Valerie Briarwood…

The Creator stared at the holographic image of the woman who was supposedly connected to Bread’s kidnapping.

A Roscoerama champ and also known as Valkyrie—

“That boxer!” It was her! The same one from the match Bread was watching. How could such a thing happen? A coincidence of this caliber? No, this wasn’t a coincidence. Azan had somehow foreseen this. Somehow…

“Did you happen to figure something out, dear?” Mrs. Morgan placed a plate full of hash browns, eggs, and sausages his way. It was a complimentary breakfast like he’d hoped for. Of course, it wasn’t delivered in the way that he’d expected it to come.

“That’s none of your concern, but thank you for the food.” He looked over the food. It was well cooked. Above average, he’d say. “How did you manage to cook this without sight?”

“Oh, you get used to it.” She bashfully waved his compliment aside. “I cooked this same meal every morning for my son.”

“Your son?” He never thought she had a son. Not with the fact that this son of hers hadn’t even come home last night. “Where is he?”

“I’m glad you asked!” She reached over to one of her cabinets and brought over what looked to be a piece of rounded sheet metal. There were wires and cables jutting out from the sides, holes in various places. “Right here!”

“This?” He looked it over. It looked like junk—garbage you’d find outside the apartment. Why would she… He took a closer look. There was something familiar about it—holes that looked like eye sockets, a nose, mouth. He immediately knew what it was. It was a modified doll synthetic epidermal frame. Also known to common folk as, “A skinplate. How nostalgic.”

“Why, yes! You do know your stuff!”

The lump of scrap that Mrs. Morgan had been holding was a part of a mod doll’s facial frame. From the look of things, a Domestic Household Unit: First Generation model used as general AI replacements for family members, whether existing or not. But the product was beaten up, dented in all the wrong places, and completely rusted over. The entire body was also missing. This was essentially just the top part of the head piece.

“Aww,” she moaned. “Now that I’m holding him, I do miss him dearly.”

“You could just buy another one.” He could even give her one as payment for the food and stay. After all, he was one of the few who had directly worked on it. He could easily recreate another.

The project was supposed to have been his first start-up undertaking if it wasn’t for some obvious betrayals by the very people he’d trusted to help him create the initial concepts of Simular. But he was thankful it hadn’t worked out. He’d met Azan, and the rest had become history. If only Azan was still as understanding as he was in the past.

“I—Well, I-I thought about it, but…” Mrs. Morgan paused for a long while. “But that won’t really be him, will it?”

He didn’t take her for the sentimental type. From the way she enthusiastically brought the mod doll up in conversation, he’d expected a less emotionally affectionate response. From her reaction, it sounded more like she was still in the process of grieving.

“Why does that matter?” he asked. He was curious. “You could program the AI to be exactly the same as the old one.”

“It’s just… Well, I can’t do that, Gunther, dear.”

“Why not?”

“He’s still my son.”

Still my son… That was a phrase he’d often heard when he was young, but it was never something he’d enjoyed hearing.

If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

What even was a son to begin with? A blood relation? Purely societal? This old woman called a synthetic piece of scrap her son, but he himself had denounced Bread as his own. What even was the difference between the two? Was there even a difference to begin with?

Mother had said the same years ago…

…

“Why?” Mother looked him down. “Why would you do such a despicable thing, Gunther?”

“You wouldn’t understand.” Gunther stared back through the glass. Mother didn’t look so well, but that would only be for now. “I did this for you.”

“You keep saying that, but you’re in jail!” She combed through her hair, her fingers trembling with each stroke. “I don’t understand, Gunther. I didn’t raise you like this!”

“Raise me?” She truly didn’t seem to understand. “Raising me has nothing to do with this. I’m going through a breakthrough. You’ll see it—”

“You’re a murderer! You killed innocent people! Don’t you see that?”

“They were nobodies… And I didn’t kill anyone. They simply lacked the necessary survival instincts to survive.”

“Gunther, I—” She sighed, letting out a gasp of hot, breathy air. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t have the money to bail you out, but even if I did, I-I don’t even know if you deserve it. I just… don’t know anymore.”

“Azan’s got it under control. You don’t need to do a thing—”

“Listen to you! Azan this, Azan that! He’s a bad influence! I’ve been saying that for years and look where it’s landed you!”

“He’s my friend.”

“And you’re supposed to be my son, Gunther.”

“I know. That’s exactly why.”

“Gunther, you-you have to stop,” she stammered. “This is wrong on so many levels. I just can’t imagine my sweet, little boy turning out like… like this!”

“Like what?” He pushed her harder. It wouldn’t do her any good to hold in all that frustration. She had more than enough to deal with in her daily life than deal with his own minor mistakes. “Say it, Mother.”

“Like…” There was a moment of pause—hesitation, a slight wavering in her voice. But she finally said it. “Like a monster…”

It almost seemed like Mother was embarrassed. Was it about what he’d done? Or was this about him? If only she knew how much he’d done for her…

The human neural experiments weren’t for naught. It had helped fuel his research; it had helped with everything. It furthered humanity in so many ways that others couldn’t even fathom of pursuing solely because they were bogged down by some incomprehensible code of ethics. Humanity was stagnant because of their so-called emotions—empathy, kindness, respect. What did these things even do for them? Bring success? Hope? A brighter future?

No, it was all worthless.

Efficiency was supposed to be the key. If they were to follow all the rules and regulations of the world by the very people who struggled to even understand basic arithmetic, by the time this simulation tech was usable, he’d be long dead, and his mother would be the same.

“Mother,” he called. The glass between them—or rather transparent composite—was looking more and more like an obstruction. All he had to do was punch through the thin layer. He had the cyber-ups for it; he could show her how far above the law he actually was. “Trust me. I can give you your life back.”

“Gunther, please—”

“If you want to rest, then rest. If you want to enjoy, then enjoy. Why can’t you just accept the money that I send you and live a little? You don’t need to work.”

“It’s not about the money. And even if it is, I won’t accept something so dirty.”

“You sound spoiled—”

“Watch your mouth! I’m still your mom…” Her eyes were downcast, most likely worn out from all that rotten, everyday work. There was no joy in her face, no laughter to be seen. It had been that way for years. “No more. You can still save yourself from all this.”

“Why do you even care?” The words came out a lot harsher than he’d expected, but the realization didn’t stop his bitterness from seeping through. “Can’t you just be happy for your own sake? Why am I so important to you? Why is it so necessary that you care about me at the cost of your own sanity? You’ve done enough. I’m already twenty-nine. Is it not selfish that you’re still trying to mold me into somebody that I’m not?”

“Because…” she started. Her expression immediately changed. There was a shift in her demeanor.

He knew that look. He’d seen it a million times. It was unyielding, determined—a face only seen on victors. It was the look that had cemented the reason for his dreams being the way they were. A look that shouldn’t have belonged on some poor, everyday worker. A look that screamed, “I won’t give up.” And she answered—

“You’re still my son.”