It was afternoon in the commercial district and the weather was fair. The sun shone high in a cloudless sky and a temperate breeze ruffled the checkered cloths set in place over the barista court's tables just so. On such a day this weather would be a fortuitous outcome by anyone's standards, so it was a shame then that the prospector and engineer Phog Christoph had known better.
New LA's weather was an algorithm of predetermined patterns that he'd once studied in detail, and while a lot of the 1s and 0s hadn't made the most sense to him he'd understood enough to logically anticipate the artificial climate. He'd often marvelled at this in himself, his delight in comprehension dulled by an entirely new question: why he would choose to observe these patterns when every effect of said weather was just one more artificial experience?
Mims were not truly affected by such things. Getting soaked by the rain, or feeling that same pleasant breeze when it got warm was more like a memory than a true sensation. Even the food they ate had to be synthetically processed by an incredibly advanced system of fabricated mechanical and chemical digestion. This realization had landed him in one of the longest running meditations since he'd awoken, but he'd quickly moved on once he'd figured it out. A human brain wants what a human brain wants; the vessel was merely a means of achieving that. Afterwards he would have sworn that every feeling of the rain or every taste of the diner's food was better than before. And it was likely down to this very reasoning that he was here today: he was on a date.
Most of the other mims in the city were entrenched in their work. In spite of their human minds it sometimes seemed as though the perception of human exhaustion had been subdued- something he didn't like to think on it too much- so romance was usually the last thing on his various colleagues timetable. Solan, after asking for his name twice, was downright against it. If humanity were to be consoled by the idea of physical intimacy with an artificial lifeform then their search for the lifehold was ultimately pointless- let them live out the remainder of their false realities in idleness! Following this statement Phog had only apologized and eventually wandered away.
The mind wants what the mind wants... But if logic failed then was that sentience solely responsible? In this case was it not humankind's notion of the heart?
An ant was meandering across the metal spoon that was laid out in front of him. The miran insects had well and truly adapted the new city and its wonders as their own. He considered his date and whether they had ever noticed the ants. Maybe his date was more of a cat person.
Phog cast back in his memories for an event like this one on Earth. Had he sweat this much? Had he arrived this early? Had his feet been this intent on fidgeting on the spot. He couldn't remember ever feeling like this, whether the speculation was true or not. He was so deep in thought that he was staring hard into the armour covered chest that had appeared across from him. A voice had called his name and then waited patiently as his consciousness slowly shifted. He averted his gaze immediately to study the face; two impossibly multi-coloured eyes set above a smiling mouth.
The mind might have been slow, and the mimeosome body even slower to meet it, but the heart knew.
Today the weather was fair.