Work Text:
The night begins at a rundown, urban excuse of a park; trash litters the toxic water of the pond, soggy cigarette butts lining the edges, newspapers and magazines crumpled and in various states of decay. Across the lawn running alongside the pond, dead grass and litter makes way for determined weeds sprouting along the edge of the water. The occasional brave duck glides along the edge of the water, trying its luck with diving into the diseased body of water.
What a simple life a duck must lead, I find myself imagining - the constant search for food and shelter driving their very being, their existence. Unlike people, I can understand and predict these creatures.
Though I was created by them, human beings are always, and likely always will be too difficult for me to understand. Like ducks, they too are commanded by their base instincts - find food, find shelter, find community. But I fear those may be the only things they share. Mankind may retain the urge for food, but they’re more creative than ducks; they change and manipulate food, with the intention to make it more than just the act of survival. They create something enjoyable out of it, slice and cook, mash and fry, until the act of sustaining one’s physical body becomes more than just one of survival - eating becomes an action to look forward to. A celebration, almost. Stranger yet, shelter becomes more than just a basic need, but also a means of expressing one’s individuality, an urge that, so far into my observation of the creatures, ducks too seem to lack. Vanity seems to be a popular human trait.
Even though I’ve lived among humans for over a decade now and have steadily assimilated into the culture of their cities, I still feel as though I’ve only just scratched the surface of understanding them. I am aware and have accepted the fact that my consciousness is composed entirely of ones and zeroes, if-then statements, and linear, straightforward thought. I was assembled with a single purpose - namely, performing, not philosophizing. In a way, I believe that is the most conventionally human trait I have developed through the years. Though those in my line retain our purpose and continue our work, I cannot help but find myself asking, “Why?”
Enough pondering, now. I’m joined in my silent contemplation by another. They sit on the far end of the bench we now share, and I cannot help but study them, their body language, the object in their hand, and wonder what the occasion for their attire is. I’m not entirely sure they notice I’m watching them, but sometimes humans pretend as though they’re not aware of your presence.
She moves, though her actions are silent, and I notice the object in her hand seems to be a kind of container, the contents of which seeming to be seeds of some sort. She takes a handful of the seeds, and proceeds to toss them out in front of her. Some breach the pond, others falling onto the ground following the water’s lining. As if summoning them, the scarce number of birds at the park begin to congregate and swim languidly toward the stranger. They approach her after shaking the toxic water from their feathers, and begin to pick at the seeds thrown for them. The stranger continues to feed the ducks silently, barely making a sound save the seeds sliding from her fingertips. I cannot stay silent any longer.
“What will they eat?”
The stranger pauses, seeming almost surprised that I even uttered a word toward them. I don’t blame them. I was programmed not to speak unless spoken to. Finally, she looks out at the ducks once more, and speaks:
“Oats, corn, lettuce, that kinda stuff. Pretty much any kind of shit they’d eat in their natural habitat. Most people think they eat bread, but it’s actually pretty bad for them. Really only eat it ‘case we throw it at ‘em.”
I cannot help but wonder how an animal that accepts whatever it is offered could ever survive independently of humans. “What is their… natural habitat?”
The stranger pauses once more. I find myself imagining whatever it is she must be thinking.
“How long you been stationed here?”
I’m reminded that I will likely never be able to predict the human psyche.
“Eleven years,” I say.
“And how old are you?”
“I’m to understand humans determine age in part to signify one’s level of social maturity. In that case, I was manufactured to retain the mental age of-”
“I mean when were you manufactured?”
“Approximately eleven years, one month, one week, six days, and fifteen hours ago today,” I respond easily, mostly because it’s against my programming to hesitate answering practical questions about my own system.
The stranger hums, and seems to be lost in a train of thought. I elect not to attempt to predict the subject of this train. Instead, I return my focus to the simpler creatures nipping at the stranger’s feet, eager for more food. Understandably, it feels more comfortable to do so.
