#collab week

More of an epilogue (a really long one at that...sorry...), but from @turned-her-brain‘s post How the Rebellion Started Mattie looked up at the sky. It was clear and the sun was shining. A rare thing for London this time of the year. She squinted and smiled up at the sun. Seven years ago she wouldn’t have been able to do this, indoctrinated to walk with her head down, always meek, never enjoying the simple pleasures of life. She focused again on the path ahead of her. Sophie wanted cookies and Mattie wasn’t going to deny her sister anything. Especially after finally finding her just three days ago. Mattie looked down at their entwined hands and smiled. Sophie was nearly eighteen, but she still insisted on holding Mattie’s hand. Mattie was okay with it. More so since it helped her not think about the rest of their family and the fact that they still hadn’t heard anything. Five years into her work with the rebellion and Mattie had been caught. Captured and tortured and she kept those memories locked in the dark parts of her mind. Her night terrors had stopped only a few months ago, she didn’t need another relapse. Time was a lost concept before she had been captured, even more so after she was rescued. And Mattie couldn’t hide her surprise when she saw the green eyes of a synth opening her cell door and yelling that if she didn’t move, they would both be strung up on the wall. “Can I have two cookies, Mats?”

@humanschallenge Week 4 Day 7: Form Switch

Inspired by ‘Aquello que llamamos rosa’ by @wellamarke

What's in a name? That which we call a rose By any other name would smell as sweet Juliet, 'Romeo and Juliet', Act II scene ii

When Juliet says these words, she’s desperately trying to convince herself that Romeo’s surname – Montague – doesn’t matter. It’s just a word.

But of course, words do carry meaning. If we call a flower ‘a fragrant rose’, or ‘a foul-smelling weed’, each phrase has its own distinct connotations. The only time when words are meaningless is when we’re children beginning to learn our mother tongue, or trying out a new language.

@humanschallenge Week 4 Day 7: Form Switch

Seeing as I’m totally rubbish at art, can’t master GIFs and have already done a Leotilda playlist…

I’ve done a photoset instead, comparing the Anglo-American ‘Humans’ with the original Swedish version ‘Real Humans’ (‘Äkta Människor’ in Swedish).

The writers of ‘Humans’ re-imagined the world already created by ‘Real Humans’. They made it darker, merged original characters and created new storylines.

In a wider sense, fanfic is an amazing re-imagining of an existing world. We can extend plotlines, populate an alternate universe, or imagine our favourite ships when the TV programme writers are leaving us hanging.

So this post is inspired by all of the fanfic created throughout the Humans Challenge and people who created it.

@humanschallenge Week 4 Day 5: POV Switch

This is a companion story to ‘Aquello que llamamos rosa’ by @wellamarke, because we all need more Maxie : )

Max was starting to know his place in the world. And it hadn’t been his appeal to a dubious deity, or even the momentous event of his drowning and resurrection by his family, that had brought about this understanding. It was the realisation that there were others like him; only newborn into consciousness, who would need his guidance and help.

Ten’s innocent but continual questioning had activated Max’s sympathy, whose patient, considered approach was perfect for the job of educating the young synth.

This morning, he was sitting in the farmhouse kitchen, teaching Ten some English vocabulary. Mia had left for work already; it was her way of ‘blending in’. She had recently told Max about the kind, troubled man who ran the café, but unusually, had asked him not to confide this secret to Leo. This was proving difficult for him – Max shared everything with his brother.

Taking on the role of teacher now had caused Max to recall with perfect clarity how the others taught him when he was young. Father had advocated book learning over data add-ons of new concepts. He wanted them all to mimic the human experience of organic, progressive learning.

They each had their talents: Mia the artist; Niska was the philosopher (“Always doubt everything,” she told the befuddled Max). Fred had been everything else in between – literature, history, economics – whatever Max sought to learn. And Leo? Leo had been his playmate and his brother-in-arms in many non-educational escapades.

