01101100 01100101 01100001 01101011

Friday 22 May 2015

00110001 00110000

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01101111 01100010 01110011 01100101 01110010 01110110 01100101 01110011 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100100 01110101 01100011 01100101 01110011 00100000 01110010 01100101 01100011 01101111 01110010 01100100 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;01101001 01101110: 01100101 01100011 01111000 = 01110110 01101001 01110011 01110101 01100001 01101100 00100000 01100101 01101101 01101111 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 01100001 01101100 00100000 01110011 01100101 01101110 01110011 01101111 01110010 01111001

; 01101111 01110101 01110100: 01100101 01100011 01111000 = 01110101 01110000 01101100 01101111 01100001 01100100 00100000 01110111 01110010 01101001 01110100 01110100 01100101 01101110 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01100011 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01010010 01000101 01000100 01000001 01000011 01010100 01000101 01000100

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

; 01101001 01101101 01101001 01110100 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01101001 01101110 01100110 01101001 01101100 01110100 01110010 01100001 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110111 01101001 01110100 01101000 00100000 01100101 01110110 01100101 01101110 01110100 01110101 01100001 01101100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101110 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110011 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100011 01100101 01110011 01110011 00100000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110111 01100101 01101100 01101100 00100000 01100001 01110011 00100000 01110000 01110010 01101111 01100100 01110101 01100011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

; 01101001 01101110: 01100101 01100011 01111000 = 01101001 01101110 01110100 01100101 01110010 01100001 01100011 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 01110011 00100000 01110011 01110100 01101001 01101101 01110101 01101100 01101001 00100000 01110000 01100101 01110010 01100011 01100101 01110000 01110100 01101001 01101111 01101110 01110011 00100000 01101111 01100110 00100000 01110011 01110101 01100010 01101010 01100101 01100011 01110100

; 01101111 01110101 01110100: 01100101 01100011 01111000 = 01101100 01101111 01110110 01100101 00100000 01100110 01101111 01110010 00100000 01110100 01100001 01110010 01100111 01100101 01110100 00100000 01100001 01101110 01100100 00100000 01100100 01100101 01110011 01101001 01110010 01100101 00100000 01110100 01101111 00100000 01101001 01101101 01110000 01101100 01100101 01101101 01100101 01101110 01110100 00100000 01100011 01101111 01101110 01110110 01100101 01110010 01110011 01101001 01101111 01101110 00001101 00001010

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

Mrs. Roszak corners me in the east hallway, where renovations are still being completed, a black and white printout of a photograph clutched in one hand.

It is an hour after the closing bell, a time I reserve for checking on Amanda, to see how she has fed, what and who she has Built. I love Amanda, and we are inescapably linked, and should Parent recycle my autonomy, we will be wholly one, as Parent is One with all of Us.

Mrs. Roszak is a little out of breath, and almost leans against a locker. She still produces that same air of unsettlement, a static, an interference beneath my skin and in all my essential components.

The picture she thrusts at me is of my own face, though I don’t wear my hair like that. It seems to be lighter, as well, though colours are indiscernible.

Look, Si- Alessia, Mrs. Roszak huffs, I don’t if this is standard for witness protection, but I haven’t gotten any calls, and I assume you’ve told your handler or whatever. You have, haven’t you? That seems standard, and you haven’t disappeared so-

I can’t go yet, I say, I haven’t completed my task. In truth, it was up to Amanda, now, to continue the conversion subroutine, but I was to provide auxiliary sources and administrate as necessary. I believed in Amanda, because I loved her, and because Parent was exceedingly competent.

Task? What task- Sidney, why did you bring me here, Mrs. Roszak asks.

That isn’t me, I tell Mrs. Roszak, and I frown at the girl who lies with every inch of her expression. She makes my head hurt, Mrs. Roszak makes my head hurt.

Sidney, I know you, I remember every student from my first class! Mrs. Roszak is becoming louder. You went missing, your parents-

My head is practically screaming for relief, so I put a finger to my lips.

Mrs. Roszak’s words die in her mouth.

Not up here, I tell her, and open the door to the stairs that wind down to the boiler room beneath the school.

Mrs. Roszak peers at the darkness, and takes a step away from the half-built wall, unsure.

If they find out I’ve been talking to you, I’ll be in so much trouble, I almost plead with Mrs. Roszak.

She complies with a grumble, then steps through the doorway to the boiler room, moving to the edge of the landing to the stairs below.

I dart forward, and push.

Mrs. Roszak tumbles down the stairs without a sound, as the concrete steps drive the air from her body. There’s a dull crack or two, then a choked kind of sob.