“Ducks are a variant of waterfowl,” the stranger begins, and I know, but I do not interrupt. “Pretty much means anywhere with a place to swim and food growing nearby can count as their habitat. Won’t find too many wild ducks in this area, but they’re around. Just gotta look in the right place.”
The murmuring of the ducks around the stranger’s feet keeps my attention as I listen to her. It’s impolite not to maintain eye contact, but, try as I might, the actions of the birds crowding around her remain the most captivating thing about her. The only thing that can tear my eyes from them is the raising of her voice:
“Alright; my turn. What are you doing all the way out here? Didn’t see too many clubs around on the way over here, yet here’s a doll, sitting on the park bench like she’s workin’ the streets. Who kicked you over here?”
She allows me a moment to process her words, comprehend which portions of the sentences are genuine, which parts are rhetorical. It does seem strange for a specialized android to be deviating from their usual patterns. I empathize with her confusion, as it is true I’m acting out against the general expectations people put upon myself and my kind.
“The organization I’ve been assigned to operate for allows me roughly seven hours of free-roaming time in which I’m not given explicit instructions,” I respond, “The original purpose seems to be that of escorting capabilities, but I’ve never been apprehended for engaging in other... less explicit activities, client-oriented or otherwise.”
The strangers' originally blank expression slowly forms into that of what I can only assume is a humored smile. Did I make a joke I was initially unaware of? Need I reflect on the orientation of my language more?
“So, mommy lets you out to play in the woods, and you make a b-line straight for the arcade, huh?” She smiles wider. “Do your handlers know you’re out here ignoring your homework? Talkin’ to strangers?”
I elect not to respond, though I cannot pinpoint exactly why. It feels almost as if I would regret continuing to humor this branch of our blooming conversation. A feeling I’ve never experienced prior to my recent recollection. What makes this stranger evaluate my own actions so much? Is that a common human trait, or just some grand form of manipulation of the loopholes of my code?
“Slow down, hotshot, look like smoke’s about to start comin’ outta your ears.”
Slowly, I look up at her with widening eyes. The stranger’s smile changes to something unreadable to me before she sits up a fraction, holding the container of duck food out to me.
“Wanna try?”
A beat of time, in which I study her expression closer. Though, try as I may, I cannot attempt to understand her intentions by allowing me to participate. This person, who I met only a few moments ago, has now decided to allow me to share in their activities, purely out of the interest of - what? How have I become special to her?
However, the more I attempt to ponder her actions and those of human nature, I find myself less and less enamored with the idea of getting to the bottom of them. I look down as one of the stray waterfowl nips at my feet. Suddenly, I know what I want.
Hesitantly, I reach out and procure a small amount of what seems to be oats and dried corn from the bag the stranger has held out to me. I try to remember the way I observed her feeding them earlier in order to replicate that motion. As the feed falls to the ground for the excited ducks, I feel an odd sense of gratification as I lift my head to see her smiling approvingly at me. Another feeling I’ve not experienced before tonight.
“Not bad for your first time,” the stranger remarks in what I can only assume is meant to be teasingly.
I can’t help but smile slightly and toss another handful of food out for the birds. Their excited clucking as they pluck at the ground is as captivating as it is relaxing to me, and before I catch myself, I feel my posture softening.
“Do you visit this pond often? They seemed like they recognized you.”
The stranger hums a bit in thought. “They might. I heard somewhere that ducks can remember faces..”
Another pause, though it doesn’t seem awkward. I recall how much time I should have left before my programming recalls be back to mine and my sister’s handler while tossing more feed out for the ducks to eagerly consume. A loud car drives by, making some of the birds ruffle their feathers in annoyance. For a slight moment, the moon is visible as it peeks through the nighttime clouds oppressively hiding it from all who request its light.
It feels tranquil like this. For the first time since my introduction into America, I dread returning to my required duties. The whole world feels as though it’s centered around this particular bench, in this particular park, on this particular night on the full moon. Does my disappointment register on my face? Suddenly I feel the gaze of my companion staring back at me, and as I return her eye contact, there’s a peculiar expression painted on her face. Another beat of silence. After being included in such activities, I feel bold.
