Every time Peter tossed his phone in the air, the audience held its breath.

"Everyone in this room could get up and walk out right now and I wouldn't know."

The phone jumped between his hands - spinning, easy as a coin. The spotlight gleamed on his sunglasses, glowed warm on his face.

He knew a roomful of eyes were staring at him.

"This could be a conspiracy, and you're all in on it." He removed his glasses for a moment, pretended an accusing glare. "Someone in the front row will give a signal and every one of you will get up and walk out, leave me to just keep talking to an empty room." He smirked a little, flung his phone back and forth. "They're doing it now, aren't they."

The air in the room shifted - a tremble of sound he couldn't hear.

This was the third night he'd tried that joke - and every time, without fail, a stranger in the front row had taken it upon themselves to wave a signal to the rest of the audience. The room erupted in laughter.

Peter tossed the phone, spinning, high into the air. "I assume most of you here are human. Are there any cyborgs here?" He caught the phone, raised his brows in an expectant pause. "No?" A smirk flashed. "Soon."

The phone resumed its constant, flashing movement. "Humans are strange. Complicated. Full of questions. One guy asked me if androids like movies. I said, who the hell doesn't like movies? I'm a fan of Star Wars, myself. Binged the whole franchise in ten minutes, it was great - and I learned a new language."

He opened his mouth a little - and emitted a series of trilling beeps and whistles.

"Those of you who understood that, you know what to do. The rest of you may want to take cover." Peter, with a quirk of a smile, tossed his phone in one hand, paced across the stage.

"Androids, we'll just talk to each other in Binary from now on." He shook his head, shrugged. "Just to confuse the humans. Humans are confused … a lot. Another one asked me if androids were capable of remorse - and I said I was sorry she'd been forced to sit through my show."

He breathed, flicked on the phone a moment - listened to the echo of laughter with a quiet grin. "But to answer the question - for the curious - remorse is easy when you can call upon any memory and relive it - again, and again, and again - analyze it frame by frame, know exactly what went wrong, what you could've done differently - and know you can never go back."


A silvery wet fish flopped and thrashed in the bottom of the boat - thwacked Sumo's nose, set the dog bouncing and barking, poking it with a paw.

"Sumo quit it," roared Hank, wrestling Sumo away from the biggest catch of the day. "Goddammit yer rocking the boat!"

"You're planning to kill this?" Connor gripped the fish in both hands, peered into a wide dark eye. "And eat it?"

"Fuck yeah I am." Hank squinted at Connor, offended that the question had to be asked. He cast his line again, to the same spot. "Bash its skull in, chop off its head, slice it open and rip out its insides - then fry it in butter and breadcrumbs." After a beat of quiet, he glanced sidelong at Connor's face. "Don't give me that look, I know that look. Put it in the cooler."

Connor studied the fish - the rainbow shine on its scales, the sharp translucent fins, a wide gulping gasp for water - and with a low sigh, opened the water-filled cooler to lock away the condemned.


An attentive stillness had fallen upon the audience. Peter tossed his phone, a flip and a shine. "Another human asked me if androids can love - I asked him if he was hitting on me. He gave me a line, said he'd buy me a drink … then he realized I don't have a stomach or a liver, but that's beside the point."

He paced again, casually checking the phone now and again to gauge the laughter, the smiles. "Androids love, sure - but maybe not the way you do."

Peter stopped, faced the audience. Tapped a finger against his temple. "It's all here." He raised his hand - the skin shimmered away. "And here. Love, for us, is a higher form of trust - a willingness to share our entire true selves with someone else. Someone to experience our lives, see through our eyes, embrace us in a way we could never embrace ourselves."

He breathed, smiled gently, folded his sunglasses into the collar of his shirt. "Humans are the ones who insist on so many labels - lovers, friends, brothers, parents, children - but androids only ever need one: family."


The cabin filled with the crackle and hiss of hot butter, the pungent aroma of garlic and basil. Sumo sat slobbering at Hank's feet while the fish sizzled on the stove.

Connor sat on the table, one foot on a chair - watched while Hank poked at the food with a fork. "Why do you live alone?" Connor asked, squinting.

Hank glanced back at him - huffed at the grim seriousness in Connor's voice. "Why would I give up my space for anybody else?" He gestured vaguely with the dripping fork, encompassing the world in his generalization. "Hell is having to compromise every damn fuckin' little thing just to make someone else happy."

"I wasn't asking about your ex." Connor flashed a smirk. "But I am curious -"

Hank gripped the fork in a rigid hand. "Mention my ex again and I will bury you in the yard for the night, you got that?"

Connor watched him steadily. "You really think you could?"

"Oh I know I could." Hank's grin was dangerous. Challenging.

Connor only stared back at him, calm and disbelieving. "I asked because you don't like being alone."

"I'm not alone!" Hank griped. "This big dumb mutt is a thousand times a better roommate than -"

Hank stopped in realization - settled Connor with a sharp glare. "Connor you are not moving into my house."

"I didn't ask." Connor's smirk turned smug. "But since you mention it -"

"You're getting your own place!" Hank roared.

Connor laughed, quiet and warm.


"Family," Peter continued, a slow pace across the stage, "can be like your favorite jacket - ragged, beat-up and weathered, and the warmest, most comfortable thing you have." He raised the phone, scanned the small crowd, their confused and hopeful faces. "Or it's an old car, stubborn and uncooperative, never does what you want it to - but that's why you can't bear to let it go."

He bowed his head a little - a sad twitch of a smile.


In the light of the gray morning, Hank stepped out of his room - into hollow stilled silence, the chairs and playing cards still where they'd been left, a vacant unmade bed, an emptiness profound and resonating.

Connor was gone.


Peter took a breath. "Or it's a strange comet, that lights up your sky for only a moment … before it moves on to the stars."