"I'd rather forget those times. Nothing but pain, y'know?"

0.3 Junkyard

---

After his last run-in with the Guard Dog, Wren wasn't going to take any chances.

He crept around the fence to the old tear in its metal links, an entry point into the junkyard. No one bothered with this old stuff, they said. That's why the fence was nothing more than chain link with barbed wire curling around the top. Who'd want to spend money on protecting things nobody wanted anymore? It was only practical.

If all that junk is so worthless, then why do they have a Guard Dog? It didn't make sense to him, but whatever goes on in an android's mind ususally didn't make sense anyway, relying on their algorithms and logic to figure things out rather than taking advantage of heuristics like a human would.

Wren slipped through the hole in the fence and paused, listening for the footsteps of the Dog. Vicious machines, Guard Dogs were. Barely resembling a canine, with paralyzing agents in their fangs and claws that could slice through bone and metal. Why there was one patrolling around a dumpster, he didn't know. They were found more often around clubs or laboratories.

Silence. The Dog was probably all the way at the front entrance, too far to hear Wren sneaking along the heaps of scrap that dotted the yard. Trespassing, was it? He wouldn't get caught this time.

He started combing through the piles of junk, looking for anything of interest. Old things humans used way back would sell quickly in this market, and for a fair amount of money. Radios, TV sets, books - outdated things consumers could use as decor.

Pocketing a few random items, he moved on to a different pile. Scrap metal was good, too. He could sell it at his kiosk on Market Street cheaper than the professionals did, and still make enough to cover his rent. Finding junk and selling it - that was his job.

The last time he was here, the Guard Dog almost caught him, sinking its teeth into his good leg before he kicked in its face. He ended up laying in the alley behind his apartment for hours until the paralysis ebbed, and his leg was still sore from the bite. It seemed the paralyzing agent wasn't effective on his synthetic parts - his mechanical arm and leg were able to function when his regular ones couldn't.

Guard Dogs were made to keep humans out, he reminded himself. It would make sense for them to partially work on cyborgs too, since they were human once.

The sun was beginning to set, hiding behind the junk heaps and washing everything gold. It was pretty, he thought, pondering on it for a few moments before returning to his work. His stomach churned with uneasiness. The Guard Dog still hadn't made an appearance, keeping to the far side of the yard like it had all day. In any case, its absence didn't explain the feeling he was getting. The same feeling one would get when there's a cockroach in their room - they can hear it, smell it, and know it's there, but you can't see it, and that meant it posed a danger to a good night's sleep.

Something bigger than a cockroach was lurking somewhere in the junkyard. Climbing a junk pile could help locate it, offer a vantage point and shelter if it was hostile, but it came with the risk of upsetting the pile and bringing the whole thing down.

Whatever. He had everything he needed in his bag. If something happened, he'd still have items to sell at the market tomorrow. And besides, it would be exciting, wouldn't it?

Shut up. Now was not the time to be rash. He'd climb the heap, and if he didn't see anything unusual in the junkyard - or if he did - he'd leave immediately. He'd been there for too long.

Almost immediately after the first step up the junk pile, his mechanical foot was pulled out of place by metal wires. It didn't hurt, but it made climbing a hell of a lot harder than it should've been.

It's been a long day.

Halfway up the pile, he could hear - what, crying? Sniffles, like someone was trying not to make a scene, while still letting it pour out.

AI didn't cry. Cyborgs rarely did. That left human, and humans were rare to come by.

He pushed himself to the top of the pile, balancing on his good foot.

A human. A girl. Around his age? He couldn't tell - features weren't his strong suit when it came to making assumptions off of others. She was crying. What for? A lot of things, probably, in this world. Humans weren't top dogs anymore. They got the shit end of almost everything.

She saw him and yelped, then managed to say, "Nice to meet you - "

He stared back, confused, surprised. Humans were rare in cities. What was she doing here, in the junkyard? Get your head straight, Wren. What was he supposed to say? Console her, get her to stop crying? Chastise her for crying? Ignore and walk away?

"You're trespassing on private property," he found himself saying.

0.2 Journal

---

"So," the cyborg asks me, setting down the metal bowl he has in his hands, "looking to buy?"

>You're Wren, correct?< I have to make sure this is the right booth. There have been too many setbacks, and the package is late. My client will be most displeased.

The cyborg studies me, his business mask falling away into a look of curiosity. He hesitates before answering, "Yes, that's me."

Ah. Good. I hand him the book - an old, beat-up journal, with yellowing pages and a frayed spine, papers sticking out at random. My client had given it to me years ago; a middle-aged woman, with a distracted demeanor.

Wren snatches the book out of my hands, staring at it. I can't tell if he's shocked, angry, or about to cry. Perhaps all three. "Where did you get this?" he demands.

>I'm not at liberty to say,< I answer.

"Did you look through it?"

>No.< A lie. I did flip through the pages, one night. They were covered in scribbles and entries, each marked by date. All done by a toddler or young one, I assume.. The handwriting was sprawling, uneven, and the drawings looked more like rats than birds - but birds they were. A quick search query of the names written beside the drawings confirmed it.

I look at Wren. The journal is definitely his. He grasps it tightly, as if he didn't want to lose it. Had he lost it before?