Ten was attempting to say “kitchen clock” when Max sensed Leo enter the room. He stood quietly in the doorway so as not to interrupt the lesson. Max could tell that Leo was watching with interest and – was that pride? Max beamed internally. “Good morning, Leo.”

“Morning. Has Mia left already?”

“You just missed her. She didn’t want to wake you.” Max’s circuits felt like they were misfiring; he did not like having to lie to his brother. Max knew that Mia had left much earlier, to “go and help Ed open up”.

As they continued with the lesson, Leo made his way into the room, swiping his laptop from the counter and murmuring apologies: “Don’t mind me, carry on.” He set up in the far corner of the kitchen table, pretending to be busy scanning for hints of more awakened synths. Max could sense that he was still listening in.

In the next instant, a heavy clonk interrupted the lesson. In setting up, Leo had let his laptop cable swing, and it had hit a metal radiator. “Sorry, sorry,” said Leo with a wry smile. Max instantly used his brother’s small accident as a learning opportunity.

“There’s a word we haven’t done yet.” He pointed the object out to Ten, who smiled broadly, his face alight in the morning sunlight that reached into the room.  “Radiator. Like radiador. The biggest difference is the inflection. Ray-dee-aay-tor,” he repeated, spelling out the syllables phonetically and seeing his pupil’s pure enjoyment at learning an unknown word.

“Ray-dee-ah-torrr…” Ten attempted, parrot fashion. “No lo sabía, pero me gusta esta palabra. ¿Es un nombre?”

“No exactamente,” replied Max. “¿Por qué no lo busques en el diccionario?”

Ten busied himself with flicking through the pages of the name dictionary that Mia had purloined for them; taking great delight in the ‘R’ options: Ralph was pronounced “Rall-pur-ha”, Ronald became “Row-nall-duh”.

“It doesn’t matter what name you pick,” Max assured him. “Names are just labels. You can call yourself anything you’d like.”

What was it that Fred had taught him? Max swiftly searched his memory banks to retrieve the data: “Fred – my other brother – told me: “It’s not what we call things that matters: it is how we use an object. Always use everything with care. We can call ourselves synthetics, or we can call ourselves human – after all, what separates us is merely biology; not our words or deeds.””

Confusingly, Max remembered that a younger, hyper-precocious Leo had taught him something quite different, collaring Max and telling him insistently: “Maxie – you need to understand something, OK? Otherwise you won’t last for long in the real world. Humans are not like us. They think the name ‘synth’ equates to ‘slave’. Don’t trust them, you hear me? Don’t try and be like them. Stick with your family.”

Given his recent experiences, Max wasn’t sure that either viewpoint held true for him anymore. But then, father had wanted that for them all: to question everything in an open, academic way. Perhaps that was part of his growing up too – not taking his brothers’ words at face value anymore.

Seeing that Ten had read through the whole of the ‘R’ section, Max switched into faultless Spanish, his simultaneous translation mode working perfectly: “Vale. Has mejorado mucho hoy. Ya tendremos que terminar y descansar un rato. Pero quédate cerca de aquí ¿claro?”

“Sí. Entendido,” replied Ten, looking at Max with an expression of undisguised awe.

After Ten had gathered up his books, Max glanced across at Leo, who was hunched over and staring at his laptop: a familiar position. He didn’t know what Leo was thinking right now, but Max still experienced an outpouring of love for his brother in that moment. It felt like an onward electrical pulse through his system, as if gateways everywhere were opening up.

With Leo so occupied, Max sat down at the table and took the name dictionary that Ten had been using. He flicked through the pages, finding his name in an instant. His given name. His father had chosen it, and it must mean something. The entry was brief: ‘Max: short for Maximilian. Meaning – the greatest.’

Max considered this logically. His father had named his children appropriately. Perhaps names were not mere labels after all, but a calling card for an as yet unfulfilled destiny. But the greatest… what? Brother? Teacher?

