In the Beginning
by: John Anthony
Ch 1: Decisions
Motoko gazed lovingly at her wristwatch. It looked wonderful on her new wrist. Finally, after fifteen years, she had an adult shell to call her own. The man sitting across from her smiled at seeing how much Motoko liked his gift.
"It fits perfectly," Motoko said, her voice filled with gratitude. "You've done so much for me already, Mr. Takayama."
"You're no longer a child, Motoko. You can all me Shinji." Motoko nodded. "Ever since I learned that an orphaned little girl needed the cybernetics my company was developing, I knew that I'd never consider you anything less than a daughter to me." Motoko bit her lip, an urge to cry overtaking her. Yet the tears would not come; they would never. Shinji stood from his desk and went to Motoko's side, kneeling before embracing her.
"Thank you," she whispered, her purple hair mixing with his gray. He gently rubbed her back before letting go.
"No," he said, "thank you, Motoko. You've not only proven to the world the practicality of cyberization, but you've become such a well adjusted young woman in spite of it all. Now that you're no longer a minor, I can't tell you what to do anymore. But no matter where life takes you, Megatech will always be there when you need it." A loss for words, Motoko remained silent. Shinji understood. Taking Motoko by the hand, he led her to his office door.
"Going off to college tomorrow, right?"
"Moving into the dorm tomorrow," Motoko replied, speaking normally.
"Good. Keep in touch. I want to know how you're doing."
"Of course, Shinji."
"Good bye, Motoko."
"Good bye."
---
That evening, Motoko wanted to celebrate. Finally of age, she went drinking with a few friends. They were young women, who, like Motoko, were cyberized at a young age. Mitsumi was the victim of a hit and run, Hatomi once suffered from multiple organ failure. Yet neither of them were as cyberized as Motoko. The young woman didn't mind. It was so hard finding friends growing up that Motoko did whatever necessary to keep the ones she had.
For the occasion, Motoko reprogrammed her shell to metabolize alcohol at a slower rate. Besides, why drink if not to feel a little tipsy?
"I think you've gone a little overboard, Motoko," Hatomi casually mentioned to the mess of purple hair lying on the table next to her.
"I think I'm sick," a drunken Motoko slurred out.
"No kidding," Mitsumi added. "Motoko, we won't feel bad if you metabolize all you drank. We're not jealous."
"Okay." Within a minute Motoko was sitting up, completely lucid.
"I told you you'd feel better," Mitsumi chimed in. "Have I told you how mature you look now!"
"About the eighth time tonight," Motoko added, waving down the bartender for another beer.
"You're beautiful," Hatomi said, a much quieter compliment than her friend's. "Did you get to choose how you look?"
"Yep," Motoko said, the new beer in her system adding a little more charm to her demeanor. "I wanted to make sure the guys out there knew I was a woman." Motoko stood from her barstool and struck the best pose she could think of. Only a woman since that morning, her attempt was less than amateur, though that didn't stop a few cat calls from the men and giggles from her friends.
"You're evil."
"I know," Motoko replied.
---
The next morning, Motoko awoke suddenly. She gasped, her memory having to catch up. She sat up slowly in the pod hotel. At least she was still dressed. Looking at the small clock embedded in the wall, Motoko saw that it was still early; the hotel owner wouldn't come around yelling for everyone to leave for about an hour.
Motoko laid back down, the memories of her dream coming back. It was a familiar one. When she was eight, Mr. Takayama…no, Shinji, had given her a doll for her birthday. With the limited use of her hands, it was really the only toy available she could play with. The first few weeks were wonderful. The doll, Hikari, was her new best friend. Motoko would spend hours talking to her, brushing the doll's hair in the process. Motoko's nurses encouraged it; they were so proud that Motoko had learned how to dress the doll when a year before she could only grasp objects.
Then one day, Motoko incurred some teasing at school. Once she got back to her bedroom, Motoko squeezed Hikari as hard as she could, wanting to hurt those who had made fun of her so badly. The doll quickly broke under the pressure of Motoko's cyborg hand, its plastic limbs snapping at their joints before falling to the floor. Unable to cry, Motoko wreathed on the floor, apologizing to Hikari, trying to take it back.
In her hotel pod, Motoko could only sigh at these memories. In some ways, Motoko resented her shell. Her delicate features wielded so much power. There had been times when she had wanted to cast it all away and live the rest of her life in a Jameson Body. Yet these thoughts were fleeting and Motoko always felt sorry for herself afterward. There had to be a way to live unafraid of her body, maybe even use her shell for something positive in the process.
These thoughts still fermenting in her head, Motoko switched on the small television bolted to the ceiling. The morning news had just started. Motoko settled in, hoping that her head would clear after a little mind numbing T.V.
"Hostilities finally broke out today in Vietnam," the newscaster began. "Chinese forces are advancing south as UN troops continue to resist. In light of these developments, the American Empire has invaded its neighbors in South America in an attempt to gain economic superiority in the region. In an attempt to quell the conflict, the UN has called for the raising of a secondary force to keep the sovereignty of these South American nations intact. Volunteers are being called for in all member nations."
Motoko turned off the television, realizing that her left hand had formed into a tight fist. The pressure must have been enormous, but to Motoko, it felt natural. Maybe it was the only way to get away from her nightmares; to run away from them. Maybe, in some South American jungle, Motoko would finally be able to find out who she really was, to feel like a human being again. Maybe.