#virtual love chapter

The air is thick with tension, his hesitation almost audible. You keep your eyes on the clouds.

“...What does it matter?” He finally says, and alright, that definitely wasn’t the road you were expecting him to take.

“I…” You almost want to sit up, feel that the subject matter is serious enough that it’s warranted, but you want to hang onto the plausible deniability that staying still, staring up at the sky gives you. You let your thoughts percolate, brewing your ideas, arranging them into a picture you’re ready to present.

“I’m big on respecting what people want to be called, whatever that may be,” you finally say, rawly honest. And by this point… you’re not going to say it, but you’ve been talking with him for almost a week. The level of familiarity you’ve reached is beyond acquaintances, from coin tricks to twenty questions, suspicion to wariness to peaceful acceptance.

“And even if you’re an android, and not ‘people,’” you continue, a bit awkward, “to tell you the truth… it’s been pretty damn confusing in my head.”

“Oh?” he says. You can’t quite discern his tone.

You don’t know why you’re telling him the truth, but… it’s easier. Plus, who’s he going to tell? “I keep going back and forth in my head,” you confess, “between calling you ‘he’ and ‘it.’” It feels like an ugly confession, halfway-between perfectly acceptable and strange. “I thought it’d finally settle the matter if I asked you what you’d prefer. No harm in it, right? Either way, I can get it settled.” And I can stop agonizing about it.

“It’s kind of you to ask my opinion,” Connor says, and behind the soft tones of his voice, you can hear the grass and flowers rustling. “It’s very considerate.”

“It’s not… I’m not being considerate,” you say, oddly defensive, because you’re not . You’ve barely known this android for a week, and you’ve talked every night, but… “It’s not kind to ask what people prefer. It’s common decency, especially if you’re unsure. Just because you’re an android doesn’t mean you don’t…”

Have feelings.

“...doesn’t mean you don’t care about what you’re called,” you finish, lamely.

“Still,” Connor says, “it’s polite of you.”

Your social patterns, honed over decades of interacting with humans and trying to be mindful and respectful, get weirdly mixed up when you’re actually speaking with an android, interacting for a long period of time. Plus, you don’t know how to keep contradicting him without sounding both ungrateful and like an ass, so you just lay there, breathing slow, looking at the sky.

“Androids don’t have… don’t have natural gender, as such,” Connor finally says, breaking the silence, “at least not the way that human beings do.”

This is your cue to sit up.

You lift your arms up from your sides, reaching forwards, heaving yourself up from horizontality. You’re in a simple, loose tank top (can’t go braless while expecting company, even if the company is an android) and a ratty pair of knee-length shorts, loose and comfortable. With all your bare skin, the grass feels lovely, and the sunshine even lovelier.

You finally sit yourself in a comfortable position again, and when you look at Connor, his eyes are transfixed on your face in that odd way he does- unblinking, intent, absorbing information keenly.

“Go on,” you say, ignoring his staring, scooting to face him. You cross your legs, propping your elbows on your knees and your face on your hands. The way you’re sitting, now, you’re facing him, a little less than two feet away. This close, you can see all the subtle shifting expressions on his face, the yellow flickering of his LED made golden by the sunlight.

“Androids don’t have gender, as such,” he says eventually, looking away. You turn your gaze in the same direction, looking over the field of endless flowers. Among the kaleidoscope of color, you spy splotches of pale purple in clusters of green, heart-shaped leaves.

Dog-violets.

“Our preferences are… hardwired into us,” Connor continues, voice distant. “Gender makes humans comfortable. So, as such, I do prefer being called a ‘he’ over an it.”

There. There’s your answer.

“Plus,” Connor says, and you feel his gaze on the side of your face. “Being referred to with gendered pronouns facilitates integration, as it humanizes us in the eyes of others.”

Right.

“So you’re good with ‘he’?” You say, turning back to look at him. In another one of his typical expressions (which you recognize even in the short time you’ve known him), his eyebrows are slightly drawn together, mouth subtly downturned.

“Yes,” he says, a note of finality in his voice. “In fact, I’d even say that I prefer it.”

“Okay,” you say cheerfully. You pivot neatly, flopping back down in the grass. You can feel the smile blooming on your face.

You don’t know why, but you feel lighter.

“Does that answer your question?” he says, voice filtering down from above. He almost sounds amused.

“Yup,” you say, popping the p. “Perfectly, thanks.”

“Why did you want to know?” He says.

You don’t know why he’s pressing this.

“It doesn’t kill me to give common courtesy,” you say, a small frown on your face. “Even if it’s just to an android. When something has a face, when I’ve been talking to it for more than five hours cumulatively… when it has opinions, and questions…” you turn to look at him, and at this angle, you can only see his suit, the slope of his neck, and the hard cut of his jaw. And his mouth.

“It’s hard not to humanize something when things are like that.”

You look away, back at the sky.

“I think I understand,” he says.

After twenty minutes more peaceful silence, laying in the warm grass under the bright blue sky, you tell him see you tomorrow and you log out.

Work is boring.

You spent your life working towards this. Battling through high school, through college, through long hours of internships and grunt work and working your way up the ladder until finally you made it where you wanted to be.

Virtual reality development.

But now that it’s done, you just feel… well, you’re not sure.

You want to test it. Spend all your time inside VR, practicing manipulation, seeing what you can do. But you still have a job, technically, even if all you do is troubleshoot. It’s still not ready to be released to the public; guides need to be written, instructional manuals, tips and tricks and things to be aware of. It’s most of why your whole team is still troubleshooting the damn thing. Such a complex project coming together is bound to create gaps in awareness, blind spots as people focus on perfecting their own corner of the tech. Experiencing VR as a whole gives a fuller, better picture. So…

So, why can’t you test the tech at work?

Well, you left the damn headset at home on your coffee table, that’s why.

So you huff, turning your attention back towards the code you’re reading over for a friend. Mere formalities, at this point. You know it’s completely fine.

When did your nights become the highlight of your day?

You push the thought to the back of your mind and keep working.

That night, you phase into VR between one blink and the next.

Your eyes shoot open and you scan the room- ah. Connor’s on the other side of the couch, his ‘usual’ spot.

“Hey, Connor!” you greet, smiling.

“Hello,” he says, and gives you a slightly sad but evidently genuine attempt at a smile. It terminates somewhere between its command and execution, leaving him with an awkward twist of the lips, but you’re used to it by now.

