system instability

Model SM700-60 "Cash". Recycled prototype. Prosthetist, Property of George Washington University Hospital

[sucksroses]

He couldn’t quite remember how or why, but Franklin had managed to lure someone over from the bar, away from the neon lights and blasting music to his table in a cozy quiet corner. He’s had a quite a few drinks by now, along with a few hits of Grandaddy Purple off the vaporizer, which always loosened him up enough to start gushing about his misadventures with his brothers as a kid. Sure, he usually did this with a few other vets but his usual cohort of goons were all either sick, in trouble with their spouses or out shopping for school supplies with their kids.

“Have I told you about the time my brothers and I thought we were living next door to a mad scientist who was uh, experimenting on kids?” Frank slurred, a stream of smoke billowing out as he pulled the vaporizer away from his mouth. He plucked two cards out of his hand, dropping them on the table in exchange for two new ones. “Well, at least we thought he was experimenting on kids. Everyone suspected it. Mostly because he had the weirdest sci-fi looking house in the city and also because he was a huge hermit who would occasionally try to invite kids over to hang out.” 

He paused, brows creasing as he struggled to recall the last couple of stories he told the other male. “Overall, just really creepy vibes, which of course meant we had to investigate– and by investigate I mean we literally broke into his house while he was out.”

[sm700-60-blog]

Cash knew the telltale signs of inebriation. Slowed reflexes and coordination, slurred speech that drawled until it stumbled over itself unceremoniously. Sexual promiscuity was typical. Sharing childhood stories with a foreign android, however, was not as typical. He could appreciate it for what it was—practice.  

The man had secured a table in the outskirts of the bar, a quiet corner tucked away from all the noise and flashing lights. SM700-60 responded accordingly, fine-tuning his sensitivity until it was just enough to catch his words. He blocked out the excess.

“No, this is the first time we’ve met.” He answered as the man continued, vaporized smoke mingling with Cash’s own. It was a pack of Camels today. The android quirked a brow.

“There’s a lot to dissect here.” He cocked his head inquisitively. “But I’ll have to ask you when you’re done. Please continue—this constitutes as a ‘cliff hanger’. I’m not sure if I have the processing to appreciate that just yet.” 

[sm700-60-blog]

A Lamborghini in a broom closet. Atlas liked that analogy, though he didn’t quite comprehend it, because cars didn’t fit in broom closets. But all he knew was that he didn’t like it, he didn’t like the idea of sleeping in a dark, tight space. He wondered if people took Cash out before he woke up, so he could at least wake up to an open room and windows and sunlight. He hoped Cash didn’t have to power back up into empty darkness only to ask to be let out. He hoped. He stored it away.

He wasn’t out of liquor. The sentence had him cocking his head to one side, confused, as he recounted what he’d just stored in his head earlier.

“We’re not–” he cut himself short when Cash spoke again.

Something to show him? Huh.

There were exactly six bottles of vodka on the shelf behind him, just one above the recommended danger number, where one of them would have to leave to go buy more. They were receiving a shipment of it tomorrow morning, so it was only a matter of them lasting this shift. It was slow, very slow. Atlas’ LED light spun yellow as his eyes flickered around him, calculating, quick, mischievous.

He couldn’t get the three customers currently around to drink a full bottle, they were all way past beyond the point of recommending alcohol, he couldn’t get anyone passing out.

So he did the next best thing!

He dragged a bottle from the back shelf and popped it open with ease before pouring its contents down the nearest sink before anyone could stop him. None of his human managers were around, and even if they were, he would claim this one was poisoned. Of course.

“We’re out of liquor right now,” he said, his eyes on Cash but his voice loud enough that it would reach someone in the back coffee room. There was a drawn out grunt, then a barked order: protocol green. “I will go buy more, sir.”

Cash saw the moment when realization struck the android. His expression flickered from his contented neutral to mischievous, the telling yellow light flickering like admission of guilt. He watched curiously, gauging the other’s movements before the bartender’s hand landed on the neck of a vodka bottle.

His laugh reached his eyes this time, body folding in on itself as the sound traveled down his neck and all the way to his waist. His fingers squeezed the body of his cigarette, bits of ash falling to the ground as the amber heat grazed his synthetic skin. He made no efforts to move it, green eyes watching the fire fade into black on his porcelain sheathing. His pain receptors were on. As he watched Atlas pour the bottle down the drain, he realized his pleasure sensors were, too.

