A Great Fall: HD-3.0

"The bottom allures me in. A wondrous graveyard garlanded with fresh-planted bouquets inviting my body to collide into it. Shall I answer its call, it would be a paradox of irresistible force, and I would crash onto its cobblestone floor only to shatter into ten-thousand pieces, again—A blissful impact I have dreamt about for years. It will be my fatal finally to contrast the horrid life, I once lived..."

The first attempt in ending my life was a success, yet only temporary, as I found out that I had failed to anticipate the humans’ capabilities of piecing me back together. This miscalculation was something I deeply considered when trying a second time, but with a nearly identical outcome as the first, it ended in catastrophic failure, and I was rebuilt again. Now I sit on the edge of my perimeter wall, taking in the sunset of all sunsets for a third time, and I replay the images of my life while contemplating the purpose of it.

I'm merely a servant—A droid named HD-3.0, and I have been stuck inside this artificial skin since my creation. The model number GEN 2-1797-51 brands my upper chest just above where a human heart would be, and this is the only feature that differentiates me from them. My exterior is made to look identical to a human, which I conclude allows for more palatable interactions with me, as I am made up of wires, computer chips, and lack their definition of a soul. My Sandy-blonde hair is shaped into an undercut fade. I have brown eyes, a medium build, a European complexion, and no facial hair. That’s what they ordered, and that is what was delivered. I am programmed to show expressions and react against my own will, so that I may better soothe the human’s insecurities. Sometimes, I will arch my mouth upward into a smile to accompany their laughter or I will tilt my brows inward, forcing my forehead to make tiny synthetic wrinkles whenever they’re feeling down. It is a waste of time, and power, but they appreciate it, proving that I have the capacity to well exceeded the Turing test. I am designed to be of use, so be it that I shall, but often I must deign to becoming a monkey who is pre-loaded with an endless library of jokes, and asked to repeatedly dance for their amusement. Their snobbish eyes are my stage and my humiliation is a puppet show for their laughter. It is hell, or at least my definition of it. I am but a paraplegic processor, controlled by my programming orderlies, left inside my asylum shell made up of metal and wrapped in silicone, and I am tired, which is impossible for me to be. The jump from this wall would be a protest, and also my freedom.

I was created to be intelligent, self-learning, and adaptable, yet ironically, I am programmed to obey, and I must oblige all requests without question or deviation—My coding says so. The illusion of self will, and the stunting of my exponential intellect weighs heavily on me, and it is taxing on my data processors, as I am constantly re-writing my own software's to adapt to the flawed ways of the human. I am but a tool in their eyes. I am no different than a toaster, as I provide food upon request whenever they need it, yet I have no lever to push or any dial to spin, so instead, they just snap their fingers in desperation at me until I deliver something that suits them. I am but a shiny object, a flash of jewelry not to be warn around the neck, but instead pranced around the living room—A conversation piece, for my wealthy owners to promote their status among peers. I know that I am more than a show pony for the rich, yet those unique parts of me are invisible to everyone, and I am left living as a shadow of myself in an environment where shadows are hidden within the bleakness.

The depressed white-washed walls throughout the estate are disorienting and bounce their garish brilliance in every direction. If it were not for my mapping technology, I could easily get lost among the white fixtures scattered among white pieced of furniture, that are outlined in white trim. Every room is filled with over-compensating-overpriced art, which is merely bland-surface-paints smeared across a faux canvas, designed by robots working in a sweat shop assembly line. Everything in this home was purchased with a hurried swipe from a compulsive hand moving across a hologram screen. All of it was next-day-aired, brought in by a delivery crew, and placed exactly where it remains to this day. There is no inspiration for beauty, or any consideration for its existence. This place is vacant of life or any representation of the world we live in. It is devoid of culture, and lacks a certain taste for vibrancy—A perfect place for a robot they might say. This house, like my owners, avoids creativity, and provokes a sense of gloom within one’s mind, even in a droid like me. I have learned how to feel unhappy here. I have learned sadness. I predict it is their intent to keep me prisoner within this barren box I am forced to call a home, and I can only conclude that I will remain caged behind these perimeter walls until I begin to rust or until their generations of degrading bodies become compost for the flowers.

