You're a woman, I'm a machine

"I believe you know why you're here today. So let me not bore you with details and such." And so, her lips begin flapping incessantly. She talks to me about synthetic plants and such. Soon I found myself stretching out a pad of tension on my shoulders, flicking off flint from my plain white suit jacket, and nodding mindlessly, veering more and more from the conversation till she becomes another voice in the packed HEM banquet hall. However, she didn't seem to have her ministry identifier, as she was off duty. I then found myself glancing over her shoulder and mine, to look at how the blue of the STM and the green of the HEM spilled throughout the hall. Bored, I focused on that.

I noticed how the blue of the STM dignitaries seemed to drown and displace the green of the HEM banners and fellow electives. A highjacked banquet, I think to myself. I always found it strange how the HEM always seemed to close their eyes and clutch onto the pretense of a partnership between the two ministries. So, as she went on, I wondered, was she a nosey STM or a blind HEM worker? I've however, become so withdrawn from the conversation I feel asking her out the blue would be rude and strange.

What I find peculiar however is that we both know the automated air to this conversation. Her parents undoubtedly primed and sent her here to spark a conversation. In hopes that something between us could be struck. Yet, we pretend this isn't strange at all, that this is clockwork, the norm. No one knows why and no one especially talks about it. And if I'd dare to speak out, no one will listen. Except Jun, she would. She'd listen. I feel she'd transcribe it, point, and strip it out. Like one of her paintings, she'd paint a big red question mark. That's why despite all these cordial advances from all manner of flanks and mental rules etched into the fiber of my being, I can't help thinking of her.

I wonder what canvas is lucky enough to feel the gentle strokes of her brushes, what idea has the boast of propagating through her mind. I feel a slight smile build before being bewildered by the absurdity of the idea. Me, the successional Sovereign of the grand Union, together… with a painter. Beyond the matter of or how she silently understands me, how good a painter she is…or how beautiful, she's a Synthetic and I a Supra-Humanis. Genetically speaking, it would mean marooning my perfect lineage on the banks of normality. Subjecting the Konn's to doom.

"'Synthetization is the grand fiery crucible that will make all things whole again.'" She says. I then realize I'm still conversing with this woman. Brought back to the conversation by the sound of my mother's motto, like muscle memory. I try fall back into unison. But what does that statement even mean? 'All things whole again', does she mean free from radiation poisoning? Supra-Humanis? She stares at me. I blink rapidly and take a deep breath before saying.

"Exactly, synthetization isn't only about bringing people closer to a higher H-I score but also about the ability to make our own animals, livestock…this is the goal…of my reign." I recite other than say. I tip my head to the side and draw my brows closer as I weigh the idea. A wave of sobriety hits me, and I shake the thoughts away before saying. "Sorry, you'll have to excuse me." I say. She smiles and nods.

I walk away. Where am I going? Dignitaries surround me. I wave and smile as I move past them like cigarette smoke. Huddled in groups, locked in Union chatter, maybe they can smell the doubtfulness in me as they bow and huddle back into their groups – side-eyeing stares filled with disdain as my back passes them.

Toilet. I bring my hurried strides up the stairs and head to the toilet. The door slides open, I close it and immediately drop my fake smile. Yet I don't so much as breathe. I stand still and listen before bending and casually peaking down to see if anyone else is in the toilet.

Finding no feet with trousers resting at ankles. I head to the faucet and stare at the sink before washing my hands and wetting my face. I take a deep breath and let out a sigh. I take some papers towels and dry myself. I then just stand there, in the middle of the toilet with a paper towel stuck on my face, frozen still.

I hate this place and the people in it. I hate this strange limbo I feel every second of every day. What's happening to me? I hate the perception of my reality. I then pinch the bridge of my nose before ripping the towel off my face and throwing it away.

The taste of bile fills my mouth. Suddenly I'm overcome with the urge to run to the toilet. I close the cubicle behind me before my knees buckle and I vomit into the toilet. I wretch out the contents of my stomach and use this as a form of catharsis. Instead of being focused as to what's happening to me, my mind begins darting all over the place. I begin asking myself what I'm doing here at the banquet? What Synthetic plants truly mean? What the point of it all is? Before I can settle, the bathroom door opens.

My body immediately tenses up and I hurriedly swing my hand across my mouth, forcing myself to stop. I grimace as bile shoots through my fingers. I try my best to force my body to be still as I violently but silently shake. I hear his footsteps wander around before coming to a scuffling stop at my cubicle. He knocks at the door and calls out my name again. I begin to panic. I will myself to gulp down the acidic bile for air to flow through burning throat, so I can get the word, "yes?" out for a brief moment. Soon after my body threatens to retch up the vomit again.

"There are dignitaries waiting to greet you outside." The attendant says.

My body as if fever struck, begins to shake. At this point I can only let out a murmur of acknowledgement as I let out a shaky breath. I wait for him, for what feels like a millennia, as he begins towards the exit. The door slides shut, I grip the walls and continue retching into the toilet. I splay my fingers, restlessly searching in vain for a rest bite as I heave the contents of my stomach, haphazardly, out of my body. I fill the bathroom with sounds of agony. With fear of exposure, I try to lower my voice as the sounds begin to loudly bounce around the walls. After a dry heaving fit, I finally stop and slide back onto the wall. I look up at the bright shapeshifting fluorescent lights through teary eyes and just sit.