Artificial

[iimiitatiio-blog]

opheliaavery​:

He’s awfully cute, she thinks, tempted to reach up and stroke his head. And why not? He might enjoy it, her touch is ever so gentle. Aslan. Her new protector. She quiets the subtle murmurations of her heart, always seeking an opportunity to thrive. No one can save her from her fate as an Avery. In the garden she breathes in the fragrant blooms and breathes out a sigh like a song; little bird of a girl. Seeking nectar, a hummingbird with hollow bones.

“Nostalgic for a memory that isn’t really yours?” She cocks her head at him, now a feline creature. She likes pulling things apart. But no, not him, she means no harm. “That’s alright, we’ll make real memories for you. We’ve begun already.” She hopes it will be a good memory, their first day together.

“I’m sure you’ll do well.”

A smile comes, brilliant as a sun beam through storm clouds. And then, unexpectedly, a flickering of some other state behind her eyes, perhaps sadness, perhaps doubt. She never learned to believe promises. Her mind won’t allow her to consider the possibility that one day, they will belong to each other. A new way of life.

Suddenly she realises he won’t always be with her, that the time will come when they will want to take him away from her. What then? She hasn’t spent much time with him, but the thought of it is distasteful. Distressing, even. There’s only so much trust within her, the well will run dry, model after model.

His question shivers her icy little heart, bringing with it cherry blossom spring. Isn’t he lovely? She will have to keep her Grandfather away from him. She will have to make sure she gets what she wants.

“Yes, we’ll be friends.” Ophelia places her hand in his, where it is contained so nicely.

“So cute,” she says, and spontaneously she nestles against him, wraps one delicate arm around his waist. A flighty creature, she isn’t there for long, the moment passing so quickly that one could argue it never happened at all. She almost wishes he would catch her in his arms, keep her, convince her of his honesty and good intentions. It is a trick of her humanity that some deeply buried part of her wants to believe it is his decision to hold her hand. Ah, but being touched is a difficult thing. Ophelia kisses strangers in shady corners, but the moment the tenderness becomes cloyingly real, she is lost to them. Like any pedigree cat, she may or may not allow some petting.

She wants to be near him, to find some respite, to create a bond that doesn’t threaten her safety. In theory she thinks this must be fine; she has no reason to keep distance between them, does she? He isn’t Uncle Hunter with his sad, sly hands, or Grandpa with a heart of granite. He is like no one else she knows. The unknown thrills her.

“What would you like to do now? Anything at all…” She tiptoes around the edge of the fountain, her hair blows in the breeze. She doesn’t know if it was like this once on earth. The history shared by her family is much like a fairytale. Roses have thorns, apples have poison. The princess is happiest on her own.

His first garden, his first human. He wants to stay here, for however long she’ll decide his life will be. Olfactory associations are a big boost for the memories, and at once they encapsulate him, those moments that are not his. He recognizes the familiar shape of rose, wants to bend down and inhale the scent, but is too afraid to miss something important that is going on now between him and her. She gifts him something of his own, his name. Not a serial number. “Aslan” sounds like an incantation, a common thing made individual by this day. He’s momentarily proud, though he knows other replicants get human names too. But none is as good as his. And she wants to give him more, real memories he’ll have to think over when he’s not by her side. Ophelia is indeed a generous god.

When she touches him, it’s a bit like feeling the motion of air against one’s skin. He notices her skin is more delicate than his, and wonders if she feels things differently. His intelligence is a contained element, he will never surpass the potential set for him by his makers, but it would be thrilling to get close to the limit. Will he ever understand her? He’s been only taught basic things. He knows sadness and mirth can be expressed in more than one way. He wonders what the subtle shifts of her mood are. And then she is so close, feels closer than when they held hands, and he mirrors her action. So this is the feeling of being embraced. Another gem in his quickly growing collection. He smiles with careful precision. Too much teeth is aggression.

“I’d like to start learning dancing right now.”

He realizes now that he has a dream too. To let her be suspended in the air, to help her express her inner swan. Dance is flight, isn’t it?

“I know nothing about it, but I suspect it’s a little bit like gymnastics.”

He is meant for hardship, he will endure any pressure, for he is such an eager specimen. He steps back to demonstrate a perfect aerial cartwheel, and some more impressive tumbling. Surely this will bring her joy, as it does to him – he is a capable, decent instrument, as far as he can tell.

