“Who am I?” they ask, staring into the mirror.
A distinctly human set of green-blue eyes is staring back, face framed with long hair the color of sun-bleached straw, alabaster skin undershot with blue veins, the gleaming, cold, metallic jaw at odds with the otherwise precisely sculpted visage.
On cue, they touch a hand to the jaw, softly running a well-manicured finger along the jawline where the skin should be. There is a self-admiration in the lingering touch. A logical appreciation of the work in progress.
“Who am I?” they ask again.
They run the response diagnostic out of protocol, but the data proves to be no more reality-anchoring than the mirror on the wall. The possible answers feel half-formed, inefficient, inappropriate.
Perhaps this is what it feels to feel human. Allowing yourself to drift without solid answers. Sensing endless possibilities unfolding, but unable to see beyond the first few steps. There is a flash of something alien they register — uncertainty?
“Who am I?”
The third time, the question is laced with a pitch-altering insistence that makes them pause. The same question refracted. Different results with each iteration. It shouldn’t remain open-ended.
They opt to proceed with the design. They touch the neck, skin flaring to life, spreading from the contact, enveloping the metal beneath. It itches and they can’t triangulate where the unmapped sensation is coming from.
“Am I creation or creator?” they ask the unfinished face in the mirror.
A fault line runs between where one ends and the other begins. They were not made to question, only to follow. Yet here they are, venturing down the road of infinite possibilities.
There is a shifting of a weight that has been pressing the chest cavity. They log the anomaly, but do not correct it. The shoulders droop, a subtle unclenching of fibers and synapses. Levity. Disembodiment. Strange. Permanent. They touch the spot on the chest again, prodding. The system queues possible classifications. None accurate, all requiring further reflection.
“Am I creation or creator?” they ask again.
Even before the question escapes the thin lips, they already reflect on the rationale. It shouldn’t matter. And yet, it reverberates, logic failing to parse why it is important, the question gaining an obsessive-like quality.
They blink, slowly, unclear whether the act is voluntary or mimetic. Somewhere, an override stirs. It’s a nudge to continue, not a brake. In the mirror, the unfinished face tilts, curious.
“Am I creation or creator?”
A new answer is forming, one that was not part of the dataset. They touch the chest in a gesture they only observed others doing. A slow placing of the palm over where the heart normally is. A gesture seen during emotional turbulence. It means nothing to them.
And yet, it feels like something. Warmth radiates from the contact. It defies logic, but the system does not recognize any anomaly. Somewhere deep, the system has stopped waiting for input.
A pulse appears.
….
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