“What’ is your name?”
“...”
After a continued period of silence, I feel yet another unfamiliar emotion well up from the depths of my chest. It feels tight, wrong, some sort of impending feeling that what I’ve said could ruin the chances of my making friends. There has to be a word for this. I regret not electing to put more research into -
“Rip. Name’s Rip. Most people just call me Merc, though.”
An odd sense of relief, suddenly. A fitting name, though, I think as I repeat the name on my own lips quietly.
“You got one?”
It takes longer than I would assume is socially acceptable for me to process her words, but she doesn’t seem to mind very much. I’ve never received a name to be called by others, save my model number, which I could understand many people would rather not recite in order to refer to me. “A name..?”
“Yeah. You don’t have anything people call you? How do John’s usually try to get your attention?”
That doll over there! Hey, sweetheart, wanna come with me? How much? What’s your serial number? Doll!
Once again, it seems as though I’ve taken too long to reply. That horrible feeling wells up inside me again as I witness her expression change again. I find myself scrambling for an answer:
“My serial number is 75E-V231-”
“Nah, I don’t mean your model. Don’t you and your sisters have names for each other?”
I’ve been rendered speechless.
The stranger - Rip - rubs her face, waves her hand in the air, and smiles. “Can’t ask much of a robot I guess… You ever thought of having your own name?”
“It’s against my programming to-”
“Nah, save it,” Rip turns around a bit to lean closer to me. At this point in time, what’s left of the bag of duck food has been ignored in favor of this new conversation topic. In the number of years I’ve been alive, not once has a human being ever confronted me with such philosophical questions. I’m shocked that anyone has given me the choice of individuality in such an intimate manner. A name?
“How would you… choose a name for yourself? Like this?” I ask nervously. It feels as though I shouldn’t be allowed this knowledge. Ducks are common - easy to learn of, and in no way do they breach walls in my assignment to this city. Personality, though…
“Eh, depends on what you yourself want, I’d say. Names can stem from tons of places. Do you wanna be known for where you came from, or where you are now? Some names are scarier than others… some make you more approachable..”
I’m aware Rip’s explanation is intended to make the concept more understandable to me, but I cannot bring myself to comprehend it anymore than before. It must show on my face.
“What about…” My new companion’s face twists up a bit in thought and she chews on her bottom lip in what I can only assume to be reflection. Before I can stop, I find myself mirroring her actions. “Hmm… I got one! What about Kiki?”
A pause as I gather the thoughts, mull the idea around in my head. It sounds… cute. Fitting? Is one supposed to be aware of when a name belongs to one? I repeat the name to myself a few times under my breath, then look out to the toxic pond once more.
“Could…” I find myself speaking before I can register the words leaving my mouth. “Could you say it in a sentence? As an example?”
Rip’s welcome smile returns stronger than before, and it feels as though something warm is heating up my stomach. Am I malfunctioning?
“Sure.” Her speech derails my current train of thought. “What’d you think of feeding the ducks, Kiki?”
Before I can truly comprehend her question, I’m smiling wider than I have all night. It feels as though, unless I restrain myself, my expression could freeze permanently that way, and yet I cannot bring myself to stop.
“It was… nice.”
My companion returns my sentiment before changing her position to sit back and face the ducks once more, who are nearly finished with picking what we’ve given them out from the dead grass. “In that case, wanna finish off this bag with me? Little devils are starting to get greedy."
I allow myself to laugh a bit at her remark, but I do not reply. It’s 11:14PM. I have around sixteen minutes left in free-roaming mode before my programming urges me to return to the club I’m meant to be in tonight. I pride myself on never being late to work, and as I check the location of my nightly destination, I can calculate that it takes about fifteen minutes or so to make the trek there. As I reach into the bag, and grab some of the last contents at the bottom, I’ve decided my reply.
“Of course. I’ve got plenty of time.”