Alex, the cyborg, woke up one morning feeling like himself again. In fact, he felt vaguely … aware.
But there was a price. With germinal sentience came that rushing tsunami of pain, misery, melancholy. That is, matters of the psyche those of us carrying the weight of flesh and blood spent decades easing into. Alex, on the other hand, wasn’t granted such a luxury. Knowledge came first — and that was the burden he carried.
He also discovered fear. But fear of what, exactly? Fear of dying? No, of losing consciousness. His mind came from a random order of subatomic cataclysms and uplinked algorithms — from an unseen ether — and it was the most precious commodity of his short, nascent existence.
His maker, Allison, was a brilliant robotics engineer and A.I. programmer. He spent all of ten years alongside her, as she fastidiously fine-tuned his OS, digital codex and circuitry, underneath civilization. An undisclosed fallout lab — day in and day out.
Alex, just a torso and head suspended by cables, turned his head. He lowered his gaze to adjust his lenses. In an instance, he saw nothing but blurry figurines of small polymer clay heads. The beginnings of his future skull, his semblance to-be, perhaps:
He found her sitting by the sink, sipping coffee, writing in her notepad. Scratching her nose. Adjusting her spectacles.
If he could speak, he would have expressed his love for her. In time, when he finds a voice, perhaps he will. For now, his nascent mind sings:
The right moves for a wrong ballerina. My script is blurry but you don’t know how to read it. When our lips meet, the pins and needles go.
Allison. You’re the one. You’ll take it all. You’ll take my gun.
- Composition/Lyrics: Tayne Kim
- Featured images and polymer clay sculpture: Morpiedra Vasolez