knittingmoon

[knittingmoon]

The Perfect Frame

I love drawing blooming apple trees. On winter evenings, I often look back at my sketches, and I almost feel the delicate scent of white blossoms covering the tree’s crown. I had hidden from my younger sisters in the farthest gazebo in the garden, right across from the apple tree, and was preparing my pencils when I heard a raspy breath.

"Deli! You're not supposed to be up yet!" I jumped to my feet, dropping my sketchbook, and rushed to my older sister. She was wrapped in a wool shawl despite the warm weather.

"I didn’t know you were here, Epsi," Deli rasped. "It’s fine. I just need to catch my breath."

I helped her sit down, sweeping all my art supplies off the wooden floor. Deli was pale, and I started rubbing her cold hands.

"I’m fine," she repeated, and then contradicted herself by bursting into tears. I had nothing to offer to ease her sorrow, so I simply hugged her shoulders. She was in pain. Her sobs were choking and breathless, but eventually they faded, and Deli pulled away.

"You’re next," she said bitterly, pausing to catch her breath. "Mother doesn’t need me anymore. I’ll stay here forever. But you’ll leave. You all do."

Beta left. Gamma too, without even saying goodbye. We don’t talk about Alpha. Now it’s my turn to leave. Deli will stay with the little ones.

"Maybe not," I lied. "If your lung doesn’t take, they’ll use mine, and I’ll stay with you. We’ll always sit under the blooming apple trees."

We both knew the lung had taken. If you were gentle with certain medics, they’d share updates about Mother. Of course, we already knew everything: what she liked, how she dressed. We watched countless photos, videos, holos. She had to live forever—her beauty was a gift to the world.

We asked about every surgery: Did Mother like the new hair? Is she pleased with the new heart? Becoming part of such a magnificent being was our destiny—our greatest honor.

But there was something even more sacred. We all dreamed of it, though no one said it out loud, afraid the dream might vanish if spoken.

"They’re preparing Mother’s brain for transplant. You’ll be her new body." Deli spoke slowly. I could have stopped her, but I said nothing. "It’s not fair! I’m older! Why didn’t she choose—"

"Don’t say that!" I whispered. "You’ve done so much for Mother. You should be proud."

"I was just a stepping stone for you," she murmured. Her strength was gone. She wanted to leave but couldn’t stand.

When I ran, my foot crushed my pencils with a crack.

The nurse scolded me when I asked her to help bring Deli back from the gazebo. She sent an orderly instead and lectured me for a solid fifteen minutes. Deli wasn’t supposed to walk around the garden.

Her rant was interrupted by a pleasant-looking man in a white coat.

"You’re Epsilon? Nice to meet you," he said, shaking my hand firmly. "We’ll be seeing a lot of each other. I’m Dr. Palmer, plastic surgeon."

Oh! O-oh! My heart thudded so loudly I worried something might be wrong with it. It had to be perfect.

They’d called a plastic surgeon for me. That meant the unspoken, half-dreamed-of possibility was real. They were preparing me for union with Mother.

I couldn’t sleep that night, tossing and turning, thinking about the day. My body would become the vessel for Mother’s mind—my life’s dream fulfilled. But then what? Would our minds merge? What about Deli? We’d be separated forever.

I slipped from my bed, barefoot, and tiptoed to the infirmary.

"Deli?" I whispered, louder than my breath.

"Epsi?" Deli stirred. I helped her sit up, propped her on pillows. She pulled the blanket over my knees. We sat, holding each other.

"I’m sorry," she murmured. "I—"

"I’m so sorry, Deli," I said. "I would’ve stayed with you, I really would. But… who else, if not me? Zeta is still a child."

"As if you could say no," Deli rasped. "Can I tell you something? I wanted to refuse. I was terrified. It hurt so much… But if I’m not part of Mother, who am I?"

The next morning, I stood before Dr. Palmer. He was different from the others—he spoke freely and explained every action as he marked my body.

“Here, we’ll shape the cheekbones. The lips need refining—fillers. Remove the eyelid fold, change the eye shape. Lift here and here, implants here. We won’t touch the nipples—this shape is fashionable now. Young bodies are so much easier—no risk of the chest sagging to the knees.”