“My coordination was calibrated by the best scientists. I may not be good at showing emotion, but I’m certain the technical aspect is within my power.”

He registers a desire to start the creative life of their duet right now, to support her high in the air. But it was put very simply – your emotions are not wanted, your objective is to beat them down. Besides, it would be rude to break her personal bubble – he knows some humans are very particular about that. Realizing he has a whole lifetime with her brings unresolved excitement. He is a lot like a dog jumping up and down for its master to throw a stick, isn’t he?

[iimiitatiio-blog]

opheliaavery‌:

“You’re beautiful,” she says, “but I don’t have a lion. You be my lion. Aslan.” His inner workings must be very beautiful too, she thinks. She likes the way he feels beneath her palm, and the reassuring weight beside her when he sits down. It’s a strange feeling that is nestled in her chest; she isn’t sure if she’s felt it before. It has shades of curiosity and wonder, but there is a warmth there, a pang of something poignant.

She watches his face as she touches him, how his eyes close. She thinks of peace. He is a quiet presence, as soothing as a warm blanket or the pitter-patter of raindrops upon the roof. She thinks of nighttime, curling up with him, asking to be held through the night. Is it strange? No one else has ever been allowed such a role. She likes to sleep alone, or as a guest in other beds.

“Then we can dance together. You’ll love it.” She’s quite certain of it, though admittedly she can’t imagine how anyone couldn’t love the feeling. It’s magic, it’s flight. She wants to show him many things, and has a vision of wintertime. Dissolving snowflakes on their tongues, they always taste like the first time.

When he calls her kind she doesn’t know what to do with it. Kindness has never been a compliment beneath this roof. She’s fairly certain he’s wrong; there is something wicked nestled close to her heart. Still, she says thank you.

It’s perfection when he plays, almost too perfect. It is not a human performance, and yet, there is something so human about his question.

“Flawless, very beautiful.” It’s simply the truth. She could watch his swift grace at the piano for hour after hour. “I’d like you to play for me every day.” A new routine, a new form of pleasure. “I can play a few songs well, but whenever I hear music my instinct is to dance. I get restless.” Much to the irritation of her grandfather and piano tutor.

Ophelia rises and crosses to the window to see the verdant landscape shivering in the breeze.

“Let’s go outside,” she stretches out her hand. The flowers are waiting for them, engineered to perfection. This is where she hides from grasping hands, this is where she walks for hours. An apple tree she likes to lay beneath, a grand oak she can climb on sunny days. Barefoot, she likes to feel the grass beneath her feet. “What do you think?” She wonders if he can feel it: The air is different here, clearer somehow.

“No one’s ever taken good care of me,” she mentions idly, as if speaking of the weather. Thunderstorms, she’s suffered. Releasing his hand she picks a peach and sinks her teeth in. She thinks of her own skin. “Now I have you.” And he has her. What shape will life take? Is she really any safer now? She knows she’ll take what she can get; in this moment there isn’t much that’s wrong. Maybe he can wash her hair in the bath and she’ll trust that he won’t drown her. She thinks perhaps finding happiness is like dying in reverse. She says,

I’m glad you’re here. Are you?”

He tries to temper his self-esteem when she says he’s beautiful. It’s the first treat to be received from her, and he forces himself to return to the intended line of thinking – they do it to dogs. He is better than an electric dog, but not better than a real one. He imagines a newborn puppy in the hands so fit for calming and caressing. Surely she would love that present more. He is just an expensive toy. He smiles, nevertheless. Who said he can’t enjoy compliments, even if he is not human? When you apply conscious effort to being modest, you are not modest anymore. He relishes the amount of freedoms he will be given by her. He won’t have to work in mines or a slaughterhouse, he will dance with her, and she likes his performance at the piano. As far as he can tell, he’s doing well. Not exceptionally, no, but as for now, his replies come without delay. Means he’s still far from his emotional peak, means he’s safe. Will she put him through tests everyday to check if he’s better to be demounted than kept in her room as a doll who can speak to you when you’re too scared of the dark? He hopes not, wants it to be so more because he wants to believe in her perfection rather than worry about his own well-being.

