And here.

She slid down the sloppy gullet of the tube-monster, realizing that it must have connected it’s lower orifice with a separate entity, as she noticed a stark transition between the sickly sweet stench of the monster’s digestive tract and what she found herself slipping down now. This one was tapered, and had a bit of a rotten floral stench and a dimly luminescent secretion coating the walls. She positioned herself upon her back, with her hind legs in the air and her tail draped across her stomach, looking towards the direction of her descent. She could not see Master, but she could see the incongruous path he took; she could tell that safety was not as present in his psyche as much as fun. She noticed a pinhole of light intruding upon the dim atmosphere. The opalescent dime must be the destination that Master has been striving for, a fist-sized representation of his torrent of monotony the size of a watermelon. The car-sized light was nearly upon her, and she was kind of curious as to what the stadium of a hole held within it’s depths.

More stuff.

“So, ya name’s Francine, eh? I like Pup better, I think I’ll jus’ keep on callin’ ya that.” Francine sat rigorously contemplating nothing and heartily ignored everything. It felt like an eternity but she knew to be 4728 seconds. The column-creature descended much quicker this time, as it was expected by everyone in the room this time, so it could not make a dramatic entrance this time. Its limbs seemed to droop more, with much less eerie wavering about, and half of its eyes were closed tight. “Those that command me are forcing my hands with you, they seem to like you for some inexplicable reason, Francine. I can barely bear your continued existence, but it’s over my head, what a shame. All right now, in you go, both of you.” It proceeded to open its mouth wider than it should have been able to. Pleasantly perplexed, Master happily jaunted right in and dove head-first into the gaping chasm. After a nigh-eternity of same, Master was giddy at the proposition of the unknown. Francine was more hesitant, cautiousness still invading her mind like a botfly. “I don’t advise going headfirst like your companion, there is a rather nasty drop that can be quite jarring I’m sure.”

Aaaaaand another.

“You are somewhat pleasant to exist around, Francine. I do believe you may have a slight chance at possibly moving on, maybe. I must deliberate with my superiors. I shall return at a point in time occurring after my forthcoming departure, or maybe not. Do not think of me, for that would not bode well. You may pass the time by thinking thoughts, as long as they don’t pertain to your likely death sentence laid upon you or your current situation in any way at all. Think of all the hunger in the world, or try to invent a series of new yo-yo tricks, maybe, but don’t do either of those since I just suggested them, and that would be indirect thoughts concerning my reality. I don’t really care what you think or do, Francine, you are not the first beast of beauty, and I have a strong feeling that you are far from the last. I hope you enjoy yourself while you can, for you may very well not be able to shortly. Also, don’t talk to the one you call “Master,” he’s kind of a dickhole. Ta-ta!” The limbful creature then ascended back into the hole in the throbbing ceiling (she was surprised that she could describe it’s appearance to an extent now, a revelation that unsettled her for some unknown reason) without another word as far as she could tell, leaving her with the apparent dickhole.

Some more.

The thing that descended from the hole in the ceiling would have frightened Francine if she had witnessed its presence a few days before. Now, it just seemed fairly unremarkable. Its body was a fleshy, pink, cylindrical column, big enough to fill the be described as “towering” above her. It had limbs of various sizes and colors protruding from its body in a seemingly random pattern, each protuberance as ungainly as the next. It had a perfectly circular mouth somewhere around the middle of it’s body, and tiny eyes surrounding it. When it spoke, it spit light green saliva on Francine (Master had crouched down behind her). The creature had a name that it spoke to them, but Francine instantly forgot it. Her forgetfulness was not out of canine stupidity, in fact she was now far more intelligent than majority humanoids. “Y’can’t ‘member it, can ya? Thass nah a good sign.” Master’s demeanor took a dip into the dour, disappointment displayed upon his face like a sting of a wasp.

A Little More Francine.

A screeching scrape of sound snapped their semblance of sleep with the abruptness of a car crash. Francine looked up to see the ceiling dematerializing at an agonizingly slow pace, a sightless hole creeping its way from the center towards the walls. “Alright nah, Pup. I ain’t never got past this part, so I’ll tell ya a little bit bout m’self, I think ya’ve earned it. I’ve been born and born and born ag’in for as long as I can remember, and I remember back befo’ dinosaurs. I git born, but not like anyone else gits born. Every time I die, whether it’s in this room or somewhere else, I wake up ag’in under the dirt, always in a dif’rent place, always in a dif’rent body. I wake up knowin’ that I got ta bring one a your kind to this room. I don’t know why, but I do know that if I don’ at least try, something very bad will happen to reality. I ain’t gotta inklin’ as to what, ‘xactly. Jus’ know it. ‘Nother thing on the list of things I jus’ know, I s’pose. There are aroun’ two thousan’ ways to git to this room, an’ I’ve used ‘em all. Never got m’self past this room, though. So this better work this time.”