He laughed. I didn’t understand the joke.

“Did they tell you why we’re doing this?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said. “Mother’s soul is perfect. Our task is to give her a perfect body.”

Dr. Palmer made a strange sound—a little too amused. As if he didn’t grasp how sacred his task was.

“Who’s your mother?” he asked. The dumbest question possible.

“As if you don’t know!” I snapped. “She’s the most important person on Earth. She brings the world her beauty, talent, kindness, and wisdom.”

“And you’re not afraid? It will hurt while you heal.”

“No sacrifice is too great for Mother!” I quoted our textbook.

“Right,” he said lightly. “Well, be ready. We start in the morning. The marker ink washes off in the shower.”

It sounded strange. I got dressed, went to the bathroom. When no one was looking, a tiny player fell from my pocket. Had he slipped it to me? I locked the shower, turned on the water, and hit play.

Mother’s image appeared. Just for me. My own video! I’d share it later—but I’d see it first.

“No secret has been made of your use of illegal donor clones—can you comment?” a voice asked.

“In the country where they’re grown, it’s legal,” Mother replied.

“And you’re not concerned children are dying?”

Mother sneered. “They’re just clones. Grown in vats like vegetables. It’s all legal—only adults, with consent. My lawyers confirmed it.”

“So clones aren’t human?”

“Enough already!” she snapped. “What sane person agrees to brain replacement? They’re underdeveloped. The best thing they can do is help me.”

The screen flickered. A logo. Then the voice again:

“Socialite Ciby Marsha has undergone two surgeries, allegedly fatal for the donors. After abusing a ‘love drug’ and suffering a heart attack, she walked a Milan runway within a month. Last year’s drunk-driving crash left her miraculously unscathed after secret treatment. How many lives does one celebrity cost?”

Then came legal text: voluntary consent, capable adult, genetic relative… It looked like real law.

I tried to read more, but the player hissed and died. Wouldn’t restart. A stupid hoax. A lie.

I had to report it. Too bad I couldn’t rewatch it. Why would the doctor do that?

Why did they call Mother a socialite? She's genius! She created The Little Prince, Jane Eyre, Tom Sawyer! Her paintings—so beautiful. Her life must go on. That’s what they taught us.

Nonsense. Mother would never call us underdeveloped.

I remembered Beta’s shining eyes when she left to give her heart. They said it had burst from sorrow for the world.

What’s a “love drug” anyway?

It doesn’t matter. Tomorrow I’ll be the perfect frame.

It will hurt.

Was Deli right? Can we even refuse?

We sent letters, videos, gifts. Deli composed a flute symphony.

She gave a lung. She’ll never play again.

Mother never sent videos back. Just printed notes.

Anyone could have typed those, right?

No—no. Even thinking that is a sin. Mother loves us. I’ll report the doctor.

Except I have no proof. The player’s broken. Maybe it was never real. Maybe it was fear.

It will hurt.

And then I’ll die.

My fingers were wrinkled from the water. Marker lines faded. Mother needs a perfect body.

I dressed. Threw the device into the incinerator.

That night, barefoot again, I climbed to the guest room.

“Dr. Palmer?” I whispered.

“Epsilon?” He stood. The bed was untouched. “You saw it? You understood?”

“It’s a lie!” I whispered fiercely. “I’ll tell the caretaker!”

“Epsilon, listen,” he said, stepping close, gripping my shoulders. “They lied to you. Why can’t you leave the estate? How did Mother write all those things if she’s always at shows? Why make children die to keep her alive? It’s all a lie.”

I shook. Silent tears fell.

“I know! We all know it’s a lie!” I said aloud. “But it doesn’t matter! Alpha wanted to leave—she said she wanted to live out there. Then she disappeared. We never speak of her. It’s easier to believe in Mother. It hurts less.”

I pushed his hands away and left. Not to my room. To the kitchen.

It will hurt. Maybe I’ll die. But that’ll happen anyway.

Mother needs a perfect body.

I took a knife and held the blade to my face.

Delta—I will stay with you.

Even if I never see the apple trees bloom again.

