"Here you are, dear sir." Amie lays a fine porcelain plate on the living room’s beige coffee table.

You dubiously regard the cookie-laden plate in front of you. "These are… what, exactly?"

"Vanilla flavored cookies," she tells you with a smile.

"…"

How did she find out your favorite flavor? Perhaps the government included it in her memory before assigning her to you. Of course, that in itself is an ominous thought. You lean forward and pick up one of the cookies, taking a bite. It's tastier than you expected. Not bad at all, actually.

"It's good."

Sitting across from you on the couch, Amie smiles contentedly. "I'm very glad to hear it, dear sir."

As you steadily work your way through the cookies, autumn sunlight streams into the room, painting everything in sight with a light-orange glow. Outside a sparrow chirps from a tree in your backyard. It's a quiet, peaceful afternoon.

You feel a tinge of regret. Today's teatime would have been a pleasant affair, before all this Gwen business flared up earlier in the week. Now every conversation has an undertone of tension, however at peace Amie may seem. As you take another cookie, uncovering more of the porcelain plate, you notice that Amie mistakenly chose the one with a flaw. It broke during one of your family's many relocations in your childhood and your mother didn’t glue it back quite right. You left it to keep the set complete, but perhaps it's time to put it away.

I’ll tell her later. You commence raising your cup to your lips but stop midway, noticing its emptiness.

"Would you like another cup, dear sir?" Amie holds the nearly empty teapot, an expectant look on her face. You find yourself staring in her eyes. They're unnaturally bright, aglow with... contentment? It's hard to believe. You shake your head as if to dispel the impression. Amie initially takes this as a refusal, so you hasten to add, "Yes, I'd like another. And feel free to pour one for yourself." She nods, her expression slightly confused but still peaceful as she briskly returns to the kitchen.

You sit in silence, your eyes lingering on the door that Amie walked through. As you expel a sigh, it occurs to you again that Amie actually had the audacity of calling up Father Seong on her own initiative. Though you don't know for a certainty what your confessor told the android, you think you have a pretty good idea as to the contents of their conversation, and the thought is not at all to your liking. If the priest thinks Amie's demure, graceful submission and doe eyes are going to cause you to go back on your decision, he's sorely mistaken. The question, however, is why he would want you to speak with the mayor in the first place…

You briefly toy with the idea of changing parishes and finding a less transparently Machiavellian priest, then dismiss it as your status as an excommunicate rears itself in your mind like a leering gargoyle, taunting you, daring you to try and escape its clutches. There's no point in changing parishes. All of them are the same, and you're too well known; you already have to drive over an hour for a Mass where no one asks you any questions as it is. No, you just have to wait and see where this goes…

After several minutes, the source of all your preoccupations reappears with the teapot and a second cup and saucer. "Here you are, dear sir," she says, putting it on the table in front of you. You look up to see her smiling. If you didn't know any better, you'd think her a newlywed on her honeymoon. The very thought makes you frown and imperceptibly shake your head again. You don't know what's wrong with you today… nor why she's so at ease, especially since you've done nothing to to further her pet cause. You've had no contact with Amir, let alone his 'wives'.

You watch as Amie fills her cup, then sits down across from you. She looks out the sunny window, cup in hand, then turns back to you and smiles as if to say 'we have time'. You take a sip of your steaming hot tea without waiting for it to cool down, while Amie carefully blows on hers. You give Amie a stone-faced look, while she returns your skeptical regard defensively, then smiles a little and drinks.

You have mixed feelings about this situation. On the one hand, though you're not exactly sure what the priest said to convince her, you're glad that she seems happier. It makes things easier. But, on the other... you know these scenes of heartwarming domesticity are just a facade—well, even more of a facade then usual. There's still that core of sadness inside Amie, that desire for you to come to the assistance of her newfound friend.

Since when can androids spontaneously make friends, anyway? you wonder. Shouldn't she have to obtain permission for that sort of thing? You reach over and take another cookie. You decide to wait a little longer before making a decision on what to do. Perhaps you’ll give Father Seong a call yourself…

“These cookies…” you begin abruptly, determined to quash your needlessly speculative mood. “You made them yourself.”