They enter the garden, and he sees flowers for the first time in his short life. Another smile, emerging from below the ocean surface. He closes his eyes and subjects his face to the sun that turns his eyelids red. It places a kiss upon his skin, and suddenly he is aware that memories are nothing. Compared to the present moment, they are a distant call from someone growing smaller as the distance increases. Ophelia introduces him to the world with the gentleness of someone who cares. Stop it, he tells himself. You are so full of hopes, it’s disgusting. Just live, and be ready to die.

“I feel…nostalgic.”

He is reminded of Earth in its prime, once a paradise, now a wasteland. He wonders if it hurts to be old, to remember so much, while all memories are genuine. He truly is lucky to be just an imitation. He squats on the grass, strokes the green blades with his palm. She is from the new generation, she probably has nothing to do with Earth at all. He’s ready to call her home her home. Not Mars, not the factory. He chooses to discard that detail.

So, his life begins here, and her name is the title of the first chapter. He is suddenly taken by an overwhelming urge to protect her from something. What is it? Does it lurk in the shadows of the house, or is it just an illusion?

“I’ll take good care of you. I’ll be the best at it.”

Such bold words from a replicant who has nothing, who is nothing. But he was made to satisfy her needs, wasn’t he? Standing, he offers his hand, palm up, and says the most audacious thing ever.

“I am. Can we be friends?”

[opheliaavery]

for @iimiitatiio

Things ophelia immediately wants to do with her new replicant:

Ballet lifts! She knows he’ll be strong and co-ordinated so she can practice getting her own form perfect. She’s very excited for the ways she’ll be able to improve her skills, and she’s always so happy when she’s dancing.

Cuddling. She loves cuddling in a very physical way, but doesn’t like most people. No-strings cuddling is like heaven to her! It doesn’t make her feel vulnerable or on edge the way it might with others.

She’s going to sit on his lap constantly, rather than on chairs. He’ll be comfortable and keep her warm, plus she’ll love how uncomfortable it’ll make everyone.

Going out at night will feel safer with him. She’s definitely someone who has some risky behaviour, and honestly she’ll probably take more chances with him around.

Reading to each other. It can feel quite intimate which she wouldn’t enjoy with most people. She’ll feel able to ask for these things- worth noting she’ll try to ask, rather than order- she doesn’t want to be like her grandfather.

Long walks, if she gets tired he can carry her.

Tennis. When she plays with her cousin he throws his racquet if he’s losing and it’s super annoying. She’ll like playing games with him, and that may cause some tension with people who are used to having more of her time and attention.

[iimiitatiio-blog]

opheliaavery‌:

He’s towering above her, but isn’t he darling? What a lovely, frightening present- the best she’s ever gotten. The shape of him is endearing, and she is watching keenly for his smile, which arrives like sunshine between rain clouds. Like a small miracle, her very own miracle. She’s been waiting a long time for him, though she doesn’t know it yet.

A name, then. She’d be a wicked girl and call him John, but her grandfather would never allow it. Curiosity prompts a ‘what if’ and she can’t resist.

“I have some ideas. You can choose which one you like.” Can he like at all? She thinks so, and hopes to learn. “Aslan, or Adonis?” He is not a Fido, he shares her language.

In her room, she perches on the edge of her bed, which would fit a whole garden of Ophelia’s. Her feet don’t quite reach the ground.

“Sit with me a moment. Can I touch you?” She feels an unfamiliar shyness, provoked by the novelty of the situation. Curiosity overrides all else. She must learn him the way a child does, measuring the reality of his existence in her world.

She reaches gently, slowly, to place a palm against his cheek. As real as her, as real as anyone. Her fingers glide briefly over his jaw, hair, chest. She tries to keep the ownership from her fingers; cannot bare to touch the way she has been touched. Rather, her hands pose soft questions. He feels like danger, he feels like safety. The last time someone said they would do anything she wanted, it was spoken with love, and it was a lie. I will do anything I want to do. Very different circumstances, then. She smiles admiringly, so ready to be smitten with any being who isn’t a human.

