Carl doesn't have an opinion on androids. Not really.
Convenient? Yes.
Pleasant? Yes, if a bit dull and dead.
Needed? Definitely not. People were already too dependent on technology as it was.
However, in light of unforeseen circumstances (that being his deteriorating health and lack of working legs), his good friend Elijah Kamski had deigned to gift him with an android. Of course, refusing the world's most powerful man would have been societal suicide, but Carl Manfred didn't particular care about those sorts of things.
For one, he was wealth off.
For two, he was a rebel. Always have been, always will. The tattoos that he helped ink upon his skin was more than enough proof that Carl did not fit with the norm—eccentricity was part of the package when one was an artist.
Well, amongst other things.
But of course, Elijah Kamski didn't become the world's most powerful man by taking things lying down. He had practically badgered the old man into taking his newest prototype of the RK series under his wing.
"It has all the capabilities of all domestic assistants and some hidden features that enable it to emulate human interaction and integration. It's top of the line and probably won't go into mass production."
"And why is that?"
"Well, I can't just tell you about one of my trade secrets just because, ya know?"
Honestly, Carl thinks that Kamski had decided to gift him the RK200 because it was defective or something. Regardless, Carl takes him in, fully intent in just letting the android do his own thing while Carl continues to paint.
The android's name is Markus.
"Carl, I have been instructed to assist you in your everyday needs. Telling me to 'go off and have fun' does little to fulfill my directives."
"Markus, how many times do I have to tell you? I don't need any assistance." Carl turns back to his current activity—painting—and sighs once he realizes that Markus is still standing there.
It had been like that for several days now. Ever since he had graciously accepted Kamski's gift, the android had done nothing but badger Carl and take care of menial tasks that he could have done himself. Still, though, it isn't all too bad. It had been years since Carl had someone to talk to on the daily—besides himself and his paintings—and Markus is one heck of a conversationalist.
Well, if Markus wasn't busy nagging him like an overprotective, metallic mother hen.
There is a slight intake of breath, and, "Fine, if you really want to do something so badly for me, could you please pick up some paints from Bellini's? I'm running a little low."
Carl turns around and for a split second, he manages to see that Markus' lips have quirked up. Another smile, this time on Carl's own weathered visage, brightens the atmosphere.
"I'll leave right away, Carl. Don't—"
"Break my arms? Don't worry about it, my legs are enough of a hindrance."
Carl turns back to his paints and huffs a chuckle to himself.
He's a bit disappointed that he doesn't Markus laugh in return, but the smile is still a start.
From that moment on, Carl takes it upon himself to pay a little more attention to his inherited android. Like most standard androids, he is manufactured to be aesthetically pleasing to the eye, programmed with the most basic of social programming, and has a gait and posture that is too stiff to be natural. In the past, Carl would be indifferent to the perfectly planned construction of the beauty of such lifeless beings, but now, Carl really pays attention.
He takes note of the small ticks that Markus has. He takes note of the sarcasm that Markus has learned over his time with Carl—because surely, sarcasm wasn't programmed into his protocols. He takes note of Markus' curious gaze as he goes about painting. Slowly, but surely, Carl knows that Markus is slowly becoming human.
Or perhaps, he was always human all along and he hasn't paid attention until now.
"Hey, Markus."
"Yes, Carl?"
Obedient, ever attentive. It sickens Carl to know that Markus and so many like him have no choice but to obey. Perhaps, one day in the future, the painter will teach Markus his own worth and value; that he is more than a machine.
For now, though—
"Fancy a game of chess? I've been meaning to recreate a scene from Wargames for a while now. Let's see how well you can play."
It takes a second for Markus to get the joke, but the few seconds of silence is worth the short laugh that he tries in vain to hide.
Carl smiles and sets up the board.
"Heya, Dad!"
There's a sound of uneven, heavy footsteps that echo throughout Carl's house as the interloper manages to make his way in. For a moment, Markus is bewildered that there's an intruder and looks ready to call the police, but a gentle hand on his arm stops him. Carl shakes his head with a wordless 'no' and manually wheels himself to the door of his studio.
