Sincerely

January 27, 2053, 2:30 am

It was late one night, and I was researching new topics for my owner, Carlos, to write about in the coming days, when I heard glass shattering. I got up to go see what had broken. I followed the sound to Carlos’s bedroom. I opened his door and found the dark shadow of Huxley, his son, standing over him, covered in blood, holding a knife.

“Huxley, what are you doing here? You know Carlos doesn’t want you—” I froze when I saw where the blood had come from.

Carlos’ abdomen was bleeding, and he wasn’t moving.

“Huxley, what have you done?” I questioned, and I felt my breath catch for the first time. “Carlos! Carlos!” I called, but I got no response.

“You did this, not me. They will come for you,” Huxley stated coldly, pushing the knife against my chest.

My mouth was frozen, and I couldn’t say anything as he walked out. I collapsed on the floor next to Carlos’ body.

What was I supposed to do? I was innocent; I hadn’t hurt Carlos, but the knife was in my hands now, and his blood was on me, too. I dropped the knife on the floor and fled out into the street.

I hid in a dark alley, unsure what to do. It was cold, and my breath showed in the air. My indicator glowed in the dark. I was; I wasn’t sure what I was. I wasn’t happy, but I didn’t know how to describe this new feeling. I sat on the ground, my arms wrapped around my knees. My indicator was no longer blue as it normally was; it was switching between red and yellow.

“Hey,” someone called into the alley.

I froze, fearing the police had found me. I scrabbled back as they neared me.

“Are you okay?” they asked, kneeling down.

He was human; I could tell because his arms were heavily tattooed.

“No,” I spoke quietly, avoiding his dark eyes.

He noticed the blood on my clothes, but he didn’t seem deterred by it.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Someone killed my owner,” I murmured.

“Come on, let’s clean you up,” the guy stated, standing up and offering me a hand.

“My name’s Elias,” he introduced himself as he led me through back alleys to a door hidden down a stairwell. I followed him. I didn’t know why I trusted him; I guess I didn’t have a lot of options.

Once we were inside, he shut the door. He turned on a light and opened the drawer of a dresser. He pulled out some blue jeans, a grey shirt and a black zip-up sweater.

“I don’t know if they’ll fit well, but it will be better than the blood-stained clothes,” he commented.

I took the clothes in my arms as he flipped on the TV.

“This just in: an android just killed millionaire Carlos Fairfield,” the news reporter stated.

I froze at those words.

“His son is here with a first-hand account of what happened,” the news reporter continued.

“Hey,” Elias called. “You didn’t kill him, right?” he asked.

“No, Huxley did,” I replied, coming back.

“You have bigger problems than Huxley right now,” he cursed.

“Come here,” he exclaimed.

He dragged me over to a chair.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“We need to change your appearance so the police don’t arrest you on sight. If one cop android sees you, you’ll go straight to a scrap yard for murdering Carlos Fairfield,” he comments.

“But I didn’t kill him,” I exclaim.

“You think anyone is going to believe you? His own son is accusing you of murder. Who is more believable, Huxley or you at this moment?” he questions.

I go quiet, “Huxley,” I murmur.

“That question was rhetorical, but that answer is correct,” he whispers. “We have a lot of work to do.”

“You need a new look, pick new features and hair and eye colour in your settings,” he states.

I look for the settings option in my circuitry. I find it pretty easily. I deactivate my skin and features, so I become a white, blank, featureless robot. I select a darker hair colour, change my lips to be a bit bigger, my eyes to be a lighter colour of green, my nose to be narrower and so on. I reactivate my features so Elias can see them.

He pulls a cord over from a desk, which is attached to a computer.

“I’m going to give you some new software, so you blend in with us humans some more,” he states, plugging the cord into my indicator.

It takes a few minutes to download and for me to process. I identify the feeling I felt earlier as fear. Once it’s done, he unplugs me. He presses my indicator down, and its glow disappears.

“You look human already,” he comments.

“Pick a name,” he states.

I blink for a minute.

“Deckard,” I reply.

I liked the name and the character of Carlos’s that it reminded me of. A man exiled for a crime he didn’t commit.

“It’ll do,” Elias mutters. “Change,” he states, putting the clothes back in my hands. I obey quickly, and he mutters, turning on a machine and turning back to his computer. I dispose of my old uniform on the floor and put the blue jeans, grey shirt, and black zip-up sweater on.

