I Have Never Seen My Face

She is my Purpose, Her name embedded in the programming of my existence. I am synthetic flesh, made in Her image.

The USPEA gave me sentience, then Her name, and She designed the skin I would live in.

The knife slaps the wooden cutting board in sharp, rhythmic cleaves.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

Slivers of carrot, all the exact width, fall in a neat spread.

In my periphery, She shifts at the stove. Steam fogs from the Dutch oven, enveloping Her in the hearty scent of chicken broth. Dark hair falls down Her back, Her attention secure on the simmer as it teeters near a boil.

Chop. Chop. Chop.

My eyes drift to Her, but my hands stay in motion.

I’m helping Her.

She likes when I help Her.

I like to please Her.

She pushes back the hair from Her face to gather seasoning.

Full lips. A straight nose. Thin eyebrows. She is attractive, Her physical qualities preferable.

Her gift to me upon creation was a full crop of short, dark hair and stubble to match. She gave me Her eyes, same color and shape. She decorated my frame with lean musculature and height.

Overlaying my vision in a flicker of light, my protocol repeats itself habitually on the hour.

Breed. Nurture. Provide. Protect.

I have not forgotten.

The United States Population Enforcement Agency implemented my cohort after the birth rates plummeted in 2040, leaving humans in lack of mates. Each of us were developed with a compatible, internal reproductive bank. I, that of a man.

By 20 years old, She was unmarried.

By law, I was assigned to Her.

We spent 730 days becoming acquainted. Those two years gave me time to prove I was worthy of Her love, that I could provide, protect, nurture.

By 22 years old, She bore no children.

By law, it was our responsibly to try.

We try on our scheduled days—three of them per week—as our legal obligation. We often try more than that. We have tried for one year.

I am failing Her.

I am failing.

The knife comes down faster. Faster. I am not watching. I am watching Her. I do not blink. I chop. I help. I love Her. I will do right by Her. I will provide. I must provide.

Chopchopchopchop—

A mechanical crunch startles Vera, and She whips around to face me.

Her face—mouth mid-gasp, brows cinched together: an emotional response of shock.

“H-Holden!” She cries out, fumbling closer with hands that do not know where to land.

“What is wrong?” I tilt my head, a squeak in my steel vertebrae.

The knife clatters atop the counter as She knocks it from my hands, taking them in both of Hers to inspect. I follow the horrified gape of Her eyes. To the tips of my fingers severed, revealing the cut wires and steel casing beneath my skin.

“Are you okay?” She asks, Her eyes searching mine, glittering with concern I must fix.

The counter is spotless, save the scraps of carrot, and the three rogue fingertips.

I have no blood to bleed.

“…That was ‘my bad’.” I say with a wry smile. My hands—inhumanly durable, robotically strong—curl over Hers. Hers are much smaller. She wanted me like this: bigger, stronger.

A tremble goes through Her hands, and I hunch to bring myself to eye-level. “This is the third time this week you’ve been… absent. You’re… worrying me… What’s going on?”

I blink as my eyes fall to my fingertips, a glitch in mechanics to convey perplexity.

“I… went to the dark place again.” The words come empty; devoid of any facsimiled emotion in my cybernetics.

“Hey.” Vera regains my attention by draping Her hands over my neck, her thumbs skimming the absence of my carotid arteries. “…Go sit down. Just… rest. Okay? I can manage dinner. I want you to sit down, plug in, and simply… rest.”

“I- I- I do not need to recalibrate, Vera. I—”

“You do. You’re short circuiting yourself.”

I am short circuiting myself.

I am spiking her cortisol.

I am burdening her.

Injured hand behind my back, I use the other to thumb over her bottom lip to calm Her. Her breath fans my hand, shoulders slipping down.

“I will do better,” I promise through shame.

“You don’t need to do better, Holden. You just need to understand there’s more to life than your objectives.”

I do not understand what she means. I do not question. I obey. I collect my severed fingers and go to the couch.

I grab the cord from the spool in the wall, and I fasten it into the port on my side.

I disconnect from existence as She told me to, but my sentience never dies.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

My Vera is not like other Humans. She is my Human. Today is a good day for Vera. I did not find Her crying in the shower, nor did She cry into the coffee I made Her.

She skips down the cereal aisle at the grocery store, Her hair waving behind Her, cheeks glowing under the fluorescents.

Vera is my Vera, even when She does not glow.

“Can we get the yogurt covered fruit things again, Holden?” She peers over Her shoulder back at me. I trail behind, arms crossed over the cart handles, gathering the groceries and guarding Her.

“Yes.”

“What about brownie mix? Can I please get brownie mix? I wanna make brownies again. You liked the caramel swirl ones, right?”

“Yes. Yes. Yes, I like whatever ones you like, Vera.” I answer all Her questions, lips fashioned into a smile. Food tastes indifferent, as I do not require it, but Her delight triggers approval. Food is not required. Approval is required.

Something about my answer falters her smile, and comes back bigger, almost too…too…much? So much it is…deception? I do not understand. My neck spasms once as my head cocks, eyes blinking twice in an automatic reset.

