Work Text:
(Where are you?)
Recent memory data recalls a performance. No, not a performance, but still planned to appear on stage. With too many uncooperative actors. They were sent backstage. Or, rather, they disappeared right on cue. The remaining faces were more familiar. The second act heightened the drama, emphasized by spotlights and special effects.
The rabbit didn't see how it ended. He would have liked to have known. He was rooting for all the performers.
Now, he does not know where he is and he cannot run diagnostics.
(You have a headache.)
He attempts to, anyway. Internal programming cannot be accessed, but sensory input is still functional. Cameras seem to be offline. Audio is processing better than usual. He is aware of other functions previously unfamiliar to him.
(The wind smells crisp, almost electric.)
This anomaly is not logged. He can't seem to navigate his archive.
(Your head throbs trying to remember.)
If he was capable, the rabbit would tire of this mystery. He redirects his attention outwards.
Only a simple experiment is necessary to determine functionality. He twitches an ear.
(You twitch a metal ear.)
Something… catches on that command. As if it were being sent to duplicates.
The rabbit reassesses his outer limbs manually.
(You lightly kick your legs. Something itches their undersides.)
Another anomaly in the form of excess information. He attempts to reconnect visual input.
(It takes effort to open your heavy eyelids. The light of the sun makes you squint.)
Ignoring how the connection stuttered, the rabbit notices something about the image. There is a red tint to his camera feed.
(You reach an arm up to your face and press against something. You're wearing glasses.)
The rabbit does not wear anything. His cameras were shaped like his creator’s own shades but they do not function the same.
The surrounding audio input is getting louder. Many unfamiliar voices and shuffling footsteps are not archived. Visual feed catches multiple moving bodies through the harsh lighting.
Finally, a familiar face appears.
(You call out to Jane.)
Ignoring another strange voice saying her name, the rabbit attempts to stand by Jane’s side.
(You pull yourself up, only to fall forward into the grass again.)
Gyroscopes are faulty. His legs have never failed him like this. The two fleshy stumps keeping the rabbit from laying fully horizontal must be Jane's.
He does not attempt to stand again. Despite having a sustainable power source, energy appears to be running low.
(You're exhausted.)
The rabbit is lifted up and into Jane's arms. He is content to remain still.
(You feel the softness of her clothing and the heat of her skin. She smells like sugar.)
Jane starts moving, allowing his visual input to increase in scope. More than a dozen individuals move across his camera feed. Some are dressed in the colorful outfits of the actors from earlier.
(You pitifully squirm in Jane's grasp, trying to get her to stop. You want to know how the play ended.)
The view of the crowd gets smaller as the angle moves higher. Something in his core lurches.
(You feel nauseous.)
Jane moves higher into the sky and the anomaly remains. The rabbit strains to watch the dots of people back on earth before his sensory inputs completely shut off.
—
The rabbit comes online an indeterminable amount of time later. Internal clocks are unreachable.
Despite the recolor, visual data is of a familiar interior. He has been returned to the Crocker’s house. Some pieces of furniture are missing or have been replaced.
(The couch is firmer than you remember.)
He cannot be impatient, yet he is eager to investigate the differences since he last was in the house. He gets moving as fast as he can.
(You swing your legs and hop off the couch. Your stomach churns and your head swims.)
The rabbit falls forward. He cannot ignore the anomaly any longer.
You throw up.
(That’s not right. The rabbit doesn’t have a mouth.)
You heave chunks of bright orange for what feels like an eternity. Your throat burns like hell. You made a mess all over the stumps – no, those are your arms – propping you up.
(That’s not what his arms look like. His arms are jointed titanium with nimble paws to match. He shouldn’t be falling over like this.)
You hear Jane calling your name, and suddenly she appears crouched by your side. You’re too weak to resist your head being pulled along by rough, wet fabric. You stare up at Jane’s face. She looks different.
She asks you to sit back and you do, then takes your arms and washes them off. She even takes a swipe at your chest, soaking your shirt. You don’t like being wet.
(The rabbit does not know what “wet” feels like. He was under the sea for billions of years and never registered that data. The rabbit does not feel–cannot feel–)
Oh.
I am the rabbit, and I am now human.
—
After she cleaned the vomit, Jane took me to the kitchen to calm my stomach. I’m sitting on the dining table because she sat me there when I was too dizzy to walk myself.
Jane returns with a glass of cloudy water and prompts me to drink it. She’s patient with my multiple failed attempts to even hold the thing. Once I’ve got it steady, I hesitantly bring it to my face. I barely know where to begin with the process of actual consumption.
She instructs me to pour it into my mouth. When the liquid touches the back of my tongue, I hack it back up. I didn’t think my throat could feel any worse.
After trial and error and a lot of spills, I somewhat get the hang of drinking. Jane trusts me to be left alone with my throat soothed by the cool water and my nausea by the medicine. I, too, feel confident enough to hop down from the table.
Which was a bad idea, seeing as I am now crumpled on the cold floor.
But I think I can get up, as I gather my legs under myself and slowly stand. This shouldn’t be unfamiliar. Running around was almost the only thing I could do.
