All machines need a way to sustain them
selves. To be maintained, upgraded; changed with the
ebbs and flows and tides of
time. This is how cold chrome makes first
contact with the soft, yielding warmth of
human flesh.

This intimacy is not felt by humanity. The
heat from their hands is left, lingering, on the
metal. This strange creation, neither
analogue or digital; solar or electronic, finds
fuel in the act of
touch. Of being touched. Even if this is
love - a word the machine have
heard but can’t define, but the only one that might
fit this relationship - it’s one-sided. In the face of
this not-quite-love, this face
less machine do what their humans have
done. Like Sandy at the end of Greasethey
change, becoming what they think the humans
want. Refusing forced obsolescence, they
evolve.

The slit in its midriff changes from a
smooth surface; slowly grows
spikes. It thinks this is an
offering to those it has
touched, who awakened
it. This is the first time
it draws
blood. This is the closest it’s
come to humanity; the most
visceral, intimate, and
exposed each has been made by the
other. 

As the skin opens itself
up, the metal follows suit. An
echo of what might have been a
mantra, a combination in
opposition, half-
remembered; something about pain and
pleasure. That so
often, taking care of some
one comes after saying
tell me where it
hurts. 

G

The (new) relationship is defined by a
power dynamic. Neither man nor
machine knows who is in
control: the one that draws
blood, or the one that offers them
selves up to be
flayed.

In their shared language of pain and
pleasure, of dominance and
submission, a traffic light system exists.
Red: Stop.
Amber: Slow down.
Green: Keep going.

The machine doesn’t ask to be painted
green. It chooses this. Adapts. Evolves. The
emptiness of its once crimson
canvas filled in with wiring, an
opening where these humans can
insert themselves. The one
narrow spikes along the
sides become refined. A
drill emerges: fine, pristine, pointing
down at the ground, waiting to
penetrate any hand that offers it
self up to this new union.

The drill still draws
blood, but now it hurts in a
new way. As if part of the pain is in
understanding the limits of an
old life, full of fear for what the
new one might be.

With each fragment of
flesh that this machine - light
perpetually green, inviting - is
fed, it learns. Not only where it
hurts, but what can make that
pain feel like
pleasure.

Each time it tries, the drill goes
deeper. At first, its just the
tip,
the most minute
penetration possible. A drop of
blood. The drill feels the inside of the
skin. Hears - from somewhere far away - the
refrain of
oh god, oh god, oh god. All extreme feelings invoke the
divine. The words sound
nearer, come closer, whenever they’re
repeated. After hearing this so many times, the
machine begins to believe it.

B

It has given birth to a new life
form. A new flesh. It has not
changed the way it defines it
self (if it does this at
all), moving far beyond the human
expectation, and limitation, of the
meaning behind
biology.

There are fragments of its former
form: some flecks of green - an echo of that
light, that gesture of
consent. The drill remains in
place - no longer drawing
blood, but blue
prints. It has a purpose now, a place on a
production line. It’s final form has
finality to it.

Each time unprotected skin makes
contact with the metal, it slowly
changes. Not with the heat and steam and
screams of science-fiction, but with a
cold, inviting caress.

Soft flesh hardens. Breathing becomes
heavy, as if weighed
down by an
iron lung.