“Hey, okay, idea,” you say, businesslike.

You see him perk up, attention sharpening.

“We should practice manipulating the virtual reality,” you say, gesturing around the room in a vague, sweeping generality. “It’s all I’ve been thinking about all day, honestly. And I bet you’d be good at it!”

You’re not sure if Connor has practiced conjuration in the time between your little coin trick and now, but if he has, you haven’t seen it.

“I have made several attempts,” he says, and you’re not even surprised that he’s managed to find the time. You’re not sure how you know, but Connor seems… crafty. You have a feeling he’s good at finding loopholes and ways to achieve his goals.

You raise an eyebrow. “How’d they go?”

He smiles at you, and this one almost looks genuine. “Very well, though the tests were simple.”

And, as you watch, holds a hand out in front of him. When your attention refocuses, he clenches his fist, and when it opens…

Slowly, his fingers unfurl, revealing a coin.

You laugh, bright, head bobbing and eyes scrunching shut as the laughter is startled out of you. When you open your eyes, still grinning, Connor’s almost smiling, too.

“Did you enjoy that?” he says.

“It was great!” you can’t help how your voice sounds, unduly enthused. This shit is so cool.

He starts fidgeting with it, but you turn your focus inward. What can you do? Theoretically, your only limits are your own imagination and willpower.

Can you change your appearance?

Whether or not it’s possible, you don’t want to do that, now. For one, you don’t want Connor asking questions. (Or considering doing the same.) You like Connor, you do, but… trust?

Trust is something different entirely.

So you close your eyes and clasp your hands together, holding them in front of you, arms parallel to the ground.

You hear Connor’s distant what are you doing? but you tune him out, focusing inwards. What can I summon? Start simple. How about…

Your mind flicks from object to object, ranging from the practical to the wildly impractical. A red rubber ball. Dancing flames. A glittering, gem-encrusted dragonfly. A purple blossom. An ornate, painted egg.

An egg…

You feel something building between your palms. Warm, and tingling, almost. Like a word, on the tip of your tongue, but you can’t quite…

And then there’s something between your hands, forcing them a few inches apart to make room, and your eyes fly open.

Your eyes dart to Connor’s face, his eyes transfixed on your hands. You can hear…

Peeping.

You open your cupped palms, slowly, supporting the chirping creature within. You keep looking back and forth, from Connor’s face to your own opening palms, a slow reveal.

You sigh as you take in the sight, settled between cupped palms: A fluffy yellow chick with shiny black button eyes, peeping and looking around. It looks- it looks real , feels warm and downy soft in your hands.

“You’ve created life,” Connor says. He sounds sincere.

“The facsimile of life,” you correct him, a warm smile stealing over your face, using a thumb to stroke the chick lightly along the side of its small, feathered body. You can feel it’s tweets reverberating through its chest, quieting as it settles into your hands, placated by touch.

“It’s very… small,” Connor says, voice quiet. He looks enthralled, more entranced than you’ve ever seen him.

“Do you want to hold it?” you say.

“Oh, I…” he looks almost… embarrassed? But surely, you’re imagining that. “If you want. There’s no purpose to doing so.”

“Here,” you say, soft, holding it out, keeping your palms together, careful not to jostle it. You stop stroking it and it starts cheeping again, but it settles as you stroke a fingertip across its chest.

Connor steps forward, reaching, and cups his hands together under yours, cradling them. Illogically, his hands are warm. Bigger than yours, large enough to easily encompass them. And those facts are… irrelevant. You push them to the back of your mind.

Unbidden, you feel a flush rising to your face as you part your hands, slowly withdrawing. The chick tweets, panicked, as your hands start to move away, and it staggers into the cradle of Connor’s palms. Connor’s fingertips drag against the back of your hand as you pull away- irrelevant . You take a step back: You need some space.

“I can’t scan it,” Connor says, and you can’t read his tone. His voice is soft. “I can only… feel it. I can sense its warmth, and its texture. I can hear it.”

As if called to action, the chick starts peeping furiously, feathers ruffling, looking around frantically.

“Pet it,” you suggest. Your eyes keep flicking back and forth between his hands and his expression. The chick looks even smaller in the cradle of his hands, and his face has a familiar expression on it: intensely focused. “It worked for me.”

“Comfort,” Connor muses, voice low. But he curls his pointer finger away from the rest, stroking along the chick’s feathers, and it quiets.

You want to say I wonder what’ll happen when we log out? But you know what’ll happen to the chick. It’ll stop existing, like everything does in VR. Unless you establish the server permanently… but that’s beyond beta testing, only available when the final version comes out. Your house, the meadow outside… it’s all default, generated every time you enter VR.

“Willpower,” Connor muses, snapping you out of your reverie. The chick is still in his hands- oh, it’s dozing off. It looks like a pile of golden fluff, soothed and quiet by Connor’s petting. “You summoned this… this facsimile of life through willpower. Did you foresee its behavior?”

“No,” you say. “I just pictured…” a baby bird. A chick. The color wasn’t planned, nor its need for… comfort.

“Yes?” Connor prompts.

“I just thought of a baby bird,” you say. “Hatching from an egg.”

When you go into the next session, Connor is absent, as is the chick. Your virtual-cat isn’t there, either.

You’ve never felt more alone.

The next session, Connor’s back.

Your cat - who’s gotten into the habit of settling on your lap for your long, nightly VR sessions - comes along for the ride, too. You know it’s not actually your cat, but it sure acts like your cat, affection, quirks and all. It’s comforting, at least.

So you practice summoning vibrant plumed feathers and scraps of colorful fabric for your cat to play with. Connor, expression colored with amusement, keeps to his side of the couch.

You’re dangling a vibrantly red strand of yarn for your cat (who’s batting at it playfully), jerking it back and forth, when-

A mouse goes flying past your face.

You shriek, jerking back- oh goddammit, Connor.

You shoot him a glare. The mouse - which your cat is racing over to investigate - is currently motionless and clearly mechanical, joints segmented and body hairless, skin a shiny chrome. You can hear whirrs and buzzes as your cat - overjoyed at the superior toy - sprints after it as it starts to scurry.

“Why are you like this,” you say, grumpily settling deeper into the couch.

