One
Blythe Sol and Dax Janner
Dallas, Texas
August 15, 4010
4:00 a.m.
I am awakened by my internal alarm system and all I want is to ignore it. I want to turn it off and roll over and go back to sleep, burrow beneath my thin, scratchy blanket and ignore the world outside of the house I have taken shelter in.
Unfortunately, my inter nal alarm doesn’t work that way and won’t shut the hell up until I’m on my feet with my eyes open. I have the feeling that my alarm—which should only be heard by me—has also awakened Dog. I’m wondering if it emits one of those high- pitched screeches that only canines can hear. The furry bastard is licking my face with his hot tongue before I’ve even finished rubbing the sleep from my eye . I pet him on the head absently and stand, stretching the fatigue out of my human limbs.
I still haven’t gotten used to reconciling my human half with the robotic additions gifted to me by the Science and Technology Department of the Restoration Project . It’s especially jarring first thing in the morning; half of my body takes l onger to wake up than the rest. Eventually, I am able to stand and give Dog a proper ‘good morning’. The wiry mutt looks up at me expectantly, his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth and his tail swishing from side to side until I go over to my pack and fish out a few strips of beef jerky. I still don’t know what breed he is. Medium sized with ginger-colored fur, he looks to be a mix of Irish terrier and God - knows - what. He reminds me a lot of myself, a mishmash of different things: black, white, girl, robot . We’re both a conundrum.
Dog leaps up onto his hind legs and spins in a circle for the treat, bringing a smile to my face as he always does. I have very few reasons to smile these days. It’s the only reason I keep the fur ball around, despite the fact that my situation isn’t exactly ideal for keeping a pet.
I hear the muted mumbling of the television from the next room and I know that Dax is awake and watching the news. I also smell food , which means he’s making breakfast. I rifle through my pack until I find a clean shirt and replace it with the one I slept in . I’ve only brought one pair of pants with me, so I’m glad they’re my most comfortable brown suede. I pull on a pair of heavy wool socks and my boots before reaching for my jacket . It’s heavy with all the odds and ends I keep in the many pockets lining the front, but it’s warm and functional.
I grab the small pouch containing my toiletry items and walk into the bathroom, mentally thanking D ax for letting me take the big bedroom. While the house ha s been cleared of all furniture—with the exception of a beat up couch in the living room and the bed I slept in last night— the power and water still run, as well as the heat. I fill my hands with water from the faucet and splash it over the dirty mirror, using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe a clean spot big enough for me to see myself . I open the bag and take my time with the essential grooming: brush my teeth, splash my face w ith water, and comb my shoulder- length, dark brown hair into a ponytail. Once that’s done, I brace my hands on the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
I keep looking for that girl who had dreams of joining the Army and the ranks of the Military Police, of riding around on one of those sleek hover bikes and pinning one of their gleaming, silver badge s to my shirt. At only nineteen years-old, I have lost most of my optimism; that girl is gone and I am now the antithesis of everything she once believed in. Sure, I look the same : caramel-colored skin halfway between my mother’s black and father’s white, brown eyes, a beauty spot just beneath my left eye. Yet , everything about me has changed and it has absolutely nothing to do with the Restoration Project’s accessories. With a sigh, I reach into the bag for my contact lens case. It stings like a bitch on contact and
Blythe Sol and Dax Janner
Dallas, Texas
August 15, 4010
4:00 a.m.
I am awakened by my internal alarm system and all I want is to ignore it. I want to turn it off and roll over and go back to sleep, burrow beneath my thin, scratchy blanket and ignore the world outside of the house I have taken shelter in.
Unfortunately, my inter nal alarm doesn’t work that way and won’t shut the hell up until I’m on my feet with my eyes open. I have the feeling that my alarm—which should only be heard by me—has also awakened Dog. I’m wondering if it emits one of those high- pitched screeches that only canines can hear. The furry bastard is licking my face with his hot tongue before I’ve even finished rubbing the sleep from my eye . I pet him on the head absently and stand, stretching the fatigue out of my human limbs.
I still haven’t gotten used to reconciling my human half with the robotic additions gifted to me by the Science and Technology Department of the Restoration Project . It’s especially jarring first thing in the morning; half of my body takes l onger to wake up than the rest. Eventually, I am able to stand and give Dog a proper ‘good morning’. The wiry mutt looks up at me expectantly, his tongue hanging out of the corner of his mouth and his tail swishing from side to side until I go over to my pack and fish out a few strips of beef jerky. I still don’t know what breed he is. Medium sized with ginger-colored fur, he looks to be a mix of Irish terrier and God - knows - what. He reminds me a lot of myself, a mishmash of different things: black, white, girl, robot . We’re both a conundrum.
Dog leaps up onto his hind legs and spins in a circle for the treat, bringing a smile to my face as he always does. I have very few reasons to smile these days. It’s the only reason I keep the fur ball around, despite the fact that my situation isn’t exactly ideal for keeping a pet.
I hear the muted mumbling of the television from the next room and I know that Dax is awake and watching the news. I also smell food , which means he’s making breakfast. I rifle through my pack until I find a clean shirt and replace it with the one I slept in . I’ve only brought one pair of pants with me, so I’m glad they’re my most comfortable brown suede. I pull on a pair of heavy wool socks and my boots before reaching for my jacket . It’s heavy with all the odds and ends I keep in the many pockets lining the front, but it’s warm and functional.
I grab the small pouch containing my toiletry items and walk into the bathroom, mentally thanking D ax for letting me take the big bedroom. While the house ha s been cleared of all furniture—with the exception of a beat up couch in the living room and the bed I slept in last night— the power and water still run, as well as the heat. I fill my hands with water from the faucet and splash it over the dirty mirror, using the sleeve of my jacket to wipe a clean spot big enough for me to see myself . I open the bag and take my time with the essential grooming: brush my teeth, splash my face w ith water, and comb my shoulder- length, dark brown hair into a ponytail. Once that’s done, I brace my hands on the sink and stare at myself in the mirror.
I keep looking for that girl who had dreams of joining the Army and the ranks of the Military Police, of riding around on one of those sleek hover bikes and pinning one of their gleaming, silver badge s to my shirt. At only nineteen years-old, I have lost most of my optimism; that girl is gone and I am now the antithesis of everything she once believed in. Sure, I look the same : caramel-colored skin halfway between my mother’s black and father’s white, brown eyes, a beauty spot just beneath my left eye. Yet , everything about me has changed and it has absolutely nothing to do with the Restoration Project’s accessories. With a sigh, I reach into the bag for my contact lens case. It stings like a bitch on contact and
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