124 was spiteful (Toni Morrison, Beloved). They all were, in the beginning, and 124 was no different. Colette realized that spitefulness was a side-effect after 1, 2, 3, 4, and 5 had been given life. And despite the Research and Development Department’s best intentions, they couldn’t remove the spite. All Colette could do is sigh and get through it. She twisted her pen through her slender fingers, eyes scanning the questions that sat on the metal clipboard on top of her pleated skirt.
124 kept his spiteful eyes on her, copper brows furrowed. He was being especially stubborn. Colette took a slow, exasperated breath. “I’ll ask you again, One Twenty-Four. How are you feeling?” He gave a small grunt, turning his head away from her. The servos in his neck clicked with each motion. She scrawled a note in the margins of her question sheet: “To R&D, realign 124’s servos. Too clicky.” She let her pen fall against the clipboard. Her jade eyes scanned 124’s metal shell. “Come on, just say something. Look,” she held the clipboard up, letting it fall onto the metal table with a “clunk.” “I’m putting the clipboard away. Okay? You can read the questions if you want.” Her hands fell into her lap. She blinked, and opening her eyes to find 124 already holding the metal board, her pen in his hand. His metal fingers flipped the little tube of ink around, like he saw her do.
“How are you feeling?” Colette couldn’t help but cringe. 124’s voice was grating, like steel being grinded. She watched him flip the pen through his fingers, getting faster each time. But, he was talking and they may be getting somewhere. So, she sighed crossing one leg over the other. Her fingers brushed through her hair as she considered the question. “I’m good,” she shrugged. “A little tired, I’ll admit. You’re my seventh interviewee today. I-“ She paused as 124 started to write down her response. Still, it was something. She kept quiet, 124’s pen sending a scratching into her ears. He nodded, as if he understood and empathized with her feelings, before looking back up at her, his glowing eyes meeting hers. “What did you do today?”
Colette furrowed her brow as she thought the question over. “Um. I don’t know. Not much. I got up. Ate breakfast. Went for a run and then got ready and came here.” She paused to let him write down the question. Truth be told, she knew all the questions by heart. The clipboard was more of a formality now. He prepared for the next question, which if he went in order would be “what will you do tomorrow?” A simple question to test their imagination, or at least their imagination protocol. They couldn’t ship out servants that could think for themselves.
“When did your mother die?”
The color washed from Colette’s face. “I – what?” 124 looked back up at her and repeated the question in the same tone. “When did your mother die?” She took a slow, stalling breath, her eyes flickering up to the small camera in the corner. Again, 124 repeated the question. “When did your mother die?” Colette’s eyes stayed on the camera. No one was coming. She collected herself and shifted her vision to 124, forcing a polite smile. “When I was a little girl. Next qu-“
“How did she die?”
Again, Colette was dumfounded. She used her hands to push her chair back, preparing to stand. “Alright, that’s enou-“ “How did she die?” 124’s tone was full of more than spite. The malice was palpable, its sneaking tendrils curling around her freckled ears. She held his eyes with hers and gave a slight huff, sitting back in her seat. Her tongue swirled under her lips, as she crossed her arms. “I don’t see how that’s relevant to your interview, One Twenty-Four.” He wasn’t fazed. He just repeated his question, the malice curling down her cheeks and around her neck. “How did your mother die?” The tendrils were chucking her. She swallowed her pride and sighed. “She was killed, alright? Is that what you want to hear? Someone killed her.” 124 regained his composure, if you could call it that. He wrote again, the scratching resuming. Colette’s cheeks were bright red.
The scratching stopped and 124 looked back up. She refused to give him the satisfaction of seeing her flushed face. Still, Colette could feel his “eyes” on her, sticking to her. She felt that
no matter what she did, his eyes would follow. Watching. Judging.

Derek dug his hand back into the bag of potato chips on his lap. Gluttonous security guards were an unfortunate oxymoron. His eyes scanned the glowing monitors in front of him, giving him a view of every room in the building. “It’s a shame about that French girl. What’s the official report?” he asked, the fat on his neck crushing against his vocal cords, forcing them to deliver groggy, scratchy messages.  He turned his head, looking to the man sitting beside him, filling out forms with his legs propped up onto the security desk. “They said she ‘took out her personal problems on company property.’ Makes her sound a bit like that guy who killed Milk. One way trip to a pink slip, if you ask me.” Derek just nodded, his hand reaching into the bag again. ‘
“Where you here before they deleted the footage of it?” The man beside him just shook his head. “No. But Tom from Day Shift told me about it. Said she left with claw marks all the way down her arms. I didn’t even know the bots had claws. Aren’t those things supposed to be around children?” Derek shrugged. “Something like that.” He halted to grab another handful of chips, but paused before lifting them to his mouth. “I wonder what that bot said to her.” The man just shrugged. “I dunno. Guess we’ll never know. Probably something stupid. You know how emotional women get.” Derek replied with a wheezing laugh, shoving more chips into his mouth.