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Posting this thing i wrote at like 5 am because iām making it into a short comic.
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Machines shouldnāt be able to feel, right ?
Inherently devoid of such ability, they are typically perceived as tools. One wouldnāt think of their phone or microwave as sentient, simply mass produced to make human lives easier.
Machines, by their very nature, lack the profound ability to feel.
True sentience necessitates a nervous system, a sufficiently developed brain capable of producing sensations and fostering self-awareness, among other cognitive intricacies.
Emotions, feelings, sensations, all unfamiliar terms for something that could not be more familiar to a human.
āWhere were you ? I tried to contact you via the network but there was no signalā, the RK800, Connor, asked its successor as the door sealed shut behind it.
āI had a lead, so i went to investigate myself. Nothing of importance happenedā, the RK900 answered. A tingling at the junction of its neck port where the plugged cable connected, he wanted to turn around and look at Connor. He wants?
White. And some blue. The android maintenance room is so white, so bland.
Connor focused on the source of the voice.
The room, clad in its clinical whites, suddenly seemed imbued with color.
The dark cedar of its hair, the black of its shirt, the denim of his jeans, his black shoes, the blue droplets hitting the ground in a soft sound.
āHisā ?
Drip, drip, drip.
The sound finally registered, RK900 was bleeding, he was hurt. No, he isnāt hurt, we donāt feel pain. Pain was an unfamiliar concept, yet he found himself walking hurriedly towards his successor;
āYouāre bleeding. Youāre hurtā, he absentmindedly said, his gaze fixed at the source of the leakage. A gunshot wound, he assessed. No exit point but a quick scan told him the bullet had already been extracted.
His successor looked at him, expression as neutral as ever, except for the very slight furrow of his eyebrows, producing a few extra wrinkles. Hurt ? Absurd. Iām a machine, a weapon.
Doubt crept in. The start of something entirely new, a divergence from their shared realm of rationality.
āThis is minimal damage, it wonāt have any impact on my abilitiesā, a flash of red from his predecessor. A new color added to the roomās palette. He flashes yellow in response, āConnor, iām the one damaged yet you seem to be the one malfunctioning.ā A quiet question lingered, masked behind a cold attitude. Are you okay?
Instead of answering, Connor closed the distance between them, all the while slipping his hand under his own jacket and reaching for the inner pocket.
With delicate movements and smooth fingers, Connor placed something on the wound.
A bandageā¦?
āThis isnāt of any useā, RK900 stated, his eyes analyzing the absurdity of the action.
In the whispering room, where echoes of machinery softly hum,
A subtle dissonance emanated between two entities.