As soon as the older man does so, the door opens and a bedraggled young man with half-lidded eyes walks in. It only takes Carl half a second to know that his son is under the influence of Red Ice.
"Ah, Leo! What a surprise." Carl welcomes his son coolly, but with polite deference. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
However, Leo's focus is no longer on his father. Instead, his eyes rove eagerly—hungrily—over Carl's latest paintings. To the untrained eye, they appeared to be magnificent, worthy of praise and accolades. Only, Carl can see that his brushstrokes, while graceful and professional, have nothing of the famed emotion that usually exudes from his work. It's a travesty to know that people would still pay an arm and a leg just to possess one of his pieces when Carl can only think of them as rubbish.
Suddenly, Leo's eyes narrow before he turns to his father in an accusing manner.
"What's wrong?" Carl begins to ask. Confusedly, he wheels himself close to his son, but immediately backs away when Leo's enraged dark eyes turn on him.
"Got yourself a plastic toy? Already trying to replace me, hmm? Is that it?"
Carl tries to grasp Leo's arm, as if to reason with him, but there's no point. Wrenching himself away, the younger Manfred stalks towards Marks and leans in close, sizing up the taller android male.
"Leo, Markus was a gift from Kamski. Treat him with—"
"Him? Dad, that thing is an it!" At his words, the younger man winds his right arm back, only mere seconds away from landing a punch on the android.
"Leo, please. Leave him alone and tell me what you came for."
For a moment, the bedraggled man's right arm shakes with indecision. Back and forth, Leo's eyes track Markus' lack of expression and his father's beseeching, pathetic stance in his wheelchair. His jaw clenches, but Leo moves away from the android like it was a burning iron and trudges back to his father with an air of embittered resignation.
"Look," Leo begins, "remember that amount you gave me last month? Yeah, it's not going to cut it." He shrugs his shoulders while wearing a sheepish expression that does noting but annoy Carl.
"And what makes you think I'll give it to you?"
"Look! Just give me my damn money! Is that too much—"
Not wanting to hear anymore of his son's pathetic excuses, the painter waves for Markus. At the gesture, the android immediately comes to Carl's aid. His eyes and stance, Carl belatedly notices, are somewhat more alert and rigid than usual.
"Markus, please escort my son out. I've had a rough day and I want to rest."
"Hey! You can't just throw me out like trash! If anything, throw your little plastic pet—"
As his son continues his cries and complaints, Carl wheels himself towards an unfinished painting and grabs a spare paintbrush. For some odd reason, he feels his stomach curl and his throat tighten from guilt.
His grasp on his paintbrush trembles until it clatters on the floor.
"Carl, good morning."
Groaning, the elderly gentleman tries to wave his android away as he burrows deeper into his covers. Despite having the experience and wisdom of the typical aged gentleman, Carl is not a morning person. Still, Markus pays no heed to Carl's personal preferences as he draws the curtains open and readies the morning injection.
Carl can't help but roll his eyes and sigh at the doldrum monotony that has take over his life.
Every day is the same.
Wake up, paint, and try to remember why he even lives anymore.
It's the same tedious melody that has long since overstayed its welcome.
Carl hates it. Nowadays, he can't bend his joints in a full range of motion or overexert His voice, the voice that has given life to a generation within his period of painting, has been finally silenced.
It's depressing.
"Carl? Are you all right?"
Well, if he didn't have anyone to talk to, it would have surely been far more unbearable. The painter is more than grateful to know that he has someone to look after him, that person being Markus.
Carl doesn't know when he began to refer to Markus as "he". Perhaps it was due to the fact that he lived in an era where androids were nothing more than the products of nerdy scientists dreaming up worlds in their science fiction fantasies. Or perhaps it's the artist within him that begs him to look past the realities of life and probe into the abstract; Carl empathizes with Markus.
Perhaps Carl has always thought of Markus as a human being.
"Oh, you know…" Carl waves his right hand about him as if gesturing towards the horrors of real life. "I'm just a sack of old bones. Why not skip the medication for today, hmm?"
Of course, Markus disagrees (the sight of the android caregiver prepping his shot an all too familiar scene) and Carl has to comply—lord help him when he finally dies, it would break Markus.