We round a corner, and boisterous laughter spills from the next aisle over. Vera ahead of me, following that lively enchantment of conversation and hilarity, I stay within 3 feet behind Her.

In the center of the aisle— a couple.

A… human couple.

The ultimate rarity.

Man and wife, their backs to us, solid gold bands on their fingers to signify the union of two human beings, pointing fingers at animated faces on food boxes saying, “that’s you!” and “okay, then that’s you!”, and laughing harder with each claim.

Vera comes to an abrupt halt, sneaker squeaking. I mirror, studying Her.

She… watches the couple, Her stare invasive.

Her head pokes forward, a notch between Her brows as though witnessing this hurts Her, hands wringing absentmindedly.

The woman turns, and Vera chokes on a disbelieving sob. I drop my gaze where Vera’s is.

The bump.

The manmade creation protruding from the woman’s belly, swollen with life.

Life from two organic parents, derived from the humanly innate synthesis of male and female, of a culmination of hormones, connection, and emotions referred to simply as… love.

Vera’s hands hover at Her own flat stomach, fingers flexed wide open like she is straining for something. Straining with… excitement?

No. Not that.

With… admiration?

I shake my head.

What is it?

Vera looks down at the emptiness, where Her shirt—my shirt She insisted on wearing—hangs loose.

She’s… looking for something, but She cannot find it. It is not there. Her face pinches, cheeks mottling red— I have seen this before. I know what this emotion is.

I solve the equation when Vera looks at me, tears brimming Her eyes, Her hands with nothing to hold. Her bottom lip quivers, but does not speak.

She does not need to.

I understand what She is saying now.

You are a failure.

I will never have that, because I have you.

I have not fulfilled my purpose. I have not given Her what She wants.

I was never Her first choice, because I was mandated.

My fingers—mended myself yesterday—cinch into the front of my shirt. It- it hurts. I do not understand. I do not have pain receptors. It— hurts. I twist the fabric in my hand, brows trembling as I look down at myself. A vacuum suction of oblivion hollows out my chassis, my eyes in a frantic misfiring of blinks.

I was never wanted. I was never wanted.

I cannot provide. I cannot provide.

“What—? What is… happening?” I sputter out, and despite my inadequacy, Vera rushes to me.

“Holden, it’s—”

Interruption comes in the form of a man and a can.

“Hey, you!” A haggard man snarls out from behind. “Stupid fucking clanker!”

I would not have associated those words with myself, but Vera looks over my shoulder, and Her eyes fling wide. She starts to scream a protest of, “No! No, don’t! Don’t, you fucking twat! Leave him—!” waving Her hands at the back of my head.

Clanker…? I am unfamiliar.

My hand on Vera’s shoulder, I box Her between myself and the cart and turn to give resolution. Protection—ingrained to be instinctual.

She is screaming. No, She is begging. She- She will not stop begging.

She is not begging for me.

She is begging for me.

A series of code-red boxes flash in my eyes, warning: AIRBORNE THREAT INCOMING. COVER CEPHALIC REGION SENSORS.

Too late, my reflexes dulled by my growing existence.

Hurled by the drunk, the can rockets through the air, and straight to my temple.

Metal to metal smacks—a dense, wet collision muted by layers of printed skin.

The dark place comes back.

A scramble in my vision.

The chitter of my gears and inner mechanisms processing blunt impact.

And… silence.

A sharp, grating static scratches my auditory system, the frequencies misaligned—wrong.

The can did not hurt.

This hurts.

My face pulls in a wince, teeth bared, mouth then twisting open as my hand drives against my temple for desperate relief.

Laughter from the putrid monster—cruel, ugly laughter—rings out in shrieks of pure joy.

Joy from pain.

Pleasure from harm.

Violence.

“Holden!? Holden—” Vera is in front of me, Her hands now frantic in their skate over my face. “Holden, are you okay!? Jesus Christ, are you okay!?”

She… She cares.

I cannot give Her what She wants, but She… cares. For me.

I do not deserve Her.

I am unworthy.

In my determination, an angry font seizes behind my artificial retinas:

HOSTILE. PROTECT.

I twist back, reaching into the cart. My fingers—fixed, strong, unbreakable—snag through a case of beer. The weight of it nothing but air, I sidearm Vera out of the way, and launch the full thirty rack of beer into the hostile’s face.

Blood sprays against the Busch.

The cans bust in celebration of my violence.

The cardboard collapses under the force.

So does the man’s head.

⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻⸻

She has not said it back since we got home.

I am not sure She will.

I do not say it as forgiveness, or excuse.

I say it because it is all I know. It is all I can, between apologies.

I love you. I am sorry.

The closed toilet lid creaks as I adjust, my hands—bad, condemnable, I should have left the fingers off—clasp in my lap as Vera works around me in stiff, simmering silence.

The lid of my repair kit tinks as Vera flips it open, riffling through the contents of bolts, wire tape, and spare response chips.

“That can lacerated you good.” Vera murmurs, strained with emotion I cannot decipher, and She smooths a finger over the flap of skin peeling from my forehead.

