A/N: This is my first Black Butler fanfiction. Ever. Should be fun. This story idea is based off the British TV programme on Channel 4 called HUMANS. Therefore, most of the credit goes to that show. I'd recommend it, go check it out. However, this story technically contains spoilers for that series, even if it's with Kuroshitsuji characters. Disclaimer: I do not own Black Butler, that belongs to Yana Toboso. I don't own HUMANS either.

There will be lots of swearing in this story, probably gory scenes, angst, and bad attempts at comedy. Enjoy!

.

.

.

Chapter One: Synthetic Humans

He had never owned a Synth before. In fact, he fancied he'd never wanted to. But, for a twenty-year old ex-cop, whose acute asthma proved an ever-larger burden, he convinced himself that, yes, he did need help around the house.

He lived in a quiet cul-de-sac on the outskirts of London, far enough away from any disruptions that often, after a long day on the beat, he could come home to a silent house and relax. He lived alone. He had always lived alone, even when he was at the orphanage, when he was at the halfway house, he had always been alone.

He liked it that way.

Because people were pathetic nuances which he could do without. That's why he'd taken a job which had included apprehending them, roughing them up, intimidating them. Occasionally you got a good punch in, especially during riots - and London was well known for its riots.

So he'd abused his authority a little, but honestly, who hadn't? Who, once given power over others, would truly never abuse it?

There would be no fun in following the rules. He was also fond of irony, being a former renegade cop who yeah, might bend the rules every so often in order to complete a case. Who might take part in deception even after he'd been asked if he was a policeman, just to catch whichever criminal it was red-handed.

Ciel Phantomhive was a hypocritical, arrogant, selfish man with a taste for justice and an incompatibility with other humans.

Hence, the Synth.

It was 2015, after all. You didn't need to hire carers or doctors to make house visits, when you can just buy your own robot.

Well, robot was a bit strong. The Government hated that term for them. Artificial intelligence advancements had led to what was to be considered humanity's greatest achievement: making 'life' from metal, rubber, and wire circuits. He had to give it to them, scientists really had created fake 'people'. They looked like humans, with just as much international diversity: different body masses, different skin tones, different hair colours. Different voices, too. They didn't even sound robotic - monotone, yes, but not distinctly inhuman - though you would definitely be able to identify a Synth in a crowd of humans. Their rigid posture, balanced gaze and unnatural facial expressions made them stand out like sore thumbs.

When they had first been introduced into society - only about two years ago - Ciel had had to remind himself that, if 'someone' smiled at him somewhat creepily, they were not a serial killer, but in fact a Synth testing out their communications with humans. Even so, he never smiled back.

His life had been a bit of a train-wreck so far, he concluded (having your parents murdered in front of you as a child has a tendency to fuck you up a little bit) but honestly, he could not have been more determined to make a good career as an officer of the law if he tried. When he was accepted and his training was complete, he thought himself a regular Sherlock Holmes. This was England, this was London - why disturb the common belief that their police forces were the best?

It was not until they had brought in a Synth to join his jurisdiction that Ciel had become wary of them.

Instead of giving the Synth a real, human name, all the officers just called him Robo-Cop. Like the movie. But less badass.

Currently, he was driving into London in order to collect his new Synth. His first Synth. Apart from Robo-Cop, he'd never really had to be around them in a closed space. He was kind of worried that New Synth would be unpredictable. The last thing he needed was an iHuman incapable of following instructions.

Any time he'd have to speak with Robo-Cop, or even look at him, something seemed off. Robo-Cop didn't smile at anyone. He didn't interact as socially as other Synths, he didn't even feign interest in humans' lives.

They'd once handled a case where a man had attempted to strangle his wife to death. When she'd reported it to the police, Ciel had been one of the first officers there. He watched as paramedics cared for her and her husband was hauled away in handcuffs.

Robo-Cop had been responsible for asking her a few questions. However, instead of doing so, he'd simply noted that there was no guarantee the husband had attempted murder - noting the presence of semen between her legs, he concluded that the strangulation had likely 'only' been erotic.

But, Ciel had retorted, that didn't make it any more consensual. The woman didn't strike him as the kind to spread her legs and beg for her neck to be wrung like a wet towel. Robo-Cop had given him the stink-eye - something which fake humans should not be able to do.

Ciel had made waves with his superiors after that: who sends a fucking apathetic robot to deal with a mentally distraught abuse victim?

We do, was the reply. Ciel had been wondering if the guys upstairs were all Synths, too. Seriously, they were everywhere. In all jobs, in all areas of society - well, not the underclass; Synths were created to be employed - and, Ciel felt, in every corner he could see.

Basically, he and Robo-Cop had been partnered up to work cases, to do stake-outs and so on. Worst seven months of his life.

The worst thing? Robo-Cop wasn't a person, ergo Ciel couldn't even get to know him. Sometimes that was good, though; Ciel wasn't an incredibly talkative person. Unless he was told he had to manage the office - being able to order people around just got him going.