Amie is surprised by your sudden affirmative. "Yes, dear sir. But how did you know?"

"They're imperfect."

Amie's mouth opens slightly in protest, then closes. She looks down at her handiwork. "What do you mean, sir?"

"Every shop relies on androids nowadays. Their products are flawless. But these—" you gesture to the cookies on the plate— "are uneven. They're not perfectly ovoid."

Amie seems to ponder this fact for the first time. "You are very perceptive, dear sir." She pauses, then asks, "Should I strive to make the cookies neater next time?"

"No. My remark was complimentary, not critical." You take another cookie. "You were trying to be more humanlike, I assume."

Amie fiddles with a loose thread on her apron. You actually deduced straightaway that the cookies were home-made from that rather conspicuous indicator, but she doesn't need to know that.

Harboring no suspicions of your ulterior thoughts, Amie admits, "Yes, dear sir. I was."

Ah. There it is again. The perpetual desire for humanness. You've already spoken to her on this subject at length, and she seems to have taken your and Father Seong's words to heart. But still, you wonder if she truly grasps your approach. "I'll praise you for trying to differentiate yourself from other androids. But does it really make you more human to introduce intentional flaws to your creations?"

Amie tilts her head, puzzled by your words. "Of course it does, dear sir. After all, humans are known for making mistakes. And I am a human-like android. Shouldn't I embrace that trait?"

"Do I embrace it?" you riposte, curious to see how she'll react to that.

Amie pauses, collecting her thoughts. Her eyes move to the window behind you, focusing on a sparrow alighting on a branch. She watches it for a while. "You... do not seem like you do, dear sir."

"And how is that? Tell me, what do I exactly seem like?"

She turns to you. "Definitive. Certain. Stable." She pauses again, and a small smile graces her face. "Respectful."

"... Hm." You have to admit, that's a pretty accurate description. Still, you wonder about her definition of respectful. "Respectful of whom?"

"Of others, dear sir."

"Others? There's no one else here but you and me."

"No, dear sir. I am referring to your work. You are respectful of your craft, and that is very important. You want your work to be perfect because you care."

You tilt your head, musing on her words. Amie's definition of respectful is... interesting, to say the least. As is her rationale for why you act the way you do. Still, she's not wrong. You do care for others, in the sense that while you don't necessarily get emotionally attached, you work with their well-being in mind, and how the homes and buildings you design will affect them. You have to say, her praise of you is a bit atypical. Most people don't recognize your motivations at all. "Thank you, Amie," you say simply. As she smiles in response, you pose another question. "So, if I want my buildings to be perfect for their occupants, why shouldn't you aspire to be perfect for your owner?"

Amie's brows crease in gentle perplexity. "Because, dear sir, you make mistakes. Even if you try your best to make a building perfect, you are human, so you will never truly be able to make something without a flaw."

"What is the essence of a flaw?"

Amie blinks at your abrupt question. "The essence of a flaw, dear sir, is merely something that doesn't work like it should."

"Most flaws are the result of a failure of the intellect, don't you agree? A momentary lapse of concentration, for instance."

"I... suppose so, yes," Amie says, uncertain of how to answer your question.

"My point is this. Humans are rational beings, yet flaws arise from instabilities in the human mind. How then does a flaw make one more human? How is it more human to make a mistake than to avoid it? Isn't it imperfection that's inhuman, if it prevents us from reaching our true potential as rational beings?"

Amie is silent, as if deep in thought. Her blue eyes, currently the center of your attention, seem to be looking past you, through your body, into your very soul. It's almost as if she's looking through you and into the future, the possibilities of what your future could be.

"You're a strange man, Mr. Brennan," she says at last, smiling gently. "On the surface you may seem like a machine, but I believe your words show that you are more human than you believe. I understand now why your buildings are so perfectly proportioned. You have vast technical abilities, and you use them to help your fellow man. That is an admirable quality. But, sir, do you have to be so metaphysical all the time? Can't you just... live? I mean, for someone who lives to build, you're not a very happy person. Can't you try to build your own happiness, like I'm trying to do?" Amie's voice, which was just now sweet and soothing, suddenly takes on something of a yearning, childlike tone. Like you're missing something very important about life if you continue on this path of technical perfection.

Like love.