An Ode to Mechanical Beauty

I saw it for the first time on my way to the factory. I had just looked up from my pocket watch to gaze upon the gardens, as I always did. There weren't many plants anymore, but some were trying to revive the population. All the smoke in the air around us did not help the plants, it seemed. Yet, plants were always so pretty, so I looked at them no matter how weird others thought it was. However, this time I saw something even more beautiful than the blooming chrysanthemums and the bright green palm tree leaves. Something that stopped me in my tracks.

She was so beautiful in her leather dress, covered in chains and gears, and her auburn hair matched the flowers she was watering. As I watched her water more flowers one by one, I also noticed another thing. Her arms were fake, replaced by wooden prosthetics. They matched her dress so well that at first I thought they were gloves. I could not, however, see if her feet or legs were real, as her long dress draped down to lace-up brown boots. At that point, I could no longer tell if she was human or automaton.

Some automatons had been taking over simple jobs in the past few years, so I was not entirely unaccustomed to the sight of them. This figure, though, was so beautiful that I certainly hoped it was not machine. I hoped technology was not yet so advanced. What man was I to fall in love with a machine? And what would it mean for men if mechanical women were more beautiful than the true maidens on our midst? Yet if she is human, I most certainly would not be one to turn away from her. She looked over at me, however, and I quickly went on my way, blushing.

The next day I saw it again. She saw me and motioned me forward. I looked around to make sure nobody was watching and walked in to see her. When I entered, she greeted me in a calm voice that did sound human, although I knew that many automatons now had speaking capabilities comparable to that of humans. I helped tend to some flowers, and I helped pick fruit to harvest and sell in the street market. Every day from then on, I would spend a half hour helping around in the botanical gardens before heading to work at the very factory harming these plants. It calmed my conscience a bit.

Doing it alongside this beautiful cyborg-like woman wasn't bad, either. She made good company, talking often about days where she had been forced to live as a man, working in a factory like mine. Watering the plants helps her connect to her womanhood, she said. I could understand that; my older sister, may she rest in peace, had to do something similar. Perhaps that was why her stories fascinated me.

I started to notice one trait about the worker, however, that was more reserved for humans. Every day she had on a new outfit. One day she'd be in a long dress, the next she'd be in pants and a leather vest. Sometimes she'd wear a ponytail, and some days she'd just let her hair flow. Still, I never saw body parts other than her human-like head and her automaton arms.

About a month of anxious consideration after, I finally had the courage to ask the question that had been burning in my mind. I looked in the sparkly blue eyes that stood out against her monochromatic attire, looking like water droplets in her fiery hair. I knew this question could send me in two directions. Either I would have the love of my life, or all I ever knew about love would come into question.

I asked it if it was human or machine.

She did not give me a straight answer. She was playing with my mind.

"It really depends on your perspective, doesn't it?" she chuckled, leaving me dumbfounded, not to mention a bit ticked.

"You see," she'd continued, grinning mischievously, "Some would call me human. My face looks human, my outfits change, and I talk like a human. However, some claim to 'not be fooled' by me because I have the arms of a machine, and my head and voice could easily be that of a machine."

I spent all of work that day thinking about that answer, almost burning myself near an open flame in my thoughts. When I arrived home, I went to my bed at once, hoping the morning came sooner. I woke up the next morning, did my same morning routine, and walked to my usual spot, heading in to help and hopefully get answers. She had not come out yet, so I walked around, picking fruit off plants. Once I reached the banana trees, I stopped, startled.

There were boots under the banana tree. Not wholly unexpected there in the botanical gardens, except these boots were laying down and covered with shimmering oil smears. Also unusual were the deathly pale legs coming from them, stretched out over some sort of dark puddle.

I walked over to the tree, curiosity and concern gripping me. There I saw it. Covered in oil. The shiny auburn hair now a greasy dullness. The beautiful face I knew, unmoving, unblinking. The prosthetic arms at her sides, sprawled. By some demented contrast, the pale legs I had never seen. Somehow dead, it seemed. She was dead; it was no longer functioning. Next to her was a note. I picked it up, hoping for a true explanation.

The note read, "I used oil because it was all that was available to me. Was this suicide? Or perhaps a homicide? Nobody will ever know. It could possibly be neither if one is to believe that automatons cannot be killed. What happens, though, if one somehow 'dies'? Does anything miss it? Does the world simply stay static and move on, since it supposedly had always been a non-living object? If it were, in fact, a human, does that mean anything doesn't miss it? Does it automatically imply that the world will benefit or detriment from death? I leave this to you, Johnathon. Signed, the victim-- or the defendant. Who shall know?"

How? Was I now never to know any of this information? This love I had...would I never know if it held any weight? If she were human, I would love her forever. On the other hand, if she were machine, it would be pointless to do so...right? I crushed the note in my fist, my mind rolling through every possible scenario that could have led to this. In that moment, I could not take seeing the body anymore. Luckily, my budding tears blurred it, leaving a brown and white blob in my field of vision.

That was when I realized something. I had an epiphany, as some may call it. Regardless of the status, she could not just stay here. I would cremate her, so her ashes would help the soil. I knew that was something she would want, and it could be done regardless of her position as automaton or human.

I no longer cared what others would think of my actions on this day. I knew I was in the right. As such, I gave her a proper cremation after cleaning most of the oil. The garden smelled a terrible smell, not quite flesh but not quite that of the burning automatons of the landfills, but I believed it fit the atrocity. It was better than watching, which I refused to do. When it was over, I spilled the ashes into the soil she had ended at and prayed. I wept again before leaving, but I was confident that I had best shown my love and benefited the world left behind, even if only a little. Like she did.