welcome locals
The starship masquerades as a desert house. With the air so dry, it coughs when it breathes. The arid conditions flip off the invisibility armor. They will observe. I am hungry.
The commander questions everything I do. It wants the best of me. Write down the catastrophic effects of failure. Live by them.
There is nothing nice here nothing gentle. The clothing is made of burlap. On the starship, we grow our food by typing. If I don't find the bug, we will starve. The passengers are at my feet. They beg me to do the things I mustn't do.
There will be a party and this steel body will be rigid with secrets. There lie a steel rod in my back. Mouths will open with no signal from the brain. We haven't been on speaking terms. I action thoughtless.
My conscientious self prior wouldn’t do project emesis of copper ruby and mud-paint on the marble floor. It casts a spotlight on mistreatment and the humans scatter. My robot voice emits louder. I says what I programmed myself to says, to feed the passengers. Break apart my opponent’s components; its keyboard, its screens, until I have the empire on a hard drive and the ballroom explodes.
The temperatures rose, sky drops liquid. Box in room makes sounds, calls the sky liquid rain. I hear the droplets patter desert house. Travel to the doorway, open, step out, rain turns my self rust, turns my metal to skin, my cameras to eyes, and my wires to hair. I’m all the workings of a real human now. I’ll have breakfast at nine.
I am stuck here. The engine folds over itself, complains of being tired 🂡 overeats when bored. We’ve all become something less than our origins. I desire to have my past reoccur. The sky is open in the circular track I dream; its expansiveness eroded my sense of self so greatly I made the mistake, which caused our being here in the first place. So mesmerized by its colors, I time travelled to the inception of matter because it bade me to.
I am settling in. A movie on that screen I told you about pretends there is noise in my homeland, pretends there are guns. The locals here believe they will understand my home. One sun, they hope to travel there. In their language, so puerile to believe they can describe us, so naïve to believe they can calculate.
The camera follows me and behind it signals, a pastel official running burgundy trying to define my name. The only correct descriptor: ALIEN Marked on a clipboard, marked on a screen, attached to my new face.
Written by A Computer