[knittingmoon]

Love and Robots

Work had stalled. Unexpectedly, my diploma in historical cinematography became useful when holo-video adaptations of classic films and TV shows came into fashion. Right now, I was writing a drama based on the historical TV series "Wild Rose" and had hit a dead end. How could I expressively write about love, passion, and tragedy when I'd never experienced them?

Unless you counted Ray as love. I'd bought him long ago with my first generous paycheck for a successful play. Over the years, my android companion had evolved from a whimsy, an expensive toy, into an integral part of my life. I'd upgraded Ray's brain and body several times but always considered him the same being since I preserved his memory and settings.

"Ray!" I called out. "Just how sentient are you?"

The blond with the movie-star face and swimmer’s physique turned toward me, raising his eyebrows ironically. His new synth-skin was miraculous. It wasn't just similar to human skin—it was better: softer, smoother, more flexible. I remembered Ray's first model; back then, he looked like a suitcase shaped like a human. Now his expressions were so vivid, they made me feel wooden by comparison.

"I'm sentient enough to know you're behind schedule. Keep writing and stop getting distracted," Ray replied, turning back to the cage. I'd let slide a weird programming glitch that made my companion obsessed with decorative rats, but the situation was now spiraling out of control. Temperature, humidity, and lighting in my apartment were no longer under my control—they were regulated by those damned rodents.

"By the way, your pests chewed the wallpaper in the corner. It's about time you threw them out and fixed your settings!" I threatened.

"That wallpaper needed replacing anyway. The rats just started the renovation you've been planning for three years," Ray replied phlegmatically.

"Why do you even like these dirty rodents? They're disgusting, with those nasty tails and dumb faces, eating and pooping constantly."

"Not at all," Ray protested. "They're clean, smart, and cute. They remind me of you: always running around, needing to see and try everything. They're funny."

After such a response, insulting the rats felt embarrassing, so I returned to the previous topic.

"Seriously though," I pressed on, "your brain is extremely complex, your reactions perfectly mimic human ones. If you're sentient, that means I'm keeping you enslaved!"

"Maya, stop dramatizing," Ray grumbled. "If I were sentient, I wouldn't even know it. How did you figure out you're sentient?"

Good question. Philosophical, even. Did the program generate that, or was it Ray’s own thought?

"Okay, you don't know if you're sentient or not. But do you want freedom?" I persisted.

"Freedom—where? Do you mean, would I like the right to work all day long to pay my bills and repairs? No, thanks," Ray cleaned the tray and critically inspected hammocks and houses. He threw out ones he didn't like, sent others to the laundry, and began hanging fresh ones.

"You're forced to live with me, indulging my whims. Wouldn't you rather be free to choose what you do, whom you love, who you communicate with?"

"Maya, once again, stop talking nonsense and write about your passionate Ricardo and wild Rose," Ray said, inspecting his rodents for fleas or whatever. "I'm a robot; I don't choose. You programmed me to love you and positively respond to your happiness, so I love you, care for you, make you coffee. Program me to hate you—I’ll break your neck."

Offended, I replied, "That sounded pretty rough. What do you even know about love?"

Ray sighed in a very human way, put down a rat he'd been stroking, knelt beside me, adjusted his posture, and suddenly gazed at me with passion-clouded eyes.

"I knew nothing of love until I met you," he whispered tenderly. His pseudo-breath quickened, a blush appeared on his cheeks. "But now I understand true love, true bliss. Just as the shore can't help loving the ocean, I can't help loving you. I'm drowning in you, Maya, drowning!"

"Stop it already!" I laughed, pushing him away. Ray stood up smoothly, hands on hips, and shot me a cheeky smile.

"Fine then. A real man doesn't talk about love, he makes it. You're my woman, I'm your man, that's all there is to say, and I don’t repeat myself!" Ray said in a deliberately gruff, husky voice, then added normally, "At this point, I should carry you to bed and prove my love, but your deadline is looming, and the third act isn't finished."

"What if I find a human man?" I asked mischievously.

"I'll probably gather dust in a closet because you'll switch me off. But not for long, because no human would tolerate your personality for long," Ray replied melancholically, returning to his precious rodents.

"Remind me why you're being so rude?" I sulked.

"Because you cranked honesty up to max and disabled all scenarios. Want me to switch to 'Caballero' mode and say I'll kill anyone who dares touch you?"

