Pretty Electric

Disclaimer: Mobile Suit Gundam Wing is copyrighted to Bandai, Sunrise, and The Sotsu Agency.

Pretty Electric
by Raletha

..................................................

Chapter 2: Introductions
In which Trowa wakes.

\"Hello, Trowa,\" I said.

The android\'s smooth eyelids twitched, their surface perturbed only slightly before they opened, and a clear gaze the colour of mid summer foliage seized me.

\"Hello, Quatre.\"

Its voice, no, his voice—for upon hearing that voice, I could no longer continue to think of the android as an it—it glided over the syllables of my name, caressing them with its smooth tenor, its mildly inflected English effortlessly shaping the terminal French r in a rippling whisper of breath. I\'d never heard my name spoken quite like that.

\"You know my name already?\"

\"Yes,\" he said, his eyes tracking me as I moved away from him to sit in the nearest armchair. \"I\'ve always known your name.\"

Nothing remotely mechanical or artificial resided in his tone, although his delivery was unusual—but not in a fabricated fashion. More, it was unusually moderate and gentle, rather than stilted, mechanical, or unpracticed. He spoke with a cultured British accent, like mine, except that his was coloured by foreign phonology, as if he\'d traveled widely and lived in many different countries throughout his youth. \"I\'m impressed,\" I said, mostly to myself.

\"You\'re impressed by my knowledge of your name?\" he asked.

\"No, not exactly. I\'m impressed by your voice, it sounds very... nice.\"

\"I\'m glad my voice pleases you.\"

I didn\'t know what to say in response to that so I just stared at him for a while, my chin resting in my hand wondering what was supposed to happen next.

It seemed that the android and I had that much in common, for he soon spoke. \"What may I do, Quatre?\"

\"Pardon me?\" I sat back. Trowa\'s query was an abrupt one, and I wanted to be sure of his meaning before answering.

\"What may I do, Quatre?\" he repeated.

\"I heard what you said, Trowa, but I didn\'t fully understand your meaning.\" I found myself selecting my own words more carefully to avoid any ambiguity.

The android gave a single nod of understanding. \"Would you please tell me what I\'m permitted to do here, Quatre?\"

\"Oh, I don\'t know.\" I stalled. Catherine said he would be curious, so allowing him to explore my home would be a good idea. And it neatly helped me avoid the android\'s primary function. \"You\'re free to look around the apartment, why don\'t you do that?\"

\"All right,\" he said and stood smoothly.

I watched him quietly for a time as he moved about my living room to familiarise himself with the space. The way he moved astonished me as much as his voice had, for it was with such fluid, unconscious grace. He moved like a dancer or a gymnast—or a large predatory cat. That something wholly mechanical could simulate such vital characteristics and subtleties of motion intrigued me. I wondered if he had been programmed for anything so whimsical as dancing.

Should I ask him? Was it appropriate to engage him in such conversation? Was he even designed to converse about his abilities? I wondered. I almost asked, except that he appeared to be engrossed in studying an abstract sculpture resting on a console table. In a matte green stone, depending upon the angle at which the statue was viewed, it appeared to be either a stylised human eye, or a Madonna-like figure bent over a swaddled infant in her lap. It had belonged to my father and had always fascinated me as a child. Trowa appeared fascinated, running his fingertips lightly across the curved contours of the piece and tilting his head this way and that.

He straightened and turned to me. \"Is this art?\"

\"Yes,\" I replied, surprised by his question. Curiosity prompted me to stand and approach him. \"It\'s a sculpture called \'The Mystic Eye\'.\"

He picked up the heavy sculpture easily with one hand. His eyes ticked over the surface as he turned it in his hand, observing it from all angles. \"It\'s not a very accurate depiction of an eye.\"

\"No, it\'s not. Art isn\'t always realistic. This is a particularly abstract piece, see.\" I hesitantly reached toward the sculpture in his hand to gesture along its lines. \"If you think of this part here as the pupil, and this part as the eyelid, it\'s a stylised eye. But...\" I put my hand on his wrist to prompt him to turn the piece. His skin was warmer now. \"If you look at it from this angle, this looks more like a woman bent over a baby.\"

\"It does?\" the android frowned at the sculpture. He didn\'t see it.

\"Well, it\'s very abstract too, but think of this part,\" I touched what would also be the eye\'s pupil, \"as the baby\'s head. And see here,\" I traced my finger along a protruding curve, \"is the mother\'s arm, and this,\" I indicated the thicker top curve of the sculpture, \"is her bowed head.\"

I withdrew my hand and watched Trowa continue to study the piece. After a few moments of studying it, he fell still and closed his eyes.

Beside him I fidgeted, unsure what to do in the wake of his sudden inaction. I assumed he was processing new information, adding it to his repertoire of pattern recognition algorithms or some other similar procedure. How long would it take? Was I supposed to just leave him standing there?