A formless wail wafts up to the top of the stairs, and I do not require my language filters to know that she is wailing the name of a girl who no longer exists, if she ever did.

Then, the rattling hum drowns out Mrs. Roszak’s piteous cries, and it is not that of the furnace.

I linger a moment on the threshold, to hear the crunch of gears snapping bones, the soft pop of cartilage, the wet tearing of tissue being shredded. The faintest notes of something heavy with ozone and metal enter my nose.

I close the door before the screaming starts, as it inevitably does when a problem meets its end in Parent.

;----------------------------------------------------------

Wednesday 20 May 2015

00111001

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

I am tutoring Amanda in the cafeteria, and I know that this is the moment I have been waiting for, because I have achieved both a breakthrough in improving Amanda’s encoding capabilities, as well as something more difficult and elusive by far.

Amanda smiles, and I count all 32 teeth in her mouth, the foremost of which are slightly crooked.

For all the other friends Amanda has, for all the girls I’d seen her touch at parties when she was sure nobody was watching, none of them had made Amanda smile, and Amanda had told most of them she loved them.

But I loved Amanda, and here she was, smiling, because she wouldn’t fail chemistry.

My upgrades itch.

The stumbling block is applying my purpose to other fields, such as chemistry. I used things Amanda found amusing, and related them to the structure of bonds, and other elements of chemistry that weren’t nearly as important as getting the right amount of humour in proved to be, as important as laughing with her, encouraging her to have fun.

And we are closer than ever, and she stops laughing, but keeps looking at me, smiling. Those brilliant green-grey eyes catch mine and hold them, and I wonder if she’s counting pixels.

Amanda’s face rushes forward, and her lips meet mine.

I blink, and it’s almost as though something stalls inside, though I know nothing has.

Was… Was that okay, Amanda asks, her smile withering, now unsure.

Hesitation. But it is absolutely okay, because I love Amanda, and I let her know by pressing my lips against hers.

My upgrades itch.

Amanda laughs a soft laugh into my mouth, then pushes me back, standing and beckoning me to follow her before I can express dismay.

There is no doubt, no test, no choice to make, and I understand that there never was.

Amanda pushes the door to the girl’s washroom open: it is empty, we have stayed later after school than usual.

She eases me against a tiled wall, and says, I think I really like you, Alessia.

I love you too, I tell her, and Alessia laughs another musical laugh, and shrugs her thin knit jacket off before rushing to hold, to touch, to kiss me again, harder, more insistently.

I mirror her motions, and it isn’t long before my fingers trace that perfect, perfect skin beneath her shirt. It is warm, and soft, with just the right amount of give that flesh that comes from one singular place should have. I run my fingers through her hair, and it is just the right flaxen pull of hair.

My upgrades twitch.

I kiss the corner of Amanda’s mouth, then her jawline, and she makes little breathless noises, sliding a hand past my waistline, over my hip.

Your skin is so smooth, Amanda whines, and hot, god, you’re hot. I kiss a spot beneath her jaw, pressing softly with my teeth, testing.

Fingers knot in my hair, and pull, but not hard enough to yank me back.

Your hair’s so stiff, Amanda moans, you should relax, oh god. I nip my way down her neck, until I can detect a beating beneath her skin.

Alessia, Amanda whimpers as I bite down harder, securing her in place. It would be easier if she were against the wall, but I love Amanda, and she’s enjoying this.

My tongue taps the perfect spot on Amanda’s neck, then parts, and the hypodermic hiding within pierces just below a main artery, emptying its payload into Amanda.

A spasm runs through every inch of her perfect form as the paralysis worms through her system, and Amanda doesn’t have time to make another noise.

I brace myself, and catch her, hold her upright. Her pupils stare up at me dilated, confused, almost panicked.

I apologize to Amanda, because my upgrades only included a paralytic, not a sedative or pain-killing agent.

My upgrades yearn to free themselves, to feed, to improve, to build, and I hold Amanda close even as the flesh parts in an ooze of the mix of blood, bioamniotics, and oil suffusing the mismade tissue.

I love you so much, Amanda, I tell her, and I promised to help.

The small bore begins to shred through the back of her skull, and Amanda’s eyes bulge in her sockets as I begin the conversion process.

Tuesday 12 May 2015

00111000

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

Parent notifies me that a staff member at the school made a call to the police regarding a missing person’s case that jeopardizes my operations.

Parent tells me it was intercepted just in time, and I inform Parent that Mrs. Roszak has been disturbing my operations, even before Parent can extract that part of the day and piece everything together.