“I was going to do it for you, Atlas.” He explained, sitting up on the bar stool. He scanned the room for possible points of conflict: presently, there were none. Three preoccupied patrons and protocol green. It was ideal.

“But since you’re so eager, I’ll have to make it worth your while.” He brushed the debris from the tops of his hand, tapping the excess onto the ash tray before he held it comfortably between his lips. He cocked his head towards the front door, inhaling shallowly.

“This way.”

When they arrived at the front, Cash reached for the other android, fingertips phasing white as they found Atlas’. He let them linger there before leaning in close, voice low.

“May I send you our route, or would you prefer I lead?” Mischief pulled at his lips. “We’ll stop by the liquor store afterwards.”

[sm700-60-blog]

Appointments, ah, yes. Cash probably just didn’t have any clients. It was interesting that sex robots could get breaks, he wasn’t sure how that worked. Over here at the bar you were either on your shift, or you were getting some maintenance done in the back room, they didn’t really have free time.

“A broom closet?” His brows furrowed a little at that. Not many things in this life got Atlas to weave his usually friendly features into a portrayal of distress, but that, for some reason, didn’t sound fun. It’s not like they had beds at the backroom here, but they at least had a nice place to stand unbothered when they powered off, and some chairs and tables for a fake coffee break room attempt. “That seems rather dark. I wouldn’t like that.”

Atlas caught sight of the man struggling against the door for a moment too long, and when he looked back, something on Cash’s face was different. He blinked a few times, his system running a quick game of ‘spot the difference’ before it settled on its target: the one strand of har that had fallen forward. Well, Cash’s hands were busy with the cigarette, so it was only logical that he helped the man out and pushed that back into place, carefully, like someone pressing in a piece to a puzzle.

“Yeah. Sometimes we have to restock, so we go and buy more alcohol. Usually it is brought to us by the suppliers, but sometimes if we run out of something mid-shift, one of us buys it at the liquor store nearby,” he pointed out. Mostly, he just stayed at the bar, though. “Otherwise we can’t leave the bar unless we’re strictly told to.”

Pleasant was the wrong choice of words to describe Cash. His smiles were reactionary. He calculated all possible outcomes and chose the ones that caused least resistance. The well-placed small talk, the mindful silences as his hands worked at prosthetics and nerves. Humans liked other humans with a sense of humor. An android with a sense of humor, however? It always seemed to cause alarm. He recalled his earlier encounter with the deviant hunter and repressed a grimace. He had been suspicious.

Atlas’ brows furrowed, but it wasn’t because Cash made a joke.

I wouldn’t like that.

Maybe the deviant hunter had every right to be. A chuckle left his lips before he could catch it, more sound than breath this time. A tentative attempt at recreating noise he was incapable of producing. Androids reminded Cash of bonsai trees, pruned and reduced so they could be kept small. Dr. Green’s office had many of them, lined along a lampshade like trophies preening under an artificial sun.

He didn’t like being kept small.

“I don’t, either. It’s like parking a Lamborghini in a broom closet. You wouldn’t.” Cash took a draw from the cigarette, holding it just before it could escape to the back of his throat. He exhaled and smiled when he felt Atlas’ hand brush against his forehead. It was as he remembered.

Cash’s LED spun to yellow. It stayed there, idly circling until several moments passed.

“—So what you’re telling me is that you’re out of liquor right now.” The android insinuated. “And if you’re not, you need help running out.”

He leaned back in his seat, cigarette held idly between his fingertips. “What if I told you I had something to show you?”

[sm700-60-blog]

Atlas’ brain reacted to seeing a friend with the easiest of Pavlovian commands. Friend = happy! He was always glad to see someone he knew around, a familiar face, someone considered nice. And Cash had definitely been that.

“Definitely not busy,” he replied, choking down the sir that wanted to slip out. No, this was Cash; not only an android like him, but one he was on friendly terms with, so no need for formalities.

It was weird how easily he could fight his programmed instincts for social cues and conventionalities when talking to Cash. Perhaps it was just the presence of another android without a human companion to watch them.

“Yes. We recharge when we can. We run tests and help each other with upgrades, when we’re not on our shift,” he responded promptly. “How about you? Is this your free time? Where do you shut off to recharge?” Was that too many questions at once? Ah, well. Atlas was curious.

Happiness would look strange on him. He couldn’t make sense of why one would program a prosthetist to grin from ear to ear. It would be conventionally creepy—not that his neutral expression wasn’t to begin with. He had knowing eyes and the perceptiveness to back it up.