Now, he watched from his driver's seat as the scenery evolved from rural areas to run-down warehouses and smoked-out businesses. He rolled the windows back up. Had to take precautions now, unless he wanted a repeat of the event that got him thrown off the active force. He was waiting for an update on an office job, but he never really saw himself as a paper-pusher.

What had happened was, he'd been on patrol with Robo-Cop, when he'd been radioed about a shoplifting job in his vicinity. He'd pulled over and with Robo at his side they'd ploughed toward the location - a big supermarket.

These kind of jobs were pretty normal; this must've been the 100th theft case he'd worked. The thieves were fast; regular Mo Farrahs. They even high-jumped fences and walls just to make away with a few items. The lengths people would go to for a few loaves of bread never ceased to surprise Ciel.

He remembered that even as a young child, he had thought Aladdin was stupid for making all that effort for one loaf. He used to say that if I was a thief, I wouldn't just give my prize away to some begging runts. The other kids had called him heartless, a label he wore with pride. Better heartless than hurting.

Anyway, as he had been chasing the thieves, Robo-Cop had overtaken him, and he suddenly felt his windpipe closing up. His pulse had been through the roof, exhaustion had weighed heavily on his limbs and he remembered collapsing, convulsing, unable to reach his inhaler in his pocket. The experience had been, for want of a better adjective, terrifying.

And it all went tits-up from there. To be honest, he had no idea how he'd managed to keep his asthma a secret from the cops, anyway. During recruitment process, he just hadn't mentioned it for fear of being deemed unfit for active service. He'd never had an attack so serious that he'd been hospitalised, so there was nothing much on his medical records. Ciel figured the recruitment officers must have known something about it. Most people tend to grow out of childhood asthma. He hadn't.

So that was his first time having an asthma attack. Once he got out of hospital with nothing more than a sore throat, he'd been sent a letter relieving him of active service. That equated to 'we can't let you play outside because you might breathe too much and die.' Ciel was accustomed to seeing others in humiliation - hell, working Friday nights always got him his fill of drunken bar fights, drugged-up prozzies and those poor University students trying to prove they could handle their liquor - but he was not used to being the one humiliated. At least, not in a long while.

That attack had been a month ago, and still no news. Technically he was on respite, but he wanted to know if he needed to start collecting newspapers for job advertisements.

Finally, as his crappy little Renault Clio chugged along the familiar streets of inner London, surrounded by towering office buildings and the odd skyscraper, Ciel stole a parking space as close to the Synth shop as possible. Today was a Monday, in the cold-as-fuck month of February. For once, wrapped up in his double-breasted wool coat, scarf wound up to his chin and winter boots overlapped by loose jeans, Ciel sympathised with the other people forced to go out in this weather. Again, it was England, so normally people would assume that its residents would acclimate to its miserable forecasts. They did, but that didn't stop them complaining about it.

Ciel counted 12 snippets of complaint about the weather from different people before he crossed the threshold of the tech shop.

After giving his name at the reception, he was intercepted by a pompous, red-faced man clutching a clipboard. "Ah, hello, Mr Phantomhive!"

Ciel blinked. "Hi?"

The man raised his eyebrows in expectation. "You're...here to collect your Synth, yes?"

"O-oh! Yeah." Ciel offered a smile but it didn't reach his eyes. Cold weather, cold personality. Why be a contrast.

"Please follow me." Ciel was led to the back of the shop, where aesthetic was less of a priority. He was told to wait in a specific spot, and he did.

The man looked up at him and gave him a nod before heading off to fetch the Synth. It was weird, Ciel decided, being tall. He'd been such a scrawny thing whilst growing up, it felt unnatural for him to be this lanky. Well, he preferred the term lean, when describing himself, but lately he hadn't been able to work out, so, lanky it was.

He'd hit a growth spurt aged seventeen. It had felt like that scene in Alice in Wonderland where she eats the mushroom and shoots up like a rocket.

Ciel in Wonderland. He scoffed at the thought.

Ciel had preferred being short. He wasn't sure he liked the trade-off of being able to reach things on high shelves in exchange for hitting his head on every fucking beam above five foot nine.

Soon he heard a wheeling sound, and turned to see his Synth being rolled toward him on a box-carrier. The Synth was wrapped up, indistinguishable and quite frankly, looking like a mummy.

Ciel hoped there was bubble-wrap to pop, if this Synth proved as boring as the rest of them. He brushed some of his dark hair from his eyes. Needed to get a haircut before he became the new poster-guy for hobos that they printed on leaflets in order to suck more money out of people. He'd been homeless, once, for about a week when he'd run away from his foster home at thirteen. It hadn't been a nice experience and he'd almost gotten himself killed, but he wasn't going to give up the cash he had now for the benefit of someone else. He didn't give a shit if little Jessie was sleeping on the streets and could you spare a pound Sir.

