InsaneJournal

Why aren’t you here with me?

There was an awkwardness in Suite 902 that even David, with his superior ability to disassociate from human conflict, couldn’t quite ignore. He presumed on some level that he might have been a factor in the metaphorical heaviness in the air, but he didn’t ask. Needless to say, even inferior model synthetics knew when their presence was causing discomfort. So David kept his distance from the room and sought out a quiet place to think.

Except that there really wasn’t a quiet place on the ship. There were people everywhere. And although he wasn’t personally self-conscious of his own presence being out of the ordinary (he was an android accustomed to being the solitary member of his kind, after all,) he was aware that he attracted some stares. Not to mention the more than occasional person who chose to take the long way around him through the corridors. It didn’t bother him because David had far more important things to think about, but it did make him recognize that either he had made the worst impression ever in his first few hours after arrival or there was a serious negative disposition towards artificial lifeforms among the majority of the people on the ship. Strange. And he usually made such a good first impression.

No, you don’t.

Perhaps this was proof to the fact that even androids were affected by long periods of isolation? He had been alone on the Prometheus for over two years before his crew mates came out of hyper sleep. Could that have damaged him in some way? It was unprecedented, but certainly something for him to theorize over later. Something he should think about. A possible concern.

Think, David. The trick. Remember the trick.

The library on deck twelve wasn’t empty, but at least it was silent. The couple sitting in the corner seemed immersed in their chosen literature and they barely even flinched when he entered the room. Two hours passed wherein David did nothing but sit at a small table beside a rack of books and stare unblinking into space. When he did stir himself from his daze, which was more of a power saving feature than an actual disconnection from the world around him, the library was empty.

They’re all dead, you know.

He reached into his back pocket and unfolded an extra piece of paper from the stack that Matt Holt had given him for the blueprint diagrams. On it was an unfinished hand drawn portrait of a woman. The likeness was adequate, but it wasn’t right. It didn’t do her justice. It was too technical. Something was missing. David took a pencil and tried to smooth out the shadows along the jaw line.

“Elizabeth isn’t dead,” he said aloud to no one.

He drew the tip of the pencil over the hair, following the shaggy tendrils with too much precision.

Try abstraction.

David tapped the pencil on the side of the table.

“I can’t.”

You’re lying.

It was the eyes. The eyes were wrong. He erased the pupils. Empty, cold, white voids stared back at him. That wasn’t right either. She was kind and warm. She’d reassembled him without complaint. She was nice to him. She never mocked or ridiculed him for being what he was. Cruelty was not in her nature. She helped him. And she did so knowing that he had—

He started over, filling in the pupils.

How could you do it, David?

Shading, outlining, pressing harder on the stroke until the paper indented under the weight of the graphite.

“He told me to.”

He could feel his hand clenching on the pencil as his shading motion quickened.

He implied. You improvised.

Faster.

“I interpreted.”

Heavier.

You enjoyed.

Harder.

SNAP!

The pencil broke in two pieces, dragging a jagged line across the face of the drawing. Marred. Ruined. David slouched in the chair and stared at it with a look of disappointment and disgust. He blinked. He had an itch at the corner of his right eye, a trilling sensation that tickled and caused the side of his face to twitch. He rubbed the skin with an index finger. It was warm and dry. The itch went away.

He thought about crumpling up the drawing, but found he couldn’t. He had no explanation for his wants in that moment. He wanted to rip it up. He wanted to fix it. He wanted to throw it away. He wanted to start over. In the end, he chose to ignore it, leaving the drawing on the table as he stood.

Do you remember the trick, David?

David gave the picture one last glance. Yes, he remembered.

“The trick," he said as he left, "is not minding that it hurts.”