Max shut the book and went to help Leo. He knew that he could run the searches far quicker than the machine that Leo was using, even though he didn’t like to boast about it. He would suggest that in his kind, patient way, and ask Leo to let him take the lead for once.

@humanschallenge Week 4 Day 3: Sequels

The final part of my sequel to ‘Poetry’ by @nachocheese-itsmycheese

The first part of the sequel was posted here.

Part 3: Castillo, Ana

Max and Leo were setting up for the Robotics Soc meeting, and Leo was looking more morose than usual.

“Leo, you have to let her know,” chided Max gently.

Leo, who had confided nothing to Max about anything, looked up in surprise. “How do you..?”

“You can’t keep a secret from me.” Max carefully laid the discussion topic sheets out on the table between them.

“I’m glad. I’ve got so many secrets, I can’t keep track,” reflected Leo sadly. “Anyway, she’s clearly into Mr ‘I’m tall and blond and recite terrible poetry’.”

“I have seen you together. She likes you. She laughs at your jokes,” countered Max, ignoring Leo’s jibe at his love rival.

“Well, that’s something…” replied Leo wryly, then said no more as the first people started to arrive. Max knew he would be thinking it over though, and he smiled to himself at the idea of playing Cupid.

@humanschallenge Week 4 Day 3: Sequels

A/N: This is a continuation of ‘Poetry’ by @nachocheese-itsmycheese

Sorrynotsorry that it’s total, unadulterated fluff! And actual apologies to nachocheese, because I have no idea what happens in the freshman year at US universities in terms of classes/societies, so I made it up.

It got quite long. This is parts 1 and 2 out of 4 (I’ll publish parts 3 and 4 in a separate post tomorrow).

……………………………………………

Part 1: Aldington, Richard

Just two weeks earlier, Mattie had stood on the college lawn, watching as the other freshmen milled about her, headed for one stand or another at the Orientation Week fair. She knew which stands she wanted to avoid: the Phi Beta Kappas and the like – but wasn’t sure that she was enough of a joiner to go for anything else.

It was then that she spotted the perfect club. Off in one corner, its forlorn home-made banner proclaiming ‘Come and say ai’, the scrawled sign on the backboard reading ‘Robotics Society’. It was manned by two older students: one whose beaming smile and upright stance seemed to invite people to come and talk; the other, scruffy and slumped against the backboard like he’d been brought here against his will.

“That’s a terrible joke,” commented Mattie, approaching the table.

“I’m sorry. I’m afraid that I don’t know what you’re referring to,” said the tall, smiley student.

“ ‘Come and say ai’ – I mean, you don’t even pronounce ‘A.I.’ like that!”

The other student chimed in: “That’s what I told him too. Are you signing up anyway?”

“I don’t know. Do you make robots?”

“No. We discuss issues around robotics and Artificial Intelligence. Like a debating society, only without the wannabe politicians crowding us out.”

“Mmmmm. Well, I thought you might make robots, so I’m not sure,” she said jokily.

“I can teach you how to make a robot if you’d like!” said the taller student eagerly. He was nudged sharply in his ribs by his companion.

“Don’t worry, I was joking. Kind of. Well, I guess I’ll try it and see. It’s got to be better than joining a sorority, right?”

“Sign here,” said the scruffy one, holding out a pen. He craned his neck as she put down her name, reading out what she’d written. “Mat-tie. Don’t you have a surname?”

“I don’t like to give too much away on first acquaintance,” said Mattie mockingly. “And you are..?”

“Leo. I can tell you my surname when we know each other better,” replied the scruffy one, matching her for sarcastic wit. “This is my brother, Max.” Max, stood off to one side, beamed broadly at her.

“Your brother? You mean, like in the modern sense of the word?” Mattie couldn’t help from blurting out.

“No – as in, the family sense of the word. My dad kinda adopted him when I was young,” replied Leo, giving a brief, lopsided smile.