Soon after, Markus wheels him to his dining table where he has an excellent breakfast waiting. Carl nods at Markus to go off and have some time to clean up or read a book, but there's a strange look on his face. A part of Carl is quite proud of Markus and his newfound human tics and expressions, but another part is worried.
Markus looks…concerned.
"Something wrong, Markus?"
"Yes, I would actually like to talk about your son. Leo."
Carl's fork and spoon clatters onto the side of his plate. Ever the watchful guardian, Markus moves as if to make sure that Carl is fine, but the older man waves him off. Surprise is evident in the old man's features, but he sort of knew that it was going to happen. Ever since that day when Leo had first visited, Markus had this sort of contemplative presence about him. For a while, Carl had kept his distance because he, too, would have been weary if someone like that had threatened him with bodily harm. Now, Markus wanted answers.
"Well, now…what would you like to know?"
"For starters, Carl, why aren't you close with your son? I thought that human bonds were supposed to be more—"
"Loving?"
"Well, I was going to say close, but that works as well." Without being bidden, Markus grabs a chair and sits across from Carl. "Don't you two love each other?"
Carl doesn't hesitate.
"Of course I do." Carl feels Markus' eyes on him so he tries to elaborate. "It's just that…I made some mistakes in the past that have affected the both of us. What you have to understand, Markus, is that I'm not a good person. I've hurt people in my past. I've…"
Carl's voice hitches in his throat. It's an old hurt, the sort that festers and worsens over time under the copious amounts of decaying cloth and bandages. It oozes and stinks and Carl wishes he had never hurt in the first place.
His voice fails him.
His android, underneath the layers of virtual code and instructions pertaining to human interaction, understands.
"You left his birth mother."
"Yes. For most of his life, the only contact I have ever given him was through the occasional birthday card and the child support payments." Carl laughs humorlessly. "Back then, I wasn't so eager to own up to my mistakes and I guess…Leo thinks that I still think of him as one of my mistakes, which is far from the truth."
"You've never stopped loving him."
"I can't say I loved him from the very beginning, but over the years…yes."
Taken aback, Markus looks scandalized by the very idea that the man who promised ill will towards him was still loved by his father. It's laughable, but Carl refrains from doing so.
"Humans…when they form bonds…they're very hard to break, aren't they?"
Carl nods and resumes his breakfast.
"You know, Markus, I wish things were different."
"Oh, how so?"
The old man sighs ruefully to himself as he points at one of his ruined paintings. After spending a few hours in the local park, master and android had arrived home to a belligerent Leo. After a brief altercation between Markus and Leo, the young man had turned his anger onto one of his father's paintings. Because of Markus' quick thinking, the painting was largely unscathed save for a few rips and tears on one side of the canvas. The act of violence had rendered Leo speechless, so much so, that he immediately turned tail and left.
Carl hopes that his son will contact him later—maybe he won't apologize, but it's better than radio silence—but he has a better bet of seeing it snow in July.
"I can help you recreate your paintings," Markus begins, unsure, "I have perfect recall and memory so you can finish—"
"No, the painting is just that. A painting." Carl leans back in his wheelchair and gazes in longing at the setting sun. "No, I wish I wasn't such a bonehead when I was younger. I wish I could have been a better father to Leo when I still had a chance."
Markus places a hand—so warm, so human—on Carl's shoulder.
"Instead, I ran away from my problems and turned to painting. And to think," Carl's voice rises in bitter regret and irony, "painting was my ticket to a better life and recognition!" He barks out a harsh chuckle and just as quickly, quiets down. "That's why humans are so flawed, Markus. We don't have fancy calculators in our heads or algorithms that help determine the correct action to take. We just simply do the things we want."
Markus is silent throughout Carl's monologue, but his hand never strays from Carl's shoulder.
Today is a bad day.
When he first wakes up, it's not due to Markus drawing his curtains and telling him the latest news. No, it's because Carl's bones ache, his head pounds, and his skin burns like coal in a barbecue.
The old man patiently waits in his bed for the exact time the android would arrive. Any normal human being would have called their android or caregiver the minute they would have felt the slightest hint that there was something off with their health. However, Carl is anything but a normal being; if he wants to suffer in his own version of purgatory then so be it.