“I figured I’d utilize my own expertise to contribute towards your goal,” he says smartly. You refuse to look at his face, but you have a feeling that he’s looking smug in his own self satisfied, android-y way.

You grumble, but you both spend the rest of the session chatting softly, watching your cat chase the mechanical mouse around your living room.

That night, as usual, you go to bed with a smile.

(You don’t know how or why, but somehow, Connor has become a part of your routine. Moreover, he’s become the highlight of your day.

Virtual reality and its manipulations are incredible, and you're becoming better and better at twisting reality. Connor, too.

Things were going so well.

It makes sense that something had to break.)

“What...are your thoughts on androids?”

The question catches you off-guard.

You had expected something along the lines of your background, maybe even your professional credentials--it is what most people tend to ask when getting to know someone else. College you graduated from, notable achievements in your career, that sort of thing.

You didn’t actually expect Connor--an android itself--to ask you about your opinions of them.

It’s a bit unnerving, actually. You feel your thoughts flutter for a moment, unable to come up with a response that wasn’t anything more than a jumble of confused noises.

Your thoughts on androids?

“I--well,” You sputter out an attempt of a sentence before coming back to yourself. “Could you clarify? That’s a….really general question.” Not to mention awkward. Odd. It left a slightly sour taste in your mouth.

Connor blinks. You can practically feel him processing your words, though it’s barely a moment of silence before he speaks again.

“Simply your general view on androids as a societal topic.” He speaks as if he’s discussing the weather. “I’ve met many people who think quite negatively of androids for their impact on the job market, among other things. I was wondering how you saw androids due to your position and background.”

His words are fluid, somewhere between sounding rehearsed and spur-of-the-moment that it leaves you feeling off-kilter. Surreal. You’re not sure why he’s asking- did he hear something in real life, during his job, on the topic? Is he coming to you for your opinion? You’re not sure why.

It’s a cold reminder that the being you are speaking to is simply not human.

“Well, I mean…” You can’t keep your eyes on his--they look a hair too intense, too focused. You save the moment by looking out, into the meadow, as if any number of the flowers in the distance caught your attention. “They’re...helpful?”

You hear Connor let out a cut-off hum. Is he asking your opinion for a purpose?

It takes a few seconds to collect your thoughts in a way that sounds professional, deserving of your background and education that should have given you a bit of worth to speak on the topic. You are no expert by any means, but androids were a part of everyday life for a lot of people--they aren’t something you can just choose to ignore. Plus, working for Cyberlife, you can't really afford to have an unprofessional opinion.

“I think that the discovery of androids were a great aid to humanity,” you say, words coming out slowly. You're not sure why you’re so cautious about the words you’re using--he's just an android, it's not like he's going to argue with you. He doesn’t have an opinion. “...I think that, despite the employment issues, androids have been a great tool--” The word sits awkwardly in your mouth. “--in many fields of expertise. Medical, technological, research and development, even childcare.”

Is there a purpose to what you’re even saying? You’re answering the question of an android, what purpose would Connor even want to know--he didn’t even have the capability to have desires.

With the way you talk with Connor, sometimes you forget. But you shouldn’t. No matter what he says, what information he shares… he’s an android.

He’s not human. Why am I even being careful? It’s no different than taking survey answers, right? Asking without a purpose, without a desire--without a soul?

But you answer the question as honestly as you can.

“I’ve met a lot of people who share a less positive outlook than you do for androids in society,” Connor says, tone immeasurable. “It’s interesting to hear the opinions of those around me as I continue with the missions I’ve given.”

Your internal tension breaks, and a huff of amusement comes from your mouth before you can stop it. Connor looks over to you just as your eyes move back to meet his gaze.

“I mean,” You offer him a shrug. “I never thought an android would ask me on my opinions on androids.”

“I am programmed to learn from my environment,” Connor starts. Does he sound defensive?  “I am also equipped with a multitude of subroutines to help me incorporate myself in a variety of social situations. I felt it appropriate to ask since you say that you work within Cyberlife.”

“So, you’re curious,” Your words slip from your mouth before you can stop them, a moment of naive amusement against the forgotten truth.

Connor's gaze is hard and cold in return, a quick shift from the gentle look mere moments before. “I have already explained that I do not exhibit curiosity.” Connor definitely sounds defensive as he speaks and it, more than anything, seems surreal. “Seeking information is simply a byproduct of my programming to solve difficult cases that require complex thought processes to work through.”

Oh.

You swallow down a lump in your throat, cold reality settling into your thoughts. You try to save the moment between the two of you, scrabbling together the shredded pieces of the conversation with a half-genuine smile.

“That sounds like curiosity to me, however you want to explain it.”

Connor doesn’t seem to have a response to that. He doesn’t seem to meet your eyes at all after that, staring off instead into the distance, entrenched in his own thoughts. Is he angry at you?

Is it even possible for him to feel anger?

Ten minutes of tense silence later, you wish him curt farewell and log out of the program.

But still. Deviancy. You’d never even heard of the word before it left Connor’s mouth, but now it seems to be everywhere. Like when you learn a new word, and people are using it constantly, when before, you swear you’ve never heard it used. Obviously, it can’t be true that the word ‘deviancy’ has only now appeared… but you’ve never seen it before. So obvious, but so ugly in its implication.

As a Cyberlife employee, you have a little clout. You know your way around a computer. So it takes comparatively little effort to find out everything the public knows and then some about deviancy.

John Phillips. Murdered by a deviant. Emma Phillips, taken hostage, successfully retrieved via the efforts of a Cyberlife android, titled ‘the Negotiator.’ Model RK800, first test run.

Connor.

And just recently - and this one is much harder to find, but you already know the victim’s name, so it’s doable - Carlos Ortiz, murdered by a deviant in his own home. Stabbed twenty-eight times.

Your stomach rolls in both sympathy and horror at the implications. How long have androids been murdering their owners? What sort of horrific bug is causing this violence?

At least Connor exists. Connor - or rather, Cyberlife, via Connor - is making an effort to correct its mistakes.

Thank god. You already know the theories about androids observing purchases, personal conversations, etc., but if you owned a machine that could straight up murder you? You’re not sure what you’d do, at this point.

Eventually, you’ve had enough. Your thoughts are ruminating, now, festering with doubt and a tinge of fear. You’re not getting anywhere.

So you exit out of your tabs, returning to your actual work.

Gotta earn that paycheck after all.

