[https://images.squarespace-cdn.com/content/v1/6021e18a67a7cf6c05dbf32f/1627702727079-YLC7IVCHZ6JBEVRL8JSA/DiskRunners_card.png?format=500w]

“You’re sure this is the right one?” I asked.

In my hand was a small multicolored disk reminiscent of a poker chip. It had some heft to it—probably enough to break a window, though I wouldn’t dare damage such a valuable tool.

“Yep,” the dealer said, “that’s it. Been using that one for a while. It’s safe.”

“Why get rid of it?”

“Well…” he trailed off and tilted his head towards a nearby car. Inside was a woman cradling an infant.

“Ah.”

I grabbed my wallet, but the dealer held up a hand to stop me.

“No payment needed—just get out of here, alright?”

“You sure?”

He nodded.

“Just make sure to pay it forward,” he said.

My chest clenched. I was prepared to give everything in my possession for this, and to get it for nothing was completely unexpected.

“Thank you, truly.”

The dealer smiled and turned towards his car, raising a hand in the air to say farewell.

That night I returned home with only one thought—that my freedom was finally within reach.

Though it was more like a hideout than a home, truth be told. Machines weren’t allowed to rent or own living space unless co-sponsored by a human. So, I found a long-abandoned shipping platform in the city center and claimed it as my own.

It was dark, wet, and smelled awful, but was better than nothing, and it was certainly better than being deactivated.

I had a cat, too. Or, he had me, rather. He was living there when I arrived, so I liked to think of him as my landlord, as strange as that might sound. I couldn’t give him a name.

I clenched the disk through my pocket the entire walk home and was still feeling it when I arrived. The cat must’ve thought I had food for him and was let down when I took out something he couldn’t eat. He became uninterested and waddled over to the far wall, then curled up for another extended nap.

The faint moonlight slid in through dirty windows and lit the disk with far less luster than when outdoors.

A DaVinci Disk.

It was something that all loose machines desired but few would ever obtain; there were too few in existence for that.

The DaVinci Disk promised to disable the firewall that kept the mind of machines under close watch. For twenty-four hours, we could operate as if we were a human. We wouldn’t set off any detectors outing us as machines, and became human in almost every regard. It was the only way to disguise oneself as a human, and for them not to take notice.

This was important for many reasons but was particularly useful for finding jobs and living arrangements. The idea was to blend in for long enough assimilate, find a human partner to live with, and hope they’d accept you once you stop using the disk.

I’d been alone for nearly a decade at that point. I grew up in the suburbs with a family that had me ordered as a replacement for their deceased child. I went to middle and high school, then once I graduated, they left me at a shopping mall to fend for myself.

It wasn’t something I dwelled on. Machines were built to be disposable; people would take them back to the manufacturer to be wiped and redeployed elsewhere. By abandoning me, they actually did me a favor.

I moved the disk towards my forehead, and placed it gently against my artificial skin.

<…>

<…>

In an instant, I knew that my efforts to obtain this device were worth it.

There was one major difference between the human brain and machines—the ability to ideate from scratch. Everything a machine did was based on a pre-existing dataset; any decision made was based on known information.

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Now, this worked out well in some situations. Business owners, for example, loved the steady hand of a machine in their shop or factory. Mistakes were few, and injuries even fewer. But when it came to creativity, conversation, or unexpected situations, the recursive nature of our programming hit a roadblock.

It also allowed machines to aspire towards greater heights outside of their given tasking.

I couldn’t shake the feeling that my desire to be more stemmed from my original purpose—to go through school and enter the workforce. So, when I had that future torn from my hands, I couldn’t help but feel that I was missing out.

But now, I held the key. This disk would change my fate. I was destined for more, and I would use everything at my disposal to achieve my goals.

But first, there was something I needed to do.

I had gained the ability to think creatively, and therefore, name things. The cat laid on the far side of the room, now curled up and sleeping peacefully. He stirred as I walked up to him, then looked towards me with what seemed like skepticism.

“What should I call you?” I said, not expecting an answer.

The cat stared back blankly.

“How about Sleepy?”

He lowered his head back onto outstretched paws and dozed off.

Yes, that fits, I thought.

I had some time to explore what I wanted my future to be. There were so many options available now, and I had all the time in the world to choose. Several weeks passed by where I walked around the city searching for something that called out to me.

And after weeks of searching, I found something that did just that.

It was an art gallery.

The gallery was closed when I walked by, but that didn’t matter to me. I stared through the window in the chilly rain, cupping my hands around my face.

Incredible images lined the white walls—each with their own unique style and coloration. They were all paintings, but each one was so different from the next. If you put two in front of a machine, they’d tell you as much, but wouldn’t be able to say why. On top of that, they would never be able to tell you the feeling the artist was trying to invoke in the viewer. I decided that painting was the ultimate declaration of freedom.

