Author's note: This is the end of the story. Thank you for your patience, and for staying with me throughout. I hope you like the ending.
The desk is mostly cluttered nowadays. The files are in a neat stack against the wall, quietly gathering dust from disuse. Papers scatter across the surface of the desk, covered in idly drawn diagrams and numbers in marks of graphite and ink, pencils and pens strewn around out of their holder, a chaotic mess beneath the silent monitors. They keep scrap paper in a spare box now, in the corner of the room, but no one uses it much, leaving it unsatisfied and empty, while the paper bin overflows with littered debris. Dirtied mugs sit atop the papers, stained with coffee and sugar and countless late nights without sleep. Occasionally, the objects are shuffled, papers thrown away, mugs washed and cleaned and refilled again, the stack of files reshuffled one day, and disappearing altogether the next day.
Kieran was a fine model, although his personality had quite the room for people to disagree with, and the team secretly made bets on whose personality it was modeled after, and how long it would take for someone to punch it in the face. He flies wonderfully, surer of himself than the last, although they aren't too sure if that was worth having to listen to him talk for the next hour or so. Personally, Douglas can't find it in himself to care. A job is a job, after all.
He works alone in his office as much as possible, and it is quiet except for the gentle whirring and soft beeping of the monitors. Some days, he finds that even the rustling of paper is too loud, and too crude in the silence enfolding them, and stops for a moment, listening. It never yields anything, and he does not know why he does it, but he keeps on hoping that perhaps one day, that might change.
"Don't put them there."
"What?" Kieran straightens, his arms full of boxes of books, files and papers. "Where am I supposed to put them, then? The desk?" He shifts the boxes in his arms, although Douglas knows that weights aren't exactly a problem for androids. "The desk is full."
"Put them on the floor, then. Just not there." Douglas turns back to his papers, shuffling noises coming from behind him, a grunt and then the sound of something heavy being set down, presumably on the floor.
"Geez. How dare they ask me to move these boxes for them? I'm a pilot, for god's sake, not a labourer." There was the sound of hissing doors, and silence returned once more, settling down comfortably, a tame cat.
Douglas scratches a circle in the middle of the tic tac toe he had been doing. He's often winning them nowadays.
The chair beside him remains empty.
Work is repetitive, and coffee doesn't quite taste the same anymore. It is always a little too sharp, a little too sour, and in need of a little more sugar. He drinks it, anyway, needing the caffeine to keep him up throughout the night. Plans for another plane comes in, and there are meetings. Eventually the crashed plane is repaired, and Kieran takes it out once more for testing all over again. It goes smoothly, and she takes to the sky almost like a charm, breezing through the phases without a sweat – hard work pays off, after all. Soon, she is ready for sale on the market, and a new plane comes in. There are new functions, new abilities, but the form remains the same. He pulls out a peanut from the auto-vend packet, and crunches into it - dull, dry and a little too salty. He reaches into the packet, and takes out another one anyway. The screens flicker before him, numbers and figures scrolling across its monitors.
Work is repetitive.
Occasionally, he entertains the thought of resigning.
The lock beeps as it scans his thumbprint, and then his retina. It is cold, and mechanical, and he nearly misses the familiar sound of jangling keys in his childhood as the door slides open without so much as a sound, although this has added security that it offers in the height of today's technology. The hallway floods with a clean light resembling natural daylight, and he toes off his shoes, setting his bag down to the side and out of the way, standing there for a moment, quietly absorbing the silence, and the stillness.
"Douglas? Is that you?"
The silence breaks, startled, the sound of pots and pans coming from the direction of the kitchen. The warm smell of dinner cooking curls gently through the air, and if Douglas concentrates, he can make out the smell of beef and teriyaki sauce. Running water reaches his ears, before the tap is shut off, and something glass clinks. Douglas allows himself a small, brief smile, before making his way into the kitchen. The sight that is presented is a familiar one, the smell of dinner enticing, laid out steaming on gleaming plates, glasses sparkling in the warm yellow light that he had installed for the kitchen. The tap runs again, before the other wipes his hands dry on his pants, turning with a smile.
"Let's have dinner."
"So, how was work?"
He pauses, a forkful of beef and rice on its way to his mouth. Their plates are nearly clean, by now. The food is good, wholesome and flavourful, warming from the inside. There is still some soup leftover in the pot, and a little bit of the salad, and chocolate mousse in the fridge, but all in moderate amounts. It is a comfortable atmosphere that wraps around just the both of them in the kitchen, and he had been rather enjoying the companionable silence from before.
"You know how it is," he says, at length. "Busy. We're still working on the project I told you about last week." He puts the forkful of beef and rice into his mouth, chews, and swallows. "It is, a little dull at times, and the food is horrible."
