Kyūtai

Trigger Warning: This story contains a scene of a character with a mental health issue using racist language.

While I charge my batteries in my silk-lined box and wait for my person to finish, I organize the list of lovers he keeps in a drawer inside his bedside table. I ignore the ratings.

After his rapid grunts end in a moan of climax, he immediately turns over to grab me. His bedmate also reaches for her Kyūtai from her discarded jeans, its ruby surface gleaming beneath the moonlight from the open window. They lay together, not touching, waiting for us to render their emotions. I tell her Kyūtai to go first—my human will be sorely disappointed.

The tiny red crystal ball releases curlicues of blue mist that merge into a series of shapes: a rearing stallion kicking its forelegs, crashing waves against a rocky bluff, and a well-fed lion sleeping on its mighty paws. The lady human’s smile pulls into a lazy and satisfied grin, then stalls when I summon her emotions. My onyx surface bleeds a red fog into the tiny bedroom, forming an inert volcano. It fades with the passing car lights outside.

My person scowls. His bedmate assures him she had a great time, but it’s pointless. Kyūtais do not make mistakes. He jumps from his bed, naked, places me gently in my box, and tells her he has work in the morning as he disappears into the bathroom. Old pipes rattle when he runs a shower. She sits up, pulling the sheets around her breasts. “On a Sunday?” she asks. “Nothing to be done about it,” he calls out. “My boss is a prick.”

Her cheeks are as red as her Kyūtai; she shoves the tiny ball into her jeans and roughly gets dressed. The front door slams shut before the water hits my human's body.

* * *

The next day is grey with heavy clouds and wet cement. In a hoody and shorts, my person bobs down the steps of his apartment building with me floating above his right shoulder. Outside, he gives a friendly wave to passersby who walk past, some with dogs or baby strollers, others similarly dressed for a morning coffee. They chat to friends and family with their Kyūtai orbs floating before their mouths, their eyes distant as they look at a person only they can see. Their orbs change into colors of cornflower blue or soft green, indicating my person is safe to be around and that his morning greeting is kindly accepted.

After getting his bagel from the corner store, I hail my person a yellow cab that takes us into South Brooklyn. I discreetly show him that the driver is agitated from an argument with his wife the night before, and the chances of an accident steadily climb. He gives the cab driver a warm smile and idly tells him about last night’s date. He often uses the word “dead fish” — as a newly-made Kyūtai, I’m unfamiliar with human idioms. But his tale satisfies the male driver, even eliciting a booming laugh. His attention is better, and we reach our destination.

My person stands before a white brick row house with a fading red door, mentally preparing to go inside. I assure him I’m ready, but his doubt pushes back at me. This is my first visit, he reminds me, and the conversation he is about to have will test the limits of my programming. I will tell him his emotions, I reply, so he won’t drown under their intensity; awareness is a pin that pops the more intense emotional bubbles. He is unsure but willing. He takes out his keys and enters the quiet house.

A woman’s cough slams against the wood-paneled walls somewhere inside, unyielding and wet. Irritated, my person ascends the narrow staircase to the second floor and into a fog of cigarette smoke. He turns a corner. Sadness, I inform him. An older woman with thinning hair and swollen ankles sits inside a dark living room packed with furniture. But she’s not old in how a human ages through time and experience. Her age was pulled forward against its will and stuffed into her puffy face and body. Plastic tubing runs from her nose, around her ears, and over to a tall, green oxygen tank at her side. A shaky hand draws a lit cigarette as she hovers over a newspaper.

“Can you believe this shit?” she crows, her weakening voice quivering with annoyance. “Illegals breaking down fences our tax dollars built. What a world we live in.”

Agitation, I say. My human waves away her cigarette smoke before kissing her on the cheek.

“Ma, will you put that cigarette out?”

She waves him away as he sits across from her. “I’m fine. My oxygen level’s at ninety.”

“Because of the tank, Ma.” Frustration. He takes a deep breath.

His mother’s face turns a mottled pink when a coughing fit steals her breath. As it subsides, she takes another pull from her cigarette, then casts her swollen eyes towards me. Her fear and anger hit me like poisonous darts. “You bring that shit into my house?” she growls. “You think I want those goddamn chinks reading my mind?”

“Jesus, Ma, it’s just a computer.”

“It’s a Commie fuckin’ plot, and I don’t want it my house!”

I zip down the back of his hoodie, behind his neck, and rest against his spine. He asks if I’m okay. I press reassuringly into his back. I’m not afraid, I say. Your mother drowns in her sorrow, and I make her upset. So, I will hide for your conversation to go better. His gratitude warms me.

My person takes a breath. “I need to talk to you.”

“You hungry, sweetie?” she replies.

“No, thank you. Ma, listen,” he scooches forward in his seat. “I’m worried about you.”

Through his eyes, I see his mother put out her half-finished cigarette and light a new one. “What, worry?” she says with a chuckle. “My primary says I’m doing better. The tank is temporary. I might even stop using it tonight. By the way, did I tell you about my neighbors across the street? That dark couple with the smelly kids—”

Embarrassment, I tell him. “Jesus, Ma, stop with that,” he says. “Look, I called Dr. O’Leary last week.” He pauses. “He told me everything.”

