Prologue, Poach

Part 1, DIMPLES

Scrape the face. That's what Stan's boss had said. Couldn't he have just said scrap it? As in, toss it. Get rid of it. So Stan never has to see this goddamn face anymore. No, his boss would have said. I mean scrape it. Peel it back. Hack away the prosthetic flesh. Get to the mesh. This face-scraping is by far one of the creepiest aspects of Stan's job, he thinks, because those robot faces looked real enough. Almost human until you hit metal. Except for those hell-born unconvincing smiles, Stan amends.

The mesh was key. That's what wrapped around the facial armature. It was composed of special, proprietary nano fibers that responded to electrical impulses the robots emitted when talking to a customer. But when do the robots fire those electrical impulses to smile? Timing is key in communication. That's why things are always going off the rails. Not just for the robots. Stan smiles and relishes in the cynicism oozing down his neural pathways. And what about the movement of the smile? How to capture the essence of a smile as it makes its way along the mesh? It wasn't as simple as moving from A to B, from 'No Smile' to 'Smile'. Even humans haven't figured out how to smile convincingly when feeling mechanical. Except maybe a few people down in Human Resources Stan knows. Another neural pathway hit.

That's his company's mission. Real smiles for scrap-heaps. A Christmas bonus for mastering dimples is still up for grabs. No has come close on that one yet. Cute idea, thinks Stan. Nice of Dimple Robotics to get cute every now and then. It's more than what these robots can do.

Stan stares at the robotic head grimacing at him. Naturally, a face like that wouldn't move things off retail shelves. It looks like the twisted face of an animal killed by a poacher in the savanna. Bad taxidermy. What kind of customer experience was that? Maybe Stan should just stick the head onto a mount - like a real poached animal - and hang it outside his cubicle. Scare off any of his managers. Then he wouldn't have to do the awful face-scraping and start pouring over the mesh for possible glitch points. That was always headache. He's also got to go through stacks of photographs: happy, smiling children. Headshots. They're holding auditions tomorrow. The selected children will have ping pong balls glued to their faces and be asked to smile for hours on end while computers record the data points. These data points will then be turned into simulations on the computer. All in an effort to map those elusive microexpressions.

The grimace is starting to get to Stan. That butchered animal's car crash grin. If he doesn't do something about it now, that grimace will seep into his brain and when Stan gets home, he'll pass it along unwillingly to Charmaine.

His heart flutters. His shadow brain lights up. I'll be glad to wipe that smile off your face. Stan swipes a stack of brochures off his desk - all in Japanese - from Dimple Robotic's oversea competitors. Stan doesn't speak Japanese. What good are those brochures to him? His overzealous boss gave them to Stan. "Got these from the conference. Here. Investigate. Get some leverage." Brochures usually don't give away company secrets, Stan had thought, but took the brochures anyways. Path of least resistance.

Stan picks up his ruler with the speciality edge and starts slicing into the prosthetic flesh. You aren't good for this world. You failed your use. Stan fingers the flesh, pulls back. Stretches it. Futuristic weaves of flexible metal gleam before him like freshly excavated gems. Time to tinker. That's the dullest way of putting it. He's on the hunt for whiz circuitry gone rogue. That's better, he tells himself. Make it a game. A mission. Why not? He'll be at it for hours. As if last week's crunch times didn't break him. God save him. Give him some R&R. He could use the beach again. With Charmaine in her bikini. And some underwater hanky panky. That'd get him going.

Buzz, buzz.

Speak of the devil. Must be a text from Charmaine. His pure of heart, dependable, cheery, no-bad-bone-in-her devil. Would she be asking him to pick up something from the grocery store? Or wanting a ride to the knitting class she had just signed up for? Maybe another one of her patients died at the retirement home and she wanted to talk about it? Someone to listen, Stan corrects himself.