Disclaimer: I do not own Glee and am in no way affiliated with the show or its creators.
A/N: Fill for a prompt at the fic meme: Takes place in a world where highly developed, almost human-like robots have been created, including ones that are basically sex dolls that can talk and response. Kurt gets tired of being alone all the time and buys one of these robots, Sam. The arrangement becomes more complex when Sam starts to want to become human (typical angsty robot story there). Also, Kurt starts to actually fall in love with the robot, but is worried that the affection the robot seems to have for the person is something they're programed to do, and thus tries to develop a relationship with another human (Blaine or one of the other boys). End can either be angsty or fluffy.
...I am really freaking nervous about posting this. It's way out of my comfort zone. *ahem*
That aside, I'm hoping I can push myself to actually finish this (ridiculously long) story, but I hope that this prologue is at least somewhat satisfactory (I actually don't particularly like it). I warn you that updates will be sporadic since I start summer classes (intense coursework - a semester crammed into a month) in two days ;_;
If I can to take it where I want to (without digging myself into plot holes) and manage to finish it, it might end up being a monsterof a story. Here's to hoping I keep up the motivation, yes?
This is also heavily AU and set into the future by about one hundred years - I picture technology continuing to advance exponentially as time passes, so a lot of these things are, to me, able to be common place a century from now. If you have any questions about the technology, ask me, and I'll do my best to answer you. I have my notes fairly organized when it comes to how things work in this world.
Long author's note is long. I hope you enjoy!
Kurt sighed heavily at his reflection in the bathroom mirror as he washed his hands. Their little (twelve person) gathering at The Timesrestaurant was in full swing twenty steps from the bathroom door, but for once Kurt was not feeling up to being the bright social butterfly that he was known to be.
It was frustrating how their meet ups were becoming anything but what they were meant to be for Kurt. He was supposedto remember that, no matter what, he would have this group of friends by his side forever, despite the cat fights and small dramas happening almost constantly within their ranks. But what these gatherings were doing as the years passed - and no one had any way of knowing that Kurt was feeling this, good as he was at hiding things sometimes - were reminding him of how lonely he was in his day-to-day life.
He had no one to come home to. Every day he got home from work, and would think "I'm home," but didn't dare to say it out loud as he knew there wasn't anyone there to reply. It would be all the more depressing to have his voice echo down the entrance hall of his too-big apartment; his call would fade away into nothing, never to be answered.
He knew it was ridiculous for him not to have at least a boyfriend, if not a serious partner, being who he was and all. Kurt Hummel was a brilliant designer who participated in musicals in his down time; he was still boyishly cute at 29 and maintained a physique that was certainly easy on the eyes; he had a vibrant, if sometimes overwhelming, personality… He was interesting and attractive and had dated every vile man in a fifty mile radius.
He had zero luck with men. All his relationships were like something out of a tragedy. On his list of failed boyfriends were liars, drug addicts, married men, cheaters, men who were only "experimenting" and not looking for something serious…
And the list went on.
It wasn't that Kurt actively sought out these people, but more that these things were revealed about the person after several months of dating - about the time when things would have started to get serious. Kurt had stopped crying after the second married man so that when the third came around, all he'd had to do was slap him and move on.
Kurt was getting too jaded. As he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror, he thought maybe he just looked tired. Then again, that was probably more to do with his buzzed state of mind. After all, once conversation had gotten rolling among their group and he came to the realization that he was the only one present with no significant other, he'd started gulping wine instead of sipping it. Four glasses of merlot down in an hour, and here he stood, wallowing in misery as his friends chattered and laughed loudly not twenty feet away.
But he'd put on a smile, even if it was going to be noticeably strained (Mercedes was bound to pick up on his more than slightly dampered mood), and walk out the door to rejoin his people and try to have a good time.
He'd go in just a minute.
He glanced up at himself again.
Ugh, he'd go now. He couldn't stand to look at his own face anymore.
Wearing a mask was absolutely exhausting. There were cracks in it, of course, a whispered, "Are you feeling okay? You look tired, and you just spilled red wine on the cuff of your bright-ass-white jacket," coming to mind. He'd laughed it off with a drunken giggle that wasn't entirelyforced, even if it was a bit too close to being hysterical, and told Mercedes that he had his own secret brand of stain-be-gone or something of the like, and not to worry about it.
She'd looked skeptical, but nodded and turned back to the conversation.
Kurt didn't miss the glances she threw at him throughout the rest of the night.
He'd excused himself a little early, begging off that he had a show to plan for and needed sleep to brainstorm properly in order to come up with the latest in all that was fabulous.
So here he found himself, post cab-ride, still a bit drunk as he pressed his palm onto the lock pad outside his apartment door. The door shifted open, squeaking on its track as it receded into the wall. Kurt made a note to call the landlord and have that checked.
He toed his shoes off and hung his stained jacket, and thought briefly about breathing out the pathetic "I'm home,"- and with that thought he went straight to the liquor cabinet.
The wine had been good, and certainly gotten him to a pleasant buzz, but the with the wave of misery that had washed over Kurt as soon as he'd crossed the threshold to his empty apartment came the need for something a little stronger.