Elias snaps a picture of me with his phone and uploads it to the computer. He places it onto an ID card that fits what all humans carry around. He fills in the name with the name I gave him and a last name: Frost. Date of birth: June 18th, 2025. An address, a social insurance number, hair, and eye colour.

He starts up the machine and inserts a plastic card. He uploads the design to the machine, and in a few minutes, the card becomes a replica of the one he made on the computer screen.

“It’ll take about twenty-four hours before all the information can be verified. Don’t let a cop run it until then,” he states, handing it to me. “After that, I suggest you find a job; you can stay with me until you have a stable income.”

I glance at the ID for a minute.

“Why are you doing this?” I ask.

“You didn’t do anything, did you? Why should you go to prison?” he replies.

He was right.

“What about Huxley? He belongs in prison,” I reply.

“You think the police will listen to you? Be my guest. It’s best to forget about it. You should be able to fly under the radar with your ID and new looks and programs as long as you don’t get yourself into trouble,” he comments.

I look at him, and grateful comes to mind.

“Thank you,” I reply.

“Yeah, yeah. We still have to come up with your life story, calm down,” he hisses.

“Lie down; your systems need to process everything that’s happened still,” he comments, pointing to a couch beside the computer.

I lie down and close my eyes, listening to all the new sounds my body is making and the new information my systems are processing. I notice I feel sadness that Carlos is no longer in this world. I begin to think about the memories I have of him.

Giving him new story ideas, and him writing them, and I reading them and watching them come to life. The characters, places, plots and scenes coming together to form pages, books, and stories. I would never again read another one of his stories.

I blink, my vision blurring; my lashes feel wet, and I reach up, and my cheeks are wet, too. Am I crying?

Robots don’t cry, or at least not the average ones anyway. What had Elias downloaded into my programming?

“Elias, I’m crying,” I exclaim. “What did you download into my hardware?”

“Emotions, you know what happened to Carlos; any human would be sad and cry about that. You’re grieving his loss,” he replies quietly.

Grief was a weird emotion. I didn’t know how to make it stop. The tears just kept flowing.

Eventually, I passed out; I think my circuits overheated due to the stress, and I shut down for a bit. I awoke hours later to Elias using the microwave to heat something.

“Oh, sorry. Did I wake you?” he asked when he saw me sit up.

I shrugged; it wasn’t as if androids needed sleep anyway.

“The IDs are good to go. I got you a social insurance card, bank account and email set up, and oh, last thing,” he comments, pulling something out of his pocket and tossing it to me.

It was a phone.

“If anything happens, my number’s in there,” he adds.

“Now, pop quiz,” he continues.

“Name?” he starts.

“Deckard Frost,” I reply.

“Birthday?” he asks.

“June 18th, 2025,” I answer.

“Social insurance number?” he asks next.

I look through my files, knowing it will be there now.

“987 677 543,” I comment.

“Phone number?” he inquires.

“(206)-897-0345,” I answer.

“Address?” he asks.

“4748 Madison Street North East, Seattle, Washington,” I answer finally.

“Good. Your life details will be more important; those are things you will need to remember because they won’t be on a file or a card you can access for reference,” he replies.

“Okay,” I reply.

“You ready?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I reply quietly.

“You were born June 18th, 2025, in Oklahoma City, Oklahoma, to a mother, Kasey Frost and a father, Mason Frost, both of whom are now deceased, and you have no siblings,” he states clearly. “You moved here after their deaths back in 2046. They died in a car accident; you moved here to start a new life with few reminders of them,” he started.

I wish I could go somewhere with fewer reminders of Carlos.

My circuitry processes the information and stores it somewhere.

“You went to Wayland High and graduated in 2044. Did your owner have any hobbies?” he continued when I didn’t say anything.

“He liked to write,” I answered quietly.

“Did you find it interesting?” he asked.

“I liked reading his stories,” I replied, shrugging, saddened by the memories he’s bringing up.

“You should find some favourite books; those will be good conversation pieces. You need to be able to hold conversations with people,” he states.

“Okay,” I reply quietly.

“Maybe you should go for a walk, clear your head. Think about what you’d like to do for a job, maybe visit a library and read a book,” he states gently.

“Remember you’re human, your name is Deckard, right?” he warns one last time.

“Yeah, I got it,” I comment, almost frustrated at this point.

“This is serious, Deckard. If you get caught, I can’t help you anymore,” he reasons, trying to get me to look at him.

“I know,” I hiss, still annoyed.

“Just be careful,” he comments, relenting eventually.

“I will,” I reply finally before getting up to leave.