Caged

Apprehensive (3/3)

Eden

I push past him to take the lead, twisting the wig around on my head. It barely fits with all the hair piled up under it. Tucking away a few black strands, I lead us back out into the street, making sure my movements are rigid again, that my feet fall heavily and I don't breathe too loudly.

Here, the sky doesn't exist. Instead, we have clouds and smog that are tinted red from the lights. It's daylight, even in the dead of night. While time ceases to exist in terms of day and night, the machines continue to run on a human schedule.

We created them after all. Why shouldn't they act like us?

In many ways, life continues on as it did when humans roamed the streets. The machines work all hours of the day, crowding the streets even after the sun sets above the angry clouds with faces buried in their tablets and other communication devices. Very few of them talk face to face with other machines, choosing instead to talk over the communication devices linked into their ears. Occasionally, one glances up at the billboards, but only for a moment. Zombies come to mind when I look at them, there physically but not really present.

"Your dress is exquisite."

The sharp sound of something talking to me brings my attention away from the black pavement. In front of me stands a cybernetic organism - a cyborg - dressed in a bright pink flat outfit. It doesn't show any form at all, falling off her shoulders with the straightness of a needle.

In every possible way, she looks exactly like a human, only more dramatic. Her skin bears the same tint as my own but is smooth and hairless. The lines of her face curve with artistic grace, as if molded by a world renowned potter. Every eyelash separates from the others with no mistake and frame eyes that serve as the only difference between the two of us. Where my irises are a shade of blue that puts the sky to shame, hers are silver and mechanical. Gears and machinery make up the bulk of the iris and pupil. They contract in rapid succession as she screenshots my dress. It resembles a metal camera lense, glazed over by lubrication.

I glance down at myself and smile.

"Thank you," I say in the well-rehearsed accent of the cyborgs.

"Which machine designed it? I will contact its origin machine," she continues. Every word is meticulously pronounced, leaving no room for emotion. While she's telling me how much she loves the dress, her eyes are empty and hollow. There's a smile on her face, but she shows none of her porcelain teeth.

"Machine 2043," I rattle off, keeping the smile on my face but careful not to show too much emotion. I committed the number to memory long ago, just in case a cyber ever asked. Machine 2043 actually does create clothes, or at least it used to.

"Registered," she confirms, nodding as she brushes past me.

I hurry on, the three following me.

"Machine?"

It's the woman again. I blink hard and fight the urge to groan.

"Yes?"

"Your skin covering," she says, eyes reflecting the light of the advertisements. "Where was it manufactured? It is of top quality."

I swallow, hesitating. What sort of service machines make skin coverings? I memorized most service machine extensions. The two thousands make clothing and other textile products. The six thousands make cars and other transportation devices. Skin coverings, though?

The cybernetics' obsession with becoming more human has always struck me as odd. They exist with every possible advantage over humans, created in a way that they're immortal. They move faster than humans when called to, and they hear with ears of a hawk.