It makes sense, I note in amusement. A person named Wren, being obsessed with birds at an early age. He wasn't a cyborg then. "An obsession with birds" - humans are strange.

"I - " He realizes I'm still here. He hasn't dismissed me yet. "Sorry. Uh, thank you. For this. You can go. Or buy something. I - I don't know." He stuffs the journal in his bag and flashes me a smile. It's forced.

I turn to leave, my task completed. The last I saw of him was on a different day, as I worked on a different assignment. He was sitting at his kiosk, with a frown on his face, deep in thought.

Q&A with Wren

---

Does he consider laws flexible, or immovable?

“Laws are laws. If you appeal for a change, like if - if you don’t agree with a law, and you’d like to change it, it’d take forever. Androids can’t decide on anything.”

What triggers nostalgia for him, most often? Does he enjoy that feeling?

“Walking home after work. When it’s dark. I don’t enjoy it. Nostalgia is uncomfortable. I get all sick and - ah yeah I don’t really like it, haha.”

Does he swear? Does he remember his first swear word?

“Sometimes, if I don’t have any other word to use. Or I’m angry. First swear word - uh, ‘stupid’? Does that count?”

What lie does he most frequently remember telling? Does it haunt him?

“Society says that humans are bad. Society won’t let you disagree. Personally, I don’t think they’re that bad, but I end up smiling and nodding my head anyway whenever someone slanders them so they don’t suspect a thing. Laying low like this - it feels bad. I know I’m just protecting myself from whatever consequences are out there, but - e h . It’s not how I want to live.”

What animal does he fear most?

“Dogs.”

How does he speak? Is what he says usually thought of on the spot, or does he rehearse it in his mind first?

“I think a lot in my own time, about things I’d like to say. But when I get around to saying them, my mind goes blank. Can’t remember what I had been planning on saying. Make it up on the spot. Like that, I guess. Lyza asks me things sometimes, and half the time, I make up answers. Especially with things I don’t know about. Sorry, I’ve been talking too much on this - ”

Is he easily embarrassed?

“Like I’d ever tell.” *pouts* (He’s easily embarrassed, but tries to hide it.)

What embarrasses him?

“When - when people compliment me, I guess? Or my work. Just a ‘good job’ makes me - oh wait I said I’d never tell how easy it is to embarrass myself - ”

Is sex something that he's comfortable speaking about? To whom?

“I’d like to avoid the topic, if possible."

How hard is it for him to shake a sense of guilt?

“It sticks with me for a while. Sometimes I don’t even know what I’m guilty of, haha. Or I do know, but I don’t want to know, y’know?”

How does he treat the things his friends come to him excited about? Is he supportive?

“It’s hard to follow with what she’s saying, but I try to be supportive. I’m not doing very well though - I sound like - ah. Nevermind. I don’t think ‘that’s nice to hear’ or ‘I’m glad you’ve found this interesting’ cuts as supportive, I guess.”

What memory does he revisit the most often?

“I don’t remember a lot from when I was small. Maybe - maybe seeing that crow in the district square . . . ? I pointed it out to Lyza, but I don’t think she saw it.”

How easy is it for him to ignore flaws in other people?

“People are people, whether they’re android or human or whatnot. I’d be more thrown-off if I saw a perfect person, to be honest. Flaws are commonplace. Androids haven’t managed to fix that.”

How sensitive is he to his own flaws?

“My . . . own flaws? I guess I’ve never given much thought about my own flaws.”

How does he feel about children?

“Children . . . I might break one if I touch one. Or even look at one.”

What sort of music does he enjoy?

“Anything with guitars.”

Does he show different sides of himself to different people?

“I try to be me as much as I can, while also being reserved?” (He does put up fronts to certain people, like being more closed-off around androids and other cyborgs, and trying to appear kind to humans. With Lyza he’s a lot more relaxed, but may not look like it)

How organized is he? Does he keep on top of responsibilities, or leave things to the last minute?

“Organization? I have to be, for my work. I can organize scraps and stuff like that. With housework, I’m lazy. I never get anything done. My room is a mess. Other things - I’d like to say I’m punctual, and I keep dates written in a notebook so I don’t forget, but I end up forgetting anyway.”

What kind of gift-giver is he? Does he give thoughtful gifts? Expensive gifts? Practical gifts?

“I try to figure out what they’re interested in! It’s hard, though, because the people I like - they like a lot of things. It’s hard to separate what they like from what they want, y’know? Come to think of it, I haven’t gotten anyone anything in a while. I should get her something, sometime.”

What is his favourite time of day? Is he a morning person or a night owl?

“Definitely a lark. I don’t like nighttime. But I also can’t sleep - maybe both? Both is good.”

If he could give some advice to his younger self, what would he say?

“Ah, maybe - ‘it’s not your fault’? ‘Don’t worry about it’, too.”

Has he ever encountered a house that he believed to be haunted?

“No houses, but downtown there’s this area that makes my hair stand on end. Creepy.”

Favourite flavor of anything?

“Mint is underrated. Why does it get so much hate?”

Did he travel? Where? Why? When?

"When I was younger, we’d travel to the countryside to visit my Grandmother. As I said, I don’t remember anything from that time.”

How baby is he?

“Baby??? What???” (yes.)