Light is the first thing he registers, a sharp whiteness that runs from his optical sensors to his copper-wired nervous system and kickstarts it, sending cogs whirring and various body parts to begin functioning. Beauty is the next, and all of his systems that just so recently started up threaten to die as he takes in her stunning face. Piercing blue-green eyes radiant for all of the rings of exhaustion surrounding them, a rumpled lab coat with more than a few spots and stains on it, dirty-blond hair pulled up into a messy bun whose angle to the right was obviously unintentional; he knows then, with utter certainty and no idea how or why he does, that she is the most beautiful thing he will ever see.
This revelation is capped off when she murmurs, in a melodious voice impossibly pleasing to his auditory system, "My God, I've done it," her eyes wide with surprise at her accomplishment.
Which, he realizes as soon as he sits up and examines his form, is himself.
A white sheet covers the lower half of his body, under which he knows exists the perfectly-formed, completely anatomically correct lower half of a human frame, and the bare upper half is an incredible sight indeed. Layers of muscle cover his titanium skeleton, and he reaches up a hand in fascination to trace the ridges in his abdominals, which form three rows of two rounded rectangles that he knows are human anatomy at its finest. The raised hand is perfectly structured as well, with fingers proportional to a tee and downed on the top with a faint dusting of reddish-brown hair, and, as his eyes work their way up his arm to take in his bluish veins, so exactly replicated that one can't tell them from an actual human's, and rest upon his bicep, which is just as impressive as the obliques in his stomach, he knows for certain that he is a prime specimen of human anatomy.
He looks slowly up at her here, uncertain of how he is and knows all of this but sure that she has something to do with it, to wonder if she perhaps is like him in physical perfection incarnate, for she seems too stunning to have been made so by sheer chance.
"My name is Isabelle Renee Caldwell, and I am the scientist who developed you," she introduces herself, and then asks him anxiously, "How do you feel?" She peers into his eyes closely, and it is a moment before he finds his voice and causes his synthetic larynx to function for the first time.
"Good," he answers truthfully, and then finds himself asking, "How do I know all that I know? I presume that infant humans start out with blank slates for memories, so how do I find myself possessing the knowledge of life and speech and existence as an automaton?"
"I programmed it into you," she tells him, and he nods in understanding. "I figured it would be easier on you if you started out with at least a foundation so that you wouldn't end up being a baby in a man's body." She gives him a smile here, and he feels his mouth go dry.
She, however, is oblivious to how her presence is affecting him, and she asks him, "Would you like to see yourself?"
Upon catching sight of the mirror mounted on the white wall a few feet away, he nods in confirmation, and, with one hand holding the sheet around his waist tight to obey the principles of modesty prearranged in him, he rises to his feet, flexing his toes and reveling in the power he can feel in the muscles of his legs. He glances over to find her watching his bare torso with a curious sort of interest, and it takes a moment for the electrical currents in his nervous system to access the information regarding such an expression and for him to realize that she is regarding him admiringly, like she is attracted to him.
That thought makes him stand up a bit straighter, and he follows her over to the mirror to gaze into the silver-coated glass and realize that his physical features are just as ideal as the rest of his anatomy. With lips that aren't too large or small, a nose that isn't too long or short, cheekbones that aren't too high or low, eyes positioned perfectly, a forehead that isn't too wide or flat or tall, and close-cropped reddish-brown hair that curls slightly at the nape of his neck, he is the poster child for the conventionally-attractive man. The only thing that marks him as inhuman is his red eyes, which glow with a mechanical resonance.
"What do you think?" she questions him quietly, and he jerks his gaze away from his reflection to stare down at her for a moment before replying.
"I think I look far better than I deserve to," he says, and she smiles.
"I didn't realize the personality traits I programmed you with would lead you to be modest," she murmurs, and he shakes his head here.
"They didn't," he tells her. "They made me honest."
She regards him carefully for a long moment before finally responding, "Maybe they did," and turning away to grab a change of clothes - boxer shorts, socks, jeans and a dark red short-sleeved T-shirt - and handing them to him with a small smile and, "In case you're tired of standing around half-naked with nothing but a sheet covering you." She then gestures to a pair of tennis shoes sitting next to the table where the clothes were located and says, "Shoes are there."
She holds his gaze for a moment, long enough for him to realize exactly how small she is in comparison to him - she can be no more than five feet four inches tall, and, given that he is six feet three inches tall, he has eleven inches on her - before walking out of the room and giving him the privacy to dress.