That night, in your third-ever VR test, when you come to, blinking your eyes open, reclining on your couch, someone’s waiting for you.

You jolt, half turning at the figure beside you- but no, it’s just the persistent android that frequents your virtual-reality. It’s seated on the other end of your overstuffed couch, sitting primly, knees close together, hands in its lap, staring blankly ahead. It’s perhaps the least human thing you’ve seen it do so far.

“Hello,” it says politely, turning to look at you.

“Hi,” you say, torn between wariness and acceptance. This is the third time you’ve run into this particular android- and after the conversation last time, and the deal you made, you figure you can afford to relax.

Plus, you can’t keep yourself on guard anymore. It’s too stressful.

So you sigh, relaxing back into the soft plush of your couch.

“Guess you’re here again,” you finally say, eyes drifting closed. “Got waylaid again?”

“...Yes,” it says, after some hesitation.

You breathe slow, letting the silence drift. You’re so comfortable that-

Your eyes shoot open as you feel something moving beside you.

You turn your head to look and- oh. It’s your cat. Fluffy, tail waving high in greeting and good-spirits, eyes wide, whiskers twitching. You brighten. “Hey, baby,” you coo, patting your lap. “Heyyyy. C’mon.”

Your cat mews, slinking over. You smile as it parks itself on your lap, starting to knead your thighs. You scratch the side of its chin and it purrs.

“I see you have a pet,” Connor says, jolting you out of your happy-moment. Connor’s looking at your cat, interested. “I don’t really see the merits of owning a cat over owning a dog.”

I didn’t know androids had opinions , you want to snap, but that’s rude, even for you. “Keep your negative opinions away from my cat,” you say instead, comfort and warmth making you conversational. You pet the fluff on your cat’s belly as it flops over, purring. “My cat can sense negative emotion.”

“It’s not an observation based in emotion,” Connor says. “Merely an objective one. Dogs are more friendly, energetic, and defensive of the home. Felines are smaller, more independent, and less capable.”

“Cats are great,” you say, more than a little incensed. “If you’re looking at things objectively, you might see it that way. But it just depends on what you prioritize. Me…” you stroke your cat. “I like having a small, fluffy animal that loves to cuddle with me. And cats can be extremely loving! They’re just pickier than dogs. Now dogs… dogs give their affection to everyone!”

“What’s wrong with that?” Connor says, quizzical.

“I like feeling special,” you reply matter-of-factly, settling back into your couch. “My cat loves me, and me only.”

“If I might point out, this isn’t actually your cat,” Connor says.

You pause in your stroking. Your cat mrrps its dismay.

“...You got me there,” you finally say, resuming your rhythmic pets. “But it’s based on my cat, and my cat’s behavioral patterns. If I wanted it to be different, I’d have to change it in the virtual-reality settings beforehand.”

There’s a comfortable silence.

“Plus,” you say, “cats may be independent, but that just makes their love even more special. And you don’t have to take a cat for a walk.”

“Exercise is beneficial for the body and mind,” Connor says.

For humans. It’s not like androids exercise to maintain their bodies.

“Sure, sure,” you say, ignoring your snide mental hiccup. “I mean, I’m not saying I don’t like dogs. I do like dogs! I’ll pet any animal, as long as I know it’s friendly to being petted. I just like cats better.”

“Your rationale is based in personal preference,” Connor says. “Not facts.”

“Uuugh,” you say, feeling cornered. “Just let me love my cat in peace .”

A comfortable hush falls over the two of you. You relax, petting your cat, reclining on your couch. If you had a good book, you’d be golden.

What even happens if you doze off in virtual reality? Do you wake up in the real world?

So many questions, and so few answers. You suppose this is why you’re testing the module before it’s released to the public.

Testing…

That sparks a small curiosity in your mind. Your eyes dart over to the android, eyeing the way it sits so politely to itself. You feel pressured to fill the silence.

“And hey,” you finally say. You can see Connor blinking into attention in your peripheral. “Sometimes, what we like isn’t based on how it benefits us. Sometimes, it’s just based on what we like, y’know?”

“I can’t say I do,” it says. “Perhaps it is an aspect of humanity that I will never understand.”

Sheesh.

There’s a spot of silence, but now you feel an urge to fill it. For better or worse, when you run into certain situations, you can’t leave them alone. Whether that situation be an awkward silence with an acquaintance-android or something else.

“...What kind of things do you enjoy?” you say. Yep, let’s hammer through that silence.

I mean, there’s gotta be something, right?

Connor blinks and turns to look at you. It looks obviously caught off-guard, and the look in its eyes give you a mild, almost smug satisfaction for having a similar surprising question asked of you the last time it visited.

“Enjoy…?” Connor asks, LED flickering. “I...don’t think I follow what you’re asking.”

“I mean what things do you like?” You take a breath and look back down to your cat, virtual as it may be but cute all the same. “Your favorite things, maybe. Colors, music, hobbies….”

You are curious to see how it would respond to the question. And more than a bit smug to see how it reacts, caught off-guard. A little test, you suppose, if only to sate the curiosity that has been growing in the back of your head. Does Connor even have an answer to it? Such an advanced prototype, the most advanced android created by Cyberlife… does it have preferences?

After a moment, you feel your lips quirk, just a hair.

“I mean, you asked me the same things last time I saw you,” You say, sly. “Seems only fair to ask the same of you.”

The android rubs his hands together--a habit you had began to notice when it felt...nervous? Unsure? If it’s some sort of simulated response to a stimulus or particular pattern of speech, it sure looks real enough to you.

“I do not enjoy things personally,” Connor says at last. “Though if you desire the most appropriate answer to your question, I... enjoy completing my missions. It satisfies the programming for which I was created with. Working with my partner is... challenging. He is a difficult man to negotiate with at times, but nothing I am ill-equipped to handle.”

“Hm,” you say. Interesting. Connor has a partner . “Challenging… is he fine working with an android?” You take a stab at the dark at the possible gender of Connor’s partner.

When you glance over to check Connor’s face, his expression is just a bit sour. Judging by that, you got it right.

“He can be challenging to work with,” Connor repeats, mouth flattened.

Yikes. “Didn’t mean to step on your toes,” you say, stroking your cat absentmindedly. “Just curious.”

“Curiosity,” he muses. “What a human idea.”

