Bill

Bill took a deep breath.

At least, he imagined himself going through the motions of doing so: his nose, taking in the oxygen from the air around him, filling his lungs with air, then, exhaling through his nose and disposing of carbon dioxide back into the air.

The soft hum of machinery emanating from the hardware system in his chest punctured the moment. It was an everpresent reminder to Bill that he was not, in fact, a human. Instead, he was a simple helper android, one programmed to assist the employees of Weisman Corporation. Older helper android models were programmed without the capability to feel emotions or do much beyond complete simple commands. Bill, however, had been programmed to feel basic emotions, which was believed to help him appear friendlier and more personable, rather than cold and intimidating, to employees. This information appeared on page 476 of his user guide. The fact that Bill knew this was not, in itself, impressive, as the entirety of the 1,345-page user guide had been automatically downloaded to his central processor upon his activation.

Bill enjoyed his work at Weisman Corporation. He self-activated at 7 a.m. in the morning. Like clockwork, he would emerge from the closet he was stored in at night and promptly frighten the security guard who was on duty for the morning shift. Then, after that encounter, Bill would report to the main floor of the building, where he would begin to clean and prepare the workspace. At around 9 a.m., when a few workers would begin to walk in to start their day, he would greet them. From then until around 5 p.m. in the afternoon, Bill would circulate the office and perform basic tasks, as needed, which ranged from coffee orders, printing documents, running documents, and verifying calculations. Then, at 6 p.m., once largely everyone had left, he would begin the process of cleaning up after everyone and tidying everything up. At 8 p.m., he would return to his closet and deactivate himself. There was comfort in this routine. Of course, it was the only routine that he knew. And it was the routine that he would follow until he would eventually, one day, be permanently deactivated and replaced with a newer helper android model.

The concept of his deactivation did not frighten him, though it was similar, in a way, to the more human concept of death. He had a purpose. His deactivation meant that he no longer fulfilled that purpose. Logically, his deactivation was necessary.

However, Bill sometimes felt a twinge of longing when he considered other aspects of his android existence. Namely, the routine of his life. He never got bored of what he did. But when he would overhear workers discuss weekend plans or future vacations, new restaurants they had been to, plays and movies they had watched, friends they were excited to see-Bill could not help but be reminded that they existed outside of Weisman Corporation, whereas he did not. It was this very human-like aspect of theirs that Bill could not help but envy. Rather than simply fulfill a function, the humans truly lived.

Bill knew that this sort of lifestyle was not part of his destiny. It did not stop him, however, from trying. After gathering the approval from his human manager, Ted, Bill was able to grab clothes from the lost and found bin to assemble what he proudly considered his 'human outfit.'

• Navy blue socks with pink and green polka dots.
• A pair of tan loafers with metallic buckles and a slight heel.
• A pair of long, green pants.
• A purple long-sleeved dress shirt.
• And finally, a navy tie. This was, after all, a workplace, and Bill prided himself on his professionalism.

Bill had also been working on human mannerisms. Laughing, for instance, to jokes that other workers posed, even if he did not find them humorous. Cracking workplace jokes himself (his favorite were knock-knock jokes). He had also pinned a cat poster on the door of his closet. Those appeared to be fairly popular in the office.

Bill liked being human. Or at least trying to do so. He thought he was doing a good job at it.

It was 9 a.m. now, according to his internal clock, and he was unphased when a few workers began to straggle in. Among them, his manager, Ted.

"Hello, Ted!" Bill cheerfully greeted, waving his hand.

Ted returned the greeting, though not as enthusiastically. Ted reminded Bill of some sort of mythical creature. Short, round-bellied, a perpetually sour expression on his face, Ted had the strikingly distinct and majestic features of a garden gnome.

Bill had once commented as such to Ted. He had meant it as a compliment. Ted, however, had not received it as such. Since then, Bill learned an important lesson about humans: looking like a garden gnome was not perceived as a compliment.

Instead of booting up his desktop computer in his office, as he normally did, Ted walked up to Bill.

"Are you not going to open your computer?" Bill inquired. "Do you want me to do that for you?"

"Oh, uh, that won't be necessary," Ted responded.

"I am perfectly capable of doing so," Bill reminded him brightly. "I can perform that task remotely, from here, or manually, from your office."

"NO!" Ted erupted, his face ruddy. He then took a deep breath. "I mean, no, thank you, Bill. I'm going to turn on my computer later. I just wanted to talk to you for a minute."

"Talk to me?" Bill was slightly bewildered. "What for?"

"Do you remember your predecessor?" Ted asked. "Dale?"

"Sure," Bill responded. "He wasn't here with me for very long since I replaced him, so we weren't that close. I think we would have been good friends."

"Uh, yeah, yeah, sure. Well, you replaced Dale. And now...now we have to replace you, Bill." Ted looked to the ground, avoiding Bill's gaze.

Bill processed the thought quickly. It made logical sense, and he nodded after a second.

There was an odd look on Ted's face. Pity? Sadness? Bill had never gotten good at reading human emotions.

There were a lot of things about humans and being human that Bill had never been able to get good at. So many more fascinating behaviors he wanted to learn. He'd been eying a red baseball cap that was in the lost and found bin and considering adding it to his ensemble. And now, he would never again be able to do so. He would miss the employees at Weisman Corporation. He would miss Ted. Bill had tried to act like a human, but he could not escape the fact that he was just an android.

No, Bill was not scared. He knew what he had to do.

"Could I meet my replacement, by any chance?" He inquired.

Ted looked mildly surprised at the request, but obliged. "Yeah, sure, he's in my office."

Bill pardoned himself for a second, quickly grabbed the item he was looking for, and then made his way into Ted's office. Ted was waiting there as well, albeit a bit impatiently.

The helper android was sitting at the desk. He was sleeker than Bill was, surely an upgraded model, and factory new. Bill took a few steps forward. Then, he tentatively greeted the android.

"Hello. My name is Bill. Soon, you will replace me."

"Yes, that is true," the android responded.

Bill slowly moved his arm out from behind his back, clutching the item. "We do not know each other, but my purpose will now become your purpose. So, I would like you to have this, in the hopes that it will serve you well."

He walked directly up to the android, then carefully placed the prized red baseball cap onto his head.

The android nodded solemnly. "I will wear this hat when I continue your purpose."

Bill took a step backward.

He imagined, once more, taking a deep breath. Feeling the life, the oxygen, swirling around him. Feeling the carbon dioxide leave his lungs. Having the cycle repeat, over and over again.

He imagined being human.

A faint smile on his face, Bill deactivated himself for the last time, letting the permanent darkness engulf him.