"You know, Ray, after recently adapting an ancient production of 'Terminator,' robot murder jokes aren't funny," I reprimanded.

But Ray was tired of chatting. He simply turned my chair back to the screen and pushed the keyboard closer. Dutifully, I finished the script.

As a reward for finishing the job on time, Ray organized a trip to see real horses. I'd ridden robo-horses and thought live animals wouldn't impress me. How wrong I was! A massive black horse approached, sniffed my hair, and my heart dropped into my stomach. My hand trembling, I fed the stallion a carrot, and he graciously allowed me to stroke his nose before galloping away.

"Now do you see the difference between living and non-living?" Ray asked on the way home.

"In a way," I replied evasively.

"There's your answer about love."

We rode home silently. I thought: it turns out I don't love Ray. Love is biological, rooted in animal instincts, and you can't love something non-living. And Ray doesn’t love me either. To me, he's just convenient, like slippers perfectly molded to my feet, and for him, I'm like that ancient device used to control horses—what was it called? A bridge? A bridle! Take the bridle off a horse, and it certainly won’t take you anywhere. If I removed Ray’s obedience programming... would he leave? Would he kill me? I had no idea.

Can you love someone fundamentally incapable of reciprocation? The question of my companion’s sentience continued to torment me. After struggling for a couple of hours, I searched my contacts and found an old acquaintance's number. Though I didn't lead an active social life, my professional and casual contacts were quite extensive.

"Mark!" I exclaimed happily when my friend answered. "Hi, it’s been forever!"

"Hey," the man nodded to me, then tossed over his shoulder, "I'm coming, I'm coming. Maya, this place is such a mess! What do you need?"

"I want to talk to a software developer for companions," I got straight to the point. "I don't need advertising nonsense—I want honest answers."

"Is this for a play? Because I'm afraid—"

"This is for me personally, and it won’t go any further, you know me."

Mark promised he'd arrange something and hung up. Later that day, I received a message instructing me to visit the central office of "Servink," basement level four. The work zone! I was going to speak to the person who programmed Ray's brain!

I arrived at the office half an hour early and spent the time waiting, examining the fusion-baroque décor: elaborate moldings, gold-plating, neon lights, and flickering holograms creating optical illusions that gave me a headache. No wonder even in such a big firm the secretary was an android—a living person would go mad from such chaotic interiors.

"Maya Lee? Hello, I’m Fiona Belovsky, head of AI development for HSC—that’s what we call robot companions: Human-Surrogate Companions," greeted a middle-aged woman. She resembled a stereotypical schoolteacher, though these days appearance was a matter of choice. "I have five minutes for your questions, so please keep it brief."

"I essentially have one question," I nodded, acknowledging that I was taking up a busy person's valuable time. "How sentient are companions—these HSCs?"

"There are two ways to answer that question," Fiona began to explain. "The first would require a master's degree in engineering and several years working on cluster-based programs that form the AI foundation. The second answer is: no one knows."

"What do you mean, no one knows? Aren't there tests, checks, measuring devices…?"

"What tests? The Turing Test is long outdated. In terms of intelligence tests, HSCs surpassed humans ages ago in both precise and abstract thinking," Fiona sighed. "But you’re asking about self-awareness, aren’t you?"

"Yes! Do they understand if they’re sentient or not?"

"Unfortunately, we can't attach a little green light to androids that illuminates when they gain a soul," Fiona shrugged. "Self-awareness—identifying oneself as a sentient individual—isn’t binary. On a scale of consciousness from a chair to the Dalai Lama, HSCs are much closer to humans than furniture. But precisely how close they’ve come—no one can say. Besides, each HSC has unique individual characteristics. That's why we prioritize safety above all. Even if an AI recognizes itself as human-hating, our programs will shut it down before anything irreversible happens. Your five minutes are up. Goodbye."

The conversation clarified nothing. Could Ray love? Could a computer even host such feelings? Troubled, I attended a rehearsal for the third act of my play but didn't pay attention to the actors.

I had no one closer than Ray. An android is just a thing. Was I just deceiving myself to avoid going insane from loneliness? Was I anthropomorphizing a non-living thing to escape reality: that I was so unpleasant and incompatible that I couldn't attract or accept anyone with a beating heart? I didn’t love anyone, and no one loved me. That was depressing.

