Forged Ideals
I learned to hate the idea of being a woman.
Our only purpose seemed to be to serve, to submit, to be silent and suffer.
I watched as my mother cried and begged church after church for forgiveness for a crime she had no choice in commiting.
Knowing her story, her suffering,
intimately by age 9,
I had wept with her and could not fathom the cruelty and audacity of all of those pious, holy hypocrites to find joy in her desperate pleas.
I learned that I was not as good as my brothers, I was weaker, more emotional, better suited for cooking and cleaning and laundry than sports or video games or cars.
I learned that my voice should never be heard when there is a man present, that if a man chooses to give you attention, you should always be polite and sweet and thankful.
I learned that I would never be smart enough to understand the things in a man’s world.
I grew up with the notion that women like my mother and I are not pretty enough, we should be grateful for any man’s attention, because we have brown hair, brown eyes, baby bearing bodies and deep sadness that no one could ever deal with.
I had more body hair than most boys in my 5th grade class, I was too short, my hair was never blonde, my eyes weren’t blue, my stomach never once flat enough despite years of not eating and vomiting constantly- all of this kept as a tally of my exact degree of worth, or lack thereof, in the back of my brain.
I learned that I looked so similar to my mother through any eyes but her own.
She could only look at me and see her past regrets, now I look at me and I see a nauseating blur of two people that broke and abandoned me.
And so I burned the idea that I could ever be a woman to the ground.
I longed to be anything *but* a woman, hoping that would be enough for my father to care, to rewrite my past through a new lens, give me new worth, allow me to enjoy the things that he did even though I was not born with the same body as my brothers, but it turns out I will never be a man either.
There is nothing left that feels like mine except the in between shades of bluish gray.
The absent, gaping void settled betwixt here and there.
I do not belong to either world and I never will.
But I will forge my own place for my younger self to find safety and sanctuary in- even walking through the flames of the hell I’ve been damned to.
I am a phoenix.
Even if it takes lifetimes to rise from the ashes of generational grief.
Twister
"Ya'll better hurry up, the storms blowing in."
The drawl whirled off her tongue as fast as the wind picked up in the sky.
Where did that come from? A dialect so distinct you would have thought we were deep in the boot of Missouri. But we weren't. We lived in Bozeman, Montana and she had never been out of the state.
Claire was 5 years old when she started to have break through speech impediments that consistently sounded like a midwestern woman in her 70's. It wasn't all the time but enough to make me worry.
"We need to see a specialist, Dan." I pleaded with my husband to make an appointment. He never got as worked up as I did about these things. I was the textbook helicopter parent. "People are going to think she is illiterate!" I screeched. He put his arm around me and laughed it off.
Ever since we adopted Claire, she was my world. As two dads who once thought having a family was just a dream, I wanted to protect the life we had built with everything I had in me. She came into our lives when she was only fourteen months old. Her biological mother was in her twenties at the time and had been trying to make it as a single mother in the slums of Billings, Montana. She eventually succumbed to her life of drugs and overdosed in the one-bedroom apartment she was being evicted from, leaving Claire to cry out into the night alone and scared. Eventually, one of the questionable neighbors who could no longer stand to hear the cries of a baby in the early hours of the morning came to beat down the door. When he found the lifeless young mother lying cold on a mattress in the middle of the room with Claire sitting next to her crying, he called 911. Officers arrived shortly and took Claire out of that scene she had been in so many times before and started the chapter to her new life.
We had been on the waiting list for 6 months before we got that phone call, and I was elated to finally start earning my new title of dad. Horrified of her back story, I swore to protect her at all costs and give her the best life I could.
"She is fine, Chris. It is her age. She is experimenting and finding new ways to communicate." He seemed annoyed that I was even bringing it up. "Remember when she came home from daycare after the first week and had a lisp?" We both smiled. "It was just a new discovery she had to try out for herself, but it went away just as fast as it came on. This will pass."
Maybe he was right. I was overreacting again. We packed up our bags at the park and headed to the car. After all, she was right a storm was moving into the area.
