Chapter Text
To walk among humans is assisted suicide.
At least, that’s what you think, your wild eyes—like a feral dog’s—ping-ponging between the androids and the humans that own them, the disparity between treatment. A man’s cries of indignity lash at any android who dares to walk past, as though it is their fault they were created, sold, and put on the pavement before him. As though any android has any choice about what they do.
You’re not really sure why you decided to walk around Henry Ford Commemorative Park. You know why you’re walking, sure, but now that you’re actually walking around the place you’ve come to realize it’s far less peaceful than you remember. Spending most of your time regulated to your apartment and work doesn’t exactly show you the changings of the inconsequential, yeah?
After a particularly bad spout of self-sabotage (which consisted of skipping work, sleeping for longer than you should, and the best of all: not getting any nourishment), you wanted to take a walk to try and clear your head. Get fresh air. Sometimes, it works enough to get you back in your monotonous groove; sometimes it only serves to make you more exhausted. Judging by the loud android protesters and the depressing look of the homeless population, though, you seem to be looking at the latter.
With a sigh, you shell out $7 too many for a shitty park hotdog and messily shove the thing down your gullet, the first meaningful sustenance you’ve swallowed in weeks. The fall air is crisp and rife with a lingering scent of unease (best described as melted plastic and garbage) that seems to stalk Detroit like an obsessive ex. Even a beautifully constructed park, next to what was once an exciting shopping center, isn’t enough to triumph over what Detroit is turning into. A years long descent into total fucking insanity.
Since androids became woven into the mainstream, your life was, thankfully, mostly unaffected. Your job is niche; it would be difficult and time-consuming to equip an android to mimic it. Your daily life wasn’t any less different now that a few of your interactions were replaced with androids over humans, albeit it was a little more depressing. Social interaction was never high on your list of priorities, but as the saying goes, sometimes you have to let go of something to realize how much you miss it.
Just because none of it affects you that much, though, doesn’t mean that you don’t notice. The unemployment is so astronomically high, inflation is skyrocketing, and you’re honestly thinking of moving back in with your parents at 30-something just so that it’s all a little less tough on you guys financially. The most you’ll ever say on these sentiments, though, are voting in local elections for policies to hopefully help, and not much else. Maybe you’ll repost some infographic or another if you’re feeling spicy.
It’s not a nice feeling, being this useless, helpless. If anything, you’re guilty. You can continue to live your life as normal as Detroit simultaneously crumbles for the middle class and the poor, while becoming an even better place for the rich. You get to be comfortable, and you can’t even be happy about it—how pathetic is that?
As you finish your hotdog, the commotion in the park seems to rise, like a boiling pot of water threatening to spill over. You’re more than willing to have something to distract yourself from your thoughts spiraling, so you tentatively approach the yelling, and watch in a mixture between disdain and apathy as an android is shoved to the ground by a group of anti-android protesters, whatever box he had in his hands skidding on the concrete.
“Look at this little motherfucker,” a woman spits, kicking the android where his ribs would be. “You steal our jobs, but you can’t even stand up!”
She kicks him again, inciting the violent cries of the rowdy crowd; their words blend together in a mess of Grab it! Get its ass! Now you know how it feels! . And, despite your initial apathy to the situation, seeing things like this every day, something stirs within you as the android’s LED flickers, as he struggles to push himself up off the ground. You know that feeling, the helplessness.
Maybe that’s why you speak up.
“Hey, hey! What are you doing?!” you cry, rushing forward to pry away the woman who was kicking the android. On your way over, you pick up the package the android had been holding before it got damaged any further.
“Don’t get involved,” says a protester, clearly annoyed, “We’re just giving this tin can a taste of its own medicine.”
“That’s not—” You flinch as one of them stomps on the android’s ankle, making him twitch and sputter, eerily human-like while also retaining that machine quality. Uncanny. “That’s not for you to decide. He’s…” you trail off, trying to find an excuse. “He’s my android. If you keep this shit up, I’ll sue.”
The android glances up at you from the ground, and you swear he looks confused . You expect him to correct you, as any machine would at hearing false information, but instead he continues to remain passive, not even reacting to the situation.
An officer walks over to the lot of you before the protestors can reply. “Alright, that’s enough. Leave it alone.”
The de facto ‘leader’ of the group sends you a glare, likely suspecting you’re lying—dressed like a bum, it’s doubtful you’d own an android—but with no proof to back it up. The group disperses at the threat of legal punishment, moving to the other side of the shopping district to continue their ramblings.
“Thank you, sir,” you tell the officer. You’re not sure you could’ve fended them all off yourself. You’re not even sure if you wanted to.
“It’s no problem. They’re always causing a mess, those ones. One day they’re gonna get in some serious trouble.”
You laugh. It lacks mirth. “Yeah, I’m sure they will. You have a good day, officer.”
“You too.”
You hadn’t noticed the android had gotten to his feet. His LED swirls yellow—you think that means something, but you’re not sure what—as he sizes you up. No doubt, his programming is unable to find an answer as to why you lied. Can machine learning discern motive?
“You didn’t have to do that,” says the android matter-of-factly, cocking his head in a way that suggests further contemplation.
“Well, no, but…” your voice trails off; you shrug, opting to instead hand him the package you’d picked up earlier. You finally realize what it is, just something from Bellini Paints—fancy, not that you expected anything else from someone with an android like this.
He’s not a model you’ve ever seen before. He’s handsome, you notice, and you’re sure he’d be popular if he was something anyone could buy (thinking about it makes your skin crawl, but you’re not exactly sure why). His hair is closely cut, face neutral, yet judging by his features you’re sure that any expression he wore would be something close to beautiful. It’s sort of weird to admire an android like this, but they are intended to look human, and the one standing before you is less of an imitation and more like something of his own. If he didn’t have the uniform and an LED at his temple, you would think he was just some guy. There’s beauty in that, you think—in the imperfection.
He takes the paints from your hands and dusts it off, tucking the box under his arm. It all looks very professional. “Your help is appreciated,” he says, nodding politely.
You blink slowly, trying to process the human-esque timbre of his voice—he sounds so real, compared to the generic worker androids you interact with commonly.
“Um…you’re welcome.”
The android nods again, walking towards where you’d come from. You stand there in a stunned silence, trying to make amends with the lifelike being you’ve just interacted with, and the plastic and metal thrumming just beneath his synthetic skin.