meraki

A Story by patroclus

[meraki (μεράκι) - (n.) the soul, creativity, or love put into something; the essence of yourself that is put into your work]. a very short story about a robot and his creator.

You don't think he knows you've been watching him.

You don't think he notices much outside of whatever piece of new technology he's tinkering with.

Which is strange, you guess, since you are technically him.

When he calls out your name, you turn it over and over in your head, like you usually do. He had given you your name. Something separate from his. Which makes sense since it is both illogical and inefficient to have the same name as him. Even with your similarities.

"Could you pass me the screwdriver?"

Of course you can.

You don't know why he'd ask the way he does, but maybe he's just going with programming. You may be an exact replica of him in every way but flesh and his humanly limits, but even you can't read his mind. You hand him the tool wordlessly and the cool steel-grey of your hand is starkly different from his warm fair skin.

You detect the pulse in his slender wrist; you can see his heartbeat. You can only hear the ever-present churning of your gears and the slick slide of the oil in your metal body.

You can't feel it.

Not really.

You just assume that you can because you've got his memories; his memories of oil-stained hands, oil on his hands and arms, up to his elbows, oil on his face, his neck - you pretend. You study him and his profile drenched in sunlight. He's been inside all day.

All week.

The only time the sun kisses his pale face is when you open the window.

You figure you shouldn't care. You're only a robot.

You're his helper.

An extra pair of hands, deft when he cannot be.

His eyes, when he cannot see what you can.

But before all that, ultimately, you are technically him.

And most of all, you figure you shouldn't care about wanting to be out there; to see the world and be a part of something bigger than this stuffy, high-rise apartment. You shouldn't care because he doesn't. You should want to be here, burning your fingers on exposed wire tips and messing with electronics.

Hell, you really shouldn't even care about anything.

You're a robot.

Robots don't have feelings.

He looks up from the sheet of metal on his lap and squints at you. You stand passively by his computer and consider opening the message alert on the screen. He probably wants to know what it's about. You're surprised (or at least, you think, you're surprised. These built-in memory and emotion systems are...confusing) when he smiles at you and stands, setting his goggles and the metal pieces down on the carpet littered with burn marks.

"Is something the matter?" you ask.

Even your voice was made to replicate his own peculiar accent. Yours, however, is still markedly robotic. The grating sound of it hurts his ears, you know, so you try not to speak if you can help it.

He doesn't wince this time. His smile just grows a little wider until you see a little teeth peek through cracked, parted lips.

"I was gonna ask you the same thing," he says with a chuckle and his voice is husky and rough with the lack of use. You shake your head and watch as he crosses the room to you. He takes your hand, studying it.

You do the same.

His hand is lined and calloused, and you like the texture of. Yours are smooth and the joints of your fingers are visible " without skin. He's still working on it.

He runs a thumb over those gleaming joints and you suppose he likes them too.

"I saw you looking out the window, you know."

You almost miss his words. He's murmuring quietly; thoughtfully. You give his fingers a squeeze and he shrugs in a way you think might be apologetic.

"I'm sorry I keep you locked away up here," he pauses for a long moment. "You can leave if you want."

A rush of something you can't explain pounds through you, but you know " you know that you can't.

That you won't.

This feels different from before. Different from when he would ask you to pick up milk from the store or deliver someone a repaired laptop with his regards. It's different because you can read the planes of his face and you understand.

He will let you leave.

He won't come with you; you already know.

You know that he will stay inside and tinker with his toys and he will be alone.

So you make your choice.

It might be narcissistic, you think, that he wants to stay with you " you who are technically him. It might be narcissistic, you think, that you want to stay with him; to belong to him " even if it means only to him and not to the world out there.

You don't think you mind.

After all, you technically are him.

© 2016 patroclus

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Reviews

Daniel Seward

The robot's point of view that is very human,,, very interesting. I was glad you mentioned the emotion chips--I always wonder how a robot is able to feel and respond emotionally.