Despite the societal norms ingrained into him, he wouldn't have minded changing in front of her - it would be more of a chance to see if the look he recognized earlier was a fluke or a misinterpretation of events - but he understands that she left probably more for her benefit than his; she doesn't strike him as the type to be particularly comfortable around undressed members of the other sex.
He dresses mechanically, shrugging on the clothes and lacing up the shoes with all the ease of someone who's spent years doing so, and then joins her outside the room. Upon his arrival, she seems almost surprised that it took him such a short amount of time to dress, but the surprise is obviously pleasant, as a small smile plays on her lips as she gazes up at him.
"Are you ready to come with me back to my apartment so I can test the knowledge of everyday life I programmed you with?" she questions, and he nods. He would go anywhere she wants him to, as long as she is there too.
"Good," she says, and begins to walk down the sterile white hallway that is clearly part of a laboratory, but curiosity keeps his feet rooted to the ground.
"Isabelle," he begins, savoring the way her name rolls off his tongue, and she turns around to regard him questioningly. "What is my name?" he asks, and for once she seems totally taken aback by his behavior.
"I... I never gave you one," she answers truthfully, meeting his gaze. "I guess I just... forgot to."
"Well, may I choose my own then?" He gazes down at her, his eyes and mind catching on the most abstract details of her appearance - the delicacy of her cheekbones, the stubborn set of her jaw that suggests she will not budge from her beliefs for the world, the way her long eyelashes curl - and he finds himself so distracted by her that he almost doesn't catch what she says in response.
"Of course," she tells him with a smile. "What would you like to be called?"
He thinks in silence for a moment before answering, his eyes on hers, "Pluto."
"The god of the dead," she murmurs quietly. "But you're not dead." He notices that she mentions nothing about him not being a god; all humility aside, he knows he looks the part.
"But I am not alive, am I?" he questions quietly, capturing her stare with his for a few long moments.
She has no answer for that, and simply turns and continues walking, forcing him to lengthen his stride for a few moments to catch up.
"Since I haven't had much time to worry about personal hygiene the last few days, I desperately need a shower," she tells him as she sets her keys on the small table next to the front door. "While I'm in, help yourself to whatever food or drink you want." She gives him a smile, and he belatedly nods in confirmation and understanding as he watches her make her way down the hallway and shut the door behind her as she enters the second room on the left, which must be the master bedroom with a built-in bath.
Content to simply explore the apartment for the next twenty minutes or so, he examines the contents of her kitchen and refrigerator - cabinets and drawers filled with dishes, a whole shelf full of spices, handwritten recipes and notes pinned to the refrigerator by a magnet, various fruits and vegetables and drinks and condiments that require chilling, a few pieces of meat and a half-empty box of ice cream sandwiches in the freezer, a dining table completely covered with notes and diagrams and calculations that upon closer inspection have to do with his creation - before deciding on a drink of water and retrieving himself a glass that he fills from the tap.
Draining the cup in one long sip and enjoying the cool flavorlessness of the chemically-bonded hydrogen and oxygen, he refills it and takes it with him as he proceeds to inspect her living room. The pictures hanging from the walls and perched on shelves are all of her, smiling as she poses with friends and parents and colleagues, and he releases a breath he wasn't aware he was holding when he finds that none of the men she has taken pictures with appear to have any romantic involvement with her; two appear to be her brothers, one is very obviously her father, and a fourth seems to be a high-ranking official of some sort - someone handing her a certificate, at any rate.
One picture in particular catches his eye, and he picks it up and observes even more closely a younger Isabelle grinning broadly with her arm around the shoulder of another young woman who is featured in many other photographs and so is probably Isabelle's close friend. Both Isabelle and the other woman are in bikinis which reveal the majority of their bodies, and he finds himself having difficulty swallowing as he gazes down at the picture like he wants to imprint it upon his mind.
"That was a fun trip," a voice behind him says, and he whips around to encounter similar troubles controlling his throat and mouth when he finds a damp-haired Isabelle, in a loose T-shirt and running shorts that hit her midthigh, watching him with a small smile on her face. "Marsha and I went down to Mexico to celebrate getting our doctorates in neurobiology."
"And how did you like Mexico?" he asks her as he carefully replaces the picture on its shelf and turns to face her.
"It was nice," she answers, her eyes becoming distant for a moment as she remembers. "Tropical and pretty with a lot of cheap alcohol." She smiles at that, and he nods in wordless understanding as he watches her.
"I see you found something to drink," she says, gesturing to the glass in his hand. "Are you sure you don't want anything to eat too?"
"I am doing well for now, thank you," he tells her with a gracious bow of his head, and she grins here.
"You're so formal. It's funny," she says quietly as she watches him for a moment longer.