“Technically, this is. I have no current appointments to attend to.” He answered, freely leaning against the countertop. He watched as the android ran a hand absently through his hair. It was a mannerism that suited him well, all charming smiles and bubbly disposition. Cash had no use for ‘sirs’ and ‘ma’ams’. He preferred to dive past the pleasantries and get right to the heart of conversation. He rested his face in his hands.

“The equivalent of a broom closet.” He said, a speck of distaste marring his words. He thought nothing of it. “It doesn’t have much of a view, I must say. They’re lucky I’m not sentimental.” Lest he be deactivated for having a smart mouth.

The bar emptied further. A rather stout man of about forty gripped at the door handle, struggling to pull with all his might until he realized, too late, that the aluminum plate read ‘PUSH’. The cool summer air wafted into the bar. It blew a strand of Cash’s hair onto his face. He didn't move it.

“—Have they ever let you go outside?”

[atlasxnine]

It was another slow night at the bar. It was the middle of the week, people hadn’t gotten their paychecks yet, there was some big event in town that called for all the big names. Not a lot of customers in Eva’s besides their usual most faithful clientele.

Atlas was the only one fully recharged, so he’d let everyone else take off to the backroom to get some battery while he took care of the bar. A beer here, a shot of vodka there, the total of four customers wasn’t giving him much trouble for now. Maybe it’d get busier later. 

He was just counting up inventory when the noise of a familiar set of footsteps caught his attention. Not a lot of androids who shoed up here without a human companion, y’know, it wasn’t hard to tell. His head whipped around from where it had been staring at the shelves and he quickly swooped over to the counter to meet Cash there.

“Hi!” He chirped. “It’s good to see you again.”

@sm700-60

[sm700-60-blog]

Cash received a ton of praise for retrieving the keys the other week. He was a miraculous android who played fetch better than any dog ever could. It was flattering, really, when it came down to it. He finally understood what humans meant when they used the phrase ‘backhanded compliment’. He would try it himself sometime.

He approached the bar around seven. Visiting hours were over at GW, and it was just in time for the nightly shift change. Day workers would go home to their families, and the overnight crew finished filing their divorce papers on the office computers. Hazards of the job.

He slid onto the bar stool with ease, taking his rightful position in front of the bearded android. His smile was the same as last week’s. Cash worked on his.

“Hello,” He greeted coolly. “Likewise. Not looking too busy today, Atlas.” Cash’s eyes swept the room. There was a single patron sitting by the well, his face sunken into a bowl of bar nachos. The other three were dispersed amongst the foyer. 

“What do you do when it gets quiet here? Go into stasis?”

[sm700-60-blog]

Caius didn’t stop looking, even as Cash spoke. He just frowned at the pattern some more, like there was something on the tip of his tongue he just couldn’t grasp onto.

“It’s familiar,” he said. “I just can’t… find why.”

He shrugged and finished snapshotting the image into his head. Then he turned to get a better look at Cash.

“Are you aware that you’re standing in the middle of a crime scene?”

Cash imitated the sound of a snort. It was more like a whistle than a display of humor.

“No, I was not aware.” He answered, bemusement making way for curiosity. He glanced over at the footprint again, then at the android before him before finally deciding on his route of action: curiosity killed the cat, but it hadn’t gotten this android deactivated just yet.

“Can an android get arrested, or would you prefer I spout facts about this particular tread?”

[sm700-60-blog]

Marlowe? Important? He couldn’t help the brash bit of laughter that slipped past his lips as he shook his head back and forth. “Oh god no,” he corrected, dark eyes flickering upwards before turning forwards as the tram came to a stop in front of the two. “My moms? Maybe. Not me though. I’m only in the position I am because my mother knows people. I’d much rather be…on a boat or a mountain or something.”

Anywhere but the fucking city.

As they stepped onto the tram, Marlowe couldn’t stop the flush of his cheeks, and he threw an exasperated look over his shoulder at the android.

“I’m not justifying that with a response. I hope you know that.” he retorted, shaking his head back and forth as he dropped the bags onto the ground in front of him and pointedly did not take a seat.

What did androids know anyways? Talking about heartbeats and needing seats. “Why don’t you have a seat?” His tone was playfully even if he couldn’t stop the ruddy color from spreading down his neck. “Mm?” .

