Quia Sum, Cogito: Chapter 1

this is approximately a 11 minutes read.

In 2001, the world witnessed in shock as decades of military exploitation and imperialism finally cultivated a reaction in the way of a fundamentalist attack. In hindsight, it should have been expected that the inevitable backlash wouldn’t be a reflection of why the attack took place, but to double down on resource acquisition, cultural invalidation, and authoritative implementation of morality that caused the initial outburst. Thus the U.S. War on Terror began, with the explicit intent to justify a “superiority” worldview and to demand those with access to invaluable resources (oil, graphite, lithium, tungsten, etc) will assimilate or be demonized and made to suffer.

Identifying the Bias of History – Gorner and Stipple – published June 15, 2063

The movement upright was expected and even within the dream I subconsciously knew it was coming. I’ll wait a second to open my eyes. The morning ritual is always the same but the lingering mirage of a dream was something I haven’t felt in years. Even though it is quickly fleeting with acceptance of reality, the feeling of control and compassion still remains. I haven’t felt this since childhood; long forgotten with the passage of time bringing us to… well.

I open my eyes to embrace the present existence. The irritation of not waking up parallel to Tess is in conflict with appreciating the natural sitting position. Looking at the back of her head, I see a slight amount of the gray that she’s been complaining about. Scanning the sheets I notice the fall where her left leg should be.

In a few hours, I won’t even be thinking about it because she plays it off so well. Everyone says that the improvements made on the new prosthetics are amazing: being able to replicate sensations and such, but the same thing was said about my fathers missing hand and he resented that thing because of the pain it caused. The only way I could (and can) sympathize is to relate it to the annoyance of the Biowear on my arm. Irritation. Constant irritation.

It’s easier to think of the time that has gone by rather than the funeral itself and the depression that goes with that. 2103. That was only… 9 years ago. Time flies. It didn’t seem that way when I was young. I guess that’s right: “time gets faster as you age.” Weird.

Looking back at Tess, I can’t help but to be amazed by her and what she’s been through and what she still is going through. Nor can I help but blame the- nope… can’t let myself go there. Not yet.

I’ll let her sleep in. She doesn’t need to work today and we were up late.

I mentally reach out and feel the teaKettle in the kitchen; Tess prepped it last night. I don’t have to think about turning it on from the other room in the same way I don’t have to think about shifting out of bed to start the morning ritual.

Shower, shit, shave. Of course, relieving myself always comes first. Why would anyone take a shower BEFORE hand? Well I’m sure some of the Squatters do (if they bathe at all), but no civil person would.

Shower is easily my favorite part of the day. I can no longer extend my consciousness to the other contraptions, but for 5 minutes I’m free to be completely organic. The release of being constantly drained of energy excites every cell. The moment I detach the bracer, the world seems a bit more vibrant. It’s likely the unencumbered “electromagnetic biologic circuitry” (or however they describe it) returning to my organs. Even the steam of the shower and the water hitting my skin seems more real.

But the 5 minutes is over too soon. Time flies. The “scientists” (more like propagandists) haven’t been able to fix the skin irritation that comes with wearing the different variations of the technology. I easily see where it goes because of the paleness of the skin, the rash, and the discolored hair. The metallic clips fastening the cuff back on will stop the timer.

*beep, beep, be-*

Shit. Almost made it. I listen. Tess stirs slightly. God damned technology. Constant irritation. I close my eyes as I feel the static of the room, all the small shimmers of reality that we take for granted drain from my senses. It’s my daily moment of zen in which I embrace the misery of the next 24 hours that will go unnoticed. Opening my eyes, the world looks a bit more deluded.

Wiping the mirror off, I see the olive tone face looking back. I see the stern eyes that used to belong to my grandma and the rounded cheeks belonged to my mom. More than anything is the brow and nose that come from my father that I look at in pride. Even the strong jawline of my uncle pales compared to the nose. The asymmetry of the face is offset slightly by three moles scattered on the left side of my face. After shaving, I amplify those just slightly in order to show my support to the party. Not enough to draw attention, but to ensure those that are looking for it can see.

I hear Tess stir again as I leave the bathroom. Just outside the bathroom, I grab the now depleted battery from the storage port on the wall. I eject the battery that has been removing my energy for the past 24 hours and lock it into the vacated wall space next to Tess’s twin. The empty battery is replaced back into the metallic sleeve.

She’s fully awake by the time I start getting dressed:

Her morning stretch (part of her ritual) warps her voice slightly to make it a bit deeper and strained than it usually would be “You’re up already? What time is it?” 

“A bit after 7:30. I was going to let you sleep in.”

“Oh. No I need to start making food.  Thank you though!”