Soft laughter sounds, and a fork scrapes against a plate. "Well, then. You're lucky that I'm a good cook. How does packed lunches sound to you?"
"I wouldn't want to be any trouble."
"No trouble at all, if it means that you don't have to suffer the dull and horrible food. Itis unhealthy for you, you know. How does chicken wraps sound?"
"That… that would be wonderful. Yes, please."
The legs of the chair scrape noisily against the floor, and there is the sound of the fridge door opening, with it a whoosh of frigid air against Douglas' skin.
"There's still some soup leftover. Do you want anymore before dessert?"
"Yes, that would be wonderful."
Later, when all the chocolate mousse is gone, and the table cleared, Douglas makes his way to the bathroom with the sounds of washing pots and pans and plates behind him. The tiles are cold against his bare feet, and he sighs as the spray of hot water washes his fatigue and the exhaustion down the drain, the long day washing off his skin along with the scent of peppermint in the hazy condensation in the bathroom. The scent lingers, misting up the mirror as he towels himself dry, wiping a finger across the glass. He is older, and his hair isn't getting any blacker. He rubs his face with the towel, and ignores the mirror as he brushes his teeth.
He is already in bed when he steps out of the bathroom, comfortably snugged up beneath the duvet, with only his mop of copper curls peeking out over the top. Douglas smiles and pads over, getting onto his side of the bed with minimal fuss. The body next to him shifts, and then scoots closer, an arm slipping around his waist and pulling the both of them closer. Obligingly, Douglas wraps his arm around him as well, tangling fingers into the copper curls, and smoothing the hair back from his face, smiling indulgently at the clear blue eyes that blink up at him. The night is quiet, soothing, the sky completely void of stars, an obsolete cloud of black from all the pollution that humanity has done.
"Douglas?" His voice is soft, gently treading.
He caresses a pale, freckled cheek with the pad of his thumb. "Yes, Martin?"
"I had a strange dream, last night."
Douglas makes a soft sound, waiting for Martin to go on. "What did you dream of?"
"Don't laugh at me- It's- It's strange but I was really happy in it. I'll tell you if you promise not to laugh."
"I promise. Scout's honor."
"I- oh, alright. One week without desserts if you laugh." The pout was extremely endearing, and Douglas chuckles, stealing a brief kiss from him, drawing a soft huff of breath from the other, before he rested his head against Douglas. Something outside the window chirps, and a bright beam of light passes through the window into their bedroom briefly, before it sweeps away once more. Douglas is quiet, petting Martin's hair idly, waiting.
"Flying," Martin says softly, reverently into the darkness. "I dreamt of flying. With you. In an aeroplane. I- I know its stupid and all and you'll think that it's childish- " When no witty remark came his way, Martin turns instead to look at Douglas, and props himself up with an elbow at what he sees in his face. "D-Douglas? Is there something wrong? I mean- "
Douglas blinks, before shaking his head, instead pulling Martin down and close, hugging the android tightly to him, drawing in a shuddering breath that he did not know he had been holding, as something that might have be tears prick at his eyes, swallowing against the lump in his throat and the strange sensation of something between his ribs.
"Is- is something wrong?" Martin sounds concerned, peering up at Douglas, brow furrowed in worry. "I didn't- didn't say anything wrong did I?"
Douglas shushes him, and presses a kiss to his forehead, the android's skin cold beneath his lips. "No, you said nothing wrong. It is a wonderful dream. Sleep, now."
Martin shuffles a little beneath the duvet, and gets into a slightly more comfortable position, and does not speak again for the rest of the night, the blue light in his eyes dimming before he closes them, Douglas clutching him tightly against him, almost afraid to let go, or to look away.
He stays awake for what must have been hours, before he finally relaxes, just the slightest bit, as the glowing red minutes of the clock continue to tick. And as his eyes drift close, maybe, just maybe, he allows himself to hope, that perhaps, he has been forgiven.
ACT 71, SECTION 27A, CLAUSE 8 C
Androids (as defined by Act 71, Section 1, Clause 1) are not to be created to replicate human behavior in its entirety. This includes the replication of emotions and psyche, as well as physical expressions. The range of behaviors allowed to be reproduced are to be restricted to that which pertains to its functions.
Shappey Aerospace Industrial Research Corporation is awarding Douglas Richardson, Chief Engineer of Project 787, the rights to the purchase and ownership of Android Code: MRTN-1027834590-AE7137-259463175, Model: MRTN Version 10.03 under fulfillment of the condition that all information pertaining to the Company and Projects 256, 340, 418, 595, 598, 673, 699 and 787 are deleted with no mode of retrieval.
Approved by President of Shappey Aerospace Industrial Research Corporation G. Shappey (Signed 8th August 2512)