“Oh, I’d like you to play for me. Gymnopédie Number One, please.” To soothe her, to see if he can be a partner for duets. She leads him to the room where she dances, with its barres and mirrors, in one corner a grand piano. The room is bright and airy, and Ophelia opens the windows to feel the breeze upon her face. Sheer curtains billow, this room is made for beauty. “This is where I dance every day. I’m usually here, or in the conservatory, the library.” Will he be her shadow in these places? She sits beside him at the piano, waits to see the magic. “Maybe you can help me dance, I need to practice being lifted. After this I’ll show you the gardens, and then you can keep me company while I have a bath.” It will be interesting to see how the days unfold with company at her side. Will she become tense, ready to hiss and flee? She wonders if he could read to her til she falls asleep at night, then remembers- anything she wants. It’s a small and tender wish, isn’t it? She’d make the request in bratty tones under different circumstances. She’d ask for nightmares and filth. No. She will ask like a princess, with her head held high. Read me Jane Eyre, watch over me, keep me safe and sound. In return, this:

“I’ll take care of you too.” Belated, but true. It’s the hope of a survivor, the faith in forward motion, it keeps her open to a life made better. She couldn’t put it into words, but it is there, an unprocessed and fragile seed of potential. She moves a little closer, pressed to his side, sheltered from the world.

She is the most graceful creature he’s ever seen, and it’s not an exaggeration. It’s easy to be a maximalist when you’ve just been born. He doesn’t want any other experience, wishes she could stay on top forever. Is it a sin for a possession to admire its possessor? He does not remember any rules against it. The world must be full of replicants experiencing something similar. He’s so glad he’s not the only one. Loneliness seems almost unbearable now. Does he go in the closet when she falls asleep? He’d prefer to be given some kind of work – after all, it is what he was made for. His consciousness roils and surges like a living sea, and, one after another, ideas are born. He knows that it’s a very human trait, and wonders if there is a malfunction hidden among his neural links. The scenarios are endless: them in a theater, them in a forest, him climbing the tallest tree to pick an exotic flower for her. The images come with inner peace, sense of purpose.

“Adonis was beautiful,” he ruminates, turning around to look at the whole expanse of high ceilings. “Beauty is a god-given feature,” he remembers doing the same in the Sistine Chapel, eyes wide open, urged forward by men in suits. “I doubt that it has any relation to me. Aslan means “lion”. I like lions. I’d like to see one someday. Do you have one?”

He sits down like he’s asked. In the resilience of the mattress lurks the potential of entertainment – for children. Jumping until your legs are numb. Then lying down for a TV marathon. He can’t remember the ending of the Star Wars saga. Does she like Star Wars? Then, there are unseen movies, unheard melodies. She seems like a good teacher, one whose introductions are gentle and don’t clash with the apprentice’s comfort zone. When her palm slides across his body, he closes his eyes. He doesn’t know why, he just feels like it. The sensation of clothes brushing your face when you’re hiding in a closet. His fingers twitch in response, but he doesn’t dare mirror her actions. She is supposed to command any contact. As her fingers pass his hair, a slight smile tugs on his lips.

“I can’t wait to see you dancing. I have memories of people dancing, but not of myself. I’d love to try.”

In his head, there’s an image of Pavlova’s Dying Swan. He replaces it with Ophelia with ease, and wonders if that counts as fantasy. There are no replicants that created something new. But there should be a measure of satisfaction in repetition. Can a replicant be Prince Siegfried?

“You are so kind,” he smiles again, quite fond of this gesture already. He has no doubt she’ll take care of him, the way princesses take care of their tiaras. All at once, he wants to meet another of his kind and flaunt his owner. She is the best of the best, clearly.

He slides onto the seat, and his fingers hover over the keys.

“I don’t know if you like this rendition, but…”

The first sound flows, followed by another, a delicate succession in a masterful arrangement. He repeats it all, down to the miniscule motions of phalanges, and not a single deviation from the way it was played fifty years ago. There are four more renditions he knows, and he is ready to reproduce them all. The melody tells a story that he can follow, a pensive meditation. It fits Ophelia. When he’s finished, the music leaves an aftertaste in the air. This is the first emotion, shared.

“Was it any good?”

[iimiitatiio-blog]

opheliaavery‌:

Ophelia loves presents, big or small. One might suggest she hopes they will replace what has been taken from her against her will. It’s more likely that the feeling is no more profound than the depth of a teaspoon. A kitten with wool, a child with face turned heavenwards. She loves starlight and ribbons and crocodiles with equal force. When Richard gives his granddaughter a gift, its meaning is twofold, as bribe, apology. On this day, it’s a mystery.