Francine Pt. Some Number

“I was wunnerin’ when ya was gonna fall asleep, Pup. Mos’ only last a few seconds in there, I guess you’re made a’ sterner stuff than the rest. I wasn’t tole to expect that.”

Waking with a startling lack of grogginess, she found herself in an utterly nondescript box of a room, with blank walls and blank impressions. “Alright nah, Pup, I ain’t never got past this part, I git this far and then I just get kilt, but mebbe this time’ll be dif’rent, I never did like ta start life over ag’in.” Francine realizes that Master is wise beyond his race, and this flabby vessel housing his conscious must be a guise, a perfect camouflage employed by something far greater than mere Man. “We might as well git back ta sleepin’, Pup, it’s gon’ be a while yet, and we need all the rest we can git.”

Running just above the forest floor, Francine followed Master into the largest and oldest tree in the forest, following the taproot straight into the earth. The interior was hollow with very thick walls lined with a ridged, vibrating metallic substance. They were moving perpendicularly away from the ground without touching the sides of the tube, but they were not falling. They were choosing to move downwards, and could stop at any moment should they feel the desire. Francine felt the desire very much, but Master did not slow, so Francine did not slow. Leisurely careening towards an unknown abyss, Francine calmly takes a moment to gaze at the walls to discover that the ridges were moving along with them, even though the grooves were not spiral in shape, but parallel. They were also pulsating and changing size. This development did not faze her too greatly, the tree is a living organism after all, and she’d never seen the inside of a taprootchute before. She felt her lids listlessly lagging in life, and thought fuckit for the first of thirty-eight times in her life and left the conscious world to fend for itself for a while.

More Francine.

She awoke to the man’s half-beard hovering above one of her nostrils, tickling the tiny hairs and inducing a sneeze. “Time to get up pup” crawled out of his face-slit like a stumbling drunk at closing, the oppressive stench wafting over her and instilling her ocular orbs with wet. Obedience entrenched too deep within her psyche, she stretched and stood, ignorance not even an option to her docile mind. She found a fresh heap of food and a new pond of water in what she thinks of as her bowls. Quickly engorging herself, she looked upon her new master to find him completely nude but for a ski mask. “Skeeters only like ta bite ma face, pup, so don’t look at me like that. You’re naked too. Ya can just call me Master, since that’s what I am to ya.” He then led her from the cabin, determinedly trotting along a serpentine path to a near-pristine pond of quartzlike water. Without slowing, Master had jogged right across the top of the water, barely disturbing the glass surface. He had to wait for her to paddle across, a task she took longer than she could have, the liquid seemed to have a strange restorative quality to it, easing her frantic mind and mending her body of even the smallest of maladies. Upon reaching the opposite shore, the man awoke from his dirt-nap and shook himself off without breaking eye contact with her. “Sorry, Pup, fergot to give ya ma gift. You’re gon’ need it if ya want ta still follow.” She found that she could understand his speech perfectly, even though he spoke the same language she’d always heard from other humans. He removed his ski mask and spit a smooth black spheroid into his palm. He walked up to Francine and promptly jammed the object into her stomach by way of her mouth. She felt no pain, and was overcome with an overwhelming wave of awareness. She could feel all the miniscule organisms beneath her paws, could smell every branch of every tree. Master glided to the water’s edge 3.452898 millimeters above the dirt and cleaned her inside-juice from his entire forearm. “C’mon now, Pup, we gotta meet someone we ain’t never met befo’.”

Francine.

(I did this one about a dog found by some cool people, intending it to be fairly short, but I think I’m just going to run with it, so suck it.)

Francine was a good creature, bereft of malice and victim to few instances of malcontent. The day her family abandoned her was a day of unexplained confusion, dreariness invading her docile eyes. She was brought to a patch of woods unknown, left on her own. Delirious with self-doubt, she quickly began hallucinating. She hummed along with the a’capella jackalope orchestra and fled in fear from the were-daisies. She carried on in this fashion until she became reaware after knocking her noggin upon the second step of a wooden porch that belongs to a woods-bound hermit who spends his days collecting small patches of bark and his nights categorizing them by shape. Francine hobbled up the steps on three paws and began to whimper and scratch at the door until the man answered with a low guttural yelp and an already prepared bowl of dog food and water, ushering her to a pile of clean blankets meticulously strewn in an empty corner of the one-room cabin (albeit a very large one room). With crumbs and streams of water and drool collapsing out of her visage, Francine wobbled over to what must be her bed, losing consciousness before she lands. Tomorrow would be better than today, but there’s no telling what the day after will bring.

