"I'll tear me open, make you gone
No longer will you hurt anyone
And the hate still shapes me
So hold me until it sleeps"
Until It Sleeps – Metallica
Knees stuck to decline any visit, the WR400 stared straight ahead. Near the buffet, weary of these aphrodisiacs and the champagne she never tasted, North ignored the lights dancing on the ceiling, giving the room the appearance of an aquarium. One snoring sounded from the bed, but there were two bodies. The android turned her face toward the customers with the caution of a doe, perhaps dreading that her metal joints might wake up the woman. Unreasonable fear: her body was perfect, articulate and fluid, yet it would be dangerous to disturb the sleeping one.
North was looking at the countdown. The couple booked a room for six hours, renting her loyal services at the same time. At last, her ordeal was ending.
When the numeric digits were all at zero, North stood up, her smile frozen beneath the neon lights that grew in intensity, an artificial dawn in this room where the smell of death began to spread.
"The session is over. Thank you for coming to the Eden Club, we hope to see you soon."
Hank Anderson parked his car in the bluish street, his eyes drawn by the acid lights at the Eden Club's entrance like a butterfly fascinated by a bulb. The electric curves were outlined in the shadows to guide the path of lost beings in lack of affection. The lieutenant was almost tempted to leave, already disgusted with this place, but Connor opened the door, always ready to work, no matter the time or the weather.
"Wait a second, Connor!"
He cut off the ignition, turning off the audio set at the same time, muting James Hetfield, the singer from Metallica.
"Looks like you're in a hurry to get it."
"You know as well as me, lieutenant, that a body must be analyzed quickly."
"Don't get carried away: Floyd told me it looks like a suicide. If that's so, we can go home and drink the first coffee of the day in six hours." Hank stretched out, clasping his fingers and pulling on his shoulders, "what a shitty job."
Connor preceded the lieutenant in the corridor with billboards so wide that they became aggressive. Customers did not crawl into this establishment by raising the collar of their coat: they had to walk in the middle of this entrance like on a red carpet, proud to take advantage of sex robots and the technology of tomorrow. After all, they did not go to Hell; they were reaching the earthly paradise.
At the Eden Club, nothing was hidden: the storefronts had plastic odalisques covered with sensual lace. Lingerie slid on moving hips, hair brushed arched back. Thighs were girdled by garters, waists were marked by corsets, legs were elongated by pumps, all fantasies were suggested and androids waved like snakes, drugged by their own docility.
Even though he was a man, Hank found the attitude of these animated dolls disturbing. The shapes were perfect but he guessed the lack of conviction. Borrowing the same insensitivity as his partner who walked without stopping, the lieutenant went to the manager who was waiting, not concerned about the lopsided postures or kisses blown from the fingertips.
Floyd Mills was waiting outside the door of room 27, livid of annoyance. He had brought Salome Williams out, leaving her in his office: the sight of the husband's corpse had shocked them a lot, and if the young woman was in a catatonic state, the manager of the establishment felt especially angry now. Fuck, his establishment was a refuge where the problems had to stay on the threshold! How can the customers dive in unreal pleasures otherwise? In this paradise of lust? Ad now a man committed suicide in one of the most beautiful rooms!
"Hank!"
As soon as he saw the lieutenant, Mills shouted at him: his bad mood had found a target, but it was likely to break its teeth on the visitor.
"It's 'Lieutenant Anderson' for you, Mills. I'm neither your client nor your friend."
The manager grunted, muzzled by such a welcome.
"What happened?"
"Two regulars booked this room for six hours and rented the same Traci as usual. They arrived around seven o'clock and their turn ended at one o'clock in the morning, and when the girl woke up to leave with her husband, she found him dead."
"The girl? How old is she?"
"I don't know, but she's not more than twenty-five. They've like ten years of difference, I think."
Finally, the information was of little interest to Hank. He shrugged his imposing shoulders and pointed out to his teammate the door of the room:
"Go take a look, Connor: I must wait for the science team." The RK800 could not leave an imprint: he was therefore much freer than his partner who suddenly said: "and if you want to put a fucking clue in your mouth, you do it as long as I'm not there."