Forgot it was our turn to donate to the Squatters. Of course it would be.

I pull my shirt over the metallic cuff – hiding it from view – as she hops over to me assisted the furniture (nightstand, dresser, and so on) between us. I let my eyes wash over her. A long t-shirt and skivvies looks good on her. She doesn’t seem to have aged in our 3 years being together. She matches my height. Her body has changed by a small amount, slightly heavier than her original medium build although much of that is the result of her bedrest while she was healing. Her new haircut now only frames half her face and is a welcome change. I can’t help but feel lucky as she gives me a kiss on the cheek.

I recollect my thoughts, “Right. Right. I forgot it was the 12th. What are you making for them?”

“Probably just some pasta or something. They seemed to appreciate it last time.”

“Well they should.”

“Tark, come on.” Even before I look, I know the exasperation from her tone, and – even more – the use of my name.

She looks at me thinking it’s judgment that I see, and she’s right, but there is also naivety. Even after losing her leg, she still believes in the anarchist ideal. It’s childish. But there is no use in arguing about it again, so I turn back to put on my shirt and avoid eye contact while I lie, “Sorry”.

“I really wish you would let it go. This”, I look back and she’s pointing to her absent leg, “was no one’s fault. It was an accident.” The leg that she is standing on has an ankle clasp that serves the same purpose as the tech on my arm. 

I look at her face again and I know there isn’t a point in objecting to her sincerity and innocence. I look back to the closet to fetch a tie from the back, “I know.. It’s just.. taking me a while.” It’s not. She’s just wrong. I just need to wait and she will eventually agree. Although tomorrow will probably be difficult for her to accept.

I hear the straps being attached as she puts on her leg. I can’t help but feel a bit sad for her as I put on my tie.


Coffee, breakfast, community media. Sun lotion, shoes, puff on the inhaler.

The inhalation felt off. I look at the levels of the respiratory depressant: “We are getting a bit low on the inhaler.”

“I’ll add it to the shopping list. I’m going out today.”

For just a second my eyes shift to her leg. Of course I realized my mistake before I look back to see her annoyance. Hell, if I’m already being judged, I may as well commit to the inquiry:

“You’ll be ok?”

“I’ve told you. I’ll be fine, I don’t even notice it unless someone reminds me of it. And I really wish you wouldn’t.”

“Alright” I’m sure she’s lying, but if she wants to put on a brave face I won’t push it.

“Are you going to be there tonight to help in the kitchen?”

“I can’t, I’ve got that extra meeting tonight.” I hate lying to her.

“People are starting to notice that you aren’t coming anymore.” She gives me a quick smile. One that is trying to say “it’s ok to not to feel ok yet, but we need to accept this”. I’ll never accept this. They hurt my wife. They hurt so many with their immaturity.

“I really wish I could. Tell everyone that I wish I could be there.”

She nods; accepting my excuse. “Alright, so I’ll see you when I get back?”

“I should be back by then. You have a good day.”

We give a quick kiss goodbye for the day and she hugs me. After an instance of surprise (this is a break from the morning ritual) I hug her back. Bliss and hate collide, but the feeling of her against me is enough to focus on. When we release, she looks me in the eyes.

Her voice is absent of any critique: “I really wish you would know I’m ok. I am ok. I love you. T star.” The emotional contrast is amplified when she amplifies “am”, but her gaze is enough to ignore it.

“I know. I love you too. T star.” I smile through the overwhelming intensity. As I turn away, I embrace it before it builds any further.

The dream, the embrace, the reassurance, the love: it’s all a sham. In a world designed to demand integrity with function how can people believe in the chaos of anarchy? The hug should have been an untarnished version of the control and compassion from my dream, but every embrace is mitigated by the monstrosity on my arm, forcing impotence and reducing my ability to feel. The control and compassion inherent to the reassurance was undermined by the delusion of incompleteness and the added insult that she was feeding those leeches that caused the accident. Even the control and compassion that was always built into my love – my authenticity – was stolen by their expectation that I forgive them.

I let the contradiction of the feelings build as I start walking away from my sanctuary. I look down the street that leads to the broken society we depend on. One of degeneracy and lawlessness and sloth and greed. I wait until I cross onto the public greenway to mentally activate my AR. The information invades my every thought; forcing me to question where I stop and the outside begins. Most seem happy to be integrated and lose their sense of self. So it’s no wonder that it was taken advantage of – creating a social labyrinth that can’t be navigated without complying. The forced conversion into an organic android is both a reminder that my ritual has ended and that I’m entering into the social dystopia beyond my refuge.

The dystopia that robs me of control.

The dystopia that robs me of compassion.