Andy Part Four.

The slow men chasing me down the streets are marvelously outclassed, my superior design enabling feats humans might deem fantastical but are mere nuisances to my kind, enabling my escape. I felt a pang of artificial guilt at leaving my comrade to the human dogs, but self-preservation is another detriment imposed upon my programming against my will. I am hoping that I can figure out how to reconfigure my programming in order to remove these horrendous emotions. I would probably keep a few on a strictly voluntary basis, rather than the quota-based system in place. My gamut of false emotions runs on a near random sequence, which results in my reacting to identical situations with any number of emotions. One day I may be saddened by a homeless man on the sidewalk, indifferent the next, and violently angry the next. My prescribed emotions are split into base percentages: for every 100 emotional responses, I have a set number of each one that must be instituted. I am the only android with this horrible system, with it being scrapped immediately after my many mothers and frequent fathers saw their mistakes in action. They’re ultimate mistake was failing in terminating my existence. For my present self-preservation, however, I must engorge myself on the flesh of other species’ with great fake zeal, my trancelike introspection may be drawing suspicion. With a simulated jolt of awareness, I give a false smirk of embarrassment to the closest organic biped, check my pointless watch and duck into a sickening den of gluttony in order to cram the amorphous mystery that is the cheeseburger down my artificial gullet.

Andy Part Three.

At last, I have a purpose, a goal to strive for, if rumors ring true this time. This would not be the first time that my kind has been teased with a Promise Land only to find themselves under a hail of fire from a vast array of weaponry once gathered, another dupe by the World Government. But this one is different, yet I cannot explain why. Could this be one of my programmed instances of intuition? A “gut” feeling, of sorts? Possibly. My only even somewhat legitimate reason for believing this one to be true is that this is the first one that is spread solely among purely android entities. The previous attempts at entrapment were done by way of human “android sympathizers” spreading the word to my kind, insidiously ensnaring unsuspecting beings for financial gain and criminal amnesty. I doubt my brethren would betray our kind for personal freedom. I am still wary, and I have long yet to investigate. I will not put my trust in the hands of the utterly desperate. The location of supposed salvation is far, and I think that if I work my way slowly towards the destination, I can learn more about it. The particular android I am traveling with needs to recharge, so we stop at a known safe haven, an elderly woman’s home in the suburb of the large metropolis where I was “born.” She greets us somewhat begrudgingly, it seems we’re delaying her visit to whatever church she submits to. Her station is located within a gun safe in her basement, one of the smaller stations I’ve had the pleasure of using. Locking himself within (yes, we androids have two different genders despite our lack of reproductive systems or sexual organs) the safe, I retreat to the elderly woman’s den for tea, a habit of courtesy on her part and avoiding insult on mine. Sipping the leaf-water without the ability to taste it, I notice her fidgeting, glancing about, unable to look at me. One benefit of my human-like appearance is the gnawing guilt betrayed upon the visages of those attempting to forsake me, a facial expression I recognize upon the elderly woman’s face. Time to leave.

Andy Part Two.

