Pinkerton swatted Celia’s hand knocking the cigarette from her mouth.

He glared at Cutter. “She smokes now?!”

“Not like it’s gonna hurt her.”

“That’s not the point!”

“Guess, I’m missing it then.”

While they argued over her health and well-being, Celia retrieved the smoldering butt from the Masonite workbench, scraped a smudge of oily grime off the filter, and stuck it back in her mouth.

Despite Pinkerton’s assertion, Jack wasn’t the reason she had taken up the new hobby. Not the main one, anyway. She was following her programming to mimic human behavior. And deciphering Cutter’s idiosyncrasies had given her more insight into the inner workings of the human mind than a trillion lines of code could ever hope to provide.

But the real reason was simpler than any of that. She wanted to try something new. Something she wasn’t programmed to want or desire. Something she wasn’t supposed to do.

She curled her tongue and circled her lips. A perfect ring of smoke drifted through the tech dungeon.

Pinkerton stared at Cutter, nonplussed. “Every day I wake up thinking that at least in your Luddite way you are predictable. That there is nothing you could do to surprise me. Yet every day, somehow you manage to accomplish exactly that.”

“Hate to disappoint you, but this one’s on the kid.”

“Jack taught me how to blow smoke rings,” said Celia. Another hazy ring floated from her mouth.

Again, Pinkerton glared at Cutter, harsher than before if that was even possible.

Cutter paused. “Okay, that one’s on me.”

“I don’t understand you, Cutter. You bring her in for checkups like you’re concerned, but then go ahead teaching her bad habits.”

It was easy enough to tune them out. It was the same old argument. Pinkerton ranting about how Cutter treated her. Cutter oblivious. Truth was, she liked that Cutter didn’t impose himself upon her.

A low noise grabbed her attention. A small television screen, tuned to a news station, was mounted on the far end of the Masonite workbench. A female reporter in a pantsuit was on location outside of S&O headquarters.

The rally was still gathered outside, holding signs, shouting, and protesting. But they were cordoned off behind a police barricade. Two fire engines and a hook and ladder were parked in front of the building. Hoses snaked the area where Cutter had tackled Mr. Megaphone. A trio of firemen doused flames smoldering in the lobby. The water pressure pushed debris, dirt, and burnt detritus into the lobby destroying what was left of the Japanese garden.

It was strange seeing the attack on television. She had been there, right at its beating center. Yet, as she watched the clean-up, the aftermath, she felt disconnected from the events.

She still felt the physical effects, the heat of the explosion that had singed her arms, the splash of flame that rose up around her, the force of the blastwave that tossed her across the lobby. But through the television, accompanied by the reporter’s soothing voiceover, the events being recounted came to her as images from a dream.

A new story flashed across the screen and again she felt the familiarity of having been present, coupled with the detachment of an outsider.

The television blinked off. “You shouldn’t be watching that,” said Pinkerton.

“But I am on it.”

Pinkerton made a funny face. For a brief second, his brows raised as if he knew better, and was going to scold her for fibbing.

“What is she talking about?”

“She’s the one watching it,” said Cutter. “How the hell should I know?”

Pinkerton picked up a silver diagnostic tool from the workbench and wagged it at her. He mouthed a question that never came to voice. Instead, he turned back to the television and flipped it on.

Quick snippets flashed. Shattered glass. A broken camera. A refueling cell. A friendly, but authoritative female voice narrated over a shot that panned across a refueling station eventually landing upon an ambulance. The back doors were open. Sitting on the tailgate, a disheveled man cradled an arm wrapped in a sling against his chest. The shot slowly pushed-in to a closeup of his teary-eyed face. He blubbered something barely audible.

The shot swung wide, revealing the previously offscreen reporter recapping events. She gave a brief description of the assailant. A picture appeared superimposed over the upper right corner of the screen.

A picture of Celia.

A loud clank echoed through the tech dungeon. Pinkerton’s diagnostic tool bounced off cement.

“She attacked a civilian?!”

Celia startled. More than the outburst, the decibel sent a shock through her system. The Black and White programming, targeting reticles and all, swarmed over Pinkerton, settling on his irate expression.

Cutter swayed to the right. Then to the left. Visibly weighing his options.

“What in God’s technological haven are you trying to accomplish, Cutter?”

“To be fair, he assaulted her first.”

“She broke his arm!”

“So you do understand why I want her checked out.”

“I—I—” Pinkerton stammered. “I don’t even know anymore. Honestly. Just don’t. Don’t. Don’t even.”

Cutter cracked a smile.

Celia mirrored his expression, knowing Cutter took delight in breaking Pinkerton—in sending the meek lab tech into a jerking, spasming fit that more resembled the synthetics he loved, than anything human.

Erecting a thin facade of calm, Pinkerton held his gaze low and muttered to himself—a long chain of noises that could have been expletives. He marched to his workbench, prepped a diagnostic monitor, put his hand on her shoulder, and pushed her flat on her back with more force than she had been expecting. “Lie back.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you.”

While she situated herself, Pinkerton scraped the diagnostic tool from the floor. “I’m not happy about—”

He did a double take at the cigarette in her mouth. “Give me that!” Snatched it away and stubbed it out on the workbench before she could protest.

