Blue-gray smoke swirls in the evening air, somewhere down the block shots are ringing out. Sirens screech through the cold night, enough to wake the drunks and remind the scum of another life wasted in the big city.
Dorian watches, cold eyes twitching with mechanical rhythm as a few of the city denizens scurry off the streets and into the looming decrepit hulks that house the masses. These are the barest shelter from the lights and violence and the thugs charging protection. Just windows and walls to keep out the smog, a roof for the rain and doors to ward off the junkies.
Another breath, another lungful of the cloying cherry sweet poison. Ash hisses on wet concrete before the heel of too-expensive shoes smothers the embers and smears the rich tobacco into the filth. Dorian grips the red silk noose around his neck, loosening away some of the tension. Tonight is not about the world around him. It's just noise. They're all just noise.
The stinging scent of ammonia and mold wafts through the lobby of the little shithole he's claimed. His own little slice of rot in the cancer all around, out of the way and easy to access, and at its center? Paradise.
The feeble light of the elevator blinks as the machine chirps and the doors heave open. Ruddy carpet just a shade brighter than the walls, Dorian's fingers itch to smudge the red-gray mess beneath his feet. Just a little. Just to see the browns and grays bleed out. Oxygen, carbon, ammonia, and proteins; albumins, globulins, and fibrinogens-
He waves away the stream of useless data as his eyes remind him he's still a tool, built and not born.
The elevator chirps again as the door rush open. This time it's all spices, cardamon, ginger, and chili. A thin smile creeps across the lab-grown mask he shows the world. He wears it to the door before letting it drop.
This floor has three doors. One is always locked. The second is for him, the third is for business. Beneath the ambient buzzing of the fluorescent lights and the groans of the ancient plumbing comes a soft click, followed by faint blue light as the security system disarms. Dorian leans to the side and places a keycard against the frame. The door beeps, and the light turns green.
Stepping into the living space, he pulls the mask from his face. Here. Here he's free from the noise, free from the fear and anger and hatred. Almost alive. The noose falls to the floor, fluttering onto the white carpet along with his shoes and coat. Next is the slick red shirt and charcoal slack, the splatters and blooms of crimson at home with the rips and burns. Finally the gloves. He flicks them aside, they hit the wall, into a pile of something less than garbage.
He says nothing, letting the silence of his arrival hang as he cleanses the filth away in the shower. The warmth of purified water against his skin feels like a lie even as it washes away the stink of the streets, of the blood and sweat and puke. The tingle of cold tile on bare soles, thick air scented with soap, the faceless thing in the mirror that always stares back. Dorain ignores it. He dresses in the simple shirt and trousers laid out on the dresser and pads back out into his home.
Slinking into a high-backed chair, Dorian feels his spine crack and pop. Another one of the details they made, another facsimile, a sound and sensation made to imitate life. Another lie that fills the void. He relaxes further, servos deactivating and silicon fiber muscle uncoiling, artificial heart slowing as dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin trickle through synthetic nerves. He hears the footsteps from the kitchen, a pang of hunger creeping into his stomach, but he doesn't stir.
Another light flickers on and he feels warmth against his cheek. Soft, slender fingers of flesh and blood and bone caress the plastic and circuits.
"You are home early." Comes the voice, husky and rich. Accented just so, familiar and alien in its own way. He pulls away, as the same fingers pinch fake flesh, hard, before rubbing at the blush. "And you've made a mess in the hall with your things. Bad boy." His eyes close as he listens. It's a simple peace he finds in these moments.
The voice moves to the kitchen. "I'm making dinner. I was going to make something for dessert too. Be a dear and make us a brandy." Dorian stands and watches the figure move about the kitchen, curves accentuated in the simple black dress. The hips sway in just the right way, the collar sits at just the right height to draw attention to the pale flesh of the neck and small breasts below. "I've just been so terribly bored lately and I would love to hear about your day. No details tonight though, I've worked too hard to be put off my dinner." They turn to look over their shoulder, lips painted a deep wine red, a spark in eye and smile. Dorian opens the liquor cabinet and reaches for the bottle.
Mahogany and honey splashes into the crystal, fusel alcohols, methyl butanol, oak and- Dorian lets the data flow past, his eyes closing once, then again.
"Dorian. Tell me about your day." The figure steps from the kitchen and Dorian's eyes flick open. Another soft touch, another pulse of life to the machine. He smiles and finishes his drink, placing the glass on the counter before filling another and rejoining the table.
"Business was good." He places his hands on the small of their back, just as he's taught himself to do. There's no instincts, no biological attraction, it's another act. But it's a role he chooses to play, one he likes, and he takes the time to enjoy it. "Someone made an interesting proposal." He leans down and kisses their neck, lips pressed to the soft flesh just above Rowan's hemline. Crystal clinks as it meets hardwood. His fingers, each a mockery made of wires and steel, free of their burden, wander. Up from the hips and down from the throat, exploring and caressing the familiar lines of their body even as they turn.
"And you took it?" Hands dance along his back now, delicate and strong at once. He nods, inhaling the faint scent of jasmine and pheromones. Just another simulation, another data point. But it makes the rest more real, more authentic.
"As I always do." Dorian pulls away, still smiling as his gaze settles on the small glass of brandy he left. He watches Rownan slide into the chair across from his own, raven hair and russet skin illuminated in the blue light. They place a slender hand atop the glass, watching it slosh merrily as their fingers flex. They look up, green eyes meeting his own, and they smile.
It's genuine, honest, and it's all his. It's one of the few things that's truly his. He loses time there, lets the incessant ticking of his central processor fade to nothing, the sensations devouring his reality until the smell of something burning violates his revery.
Rownan rises with a smirk and turns away, tossing hair over shoulder as they sashay towards the kitchen, leaving Dorian to gather his thoughts and enjoy another sip of brandy.
"You're still a terrible cook I see." The smile returns to his lifeless lips.
"And you technically do not eat. So I have the excuse. I thought I'd make you something special, given that you've been away for so long." A click as the oven is pulled open, a few wisps of greasy gray smoke escaping into the air. Carbon dioxide, sugars, amino acids-
"I don't have taste buds, remember? Just synthetic sensors. If I want it to be delicious, then so it is." Dorian chuckles, swirling the alcohol in the glass as Rownan returns. "I'm more looking forward to dessert anyway." The smile falters just slightly.
"You are quite the tease." A sigh and a scowl. "Dinner first you insolent tin man."
The table is set in short order, samosas, paneer and korma. He pauses and savors, sighs and compliments. Each step another in the dance, a performance for an audience who knows well the fiction and loves it all the same. He can hear the grin in Rownan's voice "I've missed you terribly."
"You always do."
Red lips touch to crystal and they smile, green eyes just a bit brighter.
"I wish you would take more time off. I despise it when you're gone." A hand reaches to caress his cheek fingertips trailing his jaw, he smiles sadly.
"You know I can't. It's business." Another sip. "They ask questions when equipment goes missing."
