Empathy

Chapter One: The Test

Clouds cover the sun and hide the last beam of light anyone can see.

Faces will become solemn, without the sun there is no warmth. Warmth has never been a problem for a machine though, we're born cold.

Standing from the metallic table in the center of the bland workroom I walk over to the window and close the shutters. If it begins to pour every circuit in the room will electrify, the power will go out for another week...again.

Sighing with relief I walk back to the metallic table and begin screwing on the last silver nail to a small prosthetic leg.

I feel a vibration on my wrist and look down at my watch.

7:00 A.M.

Placing the newly improved, may I add pristine, prosthetic leg in a display case. I carry it up the stairs and settle the case on the coffee table.

I hope it works.

I leave a sticky note on the display case for Aunt Gemma to see. Slipping my backpack straps over my shoulders and pulling on my black cloak that reaches down to my ankles, along with a hoodie that shadows my face. I step out into pouring, foggy, Seattle.

Walking to the nearest bus station I wait. In transportation it takes twenty to thirty minutes to reach the city. Walking takes about an hour.

A blue transport bus pulls over, the double glass doors swing open. I climb up the first stair and hold onto the railing for balance feeling an electric shock pass through my body. This is when the bus driver, a man in is fifties, peppered hair, dull brown eyes, small rounded silver glasses, taps the coin deposit machine next to him.

"You know the rules metal. Any other life-form besides Human pays double."

I silently slip the regular amount a cyborg must pay before slipping to the back of the bus. There's only four seats and three are taken. The rest of the bus is for people without circuits in there brains.

I take a seat and lean as close to the window as I can. I trail one of my metal cold fingers down the glass following a clear rain droplet until it crashes on the bottom sill.

"You're sparking." I hear a rusty voice say behind me. I don't acknowledge the voice and instead look down at my right hand, the one I used to hold onto the railing. It's not that I forgot about the sparks, it's that I don't care anymore about the sparks. Humans don't appreciate cyborgs, since that's the case why should I take in consideration a humans judgement? Simple answer: I don't. People drag us down to lift themselves up. That's just life.

I take out a kit of tools and begin ripping off my disguised human hand unable to feel any pain in the process.

As a cyborg we're masked with a human form, are exoskeleton hidden behind actual human formation. It's easy however to identify a cyborg. For instance are hands tend to glitch out at any time they choose. Nuts and bolts are glued to your body. Rain is a hassle which can cause hundreds of baby sparks to entrap themselves around you. Lastly are eyes give everything away. Most eyes hold a significant color but along with that color comes a feeling. For example, my eyes our grey so, whenever people look at me they feel sadness, loneliness, grief. A mixture of terrible feelings that relate to me completely. Some cyborgs have colorful eyes, blue for instance can make someone feel free and wild.

Attaching back on my hand and screwing it on I test it out by making a fist and wiggling my fingers. I pack my tools away and without turning to look at the robot that's informed me I say a simple, "Thank you."

Nothing else is said throughout the entire twenty-five minutes.

• • •

I curl my toes when my boots hit the rubble. Rain splatters across neon bill boards that represent President Cage, the leader of this forsaken nation. He's sculpted a city where wires and bones interact, some act as friends to each other, others have mixed feelings, and of course there are always rebels, revolutionists, who don't want to share the streets with a machine. So they try and take control.