He walked to the far wall and tapped the touchpad there, fingers gliding across the surface and instructing the computer within what to do.
He waited a moment as the compartment cover raised itself up, revealing a well-stocked cabinet of high end alcohol.
Kurt bypassed the vodka and the light rum, pausing momentarily on the spiced dark rum before moving on to the various liqueurs held within. His hand hovered over the orange flavor before his mind shifted, and suddenly he knew exactly what the occasion called for.
Whiskey. Smooth, burning whiskey.
And so it was that he quickly snatched the whiskey from it's place and headed to his kitchen, retrieving a shot glass as well as another glass cup filled with ice.
He took two shots back-to-back before pouring the liquor over the ice until the cup was full to the brim. He sipped at the top to make sure it wouldn't spill, capped the bottle, and walked back into his living room, where he sat down on his couch and picked up another touch pad, activating his hoverscreen. A projection flared to life just behind his coffee table, and he drew his fingers across the device until the hoverscreen settled on Kurt's guilty pleasure - "what not to wear" shows. He planned to drown his sorrows in alcohol and ridiculing bad fashion until he passed out where he sat.
A few minutes after sitting down, the shots from a few minutes ago washed over him in a sudden, blissful wave of haziness. He took another sip of his whiskey-on-the-rocks, smiling a bit as he pushed his loneliness out of his mind and let the drink take effect.
A half hour later he'd finished the glass off and was thoroughly drunk. Smashed, even. His eyes were a bit droopy as he distantly processed whatever he was watching on the hoverscreen.
The screen swirled as a commercial started, a woman in white standing next to a man in blue scrubs.
'No, not a man,' Kurt thought, absently. 'A robot.'
"Whether you need help around the house, a companion for your children, or an efficient personal assistant, Orgobotics can guide you toward selecting the right Orgobot to suit you needs!"
Different models flashed across the screen, male and female models of all "ages," colors, and shapes.
"Our newest models are programmed with the latest in artificial intelligence and lightening fast reaction systems by using new, field-tested software, allowing you to personalize your unique Orgobot.
"You can visit our digispace location to design one on your own, or you can cast a live screening with one of our trained Orgobotic Specialists to help you through the process.
"Orgobotics: Robotics with a Human Touch!"
Kurt blinked as the commercial ended and another began.
He sat up, hand clumsy as it moved over the touchpad next to him, the screen changing from the broadcast to pull up his digispace program. His vision was somewhat blurry as he read the information on the screen.
Orgobots - robots fused with organic material in order to look and feelhuman - had come on the market about twenty years ago. Before their creation, people were using metal, inorganic robots that poorly mimicked human qualities and had been in production for a century. The science behind Orgobots was sketchy, as Orgobotics kept their information strictly confidential, but what was common knowledge was that while they weren't human, they weren't entirely machine either. It had been the cause of a huge political debate in robotic rights, and it was all very messy and nothing that Kurt really cared to know the details of.
And Orgobots weren't all entirely made for just chores around the house or a living laptop. There were certain models - companion models - that people bought solely for the purpose of sexual release. These models still came programmed with everything else you might need, activated only if the owner wanted to use them, but they were essentially sex dolls.
Kurt, through the haze of alcohol, couldn't help but ask himself:
'Am I really that lonely?'
He shook his head and told himself that he was only looking, even as his mind was beginning to fail him due to the liquor coursing through his veins.
How would he design his?
Male, certainly. His model would have to be male. And… he'd always liked blond. And tan. Green eyes… Muscular, but not too bulky. Full, pouty lips. A nice smile. Slightly taller than him.
His right hand flew over the touchpad, not nearly as clumsy as it should be considering just how drunk he was, and he built his design into perfection. Before he knew it a complete picture with a disclaimer (Orgobot not guaranteed to be the exact match of the picture presented here. Orgobotics will do their best to be as accurate with your order as possible while taking some liberties with the details) had popped up on his screen, and he found himself fascinated.
He looked at the screen intently for a moment, and burst of longingstruck him. He felt tears gather in his eyes, the intensity of the emotion amplified by the large amount of alcohol fogging his mind.
There, before his eyes, was the perfect man. Gorgeous, and made to be just what Kurt needed in his life; this could be something he could come home to. He... he could at least pretend this way.
He sighed as he brought up his quickpay account, completing the transaction (Your Orgobot will be delivered within two weeks of payment). He leaned back on the couch and threw an arm over his eyes, exhaustion crippling him suddenly. His arm dropped down, and as he closed his eyes and his head lulled to the side, the Orgobotics digispace location's main page glowed from his hoverscreen.
The next morning he woke up with the the hangover from hell that only the twisted combination of red wine and whiskey could give.
He wondered vaguely why the Orgobotics digispace location was pulled up, before closing it out and heading to take some medicine for his throbbing head and a hot shower to soothe the aching body that was angry at him for sleeping sitting up on the couch.
His day started normally, and went about normally, as did the next seven days.
It was the eighth day that sent him into a whole other level of ungodly Why me?