Chapter Text
To paint is to create a soul. Bring light into the eyes of the inanimate, humanize something that will never be truly alive.
Arthur knew he was born to be a painter. Even as a small child he would draw shapes and figures in the dirt with sticks, grab any rocks he could and draw on the concrete until his hands went numb. He would watch as his drawing came to life in his mind, and gave him comfort.
His parents weren’t supportive of their son’s hobby but didn’t ever care to stop it either, it kept him distracted and out of their way.
Every Christmas since he was eight he asked for paints and pencils(though he rarely got them), they would rather update Elsa. Elsa was his ‘buddy’, she laughed at all the right times and answered his questions in all the right ways.
It was only at 13 when Arthur could see it. The lack of light behind her eyes, the absence of thoughts in her brain. That's when he asked his parents what she was.
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“She’s not like us.”
Arthur’s mother stated, paying more attention to prepping the table for their future guests than to Arthur.
“But what makes her different?”
Arthur insisted as he followed his mother from one side of the table to another. He continued on.
“Does she have one of those…y’know?”
“Oh? Is that what this is? Of course not, darling. We wouldn’t allow you near her if that was the case.”
His mother replied with a wave of her hand. Arthur stared before speaking.
“Then what is it? She acts all sorts of weird.”
“Hm. Maybe she needs an update. Follow.”
Arthur smiled softly as his mother led him upstairs to where Elsa stayed. Only realizing he forgot his coat when they reached the freezing top floor.
“Elsa. Come.”
He never liked how his mother spoke to her, but that was one of a lot of things he didn’t like.
Elsa glanced over at his mother, her long brown curls framed her face peacefully, she had a crooked tooth that she never bothered to get fixed. She was a bit weird, but always gave her opinions on Arthur’s art. (Though none of them were ever critiques)
“Yes Mrs. Rimbaud?”
Elsa said as she stumbled over herself to push away her knitting project.
“Turn around.”
His mother spoke, checking the time. Elsa followed almost immediately, her spine straight just how mother liked it. Then his mother started rubbing her head.
Elsa let it happen. She sat there as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
Then her head cracked open.
Her head… it—.
“Arthur, don’t be dramatic. Take a look.”
Arthur’s heart tried to claw its way out his chest through his throat. The room felt as if it was significantly smaller than it started. His body moved forward on its own. He willed for it to stop.
He swallowed thickly as he peered over his mother’s shoulder. It was wires and a small touchpad, almost like their television. He wanted to cry. It was cold, Elsa was probably dead, and he wanted to cry. He blinked rapidly to try to fight them off. Boys didn’t do that.
“See? She’s not like us. She’s supposed to serve us.”
Arthur gently touched the back of his own head as he stared at Elsa’s. He nodded slowly, watching his mother’s hand as she closed it. And just for a second Elsa seemed to look sad.
“Now go get dressed for our company.”
Arthur scurried off to his room. He knew when mother said to get dressed for company he should do so immediately.
Yet he could feel the wires buzzing in his head, snaking from his brain down to his heart. He didn’t want to ever look at another person again.
He looked around the blurring room. Could his eyes be failing him? His breath shortened and his hands shook.
He was dying.
He tried to find—… what did he want? He wanted something warm, and comforting. Something that smelt like honey and vanilla. He wanted a mother. Not his mother specifically. Just the soft idea of one he let lull him to sleep most nights.
He stumbled over his carpet, his butt hitting the floor with a hard thud.
It hurts. He was dying and it hurts.
He backed himself into the corner. He didn’t want to die like this.
“Rimmyyyyyyy! You’re gonna be late and your mom is gonna get mad at me.”
Elsa stood in his doorway as she spoke. She was alive, and she was here.
Then her head was open. His heart rate increased as she walked towards him. No. No—
Arthur startled awake. Being met with the reality of his apartment. This was the fourth time this week he’s had this nightmare. His therapist liked to call it a ‘traumatic stress response’. He didn’t care what it was called; he just wanted it to go away.
Breath in. Breath out.
It was a lot easier said than done. Rimbaud turned off his heater and forced himself up. Today was a work day, and there was nothing worse than being late to work and getting paired with people he didn’t know.
He ignored the discarded canvases clustered around his apartment. Some empty, others half-done, most complete pieces with nowhere else to go. Most people didn’t care to buy art anymore, the companions could make it much quicker and cheaper than anyone else could.
He didn’t bother with breakfast, it made his mornings less efficient. Instead he settled for a warmed up cup of instant coffee. What did he even have to get done today? Documents, files, reports, all unimportant. He looked around at his scattered canvas and supplies. His fingers twitched lightly, if only he had the time this morning.
He finished the last of his coffee in a quick gulp, it was dry and bitter. The artificial aftertaste came strong as it hit Arthur’s senses. He tossed the mug into the sink, hearing faintly as it shattered into pieces. He would most likely have to buy another, but first he needed to get out of his night clothes. He pulled on a discarded pair of black pants and a black dress shirt. Followed immediately by a heavy duty coat of the same shade. Black held onto heat and made his days slightly more bearable.