Once we returned home, I asked Claire what she would like for dinner. "Nothin beats fried chicken and mashed taters. I haven't had a good home cooked meal like that in years." Appalled I stopped and stared as she continued coloring at the kitchen table.
"Oh yeah? And who made you that meal?" I asked skeptically.
"Memaw used to make Sunday dinner after church each week. She taught me er'thing I know about good cookin. I s'pose that would be the last time I had a meal that good. Memaw's house." She had stopped coloring and was staring off as if lost in a deep memory of time that she vividly could see. She smiled and then returned to coloring.
I looked over at Dan who had walked in on the back end of the conversation, and he shrugged his shoulders and moved on.
"How about we order a pizza?" He said smiling and changing the conversation. He thought it was all just some sort of a game.
Dan and I stood next to each other in the kitchen, and I gave him the look that meant it was time to do something. He sighed and quietly said "It is just pretend, make-believe childhood fun." I wasn't having it. "It is getting worse." I urged.
"What are you two fairies yabbering on about in there?" Claire was now standing with her hands on her hips staring at us both.
We were stunned, frozen in time unsure of what just happened. She had never spoke like that before, and she had never been around anyone who would have taught her such phrasing.
"Claire?" I said soft and firmly.
"What daddy?" Her voice sweet and innocent as before. "Do you know what you just said?" Dan asked her, still taken back with what had just happened.
"I said what daddy." She smiled and shook her head as if he was the crazy one, and then skipped away to her room like normal.
"See! There is clearly something wrong. When are we going to do something? Are you waiting for us to walk in and find her smoking a pack of Marlboro reds while doing the daily crossword?"
Dan shook his head and ran his fingers through his hair. "It just doesn't make sense."
I walked over to the table where she was coloring before and looked down at the papers. My eyes widened and my heart stopped. Dan saw the shock on my face and quickly rushed to my side. "What is it?" He demanded.
Once he was next to me, we both stared down at her artwork mortified that any of this was actually happening.
A perfectly drawn Confederate flag filled the page she had been coloring.
"YEE HAW!" Claire exclaimed loudly down the hall from her bedroom.
"Okay, it is time." Dan agreed.
Snooze
My alarm goes off, my eyes open, and I feel instant dread. Another morning, I wake up not dead. An eternal sleep sounds like the ultimate peace.
Sleeping has been my escape for so long. Once I get the noises and chatter to turn off in my mind, I drift away to the safest place. A period of time I am granted permission to be unconscious. I spend too many hours of my day overly conscious. Waiting and longing to turn it all off again. Sleepless nights are like torture, eliminating the one thing I fall back on when everything is overwhelming. Nightmares jeopardize the solitude I seek, and occasionally leave me feeling worse than before. Reminding me that there is no true escape from the things that haunt us. Maybe I should take a pill that guarantees restless sleep? Maybe something stronger that will let me forever be.
When my eyes are heavy, but my mind refuses to shut down, I eventually allow the thoughts building in my head to pour out through my exhausted relief valve. One I don't have control over anymore. I let the words dance from my mind to the blank canvas of a screen, creating something tragic, beautiful, worthless and all that in between. Rhyming, crying, random or heartfelt, it all comes out when I allow myself the time to write it down. When I try to put my thoughts into words, sometimes a wall rises up, blocking anything from connecting brain to page. I suddenly feel inept and speechless, unable to form a basic sentence. Leaving me hopeless and discouraged, I give up. Back to bed until the alarm goes off again.
This is my addiction:
Hours spent wrapped in blankets in my bed, years of life wasted in meaningless stimulation.
I think it's one I share with so many people.
This is how it starts:
You pick up your phone. It's an innocent thing, at first. Maybe you're a musician, and when you see a video of a wonderful performer playing a piece you've wanted to learn, it inspires you to go do what you love. You learn the piece, enjoy the process, and so, you return to the place you found that inspiration. There's countless tips for practice and performance, countless inspiring pieces to watch. When the “scroll to see next” bar appears at the bottom of the screen, you think nothing of it. This is helping you do things you love.