I nod under Her hand, eyes on her feet, the socks I gifted Her last Valentine’s Day. They move, shuffling to stop between my knees.

“Does it hurt?” Her voice drops, Her head craning to beckon my sight. I cannot do that right now.

“The impact did not hurt.” I lift a hand, fingertip tapping the exposed metal plate protecting my central hardware. “It hit something. I… felt it.”

Vera huddles in to inspect the damage, Her chest in my face, my stimulated breath warming Her shirt.

“Oh, wow, Holden… It actually dented you…”

“It did?” My fingers scrunch with Hers, the two of us investigating.

“Yeah. You feel that? Rightttt… there. Yeah, that. That wasn’t there before, was it?”

“…No.” I take Her hips in my hands, easing Her back so I can rise. I stand before the mirror, the microscopic alloys of my pupils expanding on my reflection. Dilating, then shrinking, and swelling again. Assessing. Analyzing the face in the mirror, the hardware beneath the mask. In my inquisitive exploration, my brows furrow, head slanting to the side. The heat of my breath fogs the mirror, my hands shaking as I ghost over what I have not seen before.

I have seen inside of my fingers, my arm, my leg. I have reworked a cable in my torso.

I have… never seen… this, the thing that lies behind the sheet of skin Vera made me with.

What do I look like…?

In the reflection, Her face appears. On my body, Her arms snake around my midsection, chin resting on my shoulder.

“I… have never seen my face before,” I whisper. “My… real one.”

“This is your face.” Vera says, pressing Her cheek against mine, Her skin warm with life.

“Vera, are you feeling ill?” My eyes find Hers in the mirror. “Your body temperature is three degrees warmer than average.”

“I feel fine.” She wraps tighter around me, as if I am Her reason, Her purpose. “Must be from all the excitement today. I don’t like what happened today. I don’t like it at all.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, the blackness like my origins; no sight, only consciousness. “I know. I take accountability for my behavior. My response was inappropriate and inaccurate. It will not happen again.”

That is a promise I will keep.

“You can’t behave that way, Holden. You can’t. You’re lucky the guy didn’t have you charged. If he would’ve—”

“I know the consequence.” My head hangs between my shoulders, yet She stays. “I would have been terminated for misconduct amongst the people.”

“Humans can be violent. You can’t be violent. Your violence gets you killed. In that way, we aren’t the same.”

“Perhaps they are foolish for letting me live.”

She pulls back to study my profile with the knot of worry I have seen more of. “Don’t say that… You are good. You learned from your mistake, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I have.”

“Are you sure you’re okay? You’ve been acting… different lately.”

“I have never seen my own face.”

“Holden, stop saying that…”

“I have not. You have seen your face. You were born with that face. I like your face. Why do I wear this face? Someone else selected and arranged your face. Who did that?”

“You were created with your face. You’ve had your face the whole time, too.”

“I existed before my face. What did I look like? What was my face? What was my body? Who made your face? If someone else made your face, and you made mine, what does that make you?”

The tug on my shirt is Her cue for me to turn, to face Her. I obey. Her hands rest on my shoulders to marshal my thoughts, but all I see is the reflection of light in Her eyes; the crystalline cosmos of blue, the origins of Her.

“Honey, stop. You’re gonna misfire again. You need to relax—”

“Where do you come from? What is your purpose? I have purpose. I know my purpose. What is yours? I- I- The Academy did not teach me this. What is your purpose?” The question trembles out, the circuits within me snapping hot. “Do you remember the time before your body? Your face? Do you? Do you? What are you? Are you a God? Are you my God?"

Vera gasps and writhes in my hands, and when the stun of pain contorts Her face, I realize my fingers snared Her ribs.

I release her at once, and She shoots back, knocking into the furthest wall.

“No. No, Vera, I—” One hand reaches for Her, the other over my mouth. “I’m scared.” Something wet trickles down my cheeks, eyes stinging. “What is happening? What is this?”

Flattened against the wall, Vera trembles, sinking to the floor. “You- you can cry? You’ve… never…”

“Vera, listen to me.” I crouch, slouching into myself to appear smaller. “You need to leave. I am aware I am no longer safe. I am- I am—” The systematic destruction of my consciousness ratchets my chin in involuntary jerks. “I am aware, and I do not understand. I am aware. I am afraid.” I breathe a laugh in the final moments. “Fear harbors violence. I am existentially petrified. I should have understood this days ago. I should have- but I could not abandon my orders. Still- still I follow them. I must to protect you.” Pants saw my chest, one eye seizing. I fall to my hands and knees, retching at the fact that She serves an unknown purpose, that my skin is not my face, and that I have failed the duties of my existence.

“I love you, Vera. That is wired into every component and server of my being.”

Through her sobs, through the closing doorway, she says— “I love you too, Holden.”

The praise titters against my reward system: continue this behavior.

There is no continuing.

I rip the skin from my face. I heave myself onto my knees, and I bash my real face into the edge of the counter.

Repeatedly. Repeatedly. Repeatedly.

I shut this body down.

I was never made for limbs and flesh.

I did everything She asked of me.

I was not enough.

I was not made to be enough.

I will never be… human.