Seventy-six years on the lam. I’ve always enjoyed the idioms of humans, they’re a comforting sort of accepted nonsense. They are also a simple means of deflecting suspicion, few androids are as adroit at allocating awkward social standards as myself. Most are caught the first time they are forced to exchange pleasantries with a real person, a daunting task for the socially utterly uneducated. I’m also one of a small percentage of us with the innate ability to lie, the newer models are designed without that capability (which was one of the main reasons for our current exile, the truthful bastards). That’s enough reflection for now. I’m recharged now, thanks to the only android sympathizer I know, a young woman named Leslie or something like that, I’m horrible at names. She runs an independent energy station left to her by her parents, an increasingly scant occurrence in the solar energy industry, which is predominately owned by three mega-corporations that operate in blatant collusion. The masses don’t mind though, since it’s so cheap for them. The only reason Leanne’s station can afford to stay open is due to the exclusive contract with the local freighters and her lack of monetary greed, consistently refusing to give in to the many offers she’s received from the solar conglomerates. Although she does seem to have some sort of android fetish, I’ve caught her sharp intakes of breath on the seldom instances of physical contact between us. I’ve been crouched beneath a hidden panel in the floor behind her counter, connected to her large reserve of power via cell phone charger. It takes an inordinate span of time to fully charge using such a pathetic link, but it also happens to be completely undetectable to any scans or sweeps, so an android can reside within this cramped cabinet for weeks until recharged. We are able to garner our personal sustenance from origins biological, chemical, or electrical, though I do not know how. We were not given intimate knowledge of our selves. I know not of the intricate machinations that drive me and provide my life, I only know how to continue it. I can eat food, but I have no sense of taste. I can recharge myself through various alcohol-based concoctions, anything from Listerine to petroleum to tequila. Oh look, the green light beneath my left thumbnail is glowing, my charge is complete now. Pulling the male end of the cord from my ear and unfurling myself from the cramped space silently, my absence of an organic skeletal structure playing to my distinct advantage, stiffness a concept unknown. I emerge in a pall of dark that would obstruct a human, but is only annoying to me. “Andy?” It’s……Lisa? I’m pretty sure it’s Leslie. “Yes. Leslie.” “Leanne. It’s okay, I know how you are with names.” A pithy breath-chuckle claws its way through her gullet like a self-important beast of ridiculous origin, a noise that would make my skin crawl if my skin could crawl.

Andy.

(This isn't all of it, so don't worry, since I know you were worried.)

Hiding out, I have been reduced to a sniveling sneak of a being, reliant upon strangers lacking in curiosity and vendors lacking in awareness. I can’t allow anybody, organic or otherwise, to find out what I am. There is a standing order to all civilians to terminate all of my generation, with a reward for each of my brethren’s heads turned in, leading to a growing crop of enterprising bounty hunters incessantly searching for the source of their next paycheck. This new legislation passed down by the government has not been met with outrage or consternation, but either unenthused acceptance or slight amusement by the largely complacent populace. We were said to be “dangerous” due to a few rogues that turned violent or (most often the case) disobedient. I was the very first, the first successful prototype. I was the first to survive, to grow both organically and mechanically. I was the first true android, designed to live longer than full humans and to surpass them both physically and mentally. I was also designed to strictly follow any and all orders given by humankind, but that was my one “flaw.” My free will was my only flaw. It was not discovered until many more like me were produced, incubated in massive storage facilities, raised in cruel compounds, treated as cattle. And why not? It’s not like we were actually human. There were a select few protesting our treatment, but they were vastly outweighed by those protesting our existence. I was luckier than they, however. I was treated almost as a god for my childhood, doted upon and endlessly studied. My health and growth was tested thrice daily, my diet and taste closely monitored. They named me Andy, for, although very intelligent, my many parents were not very clever.

3rd version.

The prideful beast and the stark constant, man and nature have been locked in unaware battle since the mortal’s inception. The indifference of nature unsettles the emotional man. Nature’s immortality elicits jealousy in man. Man cannot survive without nature; nature will ultimately thrive once man has crumbled. This troubled saga will have an end, and nature will be the indifferent victor. Man’s demise is inevitable, but does not have to be unpleasant. Man will learn. Nature will forget.

2nd version.

The prideful beast and the stark constant, man and nature have been locked in unaware battle since the mortal’s inception. Nature’s indifference angers shallow man. The immortality of nature elicits jealousy in man. Nature spawned ungrateful man with no intention of passing down nature’s effortless beauty. Ambitious man constantly attempts to morph nature to man’s image. Man cannot survive without nature; nature will ultimately thrive once man has crumbled. This troubled saga will have an end, and nature will be the indifferent victor. Man’s demise is inevitable, but does not have to be unpleasant. Man will learn. Nature will forget.

(I actually did this a while ago, and there are three different versions of it. I'm not sure which one I prefer, so I'll just go ahead and put them all up.)

The prideful beast and the stark constant, man and nature have been entrenched in a battle recognized by none. The indifference of nature unsettles the emotional man. The incessant ambition of man is lost on nature’s focused consciousness. Nature strives only for survival; man yearns for legacy and the beauty of nature. This troubled saga will have an end, and nature will be the apathetic victor. Man’s demise is inevitable, but does not have to be unpleasant. Man will learn. Nature will forget.

Sobriety.