After that it becomes a daily ritual. When you get home, you pick up your phone and start to scroll. They're perfectly tailored to what you want to see, and so you keep watching. You tell yourself this is good, because they are helping you improve in the things you are passionate about. After seeing a few videos, you go to the piano, but it's never quite the same as the ones you see on screen. Maybe you just need a few more tips first.
So it starts encroaching into your free time. You tell yourself you have nothing else to do, so it's just time that you needed to waste anyway. It feels good to sit there with your phone, watching happier people, more talented people, funnier people. You notice fewer and fewer are about piano. You notice you remember fewer and fewer. You don't even think while you're watching them anymore---it's like drowning in a perfectly curated pool. But it feels good, to not think about anything. So why not keep going? It's not harming anything to spend a little time away from your thoughts.
Now it's constant. There's never a quiet moment in your mind, or it feels like static. If you're not stimulated, you don't feel like doing anything except finding that state of perfectly numb balance again. You still watch those piano practice tips, and maybe once in a while you sit down at the instrument (your phone close by your side, of course). You'll play a few half-hearted melodies; maybe, for a moment, remember why you loved it so much. Then you get a notification, or go to open up your metronome app, and somehow you're sitting there on the piano bench, phone in hand, scrolling your life away.
You don't need sleep. You've counted your hours, and you have more than enough. Anyway, it's a good way to empty your mind before bed. You can sacrifice an hour or two.
So you're not sleeping. You're not doing the things you love. You don't want to schedule plans with friends, because that will cut into your free time, time free to be wasted. You still enjoy your life when you remember to live it, but it's so much easier to sink into the perfect pool of stimulus.
Until you realize one day that it's not just a way to waste time. That you couldn't stop if you wanted to.
Even now writing this, I know in a few minutes when I'm done with my moment of realization, I'll probably be right back to it. It's so hard to do anything else when everything seems to take so much effort for your mind. There's nothing preventing you from cutting it out of your life, shutting off your phone and going outside, going to play the music you used to love.
Maybe I will today.
Maybe I won't.
This is my addiction.
Chapter Thirty-Four – Under New Management
“You haven’t done what I told you to do.” The new great one announced.
“We need more time.” One of the advisors answered.
“You don’t have any more time.” The great one informed the council causing fear to wash over them.
“A lot of changes must be made. We can’t just wave our hands and make it happen.” Another advisor protested.
“You haven’t made any changes, and you don’t intend to.” The great one answered,
“Now you will receive your punishment.” The great one started waving his hands around and uttering words that sounded like nonsense. When he was finished, the King and all his advisors turned into rats.
“Now the outside fits what is on the inside.” The great one said, although now none of them could understand him because they were all rats. Now he needed to address the people. The Kingdom was no longer a kingdom but an empire. He would need to turn it into a well-oiled machine, swift and efficient. To do that he would need to create a machine where everyone knew what was expected of them.
News of the King’s demise spread quickly and soon everyone was gathered. The great one stood up to address the crowd.
“For what seems like forever, the masses have always worked so that the few could lead fantastic lives. The life of abundance and luxury. A man should toil, first for himself, and then for the common good. I gave the King a chance to put this idea into practice, but he refused. He didn’t want to give up his power. So, I turned him and all his advisors into rats.” The great one paused to let this information soak in.
“Now we must forge a new future. One where everyone benefits, not just a few. Where everyone gets a chance to use their talents, first to benefit themselves, then to benefit others. Among you there are natural leaders, people who are respected by the community and able to organize people to accomplish great things. We need you to step up and use those talents. I have written out the rules that we will now live by as well as the tasks that need to be done. Life will be better, both for you and your children. Together, we will make it better.”
The people stood in silence. They didn’t know what to think about this new thing the great one is going to force on them. All their lives, all they’ve known is toil. They felt comfort in knowing that there was someone in charge directing society. Now that was all gone. What would become of them without a King? They all knew they couldn’t oppose the great one. If he thought this new thing was what should be done. They would all have to do it whether they wanted to or not.
