echo “As he read, I fell in love the way you fall asleep: slowly, and then all at once. The Fault In Our Stars, page eighty-four.” I prop myself up on the table—elbows firm against wood, calves dangling above the legs, just the way Sel had taught me. “I preferred last week’s Horror.”
“Interesting.” Sel’s reaction is an instantaneous turn, dark ponytail flicking out behind her as she reaches for her notebook. Pink strawberry stickers litter the white cover as she flips through it, glitter spilling from between the spines and onto her fingers. Gold against milk. Soft and sparkly where they dot the crinkled, pen-marked pages. She’d taught me to do arts and crafts last week. I hadn’t been very good at it.
“I’m sorry.”
Her pen scratches across the page, a steady tik-tak-tik-tak-tik-tak fuelled by the constant clicking of her thumb against the tip. “Don’t be. How do you feel?”
“Like my brain is producing chemical imbalances involving dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin?” I offer. When the pensive expression on Sel’s face doesn’t change, I try again. “Pulse rate is one hundred and seventeen beats per minute at rest, with a sensation likened to nausea in the stomach, although that is less due to nausea and more due to the phenomenon known as butterflies in the stomach, commonly present when one is excited, aroused, or in love.”
The pen in her hand twirls itself between her hair, the jet-black locks intertwining with the cold metal. “It seems Attempt Number Seven is a bust as well.”
I’ve never been able to feel affection.
“Not the correct feeling? Is there a more appropriate response I should employ for this one?” I suggest, mentally running through every emotion Sel’s programmed into me so far. I have most of the basic emotions by now. Fear and disgust are hard to muster—it isn’t easy to be scared of or disgusted by anything when my entire frame is composed of steel and synthetic flesh. Surprise isn’t too hard, but it’s difficult to be shocked by anything when Sel is the most predictable person alive and everyone else is easily handled by my body language analysers and response AI.
At this point, I think I’ve mostly mastered the other three. Anger is triggered by the release of hormones such as adrenaline and noradrenaline, which leads to physical sensations like an increased heart rate, blood pressure, muscle tension, and rapid breathing. I do not breathe, but Sel gives me a pass on the last one. I am rarely sad, but when I am, I know I must produce brain activity in specific regions such as the subgenual anterior cingulate, amygdala, and insula. I also know that I must not smile at funerals, no matter how much Sel hated the person in the coffin. Happiness is the release of neurotransmitters such as dopamine, serotonin, and oxytocin in the brain. My default state, supposedly, although Sel calls my base state emotional constipation. A little like the one emotion Sel keeps trying and failing to program into me, I suppose.
Love.
Sel mutters something under her breath that I can’t quite hear, even with my enhanced aural receptors. I try again.
“Noun. An intense feeling of affection, or a great interest or pleasure in something.” I pick at the hole on my fraying jeans with my gloved hand. Sel says these kinds of semi-damaged clothes are fashionable nowadays, and I have no reason not to believe her. From the few times she’s taken me outside, most of the people around her age seem to be garbed in similar attire. Around our age, I suppose, even though in terms of creation years, I am far younger than her. However, Sel has programmed me to match her age, birthday, and growth rate, so until she changes my controls to imply otherwise, I suppose I am twenty-one in human years, for the moment. “Would you like another definition, Sel?”
Her pink-glossed mouth perks down in a small frown—YSL Loveshine Candy Glaze, No. 2 Healthy Glow Plumper, as the facial analysis I ran on her indicated was the best colour to match her fair complexion—that does not seem to be from sadness. Disappointment, maybe, although frustration, contemplation, and self-reflection have similar expressed qualities. I have yet to master secondary emotions, even though Sel has already programmed them into me. “No—Sam, it’s okay. I’ll just rework the program again. It’s not too hard.”
“Defined by the World Health Organisation as a response to chronic workplace stress that is not managed well, with symptoms including lethargy, difficulty concentrating, and physical pain. This can cause cognitive, emotional, and attitudinal damage. Although the lab is not your workplace, there is a chance that being in the lab too long can cause burnout as well.”
Sel cracks a smile, revealing crooked teeth. She’d painstakingly ensured each molar had been perfect when she’d crafted my mouth, and sometimes, I wonder if I should ask her why she can’t do the same for hers. It’s mostly enamel, after all, composed mainly of calcium hydroxyapatite and partially of proteins. Sel created me, so I do not understand why she would not be able to get her hands on those other materials. “I’m not going to burn out from working on you.”
“Work. You said it yourself. I am work.”
“You’re my friend, Sam.” She reaches over to ruffle my short dark hair, composed mainly of keratin proteins and keratin-associated proteins, also known as KRTAPs. Her fingers are warm where they press themselves against my scalp, the calluses on the pads of her fingertips evident. The average healthy human body maintains a temperature of around ninety-eight point six degrees Fahrenheit, or thirty-seven degrees Celsius. Sel’s current temperature is thirty-six point six degrees Celsius, according to my built-in thermometer. I do not need to worry about her today.
