiccups coming from Megumi’s bed, where he lay hunched on his side and quietly sobbing.
Yuji shuts off all the non-essentials and tries then—probably should have the moment he arrived—to be more a friend than a subscribed playmate.