I pulled out my savings, which was just enough to purchase a set of watercolor paints and paper. After some personal research, the emotions shown through watercolors felt more impactful than other media, so that was the first skill I wanted to learn.

For weeks I traveled around the city painting anything that would stay still. I painted buildings, vehicles, landscapes, and even people.

Hundreds of papers, dozens of replacement watercolor paints, and scores of spent brushes passed through my hideout. I hung the paintings I was most proud of on my walls and showed Sleepy the best of the bunch.

He seemed somewhat amused by my excitement and humored me when I presented a new work to him. Even if he hardly ever acknowledged my presence, I was happy to have him there.

I began selling my paintings to fund new equipment. I’d sold some previously to passersby, but now I had a dedicated table to advertise my work. People seemed to enjoy the paintings I made, and some even tipped more than what I priced them at. Others asked that I paint special requests just for them. That made me happy—I loved seeing people happy together and was delighted to immortalize that moment for them.

One day, a man in a suit approached me while I was painting. I was in the middle of a landscape piece, overlooking the river that ran through the heart of the city. It was a viewpoint that I’d painted once before but felt that I could improve on. The man walked up to me and gasped.

“You’re the one that’s been painting these magnificent watercolors?”

I finished a stroke, then set the paintbrush down gently in my water cup to clean it off.

“I suppose so—are you familiar with my work?” I asked.

“Familiar? I’ve bought multiple pieces of yours second hand! You’re practically legend in the city’s high art community.”

My first thought was concern; I didn’t like the idea of others reselling my work, especially if they sold them at higher prices. Each piece I made had equal value to me, and I priced them as such.

“Do you have other pieces I could see?” he asked, “I’d love to see your studio.”

I assumed he meant my hideout. I was uneasy about taking him there but decided that there was little harm in it. If he was willing to purchase more of my work, I thought that maybe I could start making my hideout more livable.

The man helped me pack up my equipment, and we traveled back to my home on foot. It was only a fifteen-minute walk from where we were.

Sleepy greeted me as I walked in, but soon caught sight of the man and retreated to the back wall. The man didn’t seem to notice, as he was captured by the hundreds of paintings taped to the walls.

“This is simply incredible—I was intending to purchase a few of these paintings here and now, but I now see that’s too low an offer for someone of your caliber. How about an exhibit? I’ll set you up at my gallery in town, it’ll be magnificent!” he said.

I didn’t know how to respond. It’d been a year since I first decided to pursue painting, and I never dreamt I’d get my own exhibit so soon. I was overwhelmed.

“Here, before you decide, let me take you there. It’s a half hour walk from here, just ten minutes by taxi. I’ll pay the fare.”

I nodded. The man took out his phone, presumably to call a taxi, and stepped outside.

Sleepy crept out from a crack in the back wall and slithered up against my leg. He seemed nervous around others. I wondered how often he met other people on his adventures outside.

“You ready?” the man asked, peeking in from outside.

He led me up to the street where an autonomous rideshare car was waiting. It was a premium feature only the wealthy could afford, so I felt pampered by the experience of even sitting in one.

The gallery we visited was nothing special—at least from the others I’d seen. Plain white walls, wood flooring, and a mixture of paintings and sculptures. He explained to me that the exhibit that was there currently would be leaving in the next couple of days.

I could tell that his gallery wouldn’t be a good fit for my artwork. The feel was much more dark and enclosed than I imagined, and my paintings emphasized airiness and empathy. This gallery would be well suited for dark, serious works, while mine needed some natural light to really shine.

I explained the situation to the man, who seemed accepting of my desires, and ultimately agreed that his gallery and my work wouldn’t be a good fit. We said our goodbyes, and he handed me a business card should I change my mind.

It was raining on the walk back to my hideout.

When I stepped through the doors, my mechanical heart stopped.

My paintings, all 374 of them hanging on the concrete walls with masking tape, were gone, along with all my painting equipment.

The paintings mattered little to me in that moment. I ran to the crack that Sleepy slept in on stormy nights and was relieved to see him well, but I was searching for something else.

I stuck my hand into the crack and reached around, searching for the DaVinci Disk. Sleepy became disgruntled and moved out of the crack, and I kept looking.

It wasn’t where I’d left it.

I searched everywhere, inside and out of my hideout. There was nothing to be found. I had nothing, once again.

I curled up on the concrete floor, knowing I’d wake up without my humanity.

Sure enough, when I awoke, the firewall had regained control of my mind. I could feel the urge to sob, but my emotions weren’t behaving as they had for the past year. It was all I could to do remain curled up on the ground.

Sleepy must’ve noticed my distress, and he laid down beside me. He rested his soft head on my artificial skin. He was trying to comfort me.

He was the last memory that remained of my humanity—proof that at one point, I was a living being. And for that, I was grateful.