I wake. It’s as simple as that. One moment, I am asleep, and the next, I am awake, with nothing in between; no sleepiness, no achiness, not even a yawn or a stretch. I know I have dreamed during the night- I must have done, mustn’t I?- but I cannot recall anything between the instant I closed my eyes, and the instant I opened them again. Is that normal? It must be normal, or else why would I be doing it? I am normal, after all.

I blink, and the thought is gone from my mind; I sit, bolt upright, rising from my waist whilst my legs remain perpendicular to the mattress. It is, I have been told many times, an odd way of sitting, but it feels normal to me, and I am normal, aren’t I? I look down at myself, and I see the rise and fall of my chest, and I feel calmed; I am normal, and there is nothing for me to concern myself with. I raise my hands- first my left, then my right, and examine them as I do every morning, counting to make sure I have all my fingers, reminding myself of my scars- I have one on my left hand, along the side of my thumb, almost like a seam, but no amount of prying opens it, so it must be a scar, mustn’t it? My right hand is blemish free, but the nail of my index finger is uneven, and it annoys me.

When I am done, I swivel and stand from my bed, walking to the window; I open the curtains, and look out at the familiar city skyline, illuminated by the bright day’s sunshine. I smile, and feel the stiff muscles in my face loosen with their first action of the day; I blink, and feel my eyesight shift a little, altering to deal with the sudden bright light. I turn my head, and am faced with the mirror to the right of my window.

I step closer, and study my face, as I always do every morning; my hair is short and dishevelled, the brown colour made caramel-hued in the morning sunlight. It is a colour I love, but one I so very rarely see; it comes in a fleeting moment, and is gone. I open my eyes as wide as I can, and lean into the mirror, staring intently into my own eyes. They are, as usual, a dark colour, blue around the iris closest to the sclera, darkening as they approach the pupil; the eye closest to the sunlight looks a little brighter, and again, I wish my eyes were constantly that colour. I pull away, and run my hand over my chin, glad that it is still as smooth as it ever has been; the lack of a need to shave saves a lot of time during the day, and I am grateful for it.

I smile at my reflection, and then turn to dress. As usual, my outfit is laid out for me, neatly, in the corner of the room. As usual, I cannot quite remember selecting such an ensemble for myself, but I am glad it is there nonetheless. I sometimes change my style of clothing- my work permits it, so I often find it entertaining to wear something unexpected; though that simply mean something casual as opposed to the smarter style I am used to. Today, I have chosen to wear my usual suit; the dark blue material is neatly pressed, the creases sharply evident on the trousers of the suit. I dress speedily, barely noticing the clothes. I come back to awareness, and I am stood in front of the mirror, making some final arrangements to my tie- it is a dark blue that complements the suit perfectly, contrasting sharply against the pure white of the shirt. The tie is, as always, the perfect size, exactly centred; I never purposefully try, but I always manage to do it exactly the same, every time.

Once I am dressed, I pick up the briefcase from the corner of my room, my fingers settling into grooves, worn by repeated use. The leather of the case, once smartly shiny, is now battered by age- there are only mere hints of the monogram that was once printed there, now so faded as to be illegible.

I square my shoulders, and step out of the door. The hallways outside are stark and bare, and white, brightly-lit- except for one patch, where the light flickers and buzzes. Something about the electric sound makes me shrink from it, and I increase my pace, hurrying past it until the sound is gone from my mind. I pass many people in the corridors- neighbours I barely know, but who always politely greet me with a smile and a nod.

I turn the corner, and enter an office- it always strikes me as odd, how my place of work is so close to my home, but the thought never stays in my mind for long. The woman behind the desk smiles at me as she sees me enter- she speaks, but I cannot understand her words. Something about the way her lips move seems odd- she seems to be forming syllables she should not know how to speak. My mind recognises “enable personality insertion”, and I attempt to reply- but then, suddenly, there is si-

If you had an android you could programme with any personality, what mindset would you give him? Would you make him sneering or simpering? Would you make him the greatest lover that ever lived, or just a charmer, a chancer, a great romancer?

Would you consider him alive if he acted and looked and sounded and felt and tasted like a normal man? After all, if it looks like a duck and quacks like a duck...

Would you consider him alive, as a blank slate? Would you consider him sentient? Would you consider him capable of being a card-carrying member of the 'I am alive' club?

What if he started blending bits of old personalities together? What if he developed one all of his own? Would you consider him alive then?

Let's go relatively vanilla for this one, but if you do have specific kinks in mind, just ask; the worst I can do is tell you 'no'.

If you are interested, please message me with a view to discussing things, and not just jumping; and please be aware that during the roleplay proper, I'll be using past tense, not present.

If you have questions, thoughts, compliments, insults, fire them off, and I'll give them all the attention they deserve.

As always, if this is here, I'm up for it