it began as all things often do â with a birth. the brain is a war - ground of design filled to the brim with its own childrenâs bones. some you have come to recognise as past concepts or ideas that rattled well - beneath the cranium for days, or maybe weeks, or maybe even years âÂ
â â hey, kid, what do you want to be when you grow up?
     â â who are you, really, underneath these heavy, heavy chains?Â
and some youâve simply brushed aside, left bruised to rot inside this giving soil like compost for imaginationâs fruit, so more can grow come spring. well, you were a concept too. a man - made toy, no more emburdened with humanity than a simple television screen â itâs all the same beneath these eyelids, all white noise and artificial gore and not a spark of sunlight.Â
itâs strange now to feel â noisy. first outside and then inside too, each shock of pressure to this faux - skin reverberating in the chest, then brain, then spine. itâs oftentimes hard to define what, ultimately, remains without strict definition. to feel is to breathe, is to have something more than just a shadow of humanity hooked onto the ribs like a burr. a machine is only capable of processing its surroundings through complex mathematics, each new discovery a pathway, all the while humanity has feelings, tacks names onto the words tied to the concepts no machine could ever dream of grasping. to dream is to be alive, and to feel alive is to be human.Â
well, are you human?
â no.
do you feel?
â â â ⌠yes.
itâs cold now. dark. the rain is merciless and resolute in its desire to soak each passerby to the bone. he knows what cold means.Â
     cold. /kÉĘld/ adj.
     1. of or at a low or relatively low temperature, especially when compared with the human body.
     âa freezing cold dayâ
the halo stuck onto his right temple flickers a dim, sunset - yellow. yes, he knows. his arm, previously left idle at his side, is gently outstretched now, palm to dirt, as he traces every ridge of gooseflesh scattered all across the marble - shaded skin, elbow to wrist, with careful curiosity. itâs odd to feel, odder still to pin a definition to a sensation one had only learned in passing from an online dictionary source. he now is the blackboard and the pen, connecting words to chest like highways to a city. and amidst all the commotion and the noise, inside his own skin he is but a guest come late. a stranger caught outside in the rain.Â
itâs colder now. darker. the rain is pouring still. his shirt sticks to every edge of him as if a secondary skin and he is lost to the world, to the cars, to the human traffic all around him. only there is no longer any traffic left to clot these rotting streets and he now only has himself for company. he sees little and acknowledges less, stuck in a world too detached from the one where his physicality roots, caught on the edges of an emotion too unfamiliar to don. and now, in the hush of the night, beneath the waterlogged cloth, the fern plant starts to bloom. / @elliotcnderson
âThis is good exposure Elliot.â He tried to remind himself of that, replay the words over and over in his mind as he watched from behind the tinted glass as his car sunk lower and lower. Elliot was sprawled in the backseat. Theyâd already prepped him with make-up, chosen his outfit for the day ( something glamorous but modest, even if they were opposing vibes ) and now, all he had to do was wait. Someone had kindly set up a hologram in the backseat so Elliot could read over his lines. This was of course, all orchestrated, it might be a heart-spun piece about what his life was like back in the slums. It had all the same markers that Elliot was familiar with. If he closed his eyes then it couldâve been someone elseâs life he was inhabiting. It was all just another act, another scene. Elliot exhaled and watched as the rain got thicker. He never quite understood how it was possible. Underneath all the glittering skyscrapers of mid and upper town, how the belly of the city could be so wet. Damp and dark as if everyone really was living in the sewers.
The car touched down and there was frantic hushed whispers as everyone organised themselves outside. An umbrella was held open for Elliot as he stepped out into an unfamiliar street. Of course, they couldnât get his real apartment. Not the one heâd lived in previously as it was let out to some other poor unfortunate soul nowadays. Instead the agency had bought an apartment in the safest part of the lower city â was there really a safe part? The building was drab. No different to the memories heâd so desperately tried to purge. Everything was the same down here, as if it was possible to crush hopes and dreams simply by living in the same stock apartment. He shivers and pulls his pink faux fur closer around him and is led upstairs, flanked by a bodyguard either side.
Itâs all a little â forced. Elliot perches on a stool as they touch up his make-up, as if he wasnât already flawless. Thereâs a rig being set-up ready for the first scene. Someone reassures Elliot that the mascara is waterproof but the rest is meant to smudge, a little. He doesnât feel the twinge in his chest like heâs supposed to. Just empty. Thereâs nothing here to mourn in this haphazard apartment. The furniture is alien. Itâs been spotlessly cleaned within an inch of its life, nothing like the Anderson residence of the past.
Someone is rigging him with a microphone as Elliot zones out watching the kettle in the kitchen whistle. Steam fills the kitchen and in an explosion of laughter, a boy runs across the dirty kitchen floor barefoot, his father right behind him with his hands outstretched. In his hand is the holo-disc heâs stolen. Itâs supposed to have the game from Saturday night recorded on and Elliot, ever the fool, recorded over it to watch a silly film. His father doesnât know it yet, seems to think this is all an elaborate game, and Elliot, mischief in disguise is willing this to never-end. If it does, itâll end in tears.
Elliot blinks, his shift-tacts move a little but otherwise heâs okay. The kitchen is empty, except for a lost looking cameraman filling up his thermos with hot water, the floor is spotless and Elliot is not okay. He lurches from the stool nearly knocking it over in the process. âI need some fresh air.â He mutters, someone tries to follow him but Elliot is quick, too quick. That was after all what had kept him out of table in his younger years. Steal a packet of noodles from the local store? No problem, just run until your feet could carry you no further. Piss off the lady across the road by making a ruckus with hover skates? Easy, just skate into the sunset as fast as your little legs can carry you. Elliot was the master of running away.
The rain hasnât stopped, somehow in the thirty minutes heâs been inside itâs gotten thicker, heavier. Elliot didnât think to grab a coat so heâs just in a shirt now, and its already soaked through. Itâs quiet in the street that was chosen to be his childhood home, but Elliot keeps running until heâs in the thick of it. Somewhere in lower city that feels vaguely familiar but that could be anywhere. Heâs lost, and gods thatâs never good down here. Panting Elliot leans against a bus stop, as he straightens up thereâs a light in the distance that catches hi eye. One that heâs seen before. Definitely. Perhaps one that he wanted to forget â wasnât he trying to forget everything? Hedonistic nihilism at its finest.
Across the road only just visible through the dark is a tattoo that Elliot had memorised only a few years ago. One that he thought heâd never see again. Rumours had flown, but Elliot had his own suspicions. Synthetics that were no longer useful ended up down here in lower city, in the scrapyard or recycled. Somehow Zodiac had escaped his fate and now, that fern was taunting him. It couldnât be him. Elliot took off again, this time with a purpose, a destination in mind. He dodges between the traffic, underneath a car thatâs flying too low, and with his heart hammering he steps up onto the pavement opposite. âZoââ he gasps. âZodiac?â
In the panic heâs fled without his direct line to the net, so he canât ask if synths can turn into ghosts. Shit. What was he thinking? Elliot blurts the first thing that comes to mind. âWhat are you doing here?â Nothing awe inspiring.