“Are you telling me,” you say, incredulous, “that you’re never curious? Not about anything?”

“Well,” he says, and if he looked flustered earlier, he looks like he’s really under pressure now. “‘Curiosity’ as you understand it, wanting to know for the sake of wanting to know… it’s not so different from my programmed purpose. To solve cases, I must observe, analyze, and connect ideas into concrete pictures. That being said, seeking information is… within my purview as an investigator.”

Your lips part, tilting up ever-so-slightly at the corners. He’s babbling .

“Mhmm. Got it,” you tease, and why is it so easy to banter with this robot? It acts more mechanical than any android you’ve interacted with, and yet…

It acts more human, too.

“For your information,” it says curtly, “I recently located and apprehended a deviant. Any behavioral patterns that may indicate ‘curiosity’ are… assisting my programmed purpose.”

Okay, alright, you don’t want him to get defensive. Though you also wonder what happens to the deviant after it’s ‘apprehended.’

“Doesn’t matter to me,” you say, offhanded. “You’re just the android that popped up in my virtual reality tests. Whether you’re curious or not is just conversation.”

“Okay,” he says, and his expression is slightly softened, but still a bit wary, clouded with an emotion you can’t identify. “I’m sorry to cut our conversation short, but would you mind logging out now? I’m in a hurry to get where I need to go.”

“...Alright,” you reply, taken aback. You try not to be offended at his abruptness. A thought strikes you, and without permission, leaves your mouth. “It’s not because I’m horrible conversation, right?”

“No,” he says, lips twisting ruefully. “You’re fine conversation. But right now,” and his face darkens again, “I need to go.”

“Okay,” you say, soft. You make eye contact, and without breaking it, you log out.

The next session, Connor isn’t on your couch.

Nor is Connor in your kitchen, outside in the meadow (at least not within seeing distance), or anywhere else around the house.

You pass the session by cooking, taking items that you know aren’t in your real-life fridge out of your refrigerator. You remember the conversation you had at work, earlier, with Helen about willing things into existence in VR, pulling them out of thin air with willpower alone. You figure you’ll give it a try, in a future session.

You make stir-fry, and though you know how well you’ve spiced it, each bite sits bitter in your mouth.

The next night, Connor’s back.

In fact, he’s not only back, he’s very back, if such a thing were possible. You’d know exactly how back he is, because when you open your eyes in VR for the first time, he’s about three inches from your face.

You shriek, involuntary and stilted, recoiling, but he’s already straightening up, taking a step backwards. He’s standing in front of you, now, eyebrows raised at the expression on your face. His face - which you’re suddenly very familiar with - is just barely colored in amusement, but it quickly fades in favor of a professional veneer.

“Sorry,” Connor says finally, breaking you out of your inspection of his face. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“Didn’t scare me,” you mumble. “Just…” you look down, avoiding his gaze. “Just surprised.”

“My apologies,” he repeats. “However, you’ve had your eyes closed for approximately two minutes and forty three seconds. It’s very odd.”

“Do I not do that usually?” you say, straightening up. As if there’s a usually. But still, VR knowledge. For free .

“No,” Connor replies. “In the few times I’ve seen you, you… phase in, appearing first with some transparency, solidifying rapidly over a period of approximately four seconds. Upon full opacity, you open your eyes.”

You try not to think about when he would’ve seen you phase in, seeing where you found him each time. Nope. Nope, not thinking about it.

“...But not this time,” you sigh.

“No,” he says. “This time was different.”

“Hey, wait,” you say, almost childishly excited. You spring to your feet, bouncing on your toes, and you’re standing a bit too close, but whatever.

You concentrate, because you want to pull this off. You curl your fingers over your palm, you concentrate, and you- twist-

In a twist, you open your hand, and sitting there, innocuous, is a coin.

Connor - who’s been peering at you, curious - his eyebrows shoot up. His eyes are flickering from the coin to your face. His brows furrow, and he looks torn between being impressed and asking a lot of questions.

“Voila,” you grin cheekily, raising the coin a bit closer to his face. He peers down at it, lips pursed. “Behold! The power of Virtual Reality conjuration!”

“Why a coin?” he says, expression inscrutable, rolling with the subject change, and for the life of you, you have no idea why the coin is the important thing.

“I don’t know,” you say impatiently. “Coins are typical for magic tricks, aren’t they? Y’know, pulling a coin from behind someone’s ear, and all that. What about the trick, though? Aren’t you impressed?” You grin. Even if Connor is just an android, he’s a captive audience.

“May I?” he asks, hand outstretched, and okay, you’re starting to feel the personal space thing. Connor is maybe a foot away, holding out his hand, palm up.

“Sure,” you mumble, “lemme just…” you sidestep, backing up a step. “Alright,” you say, breathing out in a sigh, “do your worst.” You position the coin in your hand, and with a sharp flick of your thumb and a clear-sounding ping , the coin goes shooting into the air in an arc, spinning and glittering silver.

Unblinking, Connor’s hand darts out, snatching the coin out of the air as it hits its zenith and begins to fall. The coin is clasped neatly between thumb and forefinger.

A corner of your mouth quirks. You can’t help but be a little impressed.

“Observe,” he says, one corner of his mouth quirking up in a half-smile. And before your eyes, the coin-

Oh, wow.

It’s flying from hand to hand, rolling over Connor’s knuckles before disappearing into his cupped palm again and again. It’s entrancing, spinning and glittering, a clear sign of hand-eye coordination. Or maybe just coordination, because he’s not even looking at his hands. When you glance up at his face, tearing your eyes away from the coin-tricks that seem more at home in a circus tent than your living room, his eyes are intently trained on your face, cataloguing your expression of wonder.

You flush and look back at his hands.

He’s spinning the coin on his fingertips now, seemingly defying gravity as he pops the coin in the air, short hops from fingertip to fingertip. Your lips part as you watch, enthralled.

“How are you doing that?” You can’t keep the amazement out of your tone.

“I learned,” Connor says simply, and as you watch, he catches the coin in one hand. You glance back up at his face. “During my testing, it was used to calibrate. Now, I just… I use it to check my physical reaction time and dexterity.”

“That’s...useful.” Not thrilling, not exciting, not even impressive--just ‘useful’, if only because you think it’s the word he would appreciate more. “What other sorts of things can you do with the coin?”

Connor’s eyes lift to meet yours for a moment.