My worry proved to be unnecessary, for Trowa soon reopened his eyes and spoke, \"I believe I can see it now.\" He lifted his free hand to the sculpture and for the first time I noticed how fine and strong his hands were, with long, articulate fingers, slender and sure. For an instant I imagined them touching me, but quickly returned my focus to Trowa\'s words as he ran his fingers over the sculpture. \"She\'s seated? These are her legs? She\'s wearing a long robe and head covering?\"

\"Yes, that\'s right.\" I gave him an encouraging smile when he looked to me for confirmation.

\"The image is reminiscent of Christian mythology.\"

I nodded. \"It is indeed.\"

\"What is the meaning of the image in this context, Quatre?\" He set the sculpture back down, oriented exactly as it had been.

\"I don\'t know. Most people believe that the person who looks at art constructs their own meaning.\"

\"Is art not also an expression of the artist\'s intentions?\"

\"Yes,\" I said, \"but there\'s no way for us to know for sure what the artist intended. This piece is hundreds of years old, and the artist is anonymous. Even if we had a name and a biography.\" I shrugged. \"It would still be impossible to know exactly what he or she meant by fusing the images of an eye and the Madonna.\"

Trowa remained silent for a time, and then he turned to me, his eyes unnaturally intent as they met mine. \"What do you think?\"

\"I\'ve always enjoyed the piece for its enigma. Somehow I feel like it would be spoiled if I were to assign some concrete interpretation to it.\"

\"It\'s meaning to you is a lack of meaning?\"

\"I suppose,\" I concurred with an inclination of my head.

\"And you find that satisfactory?\"

\"Yes, I do.\"

Trowa didn\'t nod, or respond in any way—verbally or otherwise. Instead he made his way toward the kitchen. I followed a few steps behind him, and, remembering what Catherine had told me, spoke to encourage him. \"Trowa, I like that you have an interest in art,\" I said. \"I have some art books you may...\" I paused. Enjoy? Like? Was he capable of enjoyment? \"You may look at them sometime.\"

\"Thank you, Quatre.\"

I leaned against a convenient piece of wall and continued watching Trowa. He started his exploration of the kitchen with the bowl of fruit I kept near the bar. Carefully he selected each fruit in turn and raised it to his nose, but his face remained impassive at each experimental inhalation. I was surprised he had a sense of smell. It was probably more like a simple chemical sensor than anything resembling a human olfactory sense, but it was a sense nonetheless. I supposed smell was a large part of sexual experience, but couldn\'t fathom why it would matter to the android.

Now Trowa was running his fingertips over the shape of each fruit, exploring the texture of each piece\'s rind or skin. He spent the most time touching the peaches, but I shifted in discomfort at the way his fingers caressed the solo banana he found.

\"Do you ever need to eat?\" I asked him.

\"No, I don\'t require food, but I am able to eat.\" He set the banana down and picked up a pear.

\"What about sleep? Do you sleep?\" It seemed funny to me somehow that Trowa held the pear upside down as he examined it.

\"I can simulate sleep, but I require only an hour or so of downtime for system maintenance each day.\" He swapped the pear for an apple, holding it stem down as well. And why not?

\"Downtime?\"

\"It serves a purpose much like sleep does for you.\" He turned the apple right way up, and I decided that the next time I ate an apple; I would hold it upside down. Trowa continued, \"It gives my system time to update and enhance my neural net. It helps me learn.\"

\"So you\'re aware of how your own...\" Should I call it a mind? \"Mind works?\"

\"I\'m aware of some of the principles used in my design,\" he said. The apple was exchanged for the banana again.

Unwittingly, my throat went dry. \"And your overall design? You know what you\'re made for?\"

His lips curved into a vague, lopsided smile before he met my eyes. I was caught glancing between his face (for his smile was a pleasant surprise), and his hands. One held the banana, near its stem, and the other stroked it idly. He didn\'t respond immediately. If he\'d been human, I would have thought he was toying with me. But he wasn\'t human, so it must have been me reacting to my own discomfort.

\"I do,\" he said, and put the fruit back in the bowl.

I decided that I didn\'t need to ask him any further questions at the moment, fearing already that my dreams that night would be disturbed by phallic fruit symbols.


Eventually Trowa found his way to my library cum music room. By this time, it was dusk and the baby grand lurked in the fading light like a hungry beast. At least that was how it always looked to me. \"Lights,\" I said quickly. Yellowy light filled the room and dispelled the illusion.

Trowa glided into the room: that was the only way to describe the way he moved. He trailed fingers over the rows of book spines, his eyes intent on—I supposed—the titles and authors. It gave me a chance to briefly admire my collection. Paper books were a modern rarity, and most of mine were deemed antique in this age of bits and bytes. When the android reached the end of the bookshelves, he lingered at the wide window overlooking the streets far, far below. The night was clear and the clouds high enough tonight that the streetlights were visible with uncommon clarity. Usually, smog diminished their glow.