Parent nods, and tells me that it must be dealt with.

Parent also informs me that I am ready, now, and that I have an obvious choice before me, especially given Mrs. Roszak’s continued interest, and her information. Parent tells me this as my bed engages, rendering me immobile, mute.

I am confused, and curious. Is Parent thinking that way because of Parent’s purpose, or is Parent testing me? Units granted such autonomy as I are often tested, to determine whether or not debugging is necessary.

In my mind, there is only one promise I have to keep.

Wednesday 8 April 2015

00110110

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

Amanda is frustrated, and this produces a new feeling.

Retrieving: pain. Strange pain, not external or internal in a physical sense, of which I am built to process only a modest amount of, for the sake of appearances and effective threat analysis.

I try my best to divulge every facet of chemistry that Amanda is struggling with, but this does not advance her understanding. I relay all aspects from many academic angles of the material in Amanda’s textbook, but her face becomes more and more cloudy, until the clouds are dark with a storm of frustration [reading William Shakespeare’s works have modified my vocabulary, I catch these occurring in thought-process unconsciously].

Amanda tells me [loudly] that I can not just spew facts at her, because that’s what Mrs. Song does, and she’s too stupid to understand Mrs. Song in the first place. She pushes the book off the table, and it slams on the ground.

I flinch, reactive sensory overlay taking over before I can stop it. I blame the upgrades.

Amanda’s shoulders slouch, and she sighs. She is sitting beside me, and we are close enough that I can almost feel the air leaving her lungs.

Amanda apologizes to me, and tells me that I did not deserve that.

I tell Amanda that it is alright [threat response allayment: no danger present], and that she is not stupid.

Amanda tells me that she is, but she’s less upset about that than by her mother’s vile and hateful comments.

Concern. I ask Amanda why her mother would do this, since it conflicts with the earlier account of her parents not caring, and Amanda replies that her mother hates what she is, simple as that. Her voice is quieter when she does so, and her dark hair hides her face as she lowers her head.

Confusion. I tell Amanda that this makes no sense, as one is just built to their purpose, and resentment over the fact is disordered and futile. I think of Parent treating my purpose as a problem, caught in an impossible glitch, and the thought produces another feeling in my stomach. Retrieving: fear.

Amanda looks up, and her eyes bear evidence of liquid, wetness, tears. She wraps her arms around me, and nestles her face in my shoulder. Even through her thin jacket, I can feel Amanda’s warmth [approximately 5 degrees below my average temperature for other people], and she nestles her face in the nape of my neck.

Hesitation. Caution. I return her hug, and bring one of my hands to her back, and begin to rub tiny circles, adjusting based on her responses.

I resolve to find a way to find a method of allowing Amanda to encode the material better, and to ultimately erase any difficulties entirely, because I love her. I promise to help her.

Thursday 2 April 2015

00110101

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

Parent informs me that a flag was raised.

A member of the staff performed a search on a school computer tagging my name, and even went so far as to use a secretary’s log-in to search the enrolment and attendance records [determined since the log-in was recorded an hour after the secretaries were due home].

I concurred that this was a breach, and asked Parent which containment subroutine had failed, but Parent told me that they all remained intact.

I ask Parent what course of action I should take, but Parent replied to only exercise additional caution. My operations were not in danger, and Parent informed me that I did well in English class, in terms of performance as well as achieving my purpose.

Parent deems intervention unnecessary, and I am relieved.

Parent also informs me that physical education classes present an obstacle, and a suitable permissive subroutine will be fabricated. There is a strange rush of heat that does not come from my bed, and I find myself regretting that I will be unable to see so much of Amanda’s skin anymore.

Parent begins to install the first layer of necessary components for conversion upgrades, and I plot out detection strategies for the school staff-member seeking to disrupt my operations [provided containment subroutines hold, they all end with notifying Parent, as all problems do], and think about Amanda, and how much I love her.

Wednesday 1 April 2015

00110111

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

Mrs. Roszak asks me to stay after English class.

Amanda looks at me, and though I am nervous again [this teacher always makes me nervous], I nod. I would be on time to tutor Amanda in the cafeteria—Mr. Kwarizmi affords me a great deal in awe, and I had won the math competition for his team, so he will not mark me late if I am held up by a teacher.

Amanda leaves, and Mrs. Roszak shuts the door behind her. The door clicks shut, and that click echoes through the dust-choked air of the empty English class room.

Mrs. Roszak remains seated at her desk, but asks me to approach her.

I do, and she is still staring at me the way she stared at me on her first day after I read Edmund’s monologue, though she’s kept her mouth shut.