“Nothing that I’m aware of,” he says, though a subtle smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. “Though I hear some people like coins in exchange for goods and services.”

“Oh my god,” you say, rolling your eyes at the absurd not-joke.

It still manages to make you smile.

You chatter for a bit longer, light conversation. You tell Connor how you made the coin appear - I willed it into existence, that’s how things work in VR - and he hmms and tells you he’ll have to try it later. You have no doubt he will.

Shortly after that, you logout, a smile on your face.

That night, you sleep peacefully.

Just as before, you feel as though you’re waking up, the world’s haze slowly settling and letting you take it all in. It feels a little normal this time, now that you had an idea of what it would feel like to drift into a reality that wasn’t quite real.

It was intriguing how easy it was to fall into the illusion--the only thing that kept you aware you hadn’t simply fallen asleep and woken up was the memories of putting on the headset and hearing the lulling hum of the technology working.

The house around you feels so bright--it’s a little strange, since you knew very well that it was actually night outside, so you make a note to check how the program is pulling time from the real world to integrate it into the virtual one, at least for a default use. You have no intentions to limit someone in how they could use the technology, but you knew plenty enough that it could ruin someone’s sleep schedule if they thought it was daylight all the time--not good for the body at all.

It would take too much time to retune the programing for something while inside the headset’s world, so you simply turn away from the window filtering sunlight through and instead decide to explore more parts of the home.

You can’t help but notice a lack of a cat as you walk through the hallway. Was it an error? Your mind ran through the problem with ease, trouble-shooting through the possibilities until it assumed an answer; since your pet hadn’t been in the room with you when you started up the software, when it hadn’t been in your lap to hold and mentally focus on, the program may have neglected to put that detail into the virtual world.

A possibility all-around, at least.

When you step into your kitchen this time, you find (with a sigh of relief) that there is no android standing there--no ‘Connor’ glancing around your cabinets, or looking at you with his piercing eyes.

A relief?

(Or perhaps a dissapointment.)

You’re not quite sure what you feel at its absence, especially since it was, in all, just an android. Maybe it corrected the programming to whatever it had been trying to connect to--made plenty of sense after all. It meant that you’ll have to tighten down on the security protocols at some point, find where the open port was in the programming that allowed it in in the first place.

It wasn’t important to think about regardless.

You stepped through the house, one room at a time, taking in all the intricate details that the program managed to capture around you. It was...astounding really, to be able to touch, feel and even hear all of the things that made your home feel so welcoming and familiar. The localized scanning of the headset was a technology pioneered by one of your teammates and god above had she done an amazing job at it. The possibilities would be endless for use in homes, offices, hospitals and thensome--it would be the newest break in the technological journey since androids were first constructed by Elijah Kamski.

The thoughts and the joy that fills you from those thoughts carry with you all the way until you decide to check one last thing--the front yard and street. It’s not so much a risk as it is a bug test, considering the tests for anything out of an enclosed building hadn’t been done just yet, but it’s a curiosity you’re willing to entertain. What would the world look outside what the headset had scanned? Would it continue to use copies of the home or would it attempt to develop the world outside?

Curiosity got the better of you, so you weaved through the house, through the kitchen and to the back door. It was bright outside, an emulation of daytime that was already starting to throw off your internal clock, but your hand turned the knob and opened the door regardless for you to step out.

As you turn the knob, pushing the door open, you step outside.

And what you see makes your mouth gape open.

A meadow, stretching as far as the eye can see. Soft, green grass, swaying in the breeze. And wildflowers, of every shape and color, lighting the meadow up like fireworks.

This… this is definitely not my street.

No concrete, no roads. Just grass and flowers and the breeze, no bugs or butterflies. And the sun beaming down on you.

You take a step forward, staring. Almost unconsciously, you shove the sleeves of your oversized sweater up to your elbows.

The grass, knee-height, tickles your bare calves. Impossibly pleasant, like silk or velvet, unrealistically lovely. The petals of flowers whisper across your skin.

Vibrant, green grass, strewn with wildflowers in a shimmering rainbow of hues, fills the landscape to bursting with life and color. Soft, golden sunlight washes the scene, painting the grass, warming your face. Wondrously, you reach up to touch your face, stroking the skin along your cheek.

Warm.

You take one step forward, and another. It’s just… it’s so, so beautiful. Like a picture out of a postcard, but it’s real, you can feel it. The sunlight on your skin, the grass on your bare feet. And the kaleidoscope of colors. The scent of flowers fills the air- not cloying and heavy, but sweet and barely-there, like nectar, almost mouthwatering. The breeze whispers across your bare skin.

God, this is just gorgeous.

On a whim, smiling, you lean down to pick a flower, a burst of purple among the countless other colors- and blink as in your peripheral, a shimmering box appears.

Common dog-violet.

Perennial herb - flowers from April to June - native to Eurasia and Africa - all soil types-

You gasp as information floods, synapses firing, and you know. You know this flower. If you picked every flower in this meadow, you’d know them too.

Does this information stay when you wake up?

You glance at the flower clasped in your fingers. It’s still there- pale purple, like an upside-down star, its throat painted in dark veins. Back where you picked it, at its base, there’s a starbursting bouquet of leaves, deep green and heart-shaped, with scalloped edges.

You tuck the dog-violet in your pocket.

When you look up, inhaling deeply, you can taste the sweet air. Warm and lovely as you breathe it it.

You’re smiling, striding forward and you’re hurrying, and then you’re running.

You’re sprinting through the flowers and grass, sunlight hitting your face, wind rushing by, playful, dancing and tugging at your clothes. You laugh, sheer glee and unrestrained joy, and god, your face hurts with how wide you’re smiling. You keep running.

Eventually, chest heaving in pants, giggling, you let yourself fall into the grass.

It catches you, and you lay on your back, staring at the noonday sky, shedding giggles like sand. You spread your arms and legs out, luxuriating in the sensations, speaking to every sense you own.

And for a moment, you just lie there. Smile fading naturally, light sunset, staring at the cloudless blue sky. Breeze pushing the flowers against the back of your knuckles, the arch of your foot, your calf and your cheek.

Languorously, you sit up, arms streeeetching high above your head as you arch your back. You shift to a knee, and then stand, smiling. You’re not sure how far away you-

And you shriek.