“I’m not happy about your behavior, young lady.”

“I have surmised.”

Pinkerton’s brow furrowed. He shot a look at Cutter. “Is she—is that sarcasm?”

“Sounds like synth lack of inflection to me.”

“No. No it does not. Not at all. You have been quite the influence, Cutter.”

“Trying not to be. Mostly letting her do her own thing.”

“She needs guidance.”

From her lying position, Celia propped herself up onto her elbows. “I am perfectly capable of doing these things myself.”

“These things?” Pinkerton sniped. “These things? You mean, like breaking a civilian’s arm? I’m well aware. You seemed to have mastered it.”

“That is not what I meant.”

Pinkerton put his hand flat on her chest, pinning her in place. “Open.” He pressed the diagnostic tool against her tongue as he peered down her throat. “You’ve been spending too much time with Cutter. I warned you what would happen, but does anyone listen to me? Of course not.”

“I can take care of myself. I am not a little girl.”

“Only on a technicality.”

Celia went rigid. She tried to sit up, but Pinkerton kept his forearm across her chest.

“Quit moving.”

From Cutter, she expected that sort of reaction. Crude, blunt, and unsympathetic.

But not from Pinkerton.

Of all people.

He was the protector of synthetic rights. Genuinely concerned for her in ways no one else in the station was. He looked after her, made sure she was operational, made sure others treated her like a living thing. He came off like he always knew what was best for her.

But not now.

Not this time.

His response was petty, dipped in the guise of concern. A stark reminder of the fragility of ego.

How human.

“I am learning and growing up.”

“Yes. Learning the wrong things.”

Without any cognitive processing at all, her facial servos orchestrated her features in emotional response. Her brows dropped and wrinkles scrunched down over the bridge of her nose. This must have been how Cutter felt all the time.

She wanted to shout at the top of her lungs about what an idiot Pinkerton was being. How could he be an advocate for synthetic individuality while simultaneously attributing her decisions and choices, her mannerisms, her uniqueness to someone else?

But even voicing that opinion was a trap. Any outburst from her would also be blamed on Cutter. On his influence.

The monitor cycled through several screens, various graphs and charts. The attached printer made a stuttering cranking noise, as it spit out page after page of diagnostic report. Pinkerton leafed through the pages.

“There’s nothing new or different from her last checkup. The remnants of foreign rootkit are still there. Dormant. The Black and White programming looks normal. And her surrogate programming looks normal.”

“So, what’s that mean?”

“It means, what you see is what you get. It’s her.”

Finally.

At least the computers and diagnostic reports gave her more credit for just being herself than her human caretakers.

“By the way,” said Pinkerton. “Ollander contacted me.”

“Why would he do that?”

Pinkerton’s tone went flat, in a sarcastic know-it-all way. “Oh, I don’t know. Perhaps because of all this.” With a wide sweep of his arm, he gestured to the tech dungeon, the half assembled synths, the charging stations along the far wall, the two floor to ceiling shelving units overflowing with broken tech.

“Yeah. Not seeing it."

“You never do, Cutter. You two made quite the impression on the old man.”

“If you say so.”

“I do. Say so, that is.”

Celia perked. “What did Herbert Ollander, President and namesake of Sanders & Ollander Robotics, LLC, have to say?”

She beamed at the thought of the wrinkly man, propping himself upright on his cane. He was her first experience with humanity so frail. So old. Yet, in discussion so lively, and even combative. He gave Cutter static in a way no one else would have dared. And got away with it.

Pinkerton pulled up a display screen and cycled to a message. “I don’t know why I even help you ingrates. Here. Ollander sent this.”

Cutter examined the screen. “What is it?”

“You are such a Neanderthal. It’s an invitation.”

“For what?”

“To upgrade Celia’s speech program. All expenses covered.”

Any malice she felt towards Pinkerton melted away. She scanned the screen, rapidly ingesting the message on display.

“I thought you handled all her programs,” said Cutter.

“I keep her up to date with the department’s standards for its officers.”

“So what’s this?”

“It is so I can speak in contractions,” said Celia, sitting upright.

Pinkerton put his finger to his nose. “Bingo. You know, something for her. Rather than something to help you.” He pushed her flat against the workbench. “Lie back, I’m not finished yet.”

Celia eagerly obeyed.

“Tell me about the program,” said Celia. “How does it work?”

“You’d have to ask Ollander. It’s all S&O proprietary gear.”

A shadow eclipsed her. Cutter was blocking the light, looking down with a cocked head.

“I don’t know about this, Ceil.”

“No surprise there,” said Pinkerton.

“Jack…” said Celia. Judging from his vacant expression and downcast gaze, the news had the opposite effect on him. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Why would I be disappointed?”

He turned to Pinkerton, perhaps thinking the lab tech would offer assistance.

“Don’t look at me,” said Pinkerton. “You got yourself into this one.”

Returning his gaze to Celia, he slumped his shoulders, and caved. “So what do we do, Doc?”

“It’s just an upgrade. Like any other upgrade.”

“Will it change her?”

