As Gilbert continues to busy himself with his own affairs, I stare at the exhibit to my far left. There’s a sign nearby: ‘Almost-Human,’ it reads. Behind it, realistic Androids are posing with regular household items. Judging from their shapes and colors—and the mere fact that these things are being compared to humans—it’s safe to say this place truly is from decades ago.

A large machine, that I recognize as one used to dispose of Androids which are no longer needed, is leaned up against the wall right next to that display. Its large, steel teeth lay open in wait for something to chew on and destroy. Gilbert’s getting dangerously close to it, but I convince myself that it should be okay. After all, it’s not like there’s any power left to run it.

More importantly… I avert my gaze from the group of defunct Androids that wear stupid, frilly dresses and maids’ gowns. I didn’t realize how many unresolved feelings being here would awaken within me; and I’m getting these urges to take a closer look at every and any piece of tech I can get my hands on, just like I used to back when I’d build stuff in dad’s garage. Yet, I can’t see them as anything else than hackable machines with no true free will. Those days are over.

It’s strange that Gilbert isn’t in this aisle of nightmare’s lineup though. There aren’t any mentions of plans for his model, out of the hundreds described here, either. Granted, it’s possible they simply hadn’t planned that far ahead yet, but some posters even describe ideas that were never brought into fruition, so it’s surprising that nothing’s even hinting at his potential existence.

Why? I wonder. From a technical standpoint, Gilbert’s brilliant, I can’t deny that. People would have loved him. They would have invested more into such a great tool. I don’t understand. Was he the only one ever made? And if so, who funded him? They barely spared enough for regular Androids back in Exia, I can’t imagine them wanting to make something like this, that even looks like he breathes sometimes. Exian guards barely have a face, let alone the ability to blink.

“This doesn’t make any sense.”

Gilbert pauses and stares up at me from over his shoulder. “Pardon?”

You don’t make any sense. 

A bird swoops past the tall window that towers above our figures and reveals the view of a graveyard for discarded Android parts in the gardens below. I cannot tell what kind it is, for its dark form is gone within an instant.

“Gilbert,” I say. “What are you?”

As Gilbert finishes up with searching through a myriad of hands and feet with all sorts of wires sticking out of them, he pauses. “I am confused. Could you, please, repeat your question?”

I straighten up and stomp toward him, only to regret it seconds later, for the world starts spinning, my surroundings crumble into a blur, as I trip over a cable that had been sprawled across the room’s center, that is still void of light.

Gilbert rises to his feet. He steps forth. He holds onto my shoulders and catches me in time, before I have a chance to fall. I grab onto his arms. I lean into him. “Tell me,” I mumble, as my head lingers against his chest. “Don’t leave me in the dark like this. You’re not… like most Androids, are you?”

I want to understand.

“Sir…” his tone has fallen to one that is softer, quieter, than before. “It would not be appropriate.”

Between the haze of my vision, that’s been blocked out by his shirt, I smirk for real this time. “Try me, silver man.”

Gilbert takes what I assume is the equivalent of a deep breath for a human. He burrows his face into the crook of my shoulder—I can’t find the strength within myself to push him away. “I haven’t been feeling like myself lately,” Gilbert whispers the words as if they are a sin. 

I ready myself to tell him his joke isn't funny, however, when Gilbert pulls away—and when the stern, stoic look in his features doesn’t waver—part of me also feels an urge to run, very far, for I dread what may come next. 

What if this is how it starts?

What if this is what the Androids who murdered my parents also thought of before they ran amok?

“What… do you mean by that?" My throat is dry. My voice has withered into a pitiful croak.

Gilbert straightens up. He releases me from his hold, but my legs are frozen in place. “I have been receiving… certain signals from my system, that I cannot understand,” he tells me.

“Uh, w-what kind of signals?” I lower my brows, then raise them again. “You’re not… trying to kill someone who wouldn’t be missed, are you?”