“Well, good to meet you both,” said Mattie, not really sure that she meant it. They were a strange pair. And brothers!

“See you at the first meeting next Thursday. We hold it at a café off-campus. It is very informal,” Max said, sounding very formal indeed. He handed her a flier. “We normally have a speaker, then a round-table discussion.”

And that was how she met Leo and Max. She wouldn’t call them friends just yet, because although they intrigued her, she didn’t let people get to know her that easily. They were held in a holding pattern for now.

………………………….

The poetry class was the last one she signed up for, and only because she’d needed to take a compulsory lit. option in order to pass the freshman year. ‘Poetry, an A-Z’ read the catalog description. Well, so long as it was brief sonnets and not poetic epics, she’d give it a go.

She told Max about it after the first Robotics Soc meeting, mentioning the blond student who’d been so helpful and who had patiently taken her through the Aldington poem line by line. “I mean, I can code – that makes sense to me. But poetry is tough. It’s people not really saying exactly what they mean.”

“Like similes and metaphors? And circumlocution?” questioned Max, who knew a little about poetry from his brother Fred.

“Exactly. I’m just glad I’ve found a willing partner. It helps that he’s cute too,” confided Mattie. She wasn’t normally this open, but there was something about Max’s genuine interest that encouraged her to share.

Leo wandered over from the café bar, carrying another espresso. On hearing her sudden enthusiasm for Aldington, he was quite dismissive (“I managed to get out of the lit. class; they don’t force the Engineering students to do it”), but at least he feigned some interest and asked what other poets she was going to be studying.  

She was surprised he was even talking to her, as he’d been ultra-cagey when she’d bumped into him earlier that same week outside the computing labs. He’d been carrying a bunch of trailing USB cables and she’d merely asked where he was going, but he’d reacted like she was spying on him, growling in response: “Nowhere. To see no-one.”

“Woah, I was just being polite! I don’t actually want to know. Who died and made you so angry, anyway?” she’d retorted, his surliness causing her sarcasm to spike. He’d reacted like she’d slapped him full in the face, turning on his heel and walking off in the opposite direction without another word. She noticed that he walked slightly tilted, as if he was in some pain and holding it in.

………………………….

Just before her second poetry class, she found a folded note inserted under her dorm room door. On it was written:

“You should have loved a god; I am but dust. Yet no god loves as this poor frail dust.”

Printed in smaller italic script, on the bottom right hand of the note, was the text: ‘From ‘Prelude’, by Richard Aldington’. Mattie initially wanted to laugh at the misguided sweetness of the message. But then she read the lines again, and started to think about Odi, and how earnest he’d been about poetry, and how Aldington was his favourite poet. He had copied down these lines for her in all seriousness.

She actually looked forward to her class this week. Who were they studying again? Someone Bukowski? She’d better do a quick Google search so she could appear knowledgeable and interested in front of Odi.

Part 2: Bukowski, Charles

Now, this was more like it. Bukowski was much more direct. He said what he meant.

“I think I’m really getting it,” she said to Odi, who was sitting next to her in the class. “He just says what he wants, no filter.”

Odi, still dressed in his favourite orange sweater – she could overlook that, she’d decided – gave her a warm smile. “I’m so glad you’re getting into it, Mattie. I think the world would be a poorer place without poetry. Listen: my friend Dean runs an open mike night – this week’s a poetry slam. Do you fancy coming along?”

Mattie thought probably not, but if Odi was going, then definitely yes. “Sure,” she said nonchalantly, trying not to show her enthusiasm. “Where and when?”

“Do you know a bar called Deckard? Just off the interstate. I can give you a lift if you’d like. Bring some friends. These poetry nights aren’t always so well-attended, so any new faces are really welcome.”

“I’ll be there,” replied Mattie instantly, forgetting to keep her cool. She thought that she might ask Max for moral support – which would mean inviting Leo along too, even though she could picture him declining straight away.