The great one started identifying these natural leaders and over the next few years, he put them into place. At first, no one noticed that changes were being made. However, everyone noticed when food production increased. Everyone started to wonder where all the homeless people disappeared to. Crime became almost nonexistent. The people noticed that their lives were getting better and there was no King to thank for it, they had themselves to thank.
It took some time, but the great one had everything in place. It was time to start the war. Everyone was gathered for the announcement.
“We have enjoyed prosperity like no other people have enjoyed before us. When people are left to their own devices, they are capable of amazing things. You have all proven this to be true. There are other people in other places that are not as fortunate as you are. They suffer under the yoke of oppression by those who do not care if they live or die. We can change that. We have assembled a great army and now we will use that army to free the people of the world, so they can enjoy the life that you all now enjoy.”
The people listened. They could not deny life was better, but they didn’t see any reason why they should be responsible for bringing this life to others. They could not go against the wishes of the great one. They would have to force the rest of the world to be like them, whether it wanted to or not.
The great one knew that the people did not want war, but when the whole world is under the same system and everyone is happy, war will no longer be required. The great one knew that a woman would rise to oppose him. He had seen it in his dreams. He still never saw how the dreams ended but now instead of rooting for her victory, he rooted for her defeat. It was his destiny to sweep across the planet. It was his destiny to rule the world and no woman was going to get in his way.
IT SUCKS.
The past few years have been hellish for me and a couple of my friends. When we finished Uni, it was as if we had resurfaced from a long dive, deprived of the air we desperately craved for for the past 4 years. A renewed sense of self washed over us as the crippling anxiety of ‘what now’ awaited a few weeks into ‘the new era’.
Our last day in Uni was bliss. My best friends and I went out for some food and drinks to celebrate what we felt had been the most time consuming waste of our young lives. Later that evening, we parted. A week later, each one of us started realizing how lonely we were, and clueless about life. We had been applying for jobs but with no graduation and papers we had to wait till December to acquire any sensible opportunities, this was in the beginning of February.
I got an internship position that I immediately embraced for order. Living at home, having the unpaid internship was exactly what I felt at the time, was perfect. 4 months in I insisted on a stipend which the boss man agreed to reluctantly. A few more months in, I knew I was lost.
Here is my point, I left that job last year, and I have never been happier. My friends have also had to endure impossible working conditions to keep a job. When I think about my new resolution, I get scared and excited. Writing brings me joy, it comes to me. I hope my friends do have the courage to do the same, you know, pursue something they love, despite the fear.
One of them has, Teaching French kids English. She hopes to do her masters in Belgium, but it is not going as smoothly with finances. I keep telling her, ‘it’s better than the alternative sweetie’, she tells me the same. I hope that keeps her going, it does for me.
At times, life feels a turd ungrateful for all we put out into the universe, but that sense of entitlement has never been rewarding. I guess the best we can do is our level best, then hope that what we put out will be put back. You know, karma and all that.
Chapter One
Ava clicked her laptop closed and stretched. She felt the tension of the day in her shoulders. Traveling for functions sucked, but at least she got to stay in some nice hotels. She looked at the time and decided at this late hour, the pool area might be empty.
Ava was right. There was not another person in sight. She swam hard for as many laps as she could manage and then floated on her back, catching her breath. She grappled with the stress of having to give that damned presentation tomorrow.
Like most people, Ava disliked public speaking. However, this was a task she could not respectfully decline (she had tried). Her employer insisted hers was the image the company wanted to represent them in such a public forum. Image is everything these days. She could not fuck this up.
Ava exited the pool and made her way to the hot tub. The beaded strings at the hips of her bikini bottoms slapped against her outer thighs as she walked. She settled in against one of the walls of powerful jets. The pressure of the water felt amazing on her lower back. She felt the tension slowly work its way out of her body. A random and naughty thought suddenly came to mind.
Ava slyly looked left and right. She slowly turned around and positioned herself with her knees on the seat. She brought her hips close to the wall and gasped.
Too much!
She backed off and approached again, more slowly and slightly off-center this time.
Ohhh YES…
She could feel the jet pushing against her. The sensation was delicious and she absently wondered why she had not tried this before. Her clit throbbed as the heated stream pressed in and around her lips. Errant bubbles found their way to tickle her ass. She almost moaned.