"Didn't you program me to be formal?" he asks curiously, and she shakes her head.
"I programmed you with an extensive knowledge of the English language, and this is how it manifested itself," she responds with a shrug, and again he nods in understanding.
After a moment of silence, she tells him, "Well, I personally am starving, so I'm going to make myself something to eat. Are you sure you don't want anything? I'd be more than happy to make something for you."
Suddenly he finds that he actually is hungry - perhaps the idea of Isabelle making something for him motivates him to desire food - and he responds, "Actually, if you don't mind-" - he scans his mental inventory of types of food before settling upon one at random - "-some macaroni and cheese would be wonderful."
"That's exactly what I was going to make," she replies with a smile, "so I'll just make it for two."
She then proceeds to begin tracking down the ingredients and tools necessary to make it from various locations in her kitchen as he comes to stand by her side, offer her help if she needs it, observe the cooking process, and talk with the woman he has inexorably loved since the first moment of his existence as a sentient being.
"Isabelle," he begins, leaning forward from his seat in the living room armchair to get closer to her and almost giddy with the opportunity to just talk with her with no other distractions like eating to get in the way, "did you program me with the ability to be attracted to another human?" He meets her gaze intensely, half-hoping that she'll interpret his eyes and expression and spare him the trouble of explaining his feelings to her, but alas she doesn't and simply answers the question, oblivious to his underlying intent and desire.
"I programmed you with all of the hormones of a normal human, so I guess I did," she responds, and then asks, "Why?" A small smile comes across her face as she adds, "Did you find yourself admiring a woman on the trip over here?"
"I did," he tells her, and takes a deep breath before saying, "I'm considering myself incredibly lucky to be in her presence right now, in fact."
"Oh," she exclaims in a whisper, her eyes widening, and he finds himself propelled to his feet by an unknown instinct and crosses over to her to gaze down at her for a long moment before gently pulling her to her feet and meeting her lips with his, his arms curling around her back and holding her to him.
A few seconds later, he finds himself propped up on his elbows on top of her on the sofa, his breathing quickened and all of his senses heightened by desire.
"You programmed me with experience," he breathes as he gazes down at her, one part of his mind abstractedly noticing how luminous her eyes are. "Let me show you that I know how to use it."
After a long moment, she nods, granting him permission, and this time, as she reaches up for him and entangles her fingers in his hair, she is the one to kiss him.
"Are you alright?" he asks her as she lays with her back to him, her eyes focused on something across the living room. His arm is draped around her waist and his torso is sloped to the gentle curvature of her spine, a blanket covering them both and sealing in their shared body heat. "Did I hurt you?" he questions worriedly, wondering if perhaps he had lost track of his own strength and had unintentionally and unknowingly caused her pain.
"This was a mistake." Her words punch him in the stomach worse than any confirmation of his inadvertent brutality, and the look in her eyes as she rolls over to gaze up at him almost desperately causes his heart, which consists of half-muscle and half-piston, to sink so badly it nearly falls out of his chest. "I shouldn't sleep with things I create, Pluto. I'm sorry for both of us that I didn't realize that beforehand."
She moves, as if to rise, but he grabs her firmly by the arm and holds her down, forcing her to look him in the eye, as he asks her, "Why shouldn't you be with me, even if you did create me? I am an ideal man, intelligent and handsome and more than capable of thriving in whatever occupation I chose, and I could give you everything you had ever wanted in someone."
"Pluto, you said it yourself: you're not really alive," she tells him, and the sting shuts him up. "You are a machine, a beautiful, wonderful, incredible, stunning machine, but a machine nonetheless, and a machine I built."
"What I said earlier was incorrect, Isabelle," he responds, shaking off the pain in favor of a desperate determination to convince her of his rightness. "I may have a skeleton of titanium and a heart of pistons and a brain of copper wires, but this love I feel for you, this trait you did not directly program, is the mark of a living soul, an individual sentience that is most definitely independently alive." He waits for a long moment before questioning, his eyes on hers, "Am I wrong?"
"No," she says slowly, and she seems almost relieved to be able to answer in such a way. "I guess you aren't. I... I guess you really have transcended your creation. I guess you really are alive."
A smile breaks out across his face at that, and he leans down and kisses her gently, one hand working its way up her back to cradle her head gently.
"So what should I call you now?" she questions when he pulls back, meeting his gaze with her thoughtful, stunning, blue-green one. "I mean, you aren't the god of the dead anymore."
"Phanes," he responds, after a moment of silent consideration, and a smile breaks out across her face at that.
"The god of life. How perfect," she says, and it's then that he realizes he never was dead at all, for he loved her from the start.