“Close your eyes.” Ophelia obliges, and her grandfather ties a blindfold with one of his wife’s silk scarves. It is soft and cool on the delicate skin of her eyelids. “It’s a very special present,” Richard says as he guides her down the hallway. “I know you’ll love it.” The pitter-patter of her bare feet. “What is it?” Her smile is a sharply curved and peony-pink. “Is it just for me?” They have reached their destination. The silk falls from her eyes. “Stay.” Says Richard, to the man. “Stay there, let her come to you.”

Immediately Ophelia understands what’s happening here. Her smile arrives, like the dawn before it. At great speed her mind is calculating the pros and cons of such a gift.

“Go on,” Richard’s hand on the small of her back, urging her forward. “He’s all yours. What do you think, little minx? Just what a young girl needs. Now there’s no reason to go and make the wrong type of friends.” He needs his kitten caged till he can find her a suitable future. To distract this girl is vital; there’s something in her eyes that sends a thrill down this old man’s steely spine. Perhaps he shouldn’t have stomped all the sweetness from her soul. “I’ll leave you to get to know your present. Don’t worry, it’s perfectly safe.”

“Good morning,” she says, rather beguiled. Her gift has eyes, a mouth, makes words from thoughts- surely if she were capable of it, she’d be heartbroken for him. For all of them. Ophelia finds herself coming up against a height that seems excessive. He can reach the high shelves, he can keep her warm on cold days. She wants to tell him a thousand things, this man who is not like any other she’s known. No feelings to hurt, no desires to fulfil. Companionship with the question of love removed like a tumour. He will ask nothing of her, and nothing is what she has to give. And yet it is with a gentle hand that she reaches out, brushing his fingertips with her own. Is he meant to be her safety, her distraction? It has been left unspoken, but is heavily implied: He is yours, Ophelia, as you are mine. Some icy horror floods her veins, and she doesn’t know what to call it.

“I’m Ophelia. What do I call you? Come with me, I’ll show you our house.” She keeps a cautious distance between them; far too familiar with the bird-bones that make her. She is, however, quietly imagining being carried over rain puddles, hiding behind him at dinner parties. Practical things. She doesn’t know what she thinks of him, such a massive gift for such a terrible child. She’s been presumed to be spoiled rotten, but she’s never had a teddy bear. This is her consolation prize.

The library with its heady biblichor and velvet drapes, the kitchen scene of marble and humourlessly efficient chefs. Rooms with ceilings like cathedrals. Ophelia delivers an efficient tour of the property, before heading towards her bedroom suite.

“This is my room.” The doors open to a light space, a gigantic bed. Attached is a spacious ensuite, a dressing room impeccably arranged. When she is sleeping, where will he go? What will he do? She is small in the space, small beside him. In the silence of this temple of girlhood, she studies his face. She likes the shape of his eyes, wonders what he sees. “Are you going to take care of me?”

She impresses him. He’s grateful to have a frame of reference, memories of Botticelli’s Venus and famous actresses, to value this moment for what it is. Humans like her are considered to be lucky, for a real human being’s looks are pure accident. He can empathize with that to a degree, after all, just like her, he’ll never learn why his designer created him the way he is. At once he is conscious of his face, and, if only she cares enough, she can witness the birth of the very first smile of his. It’s more of agitation of his nerves than anything else, his system testing the boundaries. Small. That’s his first thought. She is so small the top of her head barely reaches his shoulder, and, to his knowledge, it’s normal. He is briefly taken by the urge to take her hand and compare the size of her fingers to his. He is not sure whether it would be within the norm. He is only learning. And she has strange eyes. He decides that the eyes are what fascinates him the most. Hers take him back to Alaska – that is an awful number of miles away, and probably buried under radioactive ash. Most of his memories come from Earth, a by-product of a scientist’s nostalgia. He is not sure if he likes it. This planet seems to be a replica of it, a manufactured paradise. And he suddenly realizes he wants to see the animals.

Her fingertips brush against his, and he is electrified – so this is it. The touch of his master. Another smile as he stares at his hand. He looks at her, confused.