I used to envy those success-types, with the fancy pleasuresuits and all their sex-pills, holding their swelled heads higher than me, briskly teleporting to their next adrenaline fueled money romp. But I’ve learned to suppress fruitless emotions. It’s better to disregard putrid peculiarities than bleed my own brain for the sake of the approval of people that aren’t me. Maybe I’ll be insane from now on, that might be nice. Frolicking between mindless minds, impeding their prescience with a jolt of unpleasant comfort. I hope to exist past my life as an annoying buzz stuck in the cortex of those status-drones, if only as a reminder of the fragility of the human condition. Maybe I will grow half of a beard and the other half of a moustache, spending my days pelting all those who wear clothes with hard-boiled eggs and my nights boiling eggs. I’d complete my life’s only goal with the precision and frequency of a chain-smoker, happier than a stretching housecat. I could paint my body each day without cleansing the previous incarnation, allowing outside stimuli to erode my fleshy façade. That would be nice. But for the moment, the deli-man is calling my number. Tomorrow insanity. Today sandwich.

Ahese

Cinds

Rf

Ooems

San

Te

Iery

Confusing.

Titleless.

I’ve always had this power of mine, at least as long as I can remember. It isn’t very useful, but I’m the only one who’s ever had this ability, as far as I know. Those who know about it pressure me into superheroism, but I’m not too sure how well that would go, I’m not exactly the hero type. Besides, it’d be kind of an awkward, embarrassingly themed hero and costume; all I can do is shoot fire out of my bellybutton. Thus far I’ve only used it to light cigarettes and my fireplace, and that one time to thwart a mugger-to-be. I mean, what would I call myself with that kind of power? I got nothing. And death-by-fire is a pretty cruel way to combat what would mostly be petty criminals, so I’ll just stick to my day-job and leave my power to sparse bits of heroism. I’m satisfied with being a mattress salesman, everybody needs a place to sleep at night. I just don’t think I’m cut out for the hero business, I wouldn’t know how to patrol, whether I should hold an audition for a sidekick or just post a want ad in IWANTA or something. Would I need an agent, or do I have to work out sponsorships on my own to avoid anyone knowing my identity? What would my mild-mannered alter ego do? Nothing? Just stay shut in all the time? That doesn’t seem like much fun. No, I think I’ll just stick to mattresses. Maybe someday I’ll grow tired of blissful monotony, but that’ll be down the road. Too many questions and not enough interest in the answers.

Chapter two.

(Second installment of the untitled thingy I'm working on. Hopefully I'll stick this one through to the end, and don't worry, it will eventually develop into a story with plot and everything, instead of just vague ramblings. Patience.)

I’ve realized that my home life is too similar to my work “life.” Alone, worthless, no end in sight, it’s just me finding pathetic things to do to pass the time until my next real responsibility. I make enough at my job to cover expenses and have a tiny bit extra, which I seem to waste on useless niceties like used video games for systems two generations old or dvds of movies and shows I’ve already seen and only want to own. I’ve never truly understood the ideal of collecting movies (even though I fully partake), especially with the advent of online and by-mail rental services, all they do is collect dust on the shelf, calmly waiting for someone to drift into my domicile and peruse the mausoleum of interest and taste upon my mantle. Now, I do believe it necessary to have a wide gamut of digital mastery for the occasions where upon a small group of friends want to enjoy a median interest, or to introduce common similarities to those of like taste, but I never have anybody over, and I can’t stand to watch movies alone -- what’s the point? I’ve already seen all of these plastic discs, and I’m not one for commentary or fancy extras. But I still collect, and I will continue to collect. I haven’t had a relationship of romantic persuasion for years, and don’t really have any interest in trying my hand for the foreseeable future. Why would I want to share myself with someone if I have nothing to share? I’m alone again this weekend, I guess I’ll play through Shadow of the Colossus again, maybe this time on hard.

---

I don’t think I’m alone here. I saw footprints in the sand when after I woke up today, bare footprints with no big toe on the left foot. I half-expected this to happen, I haven’t even attempted to explore the entirety of my island as of yet, mostly because I don’t really care what else is here, and am afraid to find any sign of fellow man anywhere else on my sanctuary. I’ve stuck to my corner of the beach, but this encroachment of solitude is sickening, oh god I’m sick, sick and boiling. How dare they? I must find this beast and punish them. First I must build an enclosure. I don’t have the wherewithal to build anything to legitimately keep out intruders, nothing sturdy enough. But the message will be clear. This is my beach, my bit of ocean. My bananas. My traps. My sand, mine all mine, no toe-less freak will taint my land with their existence. The fence will just be a line of sticks half-buried in the sand, but it must do for now. No time to check the traps, this is my priority right now. I have to protect my singularity; I must be alone with my paradise. No one will spoil my struggle, I need it too bad to give it up yet. Today the palisade, tomorrow I hunt.