SEPTEMBER 14, 2038

. . . . .

"Given your history and present surge in panic attacks, anxiety, paranoia—"

You glance around the room, noting the wall devoted to children's drawings, a bookshelf stacked high with boxes full of stress balls, trauma workbooks, and play sand. You like therapy, you truly do. Diana's small office is the only place where you truly feel safe. You just hate the formality of it all. The detachment.

"—I would suggest you look into a Therapy Android."

You turn to curiously examine her face, finding nothing but a stark level of seriousness.

"What, like a therapy dog?"

"If a therapy dog had all the capabilities of an actual psychologist and opposable thumbs, yes."

You sit for a moment, weigh out your options. Maybe having company around the apartment will be good for you, especially if that company is equipped to deal with your mood swings and mental breakdowns. On the other hand, your days of being alone would be over and you would stay on perpetual suicide watch. But you're willing to hear her out.

"Alright. I'm listening."

It takes twenty minutes for Diana to set up a meeting with a nearby shop, an android already set aside for you to pick up after you leave the comfort of her office.

Looking through a shop window to buy something that looks and acts and sounds so human makes you ill. The android will be covered by your medical insurance, and the only thing that keeps you from running the other way is knowing that you will give it a good life. You heard the stories. Androids bought just to become abused slaves to careless owners. As outlets to alcoholics whose families grew tired of being punching bags.

If it meant saving one of them from that existence, you lack the willpower to deny your counselor's request.

The salesman rattles on about the unending features of the TA300, Cyberlife's new subset of care-taking, specifically mental health, prototype. One that you'll become a few of the first to try, given Diana's coercive abilities and your connection to Better Life's new program that maintains a promise to get you back on your feet in no time, despite childhood "difficulties", as they tactfully put it.

Pfft. Good fucking luck.

Your chosen android stares straight ahead, a smattering of freckles across dark skin, curly hair tied back into a low ponytail. Wide brown eyes glance over at you, and you manage a smile as the salesman begins speaking to her. From this close, you can see every pore on her face, every carefully-placed freckle, the golden specks in her eyes.

How can a machine look so human?

"Do you have a name picked out?" You realize the salesman is addressing you, and you quickly straighten your spine and lose your smile.

"Uh, not really. I always thought they came with names."

"We have a book of them if you need assistance."

"No," you reply, contemplating for a short moment before you say, "I know what to call her." A good way to honor your sister's memory.

The salesman turns to her and says, "TA300, register your name."

He nods you over to stand directly in front of her and say her name, and she quickly responds.

"My name is Sylvia." She steps off of the platform and regards you. "Your case file has already been registered to my database. I look forward to helping you heal."

Her caring words contrast with the blank expression on her face, and the action borders on creepy.

No, not borders. It downright is.

"I'll get the paperwork set up and then you can be on your way," the salesman pipes up, moving to shuffle behind the counter at the front of the store.

Sylvia walks beside you, hands clasped neatly behind her back. Her shoulders too squared, back too straight to look remotely comfortable. But then she looks at you, breaks into a smile that doesn't quite fit her face, as if she's thawing from a century spent in an iceberg and is trying to communicate with a species recently introduced to her. It makes sense, after all. She majors in analysis of the human brain, in psychology and fact. Comfort isn't what Cyberlife built her for.

"Your brain waves and increased heart rate suggest you are anxious," she says, voice deep and smooth like spilled-over honey. "Come here."

Oh. So you were wrong about her not being built for comfort.

She wraps a strong arm around your shoulders and pulls you against her, the slight chill of her skin surprisingly nice and safe, and doesn't release you as you awkwardly sign your name with a crooked arm.

Trouble begins as soon as you step outside, a group of protesters barking at anyone in their sights.

"It's alright," she coos, as you immediately step behind her and grab onto the sleeve of her jacket. "I won't let them hurt you."

Before leaving the store, you asked her to install a language package to mimic more human dialect. It seems to only work at certain times, however.

"Well, lookie here. An android made a human its bitch."

Sylvia pushes you further behind her as a menacing man steps in front of your path, blocking you off from the only bus stop in the area.

"I suggest you leave us alone if you know what's good for you," she smoothly replies, tilting her head as her LED flickers an angry red. Except she can't feel anger. At least, you don't think.

The group laughs, a mocking cacophony that has you grabbing her by the arm and yanking her away before the situation escalates further.

She stops you around the corner of a shop, the park directly in your sights.

"I would have protected you, you know."

You dig into the pocket of your faded green coat with shaking fingers before pulling out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter.

"Why? So they could beat the shit out of you?" You meet her eyes and inhale, smoke coating your lungs and easing the elephant-like pressure inside your chest. Her LED flickers to yellow as she casts a glance over your face. Something akin to curiosity shines in her eyes before she blinks it away.

"Why would that matter? I don't feel pain. Plus, you are my only obligation now."

In one sentence, you deeply regret following your therapist's advice. You didn't want to be anyone's obligation. Anyone's burden. Previous evidence piles atop a mountain of thoughts that Sylvia would lay down her life to protect you, and that you now shoulder a responsibility that you were never prepared to take on.

"While we're on the subject, smoking is very dangerous for the organs of the human body, and results in numerous cancers, rotting teeth—"

"You think I smoke because I enjoy it?" You scoff, flicking the ashes from your cigarette. "I smoke to die." At the look of horror on her face (you have to remind yourself it isn't real), you stifle a laugh and pat her on the shoulder. "Sheesh. I'm kidding, Sylvia. It just calms my nerves. It's not like I actually have a death wish."

"Your previous hospital records from the past decade indicate otherwise."

"Okay, uh, you weren't supposed to take any of that seriously."

She blinks and follows you to the park, where you dispose of the butt in a nearby trash can. "Oh. I see. Those were rhetorical statements."

You shake your head, unable to suppress a warm smile, and motion for her to follow with a wave of your hand. Maybe this whole android thing wasn't such a bad idea after all. "C'mon. Let's go home."