………………………….

Mattie didn’t actually know what a poetry slam was, but imagined some kind of literary version of ‘8 Mile’, with people competing to be the best at reading out their poems. In the event, she wasn’t far wrong.

She walked into the café with Max, Leo trailing behind them. He was such a drain on her buzz right now, but she hadn’t wanted to offend Max and suggest his brother stay at home. Spotting Odi by the bar, talking with a tall, bearded man, she went up to them confidently.

“Hi Odi. I forgot to ask, I’m not expected to get up on stage, am I?”

“Oh, hey Mattie,” said Odi, bending to kiss her cheek in welcome. Her skin tingled. “This is Dean. He’s the M.C. tonight, so I’m sure I can ask a favour and get him to spare you.”

“Hi, Mattie,” said Dean, lolling against the bar. He had the studied look of a singer in an interesting indie band – fringe swept to one side, skinny black jeans, and dark-rimmed spectacles. “Odi’s told me about you. I won’t call on you if you don’t want to. What about your friends though: will they give it a try?”

Max and Leo, who’d been hanging around in the background, overheard this and came to join them.

“Why not?” grinned Max. “I am always open to new experiences.”

“Not me,” declined Leo. “I study Structural Engineering. Subtitle: How to make buildings stay up. So, I’m about as poetic as an old boot.”

Dean laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “No problem. You and Mattie can wait this one out. Maybe we can persuade you up on stage next time round.”

With Odi and Max prepping their poems for the slam, she had chance to chat to Leo, who was surprisingly at ease in unfamiliar surroundings. She started to wonder if his surliness was a front that stopped others from getting to know him. ‘It takes one to know one,’ she thought to herself. Years of not fitting in had left her with an invisible shield up at all times. At high school, she’d been too studious for the princesses; too overtly rebellious for the freaks and geeks to play with.

Once the poetry slam started, Mattie started to enjoy herself even more. She and Leo had to control their silent shakes over Max’s poem (entitled ‘Ones and Zeroes’), but when he’d come back over to their table afterwards, Leo had hugged his brother and said: “That was great, Maxie.”

“What did you think, Mattie?” asked Max, in all innocence.

“Wonderful, Max. Just like Charles Bukowski.” She thought that might sound like a compliment.

Leo glanced back over his shoulder to Mattie from the midst of his brotherly hug, and they exchanged a conspiratorial look.

Odi’s poem was pretty dreadful. It was about a childhood trip to Long Island with his Uncle George and Aunt Mary, and it went on forever. He rhymed ‘ice-cream’ with ‘sunscreen’. Only Dean and a few of the other regulars clapped him afterwards, plus Mattie’s table too, out of politeness.

After Odi’s rendition had finally finished, Leo sighed and proclaimed: “I’m having another beer. Mattie?”

“After that? Yes, please,” replied Mattie thankfully. “What about Max?”

“He’s OK. He’s got a ton of food intolerances – including to wheat – so he can’t drink beer.”

Max sipped his water, smiled and shrugged.

………………………….

By the end of the night, Mattie thought that she had not laughed so much in a long time. Finally, she was somewhere she fitted in, with people she felt could become proper friends. Even Dean had drunkenly confessed: “As much as I love Odi, his poetry’s pretty terrible.” She caught Odi looking over at her and Dean in cahoots, and gave him her brightest smile. He smiled back broadly.

The next morning, she awoke to find another note had been pushed under her door. This time, she dove for it, anticipating the sentiment; remembering how Odi had smiled at her the night before. On the note was printed

“and finally I discovered real feelings of others, unheralded,”

with the source: ‘‘Let It Enfold You’ by Charles Bukowski’ printed under the extract.

Mattie thought Odi’s approach was old-fashioned, but she preferred that a million times over to some leering, fumbling attempt to chat her up. She looked up the poet for the next week: Ana Castillo. Better get studying so she’d have something insightful to say.