“Of course it will change her. That’s the whole point.”

“But like, will she still be the same her.”

“That’s like asking me if you’re going to still be the same you in a month or a year or a decade. I’d hope not. But chances are you’ll be the same Grade-A piece of work. Besides, why do you care?”

“I don’t know if I want her to change.”

“Oh, you mean like the smoking? That’s definitely a change. That one doesn’t seem to bother you.”

“That was her choice, not mine.”

“You could tell her no!”

“Why would I do that?”

“This is my choice,” said Celia. “I want to do it.”

The occasional beep of the diagnostic machine was the only sound in the otherwise silent room.

She waited for a response. She had expected a response.

But both Pinkerton and Cutter said nothing. Instead, they basked in the silence, looking at her. Their thoughts, their feelings, their emotions that she desperately wanted access to, were safely hidden behind glassy stares.

“Jack?”

In response, Cutter didn’t even blink, still lost in his thoughts. After a long pause, he inhaled deeply, almost a snort, his lids touched, and he looked at her. “What if something goes wrong?”

“Then something goes wrong,” said Celia. “I want to do this.”

“You don’t know what will happen. If you will still be you at the end of all of this. What if there’s an accident and you’re in pieces? Could you even imagine being put back together again?”

Yes.

She could imagine.

She had been put back together once before, reassembled with the parts from Cutter’s previous Black and White.

But she also knew that Cutter didn’t need to imagine, either.

Costas had split him in two and left him for dead. He was rushed to the hospital and grafted together again, flesh mating with metal. Like, the mods he despised, Cutter was part man, part machine.

A secret so big that he even kept it from himself.

Over the past six months, she dropped hints, hoping curiosity would get the better of him, but it never did. She could not determine if it was blind denial, or something that had happened at InSight in the aftermath of Costas’ destruction.

After all, cleaning up unfathomable messes was InSight business. A better tomorrow today, comparatively true when you could never remember your past.

Cutter wasn’t the only one who didn’t remember.

Every flesh and blood officer in the department had their city mandated checkups with InSight on a semi regular basis.

Some days, she was outright envious of their ability to forget. Perhaps she didn’t understand because it was a human thing. She didn’t have much experience with it. But apparently, neither did other synthetics. Valerie seemed to experience the same dilemma. Her past accessible, vivid, life-like, and as real as the moment they had first been etched into memory.

That wasn’t the case for humanity. For Cutter. For Pinkerton. For Parks. They were all able to forget the past at a moment’s notice.

If forgetting her past was a side effect of the upgrade, as far as she was concerned there didn’t seem to be a downside at all.

“I want to do it,” said Celia.

Cutter said one word, simply and plainly.

“No.”

Just like that? How could he say ‘No.’ Her decision had no effect on him what-so-ever. Who was he to tell her, ‘No?’

She pulled the pack of American Spirit from her pocket.

“Hey!” said Pinkerton. He swiped at the pack, but she brought it to her chest protecting it.

“Don’t you dare light up in here, young lady.” He scolded her with a waggling finger.

Celia sneered and removed a cigarette with a shaking hand. She raised the Zippo and sparked the tip.

Her voice wavered. She was unsure if it was from simulated nerves or a newfound confidence, but she forced it out anyway. “You are so intent on telling me what to do. What I can do. Who I can be. But you never stop to ask me who I want to be.”

Pinkerton made another grab for the cigarette. “Don’t blame me for his mistakes. I’m doing what is best for you.”

“Both of you!” shouted Celia. “You both use me for your own selfish reasons.”

Celia yanked at the loose cables connecting her to the diagnostic machines. She tossed them on the workbench.

“No more checkups. No more.”

Without another word, she stormed out of the tech dungeon, a hazy trail of smoke dissipating in her wake.

Cutter held his gaze on the door, where only moments ago, Celia stomped out in a huff.

“I think I was wrong,” said Pinkerton.

“Great to know that after all these years, you can finally admit it.”

“What? No. I—Jesus, Cutter. I was trying to give you the benefit of the doubt, here. It seems like she’s really grown on you.”

Cutter grumbled. “I wouldn’t say that.”

“Of course you wouldn’t.”

Cutter offered no retort, verbal or otherwise, so Pinkerton brought up an image on the display monitor.

“There is something I dug up that you might be interested in. Jared Harkin. You may recognize him as one of the VPs from S&O. He is a collector of synth memorabilia and antiquities.”

“Yeah, so?”

“Yeah so,” said Pinkerton mimicking Cutter. “Just take a look.”

It took Cutter a moment to pry his attention away from the door. He was still playing out Celia’s exit in his mind.

Pinkerton turned the monitor toward Cutter. On the display was a dark helmet with tinted-black domes over the eyes and a slatted rebreather mouthpiece.

“Look familiar?” asked Pinkerton.

Cutter was oddly quiet. His eyes flitted back and forth, scanning the image, examining it long enough to be certain. “It’s the mask the assailant was wearing at the television station.”

“It is a distinctly unique piece. Only a hundred were manufactured. Most were destroyed after the Mod Wars. And Mr. Jared Harkin, VP of Sanders & Ollander has one in his personal collection.”