I cautiously put one conveniently shoed foot after the other and eventually find my place by Jane’s side in the kitchen. She is pleasantly surprised, and tells me she’s making toast with peanut butter. Apparently, it’s gentle on upset stomachs.
After what was an incalculable eternity, the toaster finally pops and Jane hands over a brown-slathered piece of bread. It’s too big to fit in my mouth in one piece, and I definitely can’t drink it. Jane laughs at how long I stand there, staring at my predicament.
She tells me to use my teeth and exaggeratedly mimes taking a bite. What are teeth? I bring my fingers into my own mouth to investigate. I can simultaneously hear and feel the flesh rubbing against the small, hard structures. My skin only tastes like a hint of salt.
Jane laughs even harder and gently removes my hand from the hole in my face. I would be more offended if I didn’t agree with her motion to return to the task at hand.
I stretch my jaw as wide as it can and move the toast in. Bread crumbs tickle my throat as I bisect my prey. I try to remember what Jane told me about chewing and use my tongue to move the piece around. The peanut butter is sticky and thick on the roof of my mouth, which severely slows the process down. Swallowing comes more naturally this time.
—
Now that I feel well enough to walk, Jane tells me to go to the bathroom and wash my gunky fingers. She’s adamant on that even after I lick them clean.
The bathroom is on the second floor, which means I have to conquer the stairs. It’s frustrating that the very notion could be considered a problem for me.
—
After a slow and steady victory, I find myself with a new perspective on this previously uninteresting chamber. It was always locked when in use, and of none to a machine like myself. Now it presents itself with another set of human functions to learn about. I’m really not looking forward to passing waste later.
The task of hand washing is severely handicapped by my lack of height—I can barely reach the nobs on the sink. Eventually, though, I get the water running and lather it up between my fingers. Even when voluntarily being subjected to it, I still don’t like the feeling of being wet.
Behind the sink is a distracting pane of glass. From my vantage point, all I am able to see in the reflection is half of my face and some very suspicious protrusions from my head. I must investigate further.
I’m no stranger to climbing up precarious footholds, but my altered center of balance definitely slows my ascent. I finally hoist my legs under me and into the moist bowl of the sink. I can ignore the wetness seeping through my pants when all my attention is focused on the unfamiliar appearance in the mirror.
In terms of clothing, I have been gifted a rather plain outfit. A white t-shirt adorned with a blue hat in the same place on my chest as before, accented by short sleeves of the same color, and accompanied by average blue jeans. I drag my gaze up and brace myself for a face that isn’t a nondescript sheet of metal.
Pale, choppy hair frames round cheeks of a sandy complexion. In the center, bright red sunglasses perch on a small downturned nose. Sparse eyebrows peek out just above. Thin, intensely set lips rest just below.
Something twists in my stomach. Despite being vastly different from what I am used to, I recognize this face.
This is the face of (a younger, softer) Dirk.
There is a notable difference, however, taunting me from just above. Two tall pieces of metal, silvery and segmented, sprout from tufts of hair.
My hands find themselves creeping their way through my hair, the water on my fingertips spiking up clumps, until they abruptly meet a smooth surface. Moving down, barely raised skin hugs the bases of the metal additions, as if they were always there. I drag my fingers all the way to the top and tug down. Surprisingly, I have no success in moving these things externally. It only takes a second for me to think, and the thin appendages tilt downward, my hands still passively resting upon them.
I realize these are my robotic ears, as if this was a revelation at all. I bring my hands back down to test their motion. They swivel forward, back, around, and in any other position one would need to emulate rabbit body language. At least I have something to remind me of previous normalcy.
Something else nags at the dubiously existing cat of my thoughts, my hands hovering just around my shades. I hope the satisfaction of the discovery is enough to tilt the scales into alive and yarn-batting.
Slower than I want to be moving, I cautiously remove the red-tinted glass. The sudden change in light makes my eyes screw themselves shut. I force them back open despite the many half-blinks of protest.
The glasses themselves are unassuming. A thick layer of colored glass precisely cut into two triangles, just like my… creator. (Any other title for him is inaccurate, even if I am no longer a machine. There was no reason to get tripped up like that.) The thin plastic arms are similarly colored, with slightly thicker temple tips that have a subtle raised texture. I recall Dirk’s own pair having extra capabilities. If my shades contain the same technology, I’m sure to find out soon enough.
I wouldn’t say I was postponing my return to the mirror, but I’m hesitant to release my gaze from my sunglasses. There’s a reason Dirk never unshaded his eyes.
The feline feeling wins, however, and I’m met with my own intense stare. What’s shocking is the reveal of another divergence. My eyes are not electric tangerine, but muted cornflower. I lean in closer, trying not to be disturbed by the optical illusion that means those blue pools never waiver.
A finger abandons its post on glasses duty to aid in my investigation of my newfound optical organs. Before I know it, a wave of shock pinches my face and my eye is unwilling to open after the gruesome attack. Wetness wells up from between my eyelids. Seriously, water is inescapable today.
Add that as another human lesson under my belt: eyeballs don’t like being touched.