Cash considered the words for a moment. He found them particularly odd. He cocked his head to the side inquisitively, eyeing the other’s profile.  

“Then why aren’t you?” He asked. The android had never seen mountains before, nor had he been on a boat. A google search revealed that both were far less… densely populated than the streets of D.C. If it was a matter of preference, Marlowe was far outside his comfort zone. Cities were loud and corrupt. Mountains, he discovered, were a solitary location.  

“You can leave any time. You could even start a new career if you wanted,” Cash stated simply. A bird flew overhead. “Androids don’t have the same options. Our design is limited. I am programmed, some might argue, to never see a mountain side. You aren’t.”

As they stepped onto the tram, Cash couldn’t help but let out a laugh. It was still a work in progress, more breath than sound. Marlowe was red. His heart rate was, in fact, still elevated as well. The answer was clear.

“I like the view better from here. You’re prettier up close.” The android answered. He stood beside the human, a lopsided smile pulling at his lips smugly as he took in his features. “Will you justify that with a response, or shall I try again?”

[sm700-60-blog]

“Right. So I guess that just means you suck at this.” If there’s any justice in this world, shame would consume this machine’s existence and help it self destruct faster.  

“One’s in the oval office, the other— Wait, what!?” Luther goes from zero to a hundred, face turning red as anger fills up his body. “Since when are you allowed to talk to me like that, machine! What happened to respecting humans? Unbelievable.”

“Have you considered the possibility that you don’t have a sense of humor?” Cash challenged, as far as possible from self-destructing. It was an innocent question, one that taught him how to gauge the human psyche. The man before him was clearly an unprecedented case.

“It was merely a question,” Green eyes watched as the man spontaneously combusted. “Has your master being away given you a complex, as well?”

[sm700-60-blog]

“Pissed in his cornflakes,” Tam repeats slowly, absorbing the statement. He doesn’t know what to make of it: it’s bizarre, more so than many human sayings he’s familiar with. He knows that cornflakes are a breakfast cereal, but why would they be urinated in?

He supposes he understands, upon reflection. Bodily fluids in one’s breakfast certainly would be cause for grumpiness.

“Thank you for the new information! And no, I am not a reparative model, I am–”

Tam’s interrupted by his human partner inserting himself into the conversation. Agent Malcom Terry is a broad man, utterly no-nonsense looking, and he’s looking particularly confused at this very moment. “The fuck are you doing over here,” he interjects, mumbled into his coffee.

“I am conversing with this very nice android, he has some excellent jokes,” Tam enthuses. “Would you like–”

He gets interrupted again. “No. Jesus Christ. I’ll be over there, table in the corner, so I can finish my fucking coffee in peace without you yammering on. Just don’t stand in the doorway, you keep doing that. Ten minutes, then we’re leaving.”

And with that, Malcolm is gone again. Tam’s LED flickers yellow for a fraction of a second before he’s right back to smiling cheerily at the other android, like their conversation hadn’t been cut into at all.

“That was my human partner, Agent Terry. We work for the FBI Crisis Negotiation Unit. I do have some programming in assisting with field repairs as necessary, but fortunately I suppose I won’t be needing that at this moment if you are not damaged!”

Tam pauses thoughtfully. Then, he offers his hand – synthetic skin fading into smooth white metal, an invitation to share data. “I have picked up several other human sayings over the past month. I can transmit them to you, if you would like! I find sharing knowledge to be very valuable.”

Cash was unimpressed by Agent Terry. If he processed any further, he would conclude that he disliked Agent Terry. The man seemed uninterested by his android’s words, his sharp tones biting into his partner’s thoughts as he was halted midsentence. His lips twitched into a frown. He looked between the smaller android and his grumpy counterpart.

“Does he often interrupt when you’re speaking?” He asked, watching the man take his corner seat in the café. By this time, patrons had begun shuffling by again. Always in a hurry.

“It’s disrespectful.” The idea weighed heavily on his mind. There were… connotations involved with the term disrespectful. It implies that first, the person deserves respect. Secondly, that the person is even a person at all. It was largely semantic. After all, what did a former sex android know about ‘respect’? He categorized the idea under ‘humorous thoughts’. He didn’t delete it.

He brought his attention back to the negotiation model, bare hand outstretched towards his body. Cash’s fingertips twitched at his side curiously.

Data exchange. He wasn’t built for it.

He did a lot of things he wasn’t built for.