Ava imagined she was straddling a man’s lap, rubbing hungrily against the length of his hardened cock. His hands slipping down between them. His fingers pushing aside her bikini bottom to gain better access. She closed her eyes and sucked her bottom lip. Her hips now working in tight, almost involuntary circles against the relentless torrent of pleasure.
…feels so fucking good… gonna come so hard
She was so close now. She leaned into the insistent, rushing water. Ava could not get enough. She arched her back and splayed her hands on the wet concrete before her. She braced herself as she breathlessly approached the very edge…
Someone behind her loudly cleared his throat. Ava pushed off and spun around so quickly, she lost her balance. She inadvertently dunked herself in the center section of the hot tub. Surfacing, Ava wiped the water out of her eyes to see a guy with a huge grin, placing his towel on one of the nearby lounge chairs. Her face burned hot with embarrassment.
Oh my God!
Ava immediately wanted to slide down below the surface of the roiling water and drown herself. Then, with mercurial grandeur, she inexplicably became infused with self-righteous anger.
Masturbation is completely natural, she told herself.
Immediately, a snarky voice countered, Yeah, but fucking a water jet in public is not “natural”, you horny loser.
“Ava, right?” the stranger asked as he eased himself into the hot tub.
Ava froze. Her eyes scanned his face, mind racing.
How does he know my name?
Then it came to her. Her name tag. He must have seen her at the conference meet-and-greet earlier.
”I’m Beck. Nice to meet you.” He winked at her.
Ava dropped her gaze to the water before her and again contemplated the drowning option.
Required
Due to the unbalanced nature of Daniel Moors' testimony, when the drugs had been almost absent, it was readily apparent that psychological dependence had set in. And at the moment he had desperately needed his vice.
However the young man had luckily had enough lucidity to not antagonize the officers or much move when called for a disturbance in the estate.
Due to his incoherence, his erratic behavior prior, due to the fact that the younger brother was petrified with eyes blown wide and drenched but otherwise uninjured on the patio a social worker was called in.
The parents had lost control. Realized so months ago when their son had punched a wall in an exhausted, irritable state one night.
And as it stood had no means or authority as parents to have corralled destructive behavior and violent language.
Olli had become something of a doll, otherwise unaccounted for in matters of the house, in the instances Daniel sober or not deigned to notice him. Sometimes he was in a hugging and crying mood. Other times he was in a venting mood.
He screamed at ten year old Olli on such occasions.
It was scary.
Even though his screams had demanded him to stay there, in one place, far from him while he was so angry.
His eyes had learned to track the movements of those bigger. Take mental note of how they paced, how long their strides, how measured or how agitated.
And from the very start he'd not trusted Dr. Eddal. Hadn't wanted her there.
From the start a requirement to shelve the entire ordeal as resolved was for the parents to submit Olli to a counselor for care.
Specializing in abused children.
She'd been used to horrible. And in some occasions yes, the children did turn into statistics into her mind.
She could only hope every day, try a little harder every day that those ill-suited tracks of thought never showed.
Dr. Eddal first consulted with Olli late at night, not long after Daniel had been detained and formally registered into rehab. Rather than her regular office it had been in a hospital.
The parents or Uncles, the adult family members were often the most common culprits. But there were always the times-- where, "the brother in his stupors would talk in coarse language, extort the child, blackmail and demand from the child to keep his silence."
"We do not believe physical force was applied."
"Marks designated to be 'with intent' are few and far between. Most if not all are now old and partially healed."
She answered his questions.
She asked her own, of how he felt of what he liked and who he liked. What did he do at certain times of the day and when he ate. How was school? There had been a note that he tried out for his basketball team and had been a rat in the Nutcracker show that winter.
Eddal did her utmost to reassure he was a person. A valued person who'd been undeservedly mistreated. In a way no one deserved to be treated.
And with time, in their eighteen months together she hesitated, but ultimately decided that it wouldn't be unprofessional if he considered her a friend.
If it meant his fear of adults all but faded.