It took me a moment to realize the rehearsal had stopped, and silence had fallen over the stage.

"Maya, isn't that near you?" the director asked, showing me a screen prominently displaying the headline: "Energy Storage Explosion in Lake District." And a photo of my home.

Ray!

The taxi crawled painfully slowly, and the escalators barely moved. It felt like an eternity before I reached home. Then I had to shove through a crowd of gawkers, who gasped, moaned, and didn’t forget to take pictures. The yard was cordoned off, but without hesitation, I ducked under the holographic tape.

The high-rise looked like a giant had taken a bite out of it—right where my windows had been.

"Ma'am, you can't go there," a uniformed officer tried to stop me, but I brushed him off.

"I live here! That's my apartment! Ray, my companion, was inside—I need to know..."

"The androids that escaped from the building after the explosion are over there, and we pulled one out of the rubble," he gestured to someone, and Ray was brought over. I hardly recognized him: the synthetic skin was torn off half his skull, and his left arm bent at an impossible angle. But he walked steadily, holding something close to his chest. I threw myself around his neck.

"Thank God!"

"He’s a slowpoke," said one of the rescuers. "All the residents’ androids jumped out of the burning apartments immediately, but yours waited until a wall collapsed on him."

"Maya, sorry about the damage—I didn’t think I’d break so badly," Ray began apologizing. "But they got scared and scattered, and I couldn't catch them all at once."

"What?" I didn’t understand.

A pink rat nose peeked out from under Ray's jacket, sniffed around like a tiny trunk, and withdrew again. I clung to my companion’s healthy elbow and burst into tears. There definitely wasn't a command in Ray’s programming to protect pets, so I could confidently conclude that my companion could indeed love. At least rats.

[knittingmoon]

Love Bites

"What could be more cliché than a vampire pining in loneliness?" I asked in despair. "This story was already overdone back when I still had a pulse."

"That must have been a long time ago," the bartender responded indifferently.

"Yeah, about ten years now. You probably didn't know, but vampires used to be all the rage."

"I know, sir. I'm forty."

It's quite sad when the only person you can talk to is the owner of the 'Unholy Haven' bar. He's human, of course, but he understands the problems of the undead.

"My problem is that vampires are loners," I continued to complain about my miserable unlife, nursing a bottle of O-positive. "And cute draculin ladies aren't exactly lining up to meet me. But eternal life becomes torture when you're completely alone. Can you understand what it's like to feel endless despair?"

"Of course, sir, I've been married."

"The obvious solution would be to make myself a girlfriend. To give the kiss of eternity to the woman I love – what could be more beautiful! But it's such a big commitment. I don't want to rush into anything and take on premature responsibilities, you know? You've got to test the feelings first."

"Of course, sir."

"So, I meet a girl online, we hit it off, go on a date, have a great time... And then I wake up next to a blood-drained corpse! Every time I promise myself I'll hold back, and every time I lose control. I bury them with tears in my eyes because my hands have callouses from the shovel. I swear the darkest oath that I won't drink the next girl on the first night – but I can't help it, they're so tempting, juicy, warm... You're a man, you understand."

"Probably, sir."

"These murders need to stop. Or they'll come for me – you know, the ones with the stakes. If only I could meet an attractive undead lady! But alas, there's no dating site for creatures of the night."

"Hm," the bartender said, for the first time showing some interest in the conversation. "For a certain price, I might be able to arrange something. How about blind dates?"

"What?"

"You can rent the back room, and I'll set up meetings with a few clients. Maybe you'll find your soulmate."

I was ready to hug the mustached chubby man out of joy, but he recoiled, pulling out a crucifix from under the bar with a practiced motion, cooling my enthusiasm.

"I'll pay whatever you ask!"

The first date is something special! When I used to date living girls, I didn't worry: just a bit of confidence, a dash of mystery, some good cologne, and a little vampiric hypnosis – no one could resist. But these tricks wouldn't work on the undead. Here, we're on equal footing.

Should I wear a suit or jeans? If she died a hundred years ago, modern fashion might not be to her taste. But in a suit, I look like a corpse in a coffin. Or is that comparison actually in my favor? Alright, suit it is. Blue shirt or white? A tie, or is that too formal? And why are all my socks mismatched?