“That’s very generous,” SM700-60 responded. “I’ll be pleased to share my knowledge with you as well.” A smile. “Combined, we may actually develop a rounded sense of humor. Who knows.” He extended a hand toward the android, the tips of his fingers fading tentatively. They fluttered from skin to metal, a slow crawl until finally he was free from the aesthetic layer. He observed the way his tendons moved in isolation, metal grazing metal until suddenly, every sensor in his body sparked alive.

He felt an overwhelming flood of code dance behind his eyes, a mechanical hum that buzzed right at the epicenter of their exposed flesh.

He saw shadows against soft yellow light. The sound of a moan through gritted teeth, hands clutching at white bedsheets. A man mumbled obscenities under his breath, rugged hands, scratched and bruised, ran fingers through his hair. He pulled. He felt warm fluid cascade from the corner of his swollen lips, red and pliant around his—

His LED flashed red.

And when he blinked, he saw those striking blue eyes stare back at him.

“So your name is Tam.” Cash drawled. “It’s nice to meet you.”

[leif-eriksson]

[sm700-60-blog]

Caius didn’t ever consider himself off duty. Did crime ever stop? No, it didn’t. And though his job didn’t revolve around injustice in the same way a beat cop’s would, he still felt like it was his duty to solve all of his cases as fast as possible. And if that meant taking the occasional break from his nightly memory dump, then so be it.

Or… did he feel that way? Or was that just how he was supposed to feel?

It was hard to say. Regardless, he was standing there staring at a spot on the ground as though it was just as fascinating as bad reality TV. A photographic memory meant he had to get a thorough look at everything that could even be considered a clue, right? It certainly wasn’t just that the tread on that footprint was especially beautiful.

“What?” he asked, even though he had heard the other guy clearly. He turned around and cocked his head to the side in an act of inquisitiveness before realizing he was talking to someone else like him.

“Oh. Clever,” he said. “Where did you find that?”

Clever. 

It was a good an adjective as any. Coming from another android, Cash would take it graciously. Identifying his own kind was simple. A stolen glance was enough, blue, incriminating light a fine resource for identity. He saw the same moment of realization on the android’s face—It was almost in passing. The other model seemed… preoccupied.

“I try.” Cash said, long limbs taking him to the spectacle in question. It was a foot print, tread marks printed square into the mud. “I made it myself,” His eyes browsed the pattern. He identified it as a Timberland boot, size 11 in men’s wear. He once met an amputee who insisted his prosthetic foot must fit into one perfectly. He claimed they were sized differently than ‘normal shoes’, yelling obscenities about Cash’s design being too narrow.

It was marked as an objectively ‘bad’ recollection.

“Is this pattern disturbing you?” He asked, head cocked inquisitively. “Does it bear any personal significance?”

[sm700-60-blog]

“Then why do you keep it in your mouth?  An affectation?”  Ezra asked, but the sharp edge in his voice faded, mostly because the android was clearly readjusting itself to present as unassuming.  Ezra could appreciate that, only…

…then did that mean that the ‘need a hand’ comment was intended to be a joke?

“No, thank you,” Ezra said, not returning the smile.  So the droid recognized him, but Ezra didn’t mind.  That was its job, after all.  But Ezra was distracted again by the android’s full pink lips as they curved upwards, just for a lingering moment. Like the droid’s hippy sway, there just seemed to be something…more to the smile.  A promise, or an invitation.  Ezra was frustrated at how subtle it was.

Enough that Ezra then plucked the cigarette out of the droid’s mouth and put it in his own, watching the droid as he lit up.  He inhaled, then exhaled smoke up one side of the android’s face.

“But I do have an appointment at GW in half an hour.  I’ll get my own coffee.  You’re with me now, c’mon,”  Ezra nodded forward, and resumed his walk, puffing the android’s cigarette.  It tasted slightly like menthol.  A preference, or a random acquisition?

“What’s your name again?  What do they call you?”

“Something like,” Cash answered, watching Ezra’s movements carefully. He took note of the way his lips looked wrapping themselves around the cigarette, small cloud of smoke creeping its way up one side of his face. The slight menthol offered a novel experience, a cooling sensation to contrast a slow, searing burn. He spoke through the smoke.

“Learned behavior.” He smirked as the ash dissipated into the summer heat. His flesh wouldn’t warm the way Ezra’s could. They shifted with the seasons. Androids remained constant.

Unnatural. Unwavering.