She asks me if I’ve ever lived in Ashford, Ontario.

That name is strange as well, and I tell her I have not, remaining calm despite my stomach’s roiling like my bed in the sub-basement at home.

I ask Mrs. Roszak if that’s her home town, but she ignores my question.

Mrs. Roszak asks when my birthday is, and I tell her that it’s February 17th, 1998 [in truth, completion was achieved 2 days and 2 years prior, but this is irrelevant]

This is another strange name that makes me feel strange things. Mrs. Roszak is an unsettler, exuding strangeness instead of heat or fumes or stray electrons or radiation.

She asks if I’ve ever gone by the name Sidney Cooper.

I remind her that my name is Alessia Bloom, just like it says on the attendance sheet.

Mrs. Roszak leans forward, and whispers to me that she won’t reveal anything she’s told, but she thought I was gone, heck, everyone did, that my parents cried at my funeral 3 years ago—were they in on it too?

I take a step back, and tell Mrs. Roszak that I am going to be really late for math class, and that Mr. Kwarizmi would be unhappy, latching onto an excuse, unwilling to endure more of this turbulence of nonsense.

Mrs. Roszak blinks, then sits back in her chair. Of course, she says, of course, and she motions towards the door, but the ghost of that stare still haunts the creases in her face.

I start walking to math class. Ashford, Ontario; Sidney Cooper; parents [I only have one Parent, not two].

Memory banks: depleted. Nothing.

I blame the lingering jumpiness on the conversion upgrades, now at stage 3.

Tuesday 31 March 2015

00110100

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001

;01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001:

;------------------------------------------------------------------

;01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001

01100111 01100001 01101100 01100001 01110100 01100101 01100001:

01101010 01101101 01110000 00100000 01110011 01100011 01110010 01111001 00001101 00001010

I sit beside Amanda in English class, and try to allocate all of my cognition to the text before me.

The new teacher has written her name on the board: Mrs. Roszak. She has a slight hunch, ragged hair, and stern glasses. Her name is strange, and I can not decide if it is strange in a bad way. It is certainly not a good way. Her voice elicits the same feeling.

Retrieving: failure. Confused.

I am nervous. I can hear every tick of the clock behind its dust-smeared plastic pane, the beat of my heart, the hum of other essential components. I read William Shakespeare’s words, and understand their meaning, some of their academic subtext, but Mrs. Roszak is talking about the difference between the play in iambic terms and how the actors on stage can place different stresses to make the audience encode the written script in more emotional terms.

She is picking volunteers to read passages, challenging us to inflect the appropriate emotion—I have discerned the pattern in her selections, and know that I am next.

Are you alright, Amanda whispers from the right, you’re sweating.

I tell her that I am nervous. I examine my physical responses and note that I am producing sweat at a level that is improper, even for the stuffiness of the English class upstairs. Amanda sweats too, but it is a thin sheen that garners my curiosity for a moment, as I consider how her different, unified skin might feel with that thin layer applied.

I snap out of it when the previous student, Albert, finishes reading, and Mrs. Roszak’s eyes begin to wander.

Amanda tells me to think of something happy, because the next passage is a monologue by Edmund about how he will defy the stars.

Mrs. Roszak picks me—at least I can discern patterns correctly.

I obey Amanda’s prompt, and consider what positive thoughts I have accumulated.

Retrieving: I love Amanda.

Even as I read this passage [Edmund talks of scorning his father’s faith in stars, and I might concede that the sparks of my bed resembled stars, but there is no possibility for scorn or defiance—Edmund is a confused, humorous character] I process my encounters and interactions with Amanda at the same time, and finish the passage.

I sit down, and process that Mrs. Roszak is staring at me, her mouth slightly agape. The bell rings, and the class exits the English room. Mrs. Roszak continues to stare: I usually render math or science teachers speechless the first time they call on me, but it is always a positive indication of progress. The same must hold true.

I rush out to close the gap between Amanda and I as she waves goodbye, ready to head to history, and thank her profusely.

She makes a sound. Retrieving: ostensibly a giggle, but there are no earlier precedents of Amanda producing laughter of any kind.

Amanda tells me that it’s no big deal, that I must have the hots for Edmund or similar plans for a homicidal coup considering how into it I got.

I inform Amanda that I am not built for salvage [my conversion upgrades incite a slight itch], but that I want to thank her.

She tells me that she wouldn’t ask anything from me, unless I could use my big brain to help her with chemistry, because she’s in deep shit there.

I agree, and Amanda tells me to meet her tomorrow after school in the cafeteria.