The human raised child
“You know” the man sitting at the window exhaled with a cloud of cigar smoke: “I sometimes still feel the warmth of my mothers thigh against my cheek.”. He is interrupted by the waiter bringing some refreshments, I can’t decide whose gaze is the more resentful. Nonetheless my guest nods a thanks and reaches for the glass of gin tonic he ordered before I managed to find my way into this bar. “It was not a nice day. I could feel her trembling as we stood atop the stairs of the human distribution center, looking towards a sea of hate.” he recalls and searches in my face for my reaction. I smile a Number 3 Smile which brings the corner of my mouth almost level to my upper lip, and explain: “Mr. Bob. You know that looking for an emotional response In a media investigators face is an act of folly.”
He laughs drily and comments with a sarcastic undertone: “And yet, you smile.” I feel how Corporation revokes my Smiling Grant and I return to my default friendly but not disclosing expression. After an appropriate amount of time I try to pick up the lead again: “It certainly was a special day. You are the only person on this planet enjoying political invulnerability.” Mr. Bob snorts and corrects me: “Isn’t it called political immunity?” Still missing my Smiling Grant I do not change my expression but log the appropriate request, then nod: “You are very correct. But you are, in fact, and by all means, invulnerable to all legal options. Because. As you are aware. No one owns you. So no one can be sued for your exploits. Making you by all legal definitions: Invulnerable.” There is a long pause as Mr. Bob picks up his gin glass, looks at it in the dim light and smokes his cigarette for a bit. I spend the time taking a better look at the person I’m talking to. He’s in his 40 now, wearing a corporate issued suit. Right as my brain starts to hurt because my licensing module which is implanted in my spine can’t resolve who owns the suit, Mr. Bob repeats the last part of my sentence. Then adds: “I read of a time where People were free to do what they wanted. Even if it was stupid. Even, or even especially, if it was dangerous. No implants to ensure compliance to laws. Could I ask you something?” I decide to nod instead of verbally inviting him to. I can’t understand what he asked but a feeling behind my right ear tells me it was suppressed by the compliance implant. Querying the log for the misdemeanor brings up nothing. I look to Mr. Bob who now looks sad, my Face returns to default settings and I am worried that my brows were raised to what I think could have been a non standard Worried Face 2 which I do not own a license of.
Mr. Bob reaches behind his right ear and removes the little device that is held onto his skin by magnets, locking on to metal contacts where a normal person would have had an compliance module implanted.
The bar is replaced by a cold concrete room, the lounge chair transforms into a cheap representation of itself. The person he spoke to just seconds ago is suddenly bald, or rather completely clean shaven. Not a single hair on its body. The eyes stare dead towards where he had just sat.
An aged woman voice asked: “So how did it go?” Mr. Bob looked for the source and recognized his mother standing behind the bar, helping herself to a glass of brandy from a cylindrical vessel. After formulating an answer to the question he replied: “It’s like talking to an answering machine. Nearly identical to the last time I spoke to the corps. I’m not sure what they want.” She smiled a smile only a mother can smile, soft and thankful to have you, a smile that warms you. Finally she explained: “Because they want what they can’t have.” Mr. Bob smiled, emptying the glass of not-gin on the table: “Well, there will be plenty more of that in no time. Next one is the last Reclamation Center. I can’t wait for the next interview.” Moving out of the room, he stopped to turn around. Grabbing a permanent marker from his pocket he drew a moustache and a monocle on his visitors face, eyed his masterpiece critically and said: “The last time it took almost a year before they got that off.” Then he left the room.
This was a response to a Writing Prompt: [WP] Orphans aren’t adopted by couples, but in this world, they are adopted by companies. This is the way it’s always been.
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