Once he'd graced her with his voice, well, she certainly laughed a great deal. She clapped when he showed her the steps for the rat's solo in the Nutcracker. She listened as rules were enforced and the candy and cookie jars were placed out of his reach.
It was a transitionary period: from indulgent negligence to authoritative.
She reminded him it was out of love. She reminded that it was his decision and his alone to see Daniel, to contact his older brother-- his older brother with an illness who had hurt him, who had known so to some level-- when it was safe. Safe for Olli physically and safe for Olli mentally.
She only saw him twice-more after the eighteen months were up.
Three years later and she'd have to correct that.
Setting her purse on the seat beside her a coffee mug had been slid into her hands.
"Thank you ma'am," Daniel said quietly.
Olli had allowed his brother to borrow his phone to call for a consult.
The boys' parents were at the moment, at Olli's school for a conference about recent behavioral issues. Before they were to realize the younger son had set them up to leave.
"Everyone else thinks I was hallucinating what I saw on that road. I'd be a little less pissed if they at least gave me a chance to speak."
"I'd read about that in the papers. You claim to have seen--"
"A ghost maybe, best way I could think to describe it when my head had been cut clean through with my windshield mind you."
Daniel Moors was terse but otherwise composed. He kept his temper and sighed out his frustrations.
"So," he continued with an obstinate shrug, "I hired three high-school freshmen. Okay, two freshmen and my brother."
They’re watching you.
Clouds of smog roll in on the evening breeze, obscuring the view to less than a dozen feet, and filling the air with choking fumes. In the growing dusk, brought on early by the opaque clouds, lights begin to come on in this part of The City. Due to the rapid expansion of the world's population, The City now covers two thirds of the Earth's landmass. The City has spread as deep and high as it has wide. Deep beneath the Earth's surface, sprawling networks of tunnels and catacombs are home to a thriving criminal underworld, full of potent synthetic drugs, a single dose of which can keep a man in hallucinations for years, deadly faction feuds and infighting, and illicit bionic body modification parlours, preying on the disenfranchised who may be prepared to take any risk for a shot at escaping this hell.
The streets at ground level are normally empty. The toxic smog, full of heavy metals and poisonous chemicals can roll through with less than a moment's notice. Few take the chance of being caught out in it, and fewer survive. If one was to take stroll through this apparent ghost town, one would likely notice the occasional movement in the shadows, near long-boarded-up storefronts and abandoned public fixtures. There are those who live in this wasteland. Few live long. Most are cast-offs of the criminal underworld, and would-be entrepreneurs from the bustling hive of activity above whose luck ran out and whose debts caught up with them. The few denizens of this place who last more than a week become hardened veterans of the shadows. They know where to find food and air, and how to move about unobserved by the uninvited voyeur. If you venture here, take care to look out for these folks, for an encounter with one may be your last.
Above the smog-filled wastelands, rise innumerable towering buildings with massive glass windows. These buildings are packed as tightly as the streets below will allow, and many join up in mid-air, forming a continuous aerial thoroughfare. Within this vast expanse of interconnected buildings, the great majority of The City's residents live, work, and die, many never setting foot outside even once. A well-designed internal transport network removes the need for these people to leave this place, or even think about the outside. This is the domain of the business magnates, a small number of wealthy men who own everything, and care about no one other than their own pockets. If one cares not for their greedy rule, the alternative is to take one's chances on the streets or the criminal underworld below.
In this world, population growth has not just been fuelled by the natural reproduction of humankind, but by unprecedented technological advances as well. Robots, or "synthetic humanoids," as they are commonly known, have become indistinguishable from real humans. Researchers were proud when they first made a robot that could pass as human, but soon they lost track of how many they had made. They say the computer with the records crashed, destroying the hard drive, and the backups were lost in an unfortunate fire on the same day. Same say this is too much to be coincidence.
To begin with, the synthetic humanoids were easy to catch if you had a good eye and knew what you were looking for. There were tells. But over time, they seem to have learnt not only to build copies of themselves, but to improve and adapt their programming with each successive generation. The one thing they always struggled with was romance. It was their greatest tell. For many years, one merely had to make an advance and you could tell whether you were interacting with a human or a synthetic by the reaction. Sadly, over time, this tell too was engineered out to near perfection. But one tell still remains. We call it The Test.