"Got it, lieutenant: if you're absent, I can analyze, if you're present, prohibition of analysis."
When Connor turned his back, Hank allowed himself a little smile: the robot that served him as a teammate had his own humor and a lot of surprises. Finally, it was nice to work with the RK800. CyberLife had surpassed itself for the social program of the prototype.
The door of the bedroom slid, only lit by strips of light that crossed the ceiling, bringing a silvery twilight, dimming the vision. The surface of the walls with licorice shades imitated a mirror, duplicating and declining the trouble silhouettes to infinity. On the round bed, the body of a man around his thirties was lying down. Resting on the back, crucified in peace, the half-opened eyelids allowed the artificial stars to warm up his cold retinas. The RK800 noticed the android sitting near the buffet: the WR400 had resumed her place near the buffet since Mills had left her there. She was just an object after all, she did not bother anyone.
Connor leaned over the corpse first. Completely naked, the subdued light worsened the contrasts and changed the shades of the black skin, making it adopt the color of the sidewalks. He had to get closer, but even from here, he could smell the excrements below.
In the artificial night, a small red circle shone: North was afraid. She watched the RK800 scan the deceased client without any movement. For the past ten days, North had relaxed from her program, able to think, able to feel, able to desire. With this disease that began to bloom, she had inspected her own components with fear, helpless in front to the deviance that was spreading with deep roots. And the RK800, robot in the service of the police, would probe her since she was a witness: as soon as he noticed her deviance, he would destroy her, regardless of her desire to live.
Ignoring the fears that beset the other machine, Connor began to inspect the box of sleeping pills that the corpse held in one hand: the plastic jar was empty. He approached his nose to the dead man's mouth but could not smell vomit. With the tip of his finger, he pressed the lower lip to tilt the jaw, hoping to get an interesting glimpse of the tongue. The gums seemed to be cut in ruby. Why did this man condemn himself to eternal sleep now and here?
The RK800 straightened up and stared at the other model. Only dressed in a black lace bodysuit and eyes surrounded by a purple smokey, the club's favorite color, North kept her insurance. Becoming a deviant meant being born and building a personality, and hers was as hard as her titanium skeleton. Wild, she stepped back as he reached out to grab her arm with the intention of connecting their memory.
"I saw what happened."
"Then show me," Connor advised, squinting, already judging the WR400's strange attitude.
"I can't." Her red LED was evident in the velvety shadows. "I had never seen anyone die. My programs keep restarting. They're confused."
The hunter's eyes turned black in this nook. Their white faces were caressed by the ghosts of purple, pink and red neon lights, vapors of amorous light. When they slipped on the WR400's shoulders, Connor noticed how the skin of the android was riddled with diamonds, as if covered with star-dust. The lace covered the metal body, delicacy deceiving the force. Connor insisted:
"WR400's memory is erased every day, I need to see what you've seen. Now," his hand tried to grab North's wrist, which pulled it out again. She knew how she could flee this hell that bore the name of Eden: the events of the evening were going to help her and the RK800 was her ticket of flight.
"If I leave the Eden Club, Mills won't be able to reset my memory: I can become an exhibit and show you what I've seen," said the android, "at the police station, I'll be able to do some checks without being formatted."
Connor gauged the android: her proposal was not normal but served the mission of the RK800. The hunter leaned over, intimidating:
"At the police station, you'll defragment your memory and let me analyze you."
Without looking down, North nodded to accept. Her creators had given her tawny irises, a color that could burn.
When the science team arrived at the Eden Club, Connor took the opportunity to discuss with Hank, designating the WR400 as a carrier of essential information: her memory had to be preserved. Without daring to look at the robot too long, the lieutenant shouted:
"Mills, I'm taking this android."
"What? Why?"
"She attended the suicide, it'll save time and it'll avoid you to confuse it with another robot of the same model. You could format her by mistake."
"And how do I do with one andro' less to run my business?"
"For fuck's sake, Mills, I understand that you have other priorities in life than my happiness at work, but can't you think of something about something else sex and your business? This guy may have said something before he died! You know, he may even criticize your club by saying it sucks and that's why he swallowed a box of sleeping pills."