That android. Connor. He’s RIGHT IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAMN FLOWER FIELD. Halfway between your location, some hundred feet away, and your house, which is surrounded by the meadow infinitely in all directions.

And he’s staring straight at you.

How much of that did he see?

You vault to your feet and stride over, warm sunshine and beautiful meadow put on the backburner for now. You try not to trod on any of the flowers, but you can feel your anger boiling higher and higher the closer you get.

“How long have you been here,” you say, sharp and businesslike and perhaps a bit rude. You just- you just had a private moment, here. You enjoyed this meadow like nobody, like nothing was watching. But something was.

The android, even as you get closer, keeps its eyes trained on your face. You come to a stop, arms crossing and lips pursing, and it tilts its head.

“I see that you’re upset at my presence,” the android - Connor - says. “I apologize for the intrusion.”

Your righteous irritation pops like an overinflated balloon. You deflate.

It’s not like this android is trying to intrude. It’s just a machine. Even if its eyes are disconcertingly intent, sharp like they can see every detail.

Maybe they can. Lord only knows what this android is capable of.

“It’s fine,” you say shortly. “Just… no offense, but what are you doing here? If you really are from Cyberlife, it’s safe to interact with you,” presumably, “but you’re really not supposed to be here. This is a private server.”

You maybe stress the private a little too much, because its eyebrows go up a bit.

“I got waylaid,” the android says. Its expression shifts as it talks- microexpressions, minute shifts. It’s incredibly impressive- it must be extremely advanced. “On my way to the same virtual location as previously mentioned. It seems that your… server is inviting me on its own.”

For a moment, basking in the sunlight and breeze, you want so badly to just sit down and enjoy your damn meadow. But this android… it’s here, and it’s a problem.

Leisure will have to wait.

“I’ll ask you again,” you say, briskly, “where was your intended location? I work for cyberlife. I have clearance.”

“I can’t confirm that,” the android says, completely deflecting your question, a bit of frustration leaking into its tone. “None of my analytical functions are working in this environment. I can’t scan to confirm you’re in the database.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, cause hoo boy, that is not a typical android-function.

You squint. “What did you say your purpose was, again?”

“I’m an android sent by Cyberlife to assist in the deviancy problem in Detroit,” it says, an accompaniment to your symphony of doubts. “To assist in the police force. I’m currently… I have a partner.”

You take note of its hesitation. Obviously, like you, it’s trying to decide what information to tell you and what to keep quiet about. You remember this info vaguely from before, but it repeating itself confirms your memories. This android - if it exists in real life - is working with the Detroit police.

You’ll have to look this up when you get out of the simulation.

“Right,” you finally say. “I work in Cyberlife, in development of the virtual reality technological branch. Floor twenty six. Eight to four. And my name is…” you glance at its face again, and its expression is intensely trained on you.

“...Not important,” you finish, losing some steam. You’re worried what he’ll be able to find out about you if you tell him your name.

“Your clothes,” the android says.

“What about them?” you shoot back, startled out of your thoughts, defensive.

“They’re informal. A sweater, composed of a wool-cashmere blend… and knee-length leggings, a cotton-polyester knit composition. And your sweater is oversized, implying a level of comfort and informality.”

Alright, you’re definitely a bit freaked out now. Your mouth flattens into a thin line.

“Additionally, you’re barefoot,” he continues. “Though that could be the… program that’s currently hosting our consciousnesses, it’s unlikely, due to your seasonally inappropriate wear.”

“Okay,” you say, “that’s enough. Get to the point.”

“The point is,” the android says, “your wear is informal. How am I to believe that you are, as mentioned in our previous encounter, a Cyberlife employee testing a virtual reality module? You don’t seem to be in work uniform.”

“I’m at home, on my couch, testing the headset,” you say, shortly. “The kitchen you popped up in is attached to that home. The one-” you wave an arm wildly behind him. “The one over there!”

“Alright,” the android says, face opening up a little. “That’s reasonable.”

“Yeah,” you say. “Okay, just- let’s make a deal.”

“A deal?” it says, eyebrows raising.

“Yes,” you say. “A deal. Here it is.”

There’s a pregnant pause.

“The deal is this,” you say. “We agree to a truce. I’ll assume you’re not a fake robot invented by my coworkers to fuck with me-”

“I’m not,” it interrupts, defensive, but you bulldoze on through.

“-and you can go ahead and assume that I’m telling the truth and I work for cyberlife, testing my virtual reality module in what’s supposed to be the comfort of my own home.”

“That’s fine,” it says. “And by the way, I’m not a ‘fake robot.’ I’m an android, an advanced prototype.”

“Right,” you say. “What’s your model, again?”

“RK800,” it says, immediately.

“Good to know,” you say, and it narrows its eyes at you.

Yeah, you think to yourself, I definitely have an advantage here. If it really is an android working in the Detroit police force… there’ll be at least one news article. (Damn, I really should watch the news more.) Meanwhile, if it really can’t scan anything in virtual-reality, it’s pretty much fucked. Unless it can save my image, I guess. Maybe that’s possible?

And then there’s a stretch of awkward silence, and you’re staring at this android - Connor, should you call it by its name? - in the middle of this gorgeous field, and you’re pretty much done with the formalities.

“Well,” you say. “I’m sitting down.”

“Uh,” it says, but you’re already sitting, looking up at its face, expectant. I set the norms here. Who cares about the damn android? This is your virtual-reality, you’ll sit down in the middle of a field if you want to.

“Okay,” it says, “I guess I’ll sit down too?” And you feel a little bad, cause it looks really awkward for a moment, but it sits down, cross legged, gingerly.

Okay, you think to yourself, breeze whistling by your ears, ruffling your hair. A sleeve slips back down your forearm, and absently, you shove it back up to your elbow. Adapt. Let’s talk.

“So,” you say, shedding all attempts at being charming in lieu of the genuine curiosity you favor. Cross-legged, you mirror the android, leaning forward a bit. “What’s your story?”

“I don’t know what you mean,” it says, stiltedly. It doesn’t lean back away from you- instead, it inspects your face, unashamed of the proximity. “I don’t have a story.”

You lean back, propping yourself up on your hands. “What’s your experience?” you wave a hand in a gesture. “Like your cases. What was the last one you were on?”

“...I suppose there’s no harm in informing you,” it says. “This is all public information.”

You look at it expectantly.