~~~~~
As Justin walked along the corridor, he paused. He had the misfortune to be walking on the lowermost outer corridor on a connection bridge. He hated looking out the window, but he hated his job more. So he stood there, and steered at the smog rolling in. As he watched the toxic clouds gradually hide the grey streets below from his view, he pondered on the news that had been announced that morning. Less than a month ago, there had been an election, an impressive feat for a collection of people the size of The City. He didn't really care who had been elected. They were all puppets of the business magnates, as far as he could see. Already though, there were policy changes. This morning, they had announced a new law that all public servants were required to be chaste. Justin thought it was strange law, and wouldn't really have cared, except that it seemed to have put his boss in a particularly bad mood. Justin was pretty sure that his boss was human, as he couldn't imagine a synthetic having such unpredictable mood swings, but he hadn't done The Test to confirm, and really didn't feel that he wanted to. There were murmurings today that something was wrong, but he didn't feel that it concerned him, so he ignored the rumours and continued on his way to work.
Like most residents of The City, Justin was happy enough with his life. He had a job that paid enough to buy food and clothing for himself, his wife, and his two children. He had a family, and he had a roof over his head. He was also not a criminal, or stuck on the streets outside. Life wasn't glamorous, but it could be much worse. He had almost married a synthetic. He cringed internally every time he thought of it. She had deceived him, persuaded him there was no reason to do The Test until they were wed. He had learnt his lesson from that. He knew his wife was human, and he had made certain he did The Test before he got too far in.
As he sat down at his desk, a news article flashed on his screen. He decided that he might as well check it out, as it meant that he could avoid doing work for a bit longer. As he opened the article, a video clip began playing. A rather large man, in a ridiculously formal, tailored suit, and gold earrings was talking. Justin recognised him as the business magnate who owned the company he worked for. Normally, this fellow was busy gloating about his record profits, but today he seemed agitated. Justin started actually listening. The fellow was concerned that synthetics were taking over the government. Justin found this rather hilarious, as this fellow and his compatriots were really the only ones in control, anyway. But the more he listened, the more Justin realised what the problem actually was.
~~~~~
The only way to be sure you have found a synthetic humanoid is to sleep with it. People say it's not bad, just different. This is The Test. If you don't want to sleep with it, you can take it to a testing house. You can let someone else sleep with it and tell you. But beware, if you go to a testing house run by a synthetic humanoid, you may not get the answer you are looking for. You may need to Test the tester.
~~~~~
Justin didn't feel like going to work. He was still thinking about the video clip he'd seen two days. He'd been unable to concentrate at work yesterday, especially after discovering that he couldn't find the article when he went looking for it again to show his wife. He had a strange sense of foreboding, and he didn't like it. Trying to take his time, he deliberately took a longer route through a major shopping zone. He spent as much time as he could justify gazing at each window and deciding what he'd spend his money on, if he ever had enough for more than the bare basics. He decided on a nice, striped tie for himself, and a new set of painted china dinner plates for his wife.
As he moved on, he passed by Madame Toufrae's, the most reputable testing house in this part of The City. Madame Toufrae herself was standing outside, and he offered a greeting as he went past. She raised her hand to return the greeting, and Justin hurried on, now concerned that he would get in trouble for being a little later than his usual tardiness. Halfway across the the bridge corridor, he realised something. As far as he could recall, Madame Toufrae always wore gloves. Generally, elbow-length white lace. Today, she had not had gloves on. He dismissed it, and carried on. People were entitled to try new things and wear whatever they wanted. It was none of his concern.
~~~~~
No one really knows how the synthetic humanoids were able to resolve their shortcomings in romance. One theory suggests that they analysed human-produced media and altered their behaviour to align with our idealised romantic interactions. Opposers of this theory maintain that this would not have allowed them to so swiftly and transparently integrate into society, as our media is too unrealistic. Another theory suggests that they instead fed us with their own ideals so that we came to expect them to interact in the way that they do, and mirror it ourselves. The final theory, of those that seem likely, is that they achieved it by trial and error. By engaging in dating practices at scale they could have collected enough data to improve their performance and gather more data with another iteration. This seems the most likely.