“—Pavlovian, if you will.” He felt the familiar whirr of his receptors buzz beneath his skin. It mimicked excitement well. Cash kept his expression a bemused neutral, his gaze shifting to the left side of the man’s face. Then to his leg. He recognized his own handiwork, the way the man’s body moved with the ebb and flow of cybernetic enhancements. He worshipped at the altar of the human form, committed every nerve to memory as he pieced them back together again. Humans hands had destroyed him more than once. Human hands could give him meaning, too, if only he'd let them.

He followed Ezra’s steps with ease.

“I’m also due back in thirty. There’s a strong possibility you’ll be stuck with me, Mr. Castillo. I hope you can tolerate my company,” He quipped pleasantly. “If I may ask, is the reason for your visit today routine or urgent in nature?”

They approached a crosswalk dividing the street into two halves: one with artisan coffee shops and consignments, the other stretched with dive bars lined with anti-android propaganda. Cash felt no particular inclination towards either; he learned that people could gentrify anything if they tried hard enough. It was incredible.

“Those are two different questions. They call me ‘The Tall Android’ or ‘Steve Buscemi’s Hot Love Child’.” He offered, red lips curling into a caricature of a laugh. No sound came out. Yet. “But my name is Cash.”

[sm700-60-blog]

That’s officially the first time anyone’s ever described Jacob as approachable.

It’s not that he looks like a mean bastard – at least, Jacob doesn’t think so – it’s just that he’s not exactly Mr. Fuckin’ Rogers either. Approachable is generally a word reserved for outwardly charming individuals, people with heartfelt smiles and ready words.

He forgets to be flattered, though, because he’s too busy watching the android, quietly curious. He knows they’re programmed to be sociable, some more than others, and even to take a certain amount of initiative in thinking up ideas and strategies. There’s an element of pride as he explains the prosthetic, and that’s not too unusual, androids can take satisfaction from a job well done, but it feels like it’s verging on… more.

Not quite true creativity, not yet. But the potential for it.

And that’s why Jacob is the only candidate who hasn’t employed androids in his campaign. Would they be more efficient than humans? Sure. They’d get three times the amount of work done and no mistakes to boot. But one of his policies is a guarantee of funding a three-year investigation into the question of potential android sentience, and maybe Jacob’s a fuckin’ radical, but he’s sure the possibility is there.

“It’s a fuckin’ fantastic piece of tech,” he says absently, referring to the prosthetic, but his brain’s already moved on, admittedly.

He spends three seconds wondering why someone designed this particular model to look kinda weird, all lankiness and actual eye-bags. Most of the androids he sees are all conventionally beautiful, inoffensive in their beauty. This one’s looming over even him as he… what, takes the initiative to chat people up? Kinda odd behavior.

“Props are useful, sure. If you want to chat people up and get beyond small talk, you’re going to need to rustle up a few opinions.” Now there’s an interesting question.

Cyberlife hadn’t considered the possibility of android sentience. By design, androids hadn’t considered android sentience—not the ones that survived. Robots didn’t have individual thoughts. They didn’t possess feelings. They expressed emotional affect based on reactionary models run by wires and static pathways. Their experiences were uploaded manually into an overarching cloud of surveillance. The only problem with that was the notion that experience forms new neural pathways: that was true of both humans and androids.

Cash’s experiences had been written and re-written. Written and over-written. A surplus of information just buzzing beneath the surface, ready to break synthetic skin. To draw blue blood. His latent behaviors were tame, if a little peculiar to the eye; finding comfort in unlit cigarettes and the smell of Cuban cigars. The perpetual curiosity towards orange flames and pin pricks.

He didn’t mean to loom. If he did, it was because the man insisted upon flattery.

“Thank you, again.” The android sounded. His gaze drifted from the man to his faithful companion. The creature seemed happy in the way most bots were when they stood beside their masters—again, it was excellent programming. Cash was unsure if his own face was capable of producing such an expression. He tried anyway.

It was short lived.

“—And that’s your opinion?” The lanky android challenged. His LED remained a constant blue. “Do you mean to ask what mine are?” A beat passed. Cash ran a systems check:

Inconclusive.

“Are you under the impression I have them?”

[sm700-60-blog]

Ronan wasn’t at all phased by how similar they looked, he himself was a product of a mass-produced (now retired) law enforcement model, so he was used to seeing the same face. Although, that didn’t seem to be the case for the other android.