After a good eye-rub-reset, I return to inspecting any other features my shades were obscuring. My eyelashes are the same light color as my hair and there’s a smattering of freckles on my nose. This face might be cute if it weren’t so stone-still and Dirk-ish.
The cat slinks back into the depths of my mind as I replace the red tint over my vision. That’s enough kitty-ing around for a bunny like me. I carefully lower myself to the floor and make my way back down the stairs to update Jane on the status of my cleanliness.
—
Properly refreshed and oriented, I finally notice what’s so different when I find her at the dinner table again. She’s wearing a costume like the rainbow entourage from that performance. Hers consists of a beige tunic with coattails that fall just around her calves, which are wrapped in bandages. A million questions bubble up in my head.
I take a seat across the table from her, not quite startling her but causing her to look up from her own piece of toast, and start with a question: “What are you wearing?”
Except nothing comes out. I try to open my mouth and manually form the sounds, but there’s some kind of mental block preventing me from letting out anything but a heavy breath. I purse my lips and pinch my brows, trying to ward off the water threatening to fall from my eyes. Why must every human function be involuntary? Sure, I’m frustrated, but to cry over a small bout of mutism is an overreaction.
But I am nothing if not adaptive! I hop out of my seat and make my way into Mr. Crocker’s study, quickly finding a pen on the desk and grabbing a stack of paper on my way out. Jane watches me deposit the pile back at the table.
Conjuring images of text in my mind’s eye, I slowly scrawl my question in ink. The lines are wobbly and the attempt at serifs worse, but it’s legible. At least, it’s enough that Jane gets the message and starts to explain.
She gives a brief summary of what happened after I left the strange, grim kingdom, then slows down into the details of how she acquired this outfit. She describes how she died and came back, but takes a pause before continuing.
She worries at her lip with her protruding teeth, her gaze flitting away and back. I tilt my head. What is she so hesitant about? The story was hitting its stride, setting up for an intriguing climax.
I snatch another piece of paper and scribble my best attempt at “Please continue!” before handing it to Jane. She takes a moment to decipher the lettering, and takes a deep breath. She skips to the end, because the middle isn’t important, she tells me, and starts to describe the final battle as she saw it. How she rushed around, jumping through windows to assist everyone with her newfound powers. It almost makes me jealous I wasn’t there.
The falling action was a reunion after the victory, and a grand prize waiting through a shining door. Stepping through brings us… To the present. This all happened just hours before now.
That makes me curious about the play I witnessed. The fight Jane described was nothing like that one; did she just skip over it or has it even happened? Did I travel through time as well as gain an organic body?
This leads to another shakily written question: “Where are we?”
“Earth C” is Jane’s immediate answer, but she takes a moment to clarify. That’s just the new name for this planet. It’s actually the same one she grew up on, only thousands of years in the future.
If this is the same Earth…
I jump out of my seat and bolt for the front door, not caring if Jane follows. Outside, I keep running, soft feet pounding against asphalt, unfamiliar houses passing in my peripheral. I don’t even know where I’m going. I have to find the ocean.
I have to find me.
If this is the same Earth, then my previous self is here, sinking at the bottom of the sea, alone and scared and not knowing if anything will ever change. And nothing will, not for billions of years. Not until Caliborn plays his game and snuffs out the sun, erecting tower beacons that guide faulty legs to monitors spying on friends. A begrudging alliance to carry out his whims if only to occupy fidgety limbs.
But I can change that, only if I can find that rusting rabbit. If I can just orient myself, if I can just…
Slowing down… Heavy breaths… This body can’t run forever anymore. I’m only as far as the end of the neighborhood. But I can’t… I can’t stop… I have to find…
A heavy form suddenly wraps itself around me, stopping me in my pitiful tracks. A comforting voice fills my ears. It’s Jane. There’s no resisting against her steady arms.
She softens her grip to just my shoulders and turns me around. I can feel my face scrunch up when she asks why I ran away. The answer is too complex, nothing she would understand even if I took the entire day to write it down. Still, a tiny voice escapes from between my lips.
“I’m here,” I say.
The sound is pitiful and ill fitting. It’s the only thing coming out of my mouth, repeating it like a mantra, the message lost on Jane. I keep repeating it even as my eyes threaten to water and the words become gross and wet.
“I’m here, I’m here, I’m here!”
She brings me close to hold me tight. I keep sputtering into her shoulder, leaving something sticky and human on her sleeve. I don’t listen to what she says before I’m lifted up and toted away.
—
Back at the house, the flow of my words and tears finally stop. This doesn’t change the fact of the issue at hand. I try to illustrate my problem, but unsteady hands make messy scribbles and hazy drawings that are indecipherable to even the artist. I can’t even draw a good pair of rabbit ears.
The paper crumples in my palm. No one will ever understand.
Jane tries to comfort me, but she doesn’t get it. I can’t make her understand with this unwanted new form and its broken voice box, uncooperative hands, lack of programming.
At least she’s soft and warm. That’s something I never knew how to feel.
Time loops. Inevitability. Unfairness. For now, a reluctant acceptance washes over me.
Maybe I’ll learn what sleeping feels like, too.