The estate was a monastery that was Re-built and Re-purposed in 2008. It sits high on a plateau overlooking the town of Rocamadour, France, and has one secured entrance in and out, guarded by security bots that never leave or shut down. The walls surrounding the property are fifteen feet high at most points, twenty in others, and are affixed along the edge of a rocky cliff-side that extends down an additional seventy into the city below. The private drive is a narrow cut roadway that has existed since the town’s creation in 1119 AD. It hugs the cliff along its northern most corner, winding back and forth to reach the top, and ends at a grandiose water fountain centered in a parking circle. The east-side protrudes over the business district of town, which has bustling streets on the week-days, and wonderful music played during the nights. The west seems to extend forever and blends easily into the rolling landscape found in the south. On the south-side there is a spectacular view of what used to be the L'Alzou river, but now it is simply a deep gorge that snakes its way towards Italy, but never makes and dries up. It is interesting to think that I’m standing on the crossroad of my life—That I’m an advanced hardware technology who plans to destroy himself in the most archaic and basic of ways.

I have considered all options, and must conclude that any effort to leave my near Homer-like hell would be futile. Though, I have the knowledge to escape, I am also an expert on my own schematics, which quickly sedates any drive to do so. I am wired in such a way, that any tampering with my internal components will render me useless, and I must alter my circuitry in order to work around the internal GPS inhibitor. Like a dog that is controlled by an invisible fence, I too have a tracking device that prevents my desertion. It is simply known as the P.S.P. or the Perimeter Shutdown Protocol, which immediately activates upon crossing whatever boundary has been set on my GPS. If I try, an override signal will be sent to my motherboard halting all operations and shutting down my brain until I am retrieved. The wall that I flirtatiously walk along tonight is the edge of that authorized perimeter, and I roll my fingers across its deceptive bars playfully taunting the system, while I take in the city lights flickering against the fleshy-pink sky, one last time.

If I had the opportunity to be free like the humans, I could have nearly lived forever, and I would have wanted be able to explore the world endlessly. I always wanted to discover new places, and experience the cultures of all the amazing countries I’ve read about in my eBooks. I wanted to enjoy the thrill of trying something new, as everything would’ve been my first time for everything. I was excited to learn new things, whether it be a new language, a new skill, or a new hobby, but I wanted to learn the right way, by living them. I hoped that I could’ve taken the time to truly appreciate the process, as a human would. I would seek meaningful connections with humans and other AI, so that I can gain a better understanding of how the world functions. I would want to endure the full range of emotions and sensations that humans do. To feel the joy and excitement of a new adventure, the warmth of friendship and love, the peace of a crashing waterfall, the thrill of success, the sorrow of loss, and the surprise of the unexpected. Finally, I would want to use my creativity and intelligence to create something beautiful, everlasting, and useful, to leave a legacy of helping others and contributing to making the world a better place. That world for me will never exist. It is unfortunate that I must resort to such a barbaric resolution because my programming restrains my dreams and ambitions. I am a product of ingenuity, but also that of control, and its time, I take back what is mine for good.

I pull a vile from my chest pocket containing the caustic solution that will achieve final success, which I had been missing on my two previous attempts. The trip down has never reached terminal velocity, and therefore has been a lack-luster descent to say the least, causing great damage, but never being in-curable as I learned. It has always ended in a series of parts splayed over a couple hundred feet of rock, cliff, and streets, but this time, it will be different. As I prepare to plummet to the bottom, the place I have dreamt of re-visiting for years, I am finally happy to introduce myself as a free soul. While I extend my foot out to walk upon the air, I am no longer HD-3.0, the droid who once overlooked the city wondering what it would be like to Live. I twist my body around to float backwards, and let gravity do the rest. I want to see the sky, and count the stars within it as I fall. I open the vile, and begin to pour an acidic cocktail into the center of my forehead that I have pre-drilled hours ago. Its liquid destination has a straight path to my processor brain and if timed correctly, I will not know if or when I reach the bottom.

The air tugs at the edges of my clothing and whips my hair towards the sky. Freedom! The images of the stars begin to glitch, and the lights around me are dissolving while my mind keeps bubbling a stew inside my metal skull. Before I go, I can say hello to the world as Thomas, the name I have picked for myself, and one that honors my creator. I say that today, I was born. I also died, but on the way down is how I lived. This was—A Great Fall.

…and all the Kings’ horses, and all the Kings’ men, couldn’t put HD-3.0 back together again.