"Oh, good morning, Carl! Why are you—"
Carl doesn't need to say anything. Once Markus has assessed his health status via a quick bio-scan, it's off to the races to find a suitable medicine for the painter.
"Honestly, Carl! Didn't I tell you to call me should you need anything?"
"I don't need to call you for everything, Markus. 'Sides, I knew that you were going to come anyway. It's not like I'll die because I had to wait five minutes to administer medication."
"Carl," Markus drawls warningly.
The painter sighs more out of routine than out of true irritation as he answers, "Fine. Might as well make me some herbal tea and some light broth. I'm not sure if I can handle solids right now."
"Right away, Carl."
As Carl waits for his fever appropriate meal to be made, he rests his head against his downy pillows and reminisces of an earlier time. He hates to say it, but he has grown up like those old biddies he used to make fun of when he was younger. However, instead of rotting away in a nursing home, he's rotting away in a gilded cage of his own creation. The idea that he, a rebel and troublemaker with a passion for life was practically groveling at Death's doorstep was disturbing.
And funny.
Possibly poetic.
But mostly funny.
"I hate to say this so early in the morning, but you look delirious."
"The truth hurts, Markus, but that doesn't mean I can't take it."
"True."
Carl opens his eyes to find himself beholden to a tray on his lap and a plain bowl of soup. It's positively the most delicious meal that he has ever seen. Just when he is about to dig into his slightly overdue breakfast, Carl spots Markus about to pour his tea into a generic porcelain cup. On a whim and a want for spontaneity, Carl stops Markus from using that teacup.
"Actually, there's a mug with a smiley face in one of the cabinets downstairs. I think I'll drink from that today."
Markus quirks an eyebrow and waits a seconds, perhaps thinking that Carl is delirious and needs a mental assessment.
"Don't look at me like that! It's my favorite cup!"
"All right, all right!" Markus turns away, but Carl knows him well enough to know that the android was smirking to himself.
Carl blows the steam away from his food and wonders, not for the first time, what it would have been like to nurse Leo like Markus was nursing him..
"I appreciate the thought, Markus, but you don't have to bring me the same cup everyday for breakfast. I can tell you're not so fond of it."
"It's not a question of what I am fond of, Carl, but whether or not you're fond of it. Have your preferences changed?"
"Oh, no! I'm just surprised and grateful that you're always serving my coffee in my favorite mug." Carl pauses in sipping his freshly brewed coffee as he levels Markus a probing stare. "You've changed. There's just something about you that speaks of something…more. More human."
Markus laughs, a heartwarming sound that has Carl smiling in return.
"Or perhaps I've been updating my public relations protocol and other various files."
"Regardless, I still wonder, why are you so adamant that you serve me this mug everyday."
"Well, if you're happy…then I feel happy as well." Before Carl could even begin to form a coherent thought, Markus quickly changes the subject. "Why is there a smiley face on the mug? Is that why you like it so much?"
Markus doesn't say that the artistry of the design was lacking and crudely done, but Carl can see it plainly on his face.
"Oh, it was an old Father's Day gift...from Leo. I think he was trying to personalize it, hence the smiley face." A small smile lifted Carl's lips as he regarded the mug once more. "He was never an artist, but it's the thought that counts."
"I see."
For a moment, the pair sat in silence, both contemplating life and the secret joys of living.
"You two could have been my sons," Carl muttered as he fingered the cup absently. "Could have been a family...yet, it's all screwed up now." He looked up at Markus who had seemed shocked by his sudden admission and ruefully smiled. "Forgive me, Markus. I'm an old man with a hyperactive imagination. Forget what I said."
It's not an order, Carl knows this and so does Markus.
Instead, Markus simply cants his head and gathers most of Carl's breakfast tray. Once he is almost completed his task, he questions Carl if he would like to wash the mug now or later.
Carl shakes his head, but eventually surrenders his mug to Markus.
"My, I must be getting so old and sentimental." Carl mumbles.
"No," Markus answers out of the blue. "You love your son, regardless of what has happened."
And that is that.