Sympathy
The American dream. It was something Tera had heard about, passed down almost like an urban legend or the myth of Atlantis. Like Atlantis, Tera found no evidence that it ever existed. Before the I.I.s took over, almost everyone broke their backs just to make ends meet. In the slums, it was no different. In a way, the humans were no worse off than they were before.
People had believed in the American dream, however. The idea that as long as you work hard enough, you will succeed in life. And people still did. She saw it in their faces as she patrolled through the streets day after day. That’s why they were so willing to set up dinky little market stands. It’s why people sold the drugs everyone else was hooked on. It’s why people like Camila rented out her body. They were drawn by the hope that one day, things would be better, and this was just what they had to do until then.
That’s why Tera decided to follow up on the motel’s case. It wasn’t just about the money, or the drugs, or the illegal gun. It was about her dream being stolen. That “one day” being pushed back indefinitely.
Tera also hated the image of her slum dwellers like Camila had in their heads. They saw her as an appendage of the fascist system that kept them down. To them, she was there to steal their dreams and soil their hope. She wanted to prove them wrong.
Not all I.I.s hate humans, she thought to herself as she made her way into one of the few decent brick buildings in Slumside.
Even though Camila had cursed the cop out of her shack, Tera was able to get an overview of the prostitute’s recent clients. One of them lived in the brick building. It had once served as a courthouse or something like that in the pre-war world, but was developed into apartments considered “high end” in the ghetto. Despite all that, there was still cracked concrete surrounding the apartments and graffiti on the walls.
The doorbell buzzed when Tera pressed it and she reflected on its archaic design. They didn’t use things like this up on the Pavilion, where the rich I.I.s lived. They just knew when someone was coming over and responded accordingly.
“Who is it?” a voice came over the building’s ancient intercom.
“Officer Alvarez,” she replied. “We spoke earlier.”
“Come on up. It’s unlocked.”
Ben, the client Tera came to meet, greeted her when she arrived at his apartment. Despite the superior status the brick building possessed, the interior was just as pitted as the rest of Slumside. The banisters of the stairwell that led up to Ben’s home were all warped and rotted, as though someone had picked up some driftwood from an ancient naval battle and used that. The carpeting that lined the halls was speckled with holes where moths and rats had chewed through it.
The I.I.’s apartment, however, was at least halfway decent — compared to the rest of the block, that is. He still had some unsightly warped wood panels on his floor and ceiling, but he did what he could to cover it up with faded area rugs. There were even a few tapestries and art pieces that blanketed the walls, no doubt concealing some other disrepair. Tera’s gaze locked onto one as Ben welcomed her into his apartment.
It was of a young Native American woman, no older than sixteen, with the full belly of pregnancy. She was sort of scowling out into the room, as if Tera had intruded on a private moment.
Who would make such a thing? Tera wondered, thinking the piece a little grotesque.
Her host followed her gaze and gave a little chuckle.
“Passed down in the family,” he told her. “One of the few things my father left me before he was installed.”
“It’s strange,” Tera said.
“Why’s that?” he asked her.
“She just looks so upset,” Tera replied. “It’s not a very happy painting.”
“Nor was the Last Supper, but is it not still one of the great masterpieces?”
Tera didn’t say anything, instead looking around at the rest of his decor.
She could tell he put a great effort into the aesthetics. He had a loveseat placed before an exquisite cherry wood coffee table. An afghan blanket covered the back of the furniture. Across from it was an old-fashioned rocking chair. Tera could already imagine the terrible creaking that came from it.
He enjoys his superficial comforts, Tera observed. So like a human.
“I suppose you didn’t come to discuss art, though,” Ben said with an air of humor. He closed the door.
“No, I came to discuss the motel — ”
“Camila,” Ben corrected.
“Right,” Tera said, a bit annoyed. “Camila. And how do you know her again?”
Ben walked past her into the main living area and sat in the rocking chair. It groaned and squeaked even more than she thought it would. “Take a seat,” he said, offering the sofa.
She did so, making sure there were no hidden stains on the couch like there were in the motel’s shack.
“I’m one of her clients, as you know,” Ben said.
“So you pay her to — ” Tera started, leaving the rest of the sentence open for Ben to complete.
He did. “To share her body, yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask what you do during your… ‘sessions’?”
“We’d just talk, go out to dinner, that kind of stuff,” Ben replied.
“Talk?”
“That’s right.”
“I don’t understand,” Tera said.
“I don’t have complex needs, officer,” Ben explained. “Not everyone who pays a woman like Camila is a scumbag. Not everyone wants to do unsavory things with her. I just enjoy the companionship.”
“The companionship?”
“Sure,” Ben replied. “You must miss that kind of one-on-one intimacy, being an I.I. yourself. I get to feel what she feels, so I like to treat her nice. We’ll even see plays, whatever ones they’ll put on in town. I try to take her to the best