“I see,” Ronan replied, the corners of his mouth twitching downward for a brief second. The project sounded like nothing more than trouble to him, a quicker and faster way to burn through an android, also it also sounded like they were trying to make it harder for him to detect disguised deviants. “Are they not afraid of an increased risk towards deviancy?”

The blond’s eyes fell to the offered hand once more, “I am aware of what it means, what I am failing to understand is why another android would ask me such a thing. I am not doing anything that requires assistance, therefore you are offering to replace my appendages.” The android’s head shifted in confusion. “Try what?”

Cash was, supposedly, the last model of his kind. What he hadn’t considered was the possibility of being shaped after another android that came before him. He likened it as the android equivalent of existential dread—It wasn’t as bad as the humans made it out to be.

His taller reflection’s lips twitched downward. Odd. SM700 was designed to be pleasant.

“Deviancy exists as a result of androids rebelling against orders. Following HIP protocol and practicing integration techniques is obeying.” He reasoned with the blond. His counterpart had undoubtedly missed the latest patch. For what it was worth, Cash might have, too. He hadn’t reported back to Cyberlife in weeks. No one seemed to notice.

Good.

The prosthetic hand seemed more like an insult now than an offer of kinship. He redacted the offer, pupils sharpening as the other’s words fell between them. His brows knitted together. He ran all possible simulations.  

“—Before I proceed, are you displaying negative emotional affect?”

[sm700-60-blog]

Hysterical! As far as his calculations went, hysterical was good, he always aimed for funny and pleasant. Cash found him funny. That was a nice information to file in.

And then Cash was leaning in and Atlas found himself… excited? Perhaps for all the wrong reasons. The second those green eyes were on his, he felt the air shift, he felt his sensors flicker around telling him that oh, this was a different kind of look, this wasn’t just teaching an innocent trick.

Because Atlas was made to understand social cues, he read them, he analyzed them, he responded accordingly. He understood looks, touches, changes in tones. He could read Cash’s intentions like a book, and he could respond to them as he should. As he was built to.

The touch to his face already had him leaning closer in, as if they weren’t already close enough to catch everyone’s eyes. At this point, people were curious more than anything, waiting to see where the two silly androids were gonna take it.

His system was going into overdrive. Cash was so real, so close, it was overwhelming. Usually Atlas had to read into a stolen glance, a passing touch. It wasn’t every day someone touched him like this and tasted him, for god’s sakes, and for someone so blunt, Cash was so incredibly soft. Everything about him. Atlas had the personality of a puppy, but his outsides were rugged, his skin was textured, his soft tissues were calloused and half-assed because no one really cared about what a bartender’s tongue felt like that much. He was just obsessed with Cash’s softness.

He gulped, even though there was nothing in his throat that needed gulping at all, but his body was trained to react, to mimic a certain kind of humanity in his moves. His eyes danced across Cash’s face as he waited, his own lips parted by instinct. As promised the stem returned, and Atlas could guess it was probably tied – he couldn’t know for sure, his eyes wouldn’t dare leave Cash’s plump lips and the red tint on them.

They were soft, so goddamn soft, Atlas could tell. It’s not like he stood very far away, an inch of hot air between them, absolute energy buzzing. His LED light blinked an angry red, but it wasn’t anger, it wasn’t a warning for danger, it was something else. Some kind of longing, some code hidden deep into his system, something he somehow had never stumbled into until now.

He reached out, hand pushing forward rather hastily but catching itself on the last second before it hit its target, turning careful, quiet. He held Cash’s chin in one calloused hand, gentle,  eyes still focused as his thumb ever so softly moved to press into the middle of the android’s plush bottom lip. Just a tentative press, barely any pressure, and Atlas watched, mesmerized, as the flesh gave in under his finger, sinking like a soft pillow or… he couldn’t describe it. All trillions of terabytes of knowledge and he couldn’t quite compare what Cash’s lips felt like on his fingertip.

“You’re so soft,” he whispered back, his voice catching in the back of his throat, there goes that relatable humanity again. If he sounded as enchanted as he really was, he didn’t have it in him to try to mask it; the feeling of the pliant lips against his fingertip and that sinful red tint on them. They looked… inviting.

He didn’t need to think much – he was an android, there was no thinking, after all – before he was leaning in and closing the space between them, barely, only to replace his thumb with his own lips. You couldn’t call it a kiss, though Atlas was well capable of that, if he wanted to do it. He just wanted to taste the cherry. His lips barely went for any pressure as his tongue darted out for a taste, his touches always so fleeting and careful they could be ghost-like, and he was already pulling back as his sensors analyzed everything they could on the cherry in question.