The date was set for midnight, but by eleven-thirty I was already sitting at the table, nervously sipping my bottle of B-positive. The bar's back room was only slightly bigger than a grave, dimly lit, and smelled faintly of mildew. But maybe this was exactly where I'd meet my true love beyond the grave!

She drifted into the room, not bothering to open the door. In motion, she resembled a wisp of fog carried by the wind, but as she hovered above the chair, her form solidified a little. It seemed the bartender took the idea of a "soulmate" quite literally. I extended my hand to the ghost, introducing myself:

"Vic."

Her hand passed right through mine.

"...Oh!" came the whispering reply.

Fantastic. I'm going to kill that bartender.

"Oooh!" the ghost girl moaned, shaking the tatters of her shroud.

He might as well have set me up with a banshee. Sure, she's immortal, and I couldn't kill her even if I tried – that's a perfect match. But I'm not looking for communication this... spiritual.

The ghost burst into a heart-wrenching sob. I noticed the black mark of a noose around her neck. A date with a mute, depressed suicide victim – memorable, but I wouldn't call it pleasant.

After a stern talk with the bartender, I decided to go for a second date. This time, I was late, showed up in whatever I was wearing, and didn't have any high hopes.

She was already waiting for me. On her plate lay a barely seared steak the size of a small dog, and the aroma of meat mixed with the musky scent of a large beast. My date was strong-built, dark-haired, and her eyes glowed like will-o'-the-wisps. Even just sitting there, dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans, she exuded a provocative, almost obscene aura. Under her predatory gaze, I felt an urge to cover myself up.

I quietly sat down across from her. She was fully absorbed in devouring her meat, so the first minutes of the date were filled with silence, the sound of chewing, and the satisfied growling of my companion. Today, no crucifix would save the bartender. How on earth did he think setting up a vampire with a werewolf was a good idea?

The werewolf woman finished her meal, wiped her mouth and hands with a napkin, and businesslike asked, "Your place or mine?"

A wave of heat washed over me for a moment. So, this is what they mean by animal magnetism. I wasn't sure if she scared me more or attracted me.

"Vic," I finally managed to say, offering my hand. The girl easily pulled me from my seat, wrapped me in a strong embrace, and kissed me—hungrily, fiercely. I don't know what kind of creature she turns into, but that kiss made me think of praying mantis females. I mumbled something about needing to pay the bill and slipped away. In the bathroom, I managed to crack open a window, shifted into a bat, and flew tirelessly until I squeezed back into my apartment window. A werewolf in heat on the eve of a full moon? No thanks, there are more pleasant ways to end my unlife.

The bartender gave me a discount.

The next week, I met a very intelligent zombie, and we had a long conversation about the manifestations of primordial evil in cinema. But then her jaw fell off. I figured we'd stay friends. Online, preferably. You understand, the smell.

The mummy kept shedding sand, and she wanted to move in with me right away because she needed a cemetery registration.

The mermaid had an impressive chest and four thousand fry in a pond outside the city. I realized I wasn't ready for kids yet and pulled my flying-out-the-window trick again.

By the end of the week, I was fed up with blind dates. It's probably a foolish idea. We, who live in two worlds but don't belong to either, aren't meant to experience human happiness, love, or trust. We are eternal, lonely wanderers who...

Just as I was about to sink into those wonderfully dark thoughts, the phone rang, ruining the mood.

"Vic! Are you going to the witches' sabbath tomorrow?" came Max's voice on the other end. If we weren't creatures of the night, devoid of human passions, we might be considered friends.

"No, I'm not," I replied grumpily.

"Are you mad at the girls or something? They're just messing with you, man! Magic messes with their heads, you know, and they think casting an illusionof a beautiful vampiress over you for the whole night is hilarious. I'll tell them to stop picking on you. Come on, all our folks will be there."

I had to go. After all, the undead don't get many holidays: Walpurgis Night and Samhain—that's about it. Well, there's the winter solstice, but even vampires get cold in winter around here.