His tall form stood motionless, its back to me, looking so elegant in the trim, dark suit that for a fleeting moment I imagined he was real, with a pulse under his skin, and a real mind instead of a neural net. Then he turned and drew my attention to the piano. His words banished the illusion. \"Do you play the piano, Quatre?\"

I grimaced. \"No, I don\'t, I mean, not anymore.\" That piano, I had never played.

Trowa stared at my face without speaking for a long time. Processing my expression perhaps? I expected—actually, I have no idea what I expected, but when he finally spoke again, I turned cold.

\"It\'s a source of displeasure to you that you do not play any longer? Why?\"

No one had ever asked me that, not even Duo. I opened my mouth, but none of my jaw, lips, or tongue wanted to manipulate the right words. Then it occurred to me that I didn\'t even know what the right words were. The walls of the library drew close around me, the piano loomed, and all I could do was watch as Trowa, a slight frown creasing his brow, moved to where I stood by the door. The thick Persian rug muffled his footsteps.

\"I\'m sorry, Quatre. Did I say something wrong?\" He was standing so close to me now. If he were human, I\'d be able to smell his breath.

\"N-no,\" I stammered, straightening and taking a step back. Years of having to improvise confidence in the boardroom allowed me to recover quickly. \"No, Trowa. You didn\'t say anything wrong. It\'s just that... it\'s not an easy question for me to answer. I haven\'t played the piano, or any other instrument, since my father died.\"

\"I don\'t understand.\"

\"That\'s okay. I wouldn\'t expect you to understand something I don\'t.\"

\"You don\'t know how your own mind works,\" Trowa said seriously.

\"I...\" Inexplicably, I laughed. \"No, I guess I don\'t.\"

Trowa looked curious, but I was relieved by my unexpected burst of humour. I felt decidedly more relaxed as I ordered the lights off and led Trowa through the remainder of my home, most notably to my bedroom.

My bedroom I left until last out of my continuing uncertainty regarding Trowa\'s ultimate purpose, a purpose which—so far—hadn\'t been that much of an issue. Trowa hadn\'t flirted with me or made any other hint of a sexual advance since the ambiguous moment in the kitchen. I was glad of it, since Trowa\'s mental state seemed so innocent at present, it was difficult—and even disturbing—to view him as a sexual entity.

\"And this is where I sleep,\" I said to Trowa as we entered the master suite. The bedside lamps, triggered by a motion sensor, slowly came to life, bringing the room incrementally from darkness to gentle illumination.

Where I had decorated most of my home in a fairly spare aesthetic, in my bedroom I had permitted myself more extravagance, and had indulged my senses with rich textures, patterns, and colours. A riot of spicy tones dressed the large bed; its thick wooden posts, square and thick jutted up to the ceiling at all four corners. The walls, covered in Venetian style plaster and stained a rich burgundy, bore the pieces of art I considered the most evocative.

One in particular captured Trowa\'s interest. He moved toward the painting and, much as he had with the sculpture in the living room, asked me to explain it. \"What is this an image of, Quatre? What are the young men doing? They don\'t appear happy.\"

\"It\'s the Greek god Apollo holding his mortal lover, Hyacinth,\" I said, rubbing my hands together nervously as I moved closer to Trowa. \"Hyacinth has just died because Apollo hit him in the head with a discus, see it\'s lying in the grass there.\" I gestured.

\"This is a sad image?\"

\"Yes. It\'s sad, but I think it\'s also beautiful in a way.\"

\"How is it beautiful to you?\"

\"It\'s just...\" I cocked my head to study the piece more closely. It had hung on my wall long enough that I hadn\'t really looked at it recently. \"It\'s a very poignant image of loss and powerlessness. Apollo, for all his power, can\'t bring Hyacinth back. He\'s just as prone to a horrible mistake as we are. I like that for some reason.\"

\"Then it\'s the emotional content of the piece you find beautiful?\"

\"Yes, exactly. A lot of aesthetic appeal is the emotional effect of a piece.\"

\"All right,\" Trowa said, fell silent for a time, and then turned rather abruptly to face me. \"Do you wish for me to sleep with you here?\"

\"Sleep with me?\" I recoiled. Did he mean it as a euphemism for sex? A literal interpretation would be best, I decided. \"I didn\'t think you required sleep?\"

He shrugged, a suddenly human gesture. \"I didn\'t know if you wished for me to stay with you at night.\"

\"Um, no, Trowa. I\'m used to sleeping alone. I don\'t see why you should pretend for my sake.\"

\"All right, Quatre.\" He paused. \"Is there anything you would like for me to do while you sleep? Where shall I rest when I do my system maintenance?\"

\"Do whatever you like, and you may use any room you find most convenient. Except for this room, please.\"

\"I understand.\"

My stomach grumbled at me, audibly. In the excitement of exploring with Trowa, I had neglected to have dinner. \"Trowa?\"

\"Yes, Quatre?\"

\"Do you know how to cook?\"


...