Heartless was a suit that fit him perfectly, and he never took it off.

The carrier was set upright in front of him. Ciel gave it a once-over. "It's tall, ain't it?" He didn't bother trying to hide his Londoner accent, nor the impression such colloquial language gave. His parents had been the rich snobs with perfect enunciation; he was the mongrel dog they'd left behind.

The Synth was indeed very tall, taller than himself. Quite thin, too. Maybe athletic build. Most Synths were, really. They had to be: they were the house-slaves doing all the work so that the real humans could let themselves go. Ciel had always enjoyed exercise. Shame his body didn't agree with him.

"Yes, he is," The man answered. He had a very Arthur Poe aura about him, very jittery. "Apparently he's quite the supermodel, too. Just came in this morning."

Unzipping the translucent body bag, Ciel nodded as the full Synth came into view. Long limbs, thin body, clothed in the grey uniform that all new Synths wore. Sharp facial features adorned the angled face; jet-black hair fell in long strands down to the Synth's broad shoulders and the mouth was a long, emotionless line.

Ciel supposed this Synth would be more at home living with a rock band than with him, it looked like a broody Andy Biersack wannabe. Minus the tattoos. Better than nothing.

Poe handed Ciel a box with the company's logo on it, all light blue and airy-fairy: Persona Synthetics. Opening it, Ciel saw things like a manual, USB cable for charging it, DIY repair kits for minor damage and stuff like that. Seemed pretty basic for a humanoid computer.

Picking up the introduction leaflet, Ciel perused the headings.

"Just follow the instructions, and you'll have it configured in no time," Assured the man with a hearty smile. This guy was such a fickle businessman.

Next, the man touched the underside of the Synth's chin - the location of the power button - and a brief whirring sound was heard before the Synth came to artificial life. The muscles relaxed, then stiffened. Pale eyelids opened.

Now, Ciel knew one main thing about Synthetic Humans: all of their eyes were of a metallic green colour. So why -

"Why are its eyes red?" Ciel queried, his own blue eyes narrowing in suspicion. The salesman's expression morphed into surprise. "I - I don't know -"

"If this is some kind of scam I want a refund -"

"N-no! It's not, this is definitely the Synth you ordered, sir," The guy was sweating now, Ciel could see little clear beads of liquid on his brow. Gross.

Still believing he was being ripped off, the Londoner continued to glare at the shorter man.

"I-I'll phone the manager, perhaps there's been a mix up," He wandered away again, speaking into his earpiece.

Meanwhile, the Synth just kept its blank, naive stare directed at Ciel. It had not been fully activated yet and so was not permitted to speak.

"What you looking at," The former cop mumbled, lidded eyes betraying his boredom as people continued to bustle around the shop.

A few minutes later the man came back, looking considerably more at ease. "Mr Phantomhive, I can confirm that there has been no mix up," He stated proudly, like he deserved a medal.

"Then why doesn't it look like the others?"

"We don't know, sir, but I've been informed that extensive scans and tests have been done to ensure that this model is not defective. It has a standard domestic profile installed - that'll cover the basic housework. I can assure you that apart from the slight discolouration, he functions perfectly."

"It."

"Pardon?"

"You keep referring to it as 'he' but it's not a 'he', it's an 'it'. Why give them genders if they're made of the same material?"

The man looked taken aback. "...We might say the same of humans, sir," He countered, confused. "Why not give them genders? They are designed to be artificial humans, after all."

Ciel had had this argument many times before with his colleagues, many of whom already had their own Synths. He didn't want to get into it now. "Whatever. Can you send me a letter explaining that this Synth's performance won't be affected by varied materials, then?"

Again, Poe seemed shocked at the request. "Uhm, we can, yes, but why-"

"Just a precaution."

"Alright. Would you like to begin setup mode now, sir?" The salesman finally appeared to be losing patience. It amused Ciel to see how much he could annoy him before leaving. "Sure." He used a clear voice as he read out the passwords to access setup mode. "Dandelion three, waterfall two, hummingbird one, seashell."

Then, the Synth spoke. "Hello. I'm now in setup mode, and ready for primary user bonding." The voice was deep, masculine, with a slight rich timbre to it. Nice.

"Primary user: Ciel Vincent Phantomhive, or just Ciel."

The Synth reached out a long-fingered hand. "A DNA sample will be taken for identification and security purposes. This information will never be shared with any third party or organisation."

Tentatively, Ciel held the Synth's hand, feeling a slight buzzing sensation in his palm. A few seconds later, the Synth made a startup noise, a soft ping, and its deep ruby eyes met his, refocused. "Hello Ciel," The Synth smiled softly. "I am now bonded to you as my primary user. It's very nice to meet you."

They shook hands briefly, Ciel pulling back with an awkward smile on his face. "Yeah, alright."

Turning to face the salesman, he gave him a quick nod. "Thanks, mate. See you."

"Have a nice day," The man replied coolly, "sir."

.

.

.