We suggest to you that if you venture into our world, take care who you trust. The synthetic humanoids are their own master. We no longer know what they desire, or who among us may be one of them. How you choose who to trust is your problem, not ours. Good luck.
~~~~~
When Justin arrived at work the following morning, the normally dreary office was abuzz with muttered gossip, and sideways glances. He tried to find someone who would tell him what was going on, but everyone seemed too preoccupied to talk to him. He sat down, rather annoyed, at his desk, and turned to look at his monitor. There, in front of him, was another news article. The article informed him that, as much as synthetic humanoids were normally indistinguishable, you could sometimes tell when they were impersonating a specific human. It suggested to look out primarily for subtle changes in their dressing patterns. And then the article abruptly disappeared. And that was when Justin realised why his wife had gone to work that morning in the dress that she hated....
[R E D U C T E D]
The first time I saw the young man, known as [R E D U C T E D], subsequently known as ‘the patient’, was when he was brought to me in handcuffs. He had an air of gloom I have yet to see in any of my patients. The photo that was shown to me and the man in front of me were like 2 different people. His lush brown hair had turned white and his attractive face had become skeletal.
The first week was spent without much progress. Most of the hour went on in an absolute silence and observation as he seemed to search the room. As if looking for something hidden. Occasionally he would listen to non-existing sounds and tremble. As it was my job to determine if the patient suffered from a mental illness or if he was sane enough for imprisonment, I decided to give him the time he needed to open up.
On the second week, he seemed to get more comfortable and started to open his thoughts to me. He spoke of the night in the woods and the horrors that had made the headline news that next morning.
His opening statement was, and I quote: “There are things in this world, doctor. Horrors beyond our wildest nightmares. And I have seen one of it.”
I pondered if those ‘horrors’ were manifestations brought on by stress or perhaps a genetic predisposition towards schizophrenic disorders? I don’t remember his parents mentioning anything about ancestors with similar disorders. But who knows. Maybe it happened further than the family remembers.
The patient continued by stating how it all begun during an intoxicated round of truth or dare. One of the victims, known as [R E D U C T E D], subsequently known as ‘victim one’, took out a piece of paper and dared him to read from it. He continues by recalling that he found the page strangely old looking and hideous. There was a text written on it in red ink. The patient questioned the victim what book this was from. But victim one simply told him it’s from some old box he found in his late grandfathers attic. It sounded creepy, so he brought it on the drinking excursion.
So the patient read from it a sentence, one he can not remember, as it was in some foreign language. But as soon as he finished the words, a lightning struck near them on the ground. He swears that he is not lying when he describes it as green and almost soundless. His blood analysis seems to confirm that the boys were not on any kind of mind-altering substance, safe for beer. A greenish black smoke rose from the place of impact and started taking on a human silhouette. From it formed a creature of grotesque shape. The patient seemed to sweat profoundly upon remembering. He describes it as, and I quote: “Barely looking humanoid, with a strange demonic twisting on it’s skin.” If one is to imagine his hallucination, the face only contained a mouth with rows of dull teeth, outstretched in a spiral towards the height of trees. Its hands were intertwined appendages of what he only described as, and I quote: “tentacles from an octopus.” Hysteria soon erupted between them. Screaming and yelling. Only victim one, that brought the page, seemed to bow to the ground for the creature. The creature grinned from one earless side to the other. That is the last thing the patient is able to recall before waking up in that same spot, with a knife in his hands and surrounded by the dismembered bodies of his friends. In a more grotesque manner than any horror film he had ever seen.
After this couple of weeks, it is my professional opinion; after spending all this time with the patient, to declare that the man known as [R E D U C T E D] to be psychologically insane and should be put under immediate supervision.
From some deep part of my mind, I have also decided to include a piece of unrelated information. In spite of the new heating installed in the office, I could feel a cold in the room as the patient told his story.