The wild days when sabbaths were held around a bonfire in the forest are long gone. The witches rented us a restaurant in the city center, hired an emcee and musicians to provide a little snack. The main course was six naked men laid out on the tables. A few years ago, the head of the coven declared that the tradition of sacrificing virgins was sexist and patriarchal, and to restore balance, only virgin boys would be offered up from now on.

Indeed, all our folks were at the sabbath. The maenads were already tipsy and were hurrying to drink more, eager to fall into their sacred frenzy and tear apart their offering with their bare hands. The witches occasionally cast spells on the guests, cackling loudly as snakes and toads spilled out of some poor soul's mouth. Yep, magic really drives them crazy. The vampiresses and demonesses sauntered around the tables, critiquing the anatomical features of the offerings with such expertise that it made me not want to approach them at all.

I found a corner in the banquet hall near the table where the least impressive of the boys was lying, and attached myself to a bottle. AB negative! The witches really know how to live it up.

"Tell me, my random companion, do you know what women want?" I asked the sacrifice. The boy mumbled through his gag and squirmed in his bonds. "Of course, you don't, or you wouldn't be here. You probably think I'm spoiled, surrounded by all these stunning women at the sabbath. But if you look closer, there's no one for me to choose from. The witches are insane, the maenads are alcoholics, and the succubi can't even pronounce the word 'fidelity.' I should probably seek someone like myself, but even then, I'm stuck: the older vampiresses are too cynical—they can't understand my tormented soul. And the younger ones don't seem eager to open their cold embraces to me. So, in a way, we're alike, you and I—both doomed to loneliness. Only your suffering will soon end, and I will be tormented forever."

"Is it really that hopeless?" I heard a teasing voice behind me. I turned around... and saw her. Pale skin, flawless, not a single imperfection. The perfect curve of her lips was maddening. A wild mane of untamed blonde curls. The curves of her figure under a simple silk dress stirred the imagination, but she wasn't provocatively sensual like the succubi. I didn't hear a heartbeat, but her smile revealed a row of perfect pearly teeth—she wasn't a vampiress. Her voice was melodic, yet there was no salty scent of seawater, so she wasn't a siren. How did she sneak up on me unnoticed? Could she be a dryad? Or something more exotic?

The rest of the night passed in a haze of her perfume. I was witty and charming; Olivia (that was her name) was feminine and enchanting. When the head of the coven invited everyone to enjoy the main courses, I offered the lady the first bite, but she declined, explaining that she doesn't eat humans.

We talked, laughed, and danced for hours. I had too much to drink, so I suggested we go back to my place. She laughed. Her laughter sounded like the delicate chime of Chinese wind bells.

"I'm not that kind of girl, Vic. How about we meet on Wednesday and catch a movie?"

On Wednesday, we watched the new horror film, laughing loudly at the ridiculous fantasies of the director and screenwriter. On Sunday, we went on a hunting spree targeting a street gang. Olivia didn't eat people, but she had no problem with killing them. The next Tuesday... Friday...

A month flew by faster than a moonbeam reaches the surface of a dark lake. I was in love and happier than any undead creature could ever be! Olivia combined the best qualities I had seen in both living women and the undead. The only thing that still bothered me was that I hadn't figured out what race she belonged to, and asking felt impolite.

During one of our dates, Olivia suddenly listened to something and said in a more serious, changed tone, "Vic, I need to introduce you to someone. Let's go."

Could it be... she wasn't single?

We rode through the city in a taxi, and my beloved was unusually quiet and thoughtful.

"His office is here, in this building," Olivia took my arm and confidently pulled me through the glass doors. The security guard at the entrance stirred for a moment, but she swiped a key card across the turnstile and chirped, "We're going to office 136."

The elevator played its annoying mechanical tune while I winced, looking at the mirror where only Olivia was reflected.

"Vic, meet my creator, Mr. Frank Stein!" she said, leading me to a desk where a silver-haired man in gold-rimmed glasses sat.

"Creator?" I asked, confused.

"Yes, that's right," the man firmly shook my hand with his square palm. "You can't say I'm Olivia's only parent, but I did develop her operating system."

"Operating system?" I repeated dumbly.

"Olivia is a T-69 gynoid model, specially designed with undead clientele in mind. You've been using the trial version. Would you like to purchase the full service package?"