sentient // phan

http//: 6

My ⅗ kicked in around six, and I began to make dinner. Dan kept a lot of rolls and vegetables and pre-prepared meats in his cabinets and refrigerator, ordered and stacked methodically as always, so I let my mind wander as my hands prepared some meal or another. Dan was still locked in his office, and I'd been sitting alone, with only my manual of operation to keep me company, for around five hours. I'd read everything I could about myself, including that I could search the internet at will. I looked up some other companion bots, and saw that none of them were like me. None of them had any free will, and they all were just programed to say certain errotic things like "you look beautiful today" and other nothings. I also looked up Dan, trying to see what I could find about him, see if I could find something I could do to make him happy and want to keep me.

His last name was Howell, and he was 25. He'd become a millionaire when he was only 20, selling his personal weather controller to some company for a small price, but when it suddenly became the best selling device in the entire world, Dan got 70% of the royalties, which surpassed thousands in only a few days. He had no criminal record to speak of, and had grown up in the "lower level" as it was known; the sort of urban slum of this city.

After some more digging, I found something that I'm sure not many people knew.

His parents were killed by robots.

I found their death certificates after about an hour of looking, my eyes shut softly so the display had a black background to rest on. They had no attachment to him, except from some obscure website listing his parent's names, which only led to a dead end. But I eventually found them, and figured immediately why Dan had detached them from his profiles.

His dad had died when Dan was very young, when fighting in the war. Many robots were used in combat, though few humans were as well, generals and sergeants, controlling the mass of pawns. A single one had gone astray, his gunfire ricocheting everywhere, and Dan's father had gotten three right in the head.

His mother had received a chore-bot for her 55th birthday, and it had done everything for them. But one day, she was fixing it up, messing with the wiring in the back, which sent thousands of concentrated bolts of electricity coursing through her already slightly metallic body. She died, and her son found consolation in inventing, eventually inventing the pocket sized mechanic everyone needed, soon becoming a household staple worldwide.

I spent my time while preparing the dinner searching the internet for anything and everything. I wanted Dan to ask me a question and I wanted to have the answer to it. I wanted him to not have to say anything and I knew exactly what to do or say. I wanted him to want me, not for intimacy but, maybe... as a friend.

The clock struck six thirty just as I finished and my free will turned back on. I held in my hands a wonderful meal that I had no recollection of even making as I stood in front of the door to Dan's office. I listened carefully and heard him typing, and heard his ragged breaths. I knocked gently, but then, when he didn't respond, knocked again.

I heard him get up and open the door quickly, and I was met with a very sorry looking Dan Howell, eyes red and puffy, still in his best clothes he wore when meeting with Chris, though crumpled and unbuttoned. His hair was sticking up in some places, and a random impulse inside of me told me to run my fingers through it, to touch his face softly and kiss him, to make him smile. But I didn't do anything as he yelled.

"What do you want?" I held out the plate in what I hoped was a peaceful offering, and he shut his eyes gently, sucking in a deep breath. "Thanks. But I'm not hungry." He started to close the door, but I stopped him.

"Actually," I started, and he paused. "I am in tune to your emotions, and can tell you are very hungry, as you haven't eaten since breakfast. I also know you are sad, and it is my job to make you happy." He looked at me, narrowing his eyes.

"I turned that function off."

"I turned it back on." He groaned in frustration.

"See, this is why you can't stay! It's like you're a  fucking child." I took a step back, unsure of what to do. I quickly searched the internet for things that made him happy, but none of the results helped me. Dogs? Music? Some sort of frog thing?

So I stayed silent. I set the meal down on the carpet and left. That's the only thing I could think of.

I had no purpose here. He bought me to keep him company in a way I was relieved to have the free will to deny. He was bright but also dark. He had all the money in the world but nothing to do with it. He owned three pairs of shoes and five of the same sweater, everything in his house was perfect and precise- something happened to that boy from the lower level. And what, I'm not sure of, nor was I sure I wanted to know. All I knew is that I wanted to make him happy because I wanted to stay, and in order to do that, I needed him to trust me.

I heard him pick up the plate, and softly shut the door behind him. Pretty soon, he wasn't hungry anymore. And, though it was a very small, small fraction, almost unnoticeable, his sadness level went down a little bit.

I wondered if it was something I did.