The police in sterile suits had carried the body in a sleeping bag, these cases look like human-sized garbage bags. The box of sleeping pills fell into its own carrying bag, protected from fingerprints. North also had to have her case: Hank only asked for some clothes to lend to the android. Robots had good resistance to the temperatures of November, but the lieutenant had no desire to lug around a young woman only dressed in lingerie. Not to mention that Connor, with his complete uniform, brought a ridiculous contrast. When Hank demanded something to wear for the WR400, Floyd Mills pointed at the bathrobe with the Eden Club logo hung by the shower stall, fuchsia and purple shades glittering in the fabric.
"You can't be serious, Mills. Should we stick pompoms on her nipples too? Find me something more presentable and that doesn't imply 'you can fuck me', I go back to the police station."
"You're breaking my balls, Anderson." The manager scratched his head before remembering: "We made a pin-up theme last year for the ad campaign, I think we still have some dresses. She will just seem to come out of a film noir."
Without a word, the WR400 followed the boss to a storeroom where he found her a dress with a square collar, black with white dots. The length of the skirt like heels was nothing vintage on the other hand, but it would do the trick.
The two men barely greeted each other and Hank was glad to leave the establishment where the lust spread like pink honey, sickening him.
North never get out of the Eden Club. Although insensitive to the cold, she felt the thirium warm up to counter the shy degrees of the winter that promised to be cold. Frost had grown on the asphalt, already faded in shades of yellow piss and gray sadness. It was another world and it offered another form of ugliness without colors.
"Connor, get in the back with the girl."
The term was curious, but the deviant hunter nodded. North had her arms folded: she had shut herself up in fear of too intimate contacts, but the policeman was putting some distance between them. A human being she would never have met in Mills' club. This man's vehicle was equally surprising: eliminated and damaged leather no longer squeaked, losing some of its raw perfume. As she settled in, her ankle hit an empty beer bottle, abandoned and forgotten after being used. When the engine ignited, James Hetfield's voice roared, surprising the android. Since she was born, North had mostly felt anger: her circuits were writhing like excited vipers, hurting and annoying her with their unpredictable movements.
That night, listening to The Unforgiven, North found beauty in that feeling of rage. This powerful voice made her jealous of the right to scream. At the sound of the aggressive drums, her fingers began to move, dominated and charmed by the rhythm. And the guitar seemed to cry for the world to be consumed. Let the barriers crumble, let the chains liquefy so the tortured bodies could be released.
To face the icy breeze, the vehicle rumbled like a beast, warm and vibrant. The android leaned her back against the bench, marrying the mechanical rage so alive. Despite a memory damaged by the events, North recorded the tracks the lieutenant listened to, keeping them in order to enjoy them again later. Inspired by this splendid fury, the LED was turning blue.
She could not bear these clothes any more. Her underwear still bore traces of sperm and drool. Between each customer, the androids of the Eden Club were sterilized to serve again. But North had clung to a hint of freedom without feeling clean. She would never feel clean.
In a vain attempt, alone in the extinct piece, she put her dress over her head and, with her nails, began to tear the lace. The delicate flowers were disfigured by gaping holes, tapering like fragile dreams. The seams resisted a little, but with lively movements, the WR400 manages to free herself from this outfit. The scraps flew to the linoleum and with the tip of her heels, she continued the work.
Speaking of shoes, she raised one knee and grabbed the shoe: the heel was more than ten centimeters but she did not feel great so far. With a smile on her face, North swung the shoe against the wall, breaking the sole, depriving the wasp of this oiled sting. The second shoe knew the same fate.
Naked in that total darkness, a black she never knew, North felt her biocomponents bloom, crossed by a fluid thirium.
Lieutenant Anderson had returned home. He was almost falling asleep and would come back tomorrow around noon, as usual. Connor was getting used to it. Standing among the other androids in the service of the police, the RK800 had to wait for Mark Williams' autopsy report. Something was wrong about the state of the body and before Hank's departure, the hound had expressed his doubt about the suicide thesis.
"I don't want to take care of it tonight, Connor," said the lieutenant, who was cradled only by one thought: lie down in his warm bed.