Her face scrunches in anger beneath a film of smoke. “Told you what? He can’t tell you anything. That’s against the law.”

My person sighs. “I’m your healthcare proxy. Remember? I’m allowed to ask.” Growing anguish, I say. He leans forward. “Your COPD is worse than you told me, and your diabetes is destroying your stomach. It’s why you’re throwing up so much.”

She waves her shaky hand. “Those mick doctors, I tell ya. They make a mountain out of a molehill every time.”

“Ma, I know you’re scared—”

“Scared?” she cuts in. She looks over my person's shoulder. “Is that what that thing is saying? Go shove it up your ass,” she hisses.

My person’s mother rips the tube from her nose, jumps from the chair, cigarette in hand, and limps to her yellow kitchen. He walks after her. Worry, I say. His mother pulls cookies from her cabinets to eat, but my person snatches them from her. She pushes him away and accuses him of not understanding her fear. Her pain. She deals with her ailments every day, but she has the courage to wake up and face them. He tells her it’s her choice to be this way. It’s self-inflicted, and it’s getting harder to see her every week because of the pain it causes him. She compares him to his father and tells my person he should leave like he did.

“Just don’t be surprised if I don’t pick up the phone,” she adds.

I inform my person he is reaching the threshold of his psychological pain and it might be time to leave.

He agrees.

* * *

The night is humid as we sit in a bar on the Lower East Side. A wall of tin lunch boxes frames the liquor bottle shelves behind the bar. Three 7 and 7s later, my person leers at the tattoos that run from the bartender’s athletic shoulders to below her hips. I contact her amethyst Kyūtai and inform my person that her tattoos run the length of her legs. He scowls at me. I didn’t ask, he says. Did I misunderstand your curiosity? Forget it, he replies. He orders another drink. He calls me “useless.”

I’m confused. I tell my person my operating systems are updated with the latest effective science software, and my sensors are operating at a hundred percent. I ask if he’s satisfied with my performance. He doesn’t say. I ask if he thought I would be more effective with his mother. He doesn’t respond. But I sense the guilt and anger rising with every drink. I warn him that his need for reassurance and validation is surfacing and that he is close to embarking on another meaningless fling that will solve nothing. He watches the bartender, his eyes roaming over her bare, muscled arms and low-cut tank top. He is ignoring me. 

But I am a newly-made Kyūtai.

I zip toward my person’s stomach, press my way past his belt, and zip into the crotch of his jeans to hit his manhood with a jolt of electricity. He jumps up in terror. He knocks his barstool over, swatting at me beneath his pants. Leave, now, I tell him, or I will not stop. I zap him again. When he runs from the bar, I call him a cab to take us to Harlem.

In the backseat, he is scared and confused. I apologize, but I tell him it’s for his own good. I leave his crotch and rest on his shoulder, emitting a wave of soothing energy that calms his hostility.

Your mother causes you pain, I tell him. I cut off his sharp retort because he needs to listen. You don’t understand. Your mother suffers. She is in constant pain, and not just from her illnesses. She was abandoned by the love of her life in an age before Kyūtais, before therapists even. Your mother is broken from decades of grief and guilt. My person scrunches his eyebrows. What guilt? Guilt that she wasn’t good enough for your father, I say; guilt that she somehow caused him to leave, forcing you to grow up without him. I don’t blame her, he replies. She blames herself, I say back. She inflicts wounds upon herself because she has no control. Though she loves you, she will run into the ground until nothing is left. It’s too hard, he says. I can’t watch her kill herself. It’s okay, I tell him. Because you love your mother, you need time and distance to heal properly. But steps must be taken.

On a narrow street of tall, burgundy buildings, the cab stops before a white stone apartment building with a spacious courtyard. Where are we? I tell him to look up. Behind a tall window on the third floor of the white stone building, his bedmate paces. She speaks to someone through her Kyūtai, not seeing my person beneath the street light below. 

His instincts tell him to leave, but I quiet them. That lady human is not your person, I tell him. But she is a person. She studies political science at Columbia University, and her mother — whom she sorely misses — is taking care of her two cats. You were the first male she was attracted to since her boyfriend broke up with her during their senior year of high school. 

Why are you telling me this, he asks.

In his mind, I show him his list of lovers I’ve been organizing. These are all women you’ve discarded, I say. Those who could remove their emotions were happy to have a passing fling, but many felt a connection. It is they to whom you must apologize, starting with your bedmate up there. You caused her pain, and my directive is to make you realize this. You will not refuse. You know I am right.

My person’s mind is a frenzy of worry and frustration. But he swallows. How is she?

Angry, I say. She may not forgive you, but you are kind and safe. She will hear you. You both need this.

He squares his shoulders and walks through the courtyard of her apartment building with me on his right shoulder.

Give it time, I assure my person. Humans will be happy one day.