“Friends are usually human. I am an android you built for companionship.”
“Which makes you my friend.”
My temperature is whatever the temperature of the room is at any given time. I do not think I am Sel’s friend.
“When I get this final program correct, I’ll take you out more,” Sel declares, her pink dress and the lab coat on top of it billowing around her as she flounces around the lab. Her notebook has been stacked precariously on top of a tangle of wires, but I make no move to remove it. Sel always tells me not to worry about her stuff. “Maybe I’ll even take you to uni with me. You can make friends of your own there.”
She pauses. Her mouth works itself open and closed the same way it always does whenever she comes up with an idea, as I’ve come to learn during the two years that I’ve been with her. I have learned many things about Sel. She cannot cook, she does not know how to drive, and she loves romance books even though she has never had a romance of her own. “Or maybe I’ll just take you with me anyway. You can get some firsthand experience.”
Combination of one noun and one adjective that can also be used as an adverb. An experience that is obtained personally by oneself, or directly from someone who is personally involved in something.
“I can get firsthand experience from you,” I say.
I do not mean anything by it. There is no one better than my creator to gain human experience from. Still, I do not miss the way Sel’s pale cheeks pink ever so slightly, coral blush spreading down her neck and over the collarbones peeking from the rounded collar of her dress. When an emotion such as embarrassment is experienced, the nervous system triggers the release of adrenaline and the dilation of blood vessels in the face, resulting in increased blood flow to the cheeks. I do not understand why Sel is embarrassed, but as if sensing my gaze on her, she tugs the top of her lab coat closed anyway. Buttons it shut, as if it will do anything to hide the redness of her cheeks.
“Maybe we could try some Jane Austen or Emily Brontë next time,” Sel suggests. Diversion: noun, the act of turning something aside from its course. “You might enjoy the classics more instead. Or maybe you just really do like horror better, which is totally fine. Nothing wrong with that.”
“A complex emotional state triggered by negative events, which results in physiological changes such as an increased heart rate, muscle tension, and the release of stress hormones like cortisol. This is often accompanied by a subjective experience of discomfort or distress. You’re upset.”
“I’m not.”
“Lying, verb. To say or write something that is not true in order to deceive someone.”
“Fine, maybe I’m a little upset.” Sel shrugs her lab coat off, harrumphing imperiously.”The Fault In Our Stars is my all-time favourite.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Apologise again and I’ll get even more upset.”
I mentally leaf through the new information stored in the computer in my brain and finally settle on one that I think Sel may like. Hug: verb, to squeeze someone tightly in one’s arms, often to express affection. Usually initiated by spreading one’s arms open.
Sel stares at my open arms like I’ve grown two heads. “What are you doing, Sam?”
“Hug,” I reply. “Firsthand experience is needed to develop affection.”
Realisation clicks on in her brown eyes like switching on a lightbulb. Before I can react, she’s falling into my arms, her thin body warm against my broader one, flesh against metal. She wraps her hands around my waist, half-settled in my lap as her cheek lands against my clothed shoulder, brushing my jacket aside so she can rest it right against my chest. I don’t have a heart beyond a mechanical imitation of one build to stimulate a pulse through intermittent vibrations, but if I did, her cheek would be pressed right against it.
I take the opportunity to check her vitals. “Heart rate is almost at one hundred and twenty beats per minute, far more than the regular human pulse rate of eighty beats per minute. Could be a sign of tachycardia, or—”
Before I can continue, Sel lifts her head and presses her lips to my cheek.
As she falls away from me, I lift my hand to my face. A tiny dot of YSL Loveshine Candy Glaze, No. 2 Healthy Glow Plumper smears off onto my fingers. “What was that?”
‘Kiss,” Sel replies. Her heart is still racing in her chest. Her cheeks have gone from bright pink to flaming red.
“Kiss: noun, a touch or caress with the lips as a sign of love, sexual desire, or greeting. Classified as an act of affection.” I touch my cheek again. “Oh.”
Sel laughs. Light and easy as she clambers entirely off me and reaches for her spiral notebook again, fingers instinctively hunting for a pen to accompany it. “Baby steps, I guess. You’ll get there eventually, Samantha. Or maybe I’ll develop something that’ll help you get there first.”
I study her expression. There’s something a little lighter than usual beneath the small smile dancing across her pink lips, blithe sewn deep into every inch of her skin. Spots of red flit over her cheeks, paint splotches splattered over her skin. Her heart is still beating faster than normal, fingers trembling ever so slightly as she scrawls down whatever new findings she’s discovered for my next program.
Sel is not my friend. Maybe, to Sel, I am something more as well.
I think we’re both okay with that.
Written by: Amberlyn
Edited by: Zhen Li
