July 14, 3405 -- Chess Fainrer's Diaries

I've been making a horrible mistake.

I realised it today when I was installing in her. I was angry at her for the trouble she was giving me, clawing at my face like she was trying to have my eyes as I struggled to hold her down. The thought kept running through my head, why on earth did they make her this way? What possible purpose could it serve to have her simulate emotions this well, other than to make me feel queasy about doing my job? Was this some kind of a test, a hazing, an experiment to see how much I could stand? It didn't add up.

Why are you doing this? I yelled at her in my mind, though all that came out were grunts as I tried to keep her from grabbing my hand in her teeth. Why are you faking it this well? It doesn't hurt; you don't feel anything. You don't have any reason to.

And then it struck me, cold and awful in the pit of my stomach. It was obvious, but I didn't want to admit it: it didn't make sense for anyone to have designed her to fake it, so it must be real. Which meant she felt pain, and she had emotions. I tried to push the thought away, but it made too much sense to forget.

In retrospect, she probably did want to blind me.

I'd managed to complete the install successfully, but she wouldn't stop wailing. On the hunch, I took out my pocket pain-response normaliser, pressed it against the back of her neck, and gave her a little zap. Almost immediately her cries tailed off, though she was still fixing me with the most hateful look, breathing audibly through her nose like an enraged animal. My stomach turned; she'd reacted exactly as a human would have. I did it again, for longer this time-- a couple of seconds. This time, her breathing slowed and deepened, and her eyes went a little wider; not scrunched up and accusing any more, just confused, I think.

"You believe me," she said. "Why did you not believe me before?"

I just looked at her helplessly, feeling, I expect, as lost as she did. "Does it feel better now?" I asked lamely, admitting that I didn't have an answer to her question.

"It feels weird," she said, looking down at her toes, which were curling and flexing like she was embarrassed, though her tone was authoritative. "I don't want it there."

The pragmatic, emotionless part of me was nagging, you'll lose your job if you don't do as they say, but my conscience had already decided. As soon as it was clear what she was I knew I couldn't do it any longer. I told her to hold still, more out of a desire to make soothing noises at her than anything, since I could make her pain a non-issue; she leaned against me and took deep breaths, like it bothered her anyway. Maybe she was scared, I don't know.

She didn't really move again for ages, just stayed there being warm and alive. Now that I knew, the signs of her life seemed painfully obvious, all too affecting. Every little twitch and swallow reminded me of my crimes, making my heart jump into my mouth each time as if I was discovering the truth over.

"Tell them."

"...What?" It wasn't that I hadn't heard her, exactly, so much as my mind hadn't been ready to process her speaking.

"If you tell them what you know, they will be kind to me. They will listen to you. So tell them." She said it in a way that was oddly matter of fact, and managed to sound vaguely threatening.

Of course I was going to tell them. Of course. Not that I shared her faith that it would net her better treatment-- how could she have that faith, after however long living like this? How could she?-- but I couldn't let them go on thinking that she wasn't even alive.

Later, after I'd thought about it for a little while, I realised that I mostly just wanted to burden someone else with my guilt.

I walked out of there with sweaty palms and my heart raging in my chest. I didn't tell them. I don't know what to do.