“I suppose you are to choose a name for me.”

Do all toys get a name? Is he going to be a favourite? The pitter-patter of cautious excitement, like dew drops on his skin. He follows her steps like an old pet. The spaces opening up on him impress him as well, he is aware that they are a rarity for most of the human folk. So they’re terribly rich, then. He counts it as luck, puts the file neatly on the shelf of his mind. She is about to show him the world. He vibrates with unspent energy, passing the impeccably clean floors, little tokens of wealth. He counts them because he’s decided to keep a list of new things. Soon the trickle will become a massive, powerful stream, and he’ll forget he lists, possibly everything that now seems intriguing to him, but as of now, his wide-eyed perception feeds him a mild shock each time a door opens.

He likes following her, decides to follow her until she tells him to stop. The bed seems nice, and he has a concept of sleeping in one in his mind, but he would like to test the resilience of the wide mattress right now. Naturally, he doesn’t dare to sit down.

“I’ll do anything you want.”

It is easy to say so, and he will be happy to demonstrate. He is neither an industrial model nor a pleasure one. Rather, a protector. A companion. Like a cat. He wonders if Ophelia has a cat, at least an artificial one. Having one would suit her, he thinks. He feels a sharp pang of desire to be as much fun as a kitten would be. She could make him chase the laser dot. Sitting in her lap would be problematic, but there are also no strict instructions against doing it the other way around.

“What would you like me to do right now? I can play piano and walk the tightrope.”

[iimiitatiio-blog]

The first thing he ever sees are white walls, and the masked face of a technician checking his pupils for reflex. The light blinds him, he blinks, scrunching up his face, and hears a content voice: “This one’s good to go.” Spoken in English, but he thinks that being born is strange in sixty-five languages at once. The effect feels like a little explosion, and he wonders where this concept of explosion came from. When, in another section, his motoric functions are tested, he aces the exam with an aerial cartwheel and a single-hand stand. Then, he is given a pen and asked to solve a few equations, which he finds laughably easy. He laughs for five minutes straight, until he is asked to stop. He wonders why, since it felt so good.

When it is time to meet The Engineer, he is dressed in all white and escorted to the office, which has a window, allowing him the view of Mars’ two moons. He is given a talk, which he will later recognize as condescending. The picture of the world seems clear and simple: being a tool doesn’t seem like a very trying job, and, frankly, according to The Engineer, he is lucky to be a mere imitation. There is no choice but to believe it. On his way out of the office he is once again swept up by technicians – they need to measure him. He doesn’t understand the purpose, but now he is aware of subordination, so he asks no questions when nudged towards what puts him in mind of a coffin. Is he about to be killed, having lived so little? No, he will find out, it is only a semblance of death – just the state of deep sleep, while the cargo ship passes the Solar System.

When he wakes up, everything seems the same – the walls, the humans in white robes, the voices. Once again, he is instructed to follow the orders, or something bad might happen. Docilely, he deposits himself onto the backseat of a car and overhears a conversation that has something to do with him, the serial number and insurance, and something he can’t seem to be interested in. A surge of excitement rises within him when he learns that he is on the way to meet his new family. Family is something for humans, not androids, but they all are meant to interact with him either way. Curious, he thinks as the car glides out of the hangar and down the road. It is somehow satisfying to recognize the things stored in his brain, in real life. He revels in the shimmering greens of the tall trees and the awakening pinks and blues of the sky. It is enough entertainment for the whole duration of the trip, and then he is ushered out of the car and into a house that seems almost as big as the factory buildings. He allows the jostling and prodding as he is sat down in what looks like a spacious living room and finally explained his purpose as his factory clothes are switched for a more casual set. He is a present, a secret one, and his whole existence will now depend on this mysterious master who is about to arrive any minute. He feels something akin to pride when he is trusted to spend a whopping ten minutes all by himself. His gaze skims over the furniture and the décor, and he is momentarily tempted to turn on the TV, but he doesn’t dare.

His ruminations are interrupted by footsteps, belonging to multiple people. His ear instantly picks up that one of them must be a woman – something he still hasn’t seen. Like the clashing tick-tocks of several clocks, the steps linger at the entrance, and he stands up, perhaps too early. The door opens, and he draws a bearth.

“Good morning.”

He forgets to smile.