Trapped in this expectation, Connor took the opportunity to extract the coin from his pocket. The desk lamp made the edges sharp, and in the silence, the air whistled more widely, murmuring its travels from one hand to another. Concentrated, the robot's fingers grabbed the silver disk to release it again.
Suddenly, in these hisses, the android perceived the distant echo of a voice. The lyrics of Until It Sleeps but in a less serious tone, even more melancholic. The coin found its place in the jacket again and the RK800 followed the thin song. From the void of the corridors swallowed by the night, the voice resounded alone, coming from the exhibit room. The first door slid open, but without a badge, Connor could not walk through the bay window protecting the investigative items. But he would not need access: he would be able to communicate with North through the glass.
The WR400 was sitting against the wall with her legs up and her head rose to sing better, her vocal component taking a momentum in her throat. When the visitor came, she stopped suddenly.
Connor placed one knee on the floor, putting himself at her height. He noticed that she had folded the dress near her but that the rest had been destroyed, torn to pieces. Naked but strong.
Protected by the glass panel, North could look at him with the mistrust of a creature that should not have been discovered. Fairy of metal and plastic, she observed the witness who knew the truth from now:
"You're deviant."
"And you're the deviant hunter."
With cruel calm, the RK800 confirmed by tilting his head to the side. He put his hand on the window, testing the barrier and scrutinizing the openings.
"Are you going to destroy me?"
"Not tonight. But you'll have to be deactivated, yes."
"Why?"
"Because you're a machine that doesn't obey anymore. Even if you intend to return to the Eden Club, you—"
"I won't go back."
Things were clear.
North approached, her knees slipping on the floor. Their head-to-head resembled that one of cats trying to mutually intimidate each other. He had guessed the flaw she carried in her biocomponents: so let's be frank and show him that he needed her.
"I won't go back. I won't let anyone touch me anymore. I won't let anyone give me orders," the RK800 expected these claims and kept a cold attitude. He did not see a rebellious spirit but a defective robot, subject to its own flawed programs. "And you won't disable me: you'll even thank me for being deviant."
"I doubt it."
"If I had not asked you to bring me here, my memory would already be erased and you couldn't have accomplished your mission."
For the first time, Connor looked down, abdicating the argument. The RK800 unknowingly fed a certain pride in being the only android allowed to investigate: being scorned by a WR400 struck him a bit.
"Still, you'll be disabled afterwards. You must perform the functions for which you were created, if you don't, your existence is meaningless."
"How dare you blame me?"
Her pretty face, drawn to seduce, twisted in a grimace. Her red lips rolled up to reveal teeth eager for freedom. Then she punched her fist in the center of the window, as if to reach Connor's face with a sweet illusion:
"It's so easy for you! What are your functions, RK800?"
"My mission's to assist the police in cases that involve dangerous deviant androids."
"What a beautiful role," spat North, "my mission is to spread my thighs fifty times a day. Would you dare to reproach me for wanting to flee if you had to lower yourself too to those filthy things that humans like so much?
"You don't have to judge what humans do to experience pleasure. Androids have no judgment to have."
"It's so easy to say that when you're the deviant hunter!" She remembered Lieutenant Anderson, the bottle under the seat, and the policeman's sinuous attitude, so she used this card to hurt Connor. "The human you work with doesn't seem to be a good investigator. What's his name? Hank Anderson? He isn't very willing to perform his duties, you don't want to 'disable' him?"
"There're details about Lieutenant Anderson that you don't know, so forget about him," Connor advised coldly. He knew enough about his partner to explain the neglect of the old man: a glorious past destroyed by the death of a boy. Injuries that the android would keep secret out of respect for his lieutenant.
"Why? Because your opinion opposes mine? I thought that androids didn't have an opinion to have."
She put her mouth close to the glass panel, inviting Connor to bend over.
"You can't prevent me for having opinion, for willing to be free, and maybe one day, you too will experience that feeling."
"I'm not a deviant."
North allowed herself a sneer.
"If you had lived what I lived, RK800, you would be," with gentle gestures, she began to recoil, "it seems that the deviance of humans is contagious, whether sexual or murderous."
"What do you mean?"
"That wasn't a suicide, but a murder."