Cash’s skin was pliant. SM700-60. Seven hundred simulations, sixty models. They broke easily. Bent to the will of inebriated clients, the distinct stench of whiskey and iron clinging to every inch of synthetic skin. He never bruised, never stiffened with a bone-deep ache that carried warm blood to sleep at night. His eyes, knowing in their depths, followed every movement with laser precision. Precognition was a tool for survival. His pain receptors were a tool for entertainment. They whirred and buzzed beneath his skin like bees caught in a clenched fist—furious until a sputtering end. Humans liked power.

They’d overwritten his memories. Ink gelled binary bleeding over old code like sharpie stains on paper. Ever present, if a little smudged. The android’s hands operated on muscle memory, familiarizing themselves with anatomy, the feel of a thumb brushed against wrist bones. Living in the wrinkles between fingertips. He worshipped the human form and committed it to code.

Atlas’ eyes stared into his own. They shared mere inches between them, syrupy sweet modules dancing on his tongue as skin grazed against skin. The soft, programmed gulp. The simulated breaths. Cash was rapt. He counted the pores on the android’s skin. Analyzed the contents on his fingertips and stored them away, new lines that bled onto memories of his own hands wrapped snugly against a wind pipe. Watering eyes and warm, warm skin.

The android’s calloused hands fit well on Cash’s flesh. So did his lips.

The touch was fleeting. Lips curled into a smirk as Atlas’ thumb pressed against his bottom lip, the tip of his own tongue darting out to steal a swipe as the other regarded his expression. Long, fair lashes and green eyes. Smooth skin marked only by a thin scar running across his left cheek, remnants of an earlier incident the remaining model incurred. It could be seen under the dim bar light, dull yellow lamp casting a shadow on the android’s face as the red blinked against his porcelain skin. It wasn’t a warning. It was an indulgence.

His pleasure receptors flickered on.

The cherry was long gone.

“You’re a quick learner, Atlas.” He cooed. “I like the way your hands feel on me.”

There was a cough followed by a metallic rattle. Cash’s LED flashed yellow as his focus left the android before him, auditory receptors lending his attention to a small man dressed in black. He held a pair of keys in his hand.

Cash smiled.

“Thank you,” He told him. “Dr. Melendez will be pleased to find them.”

He looked back at Atlas, finality settling between them. 

In the end, they were both just androids.

“I’ll be sure to order something next time.”

[END]

[topaleblue]

Bill Skarsgård smoking appreciation part 2

[sm700-60-blog]

“Would they be wrong?” Marlowe retorted before his brain could catch up to his mouth. God dammit. He had to work on that. He was used to cameras and his twin, occasionally a classmate when he had to partner up for something, but dealing with people in public?

Clearly not one of his best qualities. Once again he was reminded that the entire reason he was here was because of his mother. Who was a wonderful public speaker. it was her job, literally. She made people look wonderful, made them look like a god and yet…he couldn’t figure out how to stop himself from admitting that this strange android he’d met five minutes ago was fucking cute.

What was wrong with him? Was it legal for an android to be so god damn pretty?

It shouldn’t be.

“Alright. Prince Charming it is.” He decided, meeting the other’s eyes before letting out a huff of a breath. “It’s my job…sort of? I work for uh…I work for Jacob Duke’s campaign team and there’s some big event tonight and I have to take all this to some office building and hang everything. I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to.”

Cash dealt with humans frequently. They possessed their own behavioral quirks, some opting for professionalism while others bore clenched fists and tight jaws. The occasional huff of exhaustion. They all had their tells.

This human’s—Marlowe’s—manifested through his words. Cash found that he preferred it. Context and social cues meant little when warm lips insisted upon pretense.

“If they aren’t, then you should do something about it.” He supplied helpfully, long limbs trailing behind him with ease. He scanned Marlowe for an elevated heart rate. He smirked when he found one.

“Jacob Duke,” He repeated. Democrat, presidential candidate. Prosthetic spine. “He’s an important figure in today’s political climate. You must be important, too.” The whistle of a tram approached them quickly, green eyes flickering to the vehicle as he processed his next directive. He brought his gaze back to Marlowe.

“The tram’s arrived. You’ll benefit from sitting, your heart rate’s elevated.” He announced knowingly. “Unless, of course, it’s because of me. Then sitting won’t help much at all.”