As he put on his shoes and left his apartment, he checked the time.
7:00 AM.
He should’ve left five minutes ago. He walked down his apartment steps, the clank of his shoes against the wood loud enough to wake up any sleeping residents. He inhaled the smell of marinated sweat. He really should buy a new place, but what was the point?
The subway ride to work was quiet; the colors of the train were muted and dull. The paint chipping away at the corners was the most interesting thing he had come across all day. If he could talk to the owners he would ask to do upkeep. He would paint the walls a deep purple and the floors various shades of yellow fragmented by small gray scale yellow lines.
Arthur shivered underneath his layers of clothes. He forgot his scarf and thermal layers in the haze of his morning. His legs bounced against the metal floors. The cracks in the walls were no longer interesting, they created this nauseating feeling in his gut. His fingers itched to fix it, or peel the paint off the wall entirely. He instead ran his fingers through his hair, slowly braiding it into a long intricate pattern.
The train stuttered to a stop, and not much longer its group of passengers shuffled off. Arthur waited for the majority of them to go through before standing up himself. His vision swayed as his hand reached for the handle bar. It wasn’t an unusual occurrence but an unpleasant one nonetheless. Once the world stopped swaying he shakingly placed one foot in front of the other until he had left the train, then the station all together.
After that the commute to work was quick. The gritty wind snapped at his bare face and neck. He walked alongside all the people on the sidewalk, he could find from the blue line drawn on their wrist that half of them were companions completing tasks. He slowly swallowed the spit built up in his throat. And for only a second he wished to tear the line off their flesh and glue it into his own. He shook the thought away, and finally made it into the sterile smelling laboratory.
He was bombarded with too bright lights burning his retina, and the voices of his co-workers ringing in his ears. His arms gripped at his coat, slowly digging the fabric into his skin. As he walked further into the building he could feel a presence in front of him.
“Hey, dude.”
Arthur’s eyes snapped upwards. It was Mark speaking to him.
“Hello.”
His voice came out gravelly and low. He offered a small smile towards his colleague, for politeness more than anything. Mark was one of the few tolerable ones.
“Damn. Bad day? Maybe you should sit next to the generator, might warm you up a bit.” Arthur hesitated, but before he could get a word out Mark continued, “I already told you not to worry about it, I won’t tell. If you give me your keycard I’ll even clock in for you.”
The generator did sound nice, it provided heat that carried over into his work day. Technically nobody was allowed in the scrap fields where it resided, but his co-workers didn’t care to report him to the higher ups.
“… Thank you.”
Arthur looked through his coat pocket before locating his key card. His hands tentatively placed it into Mark’s.
He didn’t stay for any longer than needed, briskly walking to the back of the maze-like building. He ignored the current experiments with blue lines. They were none of his concern.
He knew he had reached the scrap field when the air started to smell like burnt paper and rusted metal. He didn’t bother covering his nose anymore.
He assumed his usual position about ten feet away from the thrumming machine. He stood in the desolate, warm, scrapyard and let his shoulders drop. His mind gave into the intoxicating feeling of the generator and his body followed suit.
He slowly lowered himself onto the one clear space in the field. He was surrounded by nothing but metal and his thoughts.
Time seemed to slow with each inhale and exhale he took. His eyes closed as he slowly laid his head back.
Breath in. Breath out.
Then came footsteps. Crunching far too close for his liking. Arthur’s shoulders drew inwards and he sat up swiftly, his eyes scanning the field.
“You the guy? Hurry this up, we don’t have time.”
The voice came from the side of him. His head snapped towards the man speaking. He wore a ragged black t-shirt and torn jeans. He was currently hold a seemingly asleep man in his arms.
“What—? No, I’m not—“
“Here. I don’t get paid enough for this crap. Just send the money when it’s due.”
The blonde man placed next to him thudded heavily. Now it made sense. This wasn’t meant for him at all. And by the lack of a line on the man's wrist he could tell one thing.
This was an illegal deal, he was breaking the law.
Companions weren't programmed to understand complex emotions, and were documented by the blue lines around their wrists.
But the illegal ones? They were programmed to understand almost any emotional experience a human could, and had no documentation. Now Arthur had one in his hands. He knew the smart decision, to turn him into the lab and call it a night. Yet he froze. He might as well do some private research to test if this thing was dangerous, then he would turn it in and call it a day. He left the blonde companion where he usually laid, and left to continue work.
At the end of the day he slowly made his way back, and picked up the man who must’ve weighed a lot over 250 pounds. The commute home felt a thousand times slower than it had been the way there, and his arms felt a thousand times heavier.
Once he got into his house he took in a shaking breath. He tied the companion onto his chair and slowly backed away. His head quietly buzzed as he turned to his sink, picking up the shards of the abandoned mug. The small pieces cut his figure tips as he threw them into the trash, as if they were protesting. If anything the pressure brought him a small sense of peace.
“What the hell am I doing here.”