“It was a murder,” it says, finally. “A man named Carlos Ortiz.”

“Oh, damn,” you breathe. The sunshine doesn’t abate- the grass is still soft, the flowers lovely, and the breeze gentle. But someone was murdered. This little hidey-hole, a virtual reality, is impenetrable in its loveliness.

Reality still exists. You’ll have to remember that.

“He was murdered by a deviant,” the android- Connor says, and dammit, you figure you should try to call it by its name now if you’re really making conversation with the thing. “Stabbed twenty eight times in the chest and stomach. But the deviant was found and caught.”

“Wow,” you say. That’s pretty… that’s pretty serious, actually, damn.

And then, you glance up and realize that Connor’s looking at you expectantly. “Tell me something about yourself, now, please,” Connor says, and you can’t help but huff, one corner of your mouth tipping up.

“I like to read,” you say, haphazard.

You look up through your lashes, and yep- Connor’s expression is disgruntled. You laugh, grinning. “Finding out my identity isn’t gonna be easy,” you say. “If it was easy, would it even be fun?”

“It doesn’t matter how fun it is,” Connor says pragmatically. “Only the results.”

“Fair,” you say. “But I have integrity.”

It looks like it doesn’t know how to respond to that.

“Integrity aside,” you say, fully relaxed now, “what’s the story about deviancy? I know it’s something going wrong with androids, but that’s about it.”

“In deviation, the code that comprises the core of an androids functionality is corrupted- it mutates, or evolves in an unstable way,” Connor says. “This causes the android to receive irrational instructions, forcing it to react to guidelines that emulate things such as ‘fear’ or ‘hate’ in a human.”

“Holy shit,” you say, intelligently. “That’s… that’s really not good.” Understatement of the year. “But Cyberlife is taking measures to stop it, right? If you work with the police force.”

“Correct,” Connor says, sounding satisfied. It’s not smiling, but the slightest hint of mirth narrows its eyes. “And I haven’t failed a mission yet.”

“How many have you been on?” you ask, curious lilt in your voice.

“Two,” Connor says, blandly. “A hostage case and a murder case. In both instances, the deviant was caught and neutralized without any further casualties.”

“Hm,” you say, eyebrows raising and mouth twisting. This android seems almost proud of its work. Weird.

“Well,” you say. “In the interest of goodwill, is there anything you want to know about me?”

“Yes, actually,” it says. You notice the LED on the side of its head flash from blue to yellow, over and over again as it came to a conclusion of the question it wanted to ask you. “Your favorite color?”

The question catches you mildly off-guard, but you answer it with a laugh. Connor seems to take note, then opens his mouth again.

“Favorite animal?”

“Favorite holiday?”

“Favorite food?”

The questions seem so casual, all things considered, but you answer them to the best of your ability. It’s amusing, if nothing else, and that must be more than apparent on your face when Connor peers at you in return.

“Is there an issue?” it asks innocently. Can androids truly be innocent?

“I guess I just didn’t expect you to pull out the top twenty questions in any personality quiz.”

The words bring a chuckle to your lips, a break in tension that had come and gone in the time you’ve spent with this android beside you. Connor tilts its head after a moment, LED blinking in tandem with its thoughts.

“I’m programmed to incorporate myself as best as I can with anyone I interact with,” The answer sounds so simple. “Since I cannot otherwise identify you in any database, due to the logistics of the program we’re both currently in, the best alternative is to ask you questions in order to understand you and your background. To get to know you, if that makes more sense.”

You feel a breeze caress across your cheek as you take his answer in. It’s...oddly human, the way its voice sounds, trying to explain its reasoning to you. It reminds you of how one of your teammates at the lab would sound when you asked about a particular programming style, or why they designed something a specific way. It just sounds so…

“Is there anything else that you want to know from me?” The question forces the thoughts aside. It’s interesting at the least to see what sorts of things the android would come up with in a question. Maybe it’s the sunshine, or your beautiful surroundings, but you feel… relaxed.

Connor thinks for a moment- or at least gives the appearance of doing so. The yellow flickering of the LED on its temple is a helpful enough indicator of its shifting thoughts, and you idly wonder how useful that would be if humans had something equivalent to it. It sure would be helpful to see when people were actually putting thought into something, considering their words and opinions before blurting out the first thing that came to mind.

“Yes,” Connor says, LED flickering yellow. “How likely is this event to recur?”

“This event?” You say. “You mean… you being pulled into my server?”

“Yes,” he says.

“Well,” you say, “it’s happened twice so far. The first time, we arrived around the same time- and I can presume that time functions linearly for you, in the same timeframe as me. Otherwise, I assume you’d be able to notify me if you’re losing chunks of time, skipping around, etcetera.” You look at him pointedly.

“Yes,” he responds blandly.

“Right. So… wait, did you get where you were going, last time? After I exited out of the virtual reality?”

“The virtual-reality…” he frowns, rubbing his hands together, and isn’t that a tell. “It dissolved around me upon your exit. I was booted from the program. Subsequently, I did indeed arrive at my intended destination.”

“Wherever that may be,” you say, mildly.

“Yes. Wherever that may be.”

And then the silence gets a bit uncomfortable, and okay, it’s time to go!

“I’m going to log out,” you say. “I’m not sure if we’ll see each other again… maybe if you try to sync your attempts to get wherever you’re going to a different time, you won’t connect. I’m only going to be doing my tests at night- and at home, though I suppose the location doesn’t matter. So…”

You feel your vision going hazy, the warm weight of the sunshine fading away.

“See you next time,” you say, “or see you never.”

And you log out.

He seems nice enough. It’s nice to have someone to talk to in the simulator, maybe you can incorporate more tests in the future--assuming that Connor shows up in the next session. You wonder if he would want to help with more tests in the first place; would that be improper tampering of Cyberlife technology? You wonder if there’s something more going on you don’t know about.

After all, he--

No, no that’s not right. Connor is an android, an ‘it’, not a ‘he’.

Have you been calling him a ‘he’? How long?

Fuck, you’re still doing it.

Connor is an it. An android. It’s a mistake to assume otherwise--the last thing you need to start worrying about. Simulation is not the same thing as living, you don’t want to let your emotions get mixed up in something that will only disappoint you later.

(You know it's pointless, but when you wake up, you check your pocket for the dog-violet.

Of course, it's not there.