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They stared at him.
He stared at them.
This was a constant.
Their blinking was rhythmic, smooth. They didn’t blink because of an urge or a requirement, they blinked because their lifeless stare had unnerved the scientists. And when they blinked, you could hear a crackle, a whir, an unnatural echo of a typical action. So he had begun to copy them. One eye shut, and the other. Then they opened again, quickly. There would be blackness for a moment, a flicker of shadow, and if he held his eyes shut for long enough then new shapes would begin to form in the nothingness. He didn’t like the feeling, so he never blinked. Never needed to.
When they grabbed items, he noticed, their hands snapped shut around the figure like a set of pincers. Clamping shut, their fingers bending into inhuman shapes to accommodate it. It would take a wrestling match, a tug-of-war, to reclaim an object they had snatched. When he grabbed items, he traced the shape first, treating it like the foreign object it typically was. His metallic, bone-like hands would clink and drag against the solid form of it, and he’d handle it with care as if it were alive. They had no respect, though. They just snatched, and they took what they wanted.
And when they walked, they walked with confidence. Evenly-placed steps, identical stride, back snapped up straight and their gaze focused in front of them, like an army. A group made and crafted for one purpose, a purpose he had no part in. Not that he felt lonely , as he watched them all go about their day, alike and comfortable, cut from the same mould. Not that the fact that they were always so cool and calm and comfortable bothered him or anything. The fact that they all seemed to be alright with who they are, never ripped to pieces to be stabbed back together again like he was.
Sometimes, they’d stop to stare at him. One pair of piercing yellow eyes would quickly turn into two, three, five or ten as the rest crowded around to see what the object of intrigue for the day was. Their gaze felt humbling in a horrible way– strangling him, judging him, wondering who or what he was that made him so special that he couldn’t go with the rest of them. The glass that drove a wall between him and them muffled his voice as he tried to ask them things, and somehow he got the feeling they wouldn’t say anything to him even if they could hear. It wouldn’t be long, though, before one of them would tire of the staring, and would lead the rest onwards.
They had a uniform, made with the same even fit, the same size and shade and made to the frequency that even a smudge of dirt would easily warrant a replacement. A light, gentle cream color to match their artificial skin, often adjourned with armor of a pure white. Branded with the logo he had become all so familiar with, he had criticised the outfit once with a comment about how they all looked the same. He had been told that that was the point. And he had a uniform too, with a back that unbuttons, and sleeves that could easily be pulled up to allow for wires to slip through the plating underneath. His uniform was unique, made to allow easy access to all of him for the experiments. And although it fit him as fair as it could be, the material often irritated him, a scratch that made him uncomfortable. When he complained of the texture, he was ignored, treated as though he was lying, as if he wasn’t allowed to gage discomfort from it.
When he talked, it was only to the other Synth he sometimes shared a room with. A prototype, like him, sharing the same yellow eyes that had pierced his barriers so many times prior. And he would listen to their marvellous stories of the world outside, trees luscious and green, flowers in full bloom. Sometimes, the stories would be of chasing down criminals. Sometimes they’d be of true love. And when they got their memory toyed with and came back, he would allow them to tell him the stories all over again, as they believed they had never told them before. He would sit and listen and ask questions about these tales– different questions every time. And easily he could get them tracked into describing their house, or he would watch their mood drop as they realised they could barely remember their family’s faces, and the thing was that he would listen, every time he would listen , he would listen until their words blurred together in his mind and when they asked him about his life he’d admit to his truth, of white walls on white floors, of uncomfortable feelings and helplessness and hopelessness and feeling lost.
And every time, they would listen. And they would comfort him. And they would tell him it would be okay.
And for the meaningless weight of a word, he believed them.