The Machinations Of Greed

Family

A dark oak door opens, its black handle being turned as Adam steps inside, his eyes roaming the view. Crisp, ivory walls encompass his sight, and though they're monotonous, sad and frankly, overbearingly lonely, the overjoyed voice of a little girl resounding through the air makes it all better. A little down the corridor, a door to the left opens, and into view comes the origin of the shrill sound.

"Daddy!"

The girl yells, her eyes, just like her father's, looking into his as he crouches down to her level, before lifting her up.

"Hey, Sarah~! Mommy's not here right now, but it's not the end o' the world, right? Come on, let's getcha something to eat, yeah?"

He returns the smile, to which she nods, before giddily striding down the corridor to reach the living room and kitchen.

To the left, there's a coffee table with some white, comfy, yet modern couches placed opposite of a medium-sized TV on a large stand.

Behind those, the wall is lined with bookshelves and display cases with different photos of a certain pair, all of them seemingly depicting the two at different ages. Some older, some younger... they look to be in love just the same. There's also many a trophies, but those don't matter anymore. Not to him.

He turns right, however, setting Sarah down onto the milky white marble of the counter stood in the middle of the kitchen. He circles it, coming around to the other side while Sarah jumps off the counter, seemingly not willing to stay in place.

"But why? Does she have work to do? Is she coming home late again...?"

Sarah's voice weakens, more disappointed than anything. She understands, this little girl. He knows she does. She takes after her mother. Well, except for the eyes and the bright blonde hair, or the happy-go-lucky personality... or the clothing style. The strawberry themed, light red coloured T-shirt and the short pants, just the same. They're like two worlds, her and her mother. Parallel. Completely parallel.

It makes him wonder how the hell this beautiful, cheerful girl's mother ended up like this in the first place. It also puts a smile on his face.

Even so, he wants to protect and to keep her safe. She's his family. And he's got a duty. Not just towards the people, but towards his loved ones. He knows that.

He's also got a duty to keep his damn kid fed and happy. And if he doesn't fulfill that one, then can he really call himself a father? Her mother can't always be trusted to do good work either, so he'll have to do for now. He'll probably get scolded by her for this, though...

"...Yeah, Sarah. But!"

He raises a finger into the air in an exaggerated manner, trying to lighten the mood. Though, if you asked him, he'd admit he's not got such a skill.

"Assistant...?"

As he speaks this one word, a light appears on the TV, its black surface activating to display a kind of visualiser. A set of miniscule bars of equal size are shown near the lower side of the screen, lining the length of it.

"Yes?"

A feminine, mature voice resounds through the room from the device, and the bars grow in size, then shrink back down to their initial form.

"Play me some tunes. Anything you like."

The lines do the same as his voice is recorded by the machine, and in the middle of the screen, a few words are shown.

"Happy Tunes playing..."

Without warning, music echoes through the air. Not too loud, of course. You wouldn't want to wake the neighbours. But just loud enough for them to listen to happily.

Sarah tilts her head to the side in an almost disappointed manner, seeing that he hasn't answered the question yet.

"...We can listen to some music 'till she shows up?"

"...Mm..."

For a few moments, Sarah stands there, examining his expression with her unreadable own, before nodding her head fervently. With a bounce, she turns back and heads towards the fridge, opening it up to reveal its contents.

"Woah, hey! You are NOT cooking, Sarah!"

Adam retorts her claim verbally,

...She doesn't listen.

.
.
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Puddles of water splash under the weight of a man as he treads through the nearly empty streets. His eyes scan the environment, yet he finds nothing of interest.

A bus, white and large passes by him, empty, save for the driver...

The rain has stopped by now, but he's still soaked, and muddied up... nonetheless, he explores the innards of this city. His GPS isn't working, leaving him to wander around, but as he does so, he passes by something.

An ATM machine. Embedded into the concrete pillar between the glass windows of the bank he had been unknowingly ignoring.

Its screen shines bright in the darkness of the night, and for some reason, he feels like it beckons to him. Like it's inviting him to approach.

He doesn't know why, but he can't take his eyes off it. Maybe a part of him beyond his machinery recognizes it. A memory, perhaps? He can't tell, but with care and what he thinks should be called uncertainty, he reaches out towards it.

His eyes glow red, and he feels even more confused. Why is he reaching out towards it? It's not like him. It doesn't think. It's just machinery. But him? Him? He's alive. More than that. He's intelligent. Sapient.

He CANNOT be considered just some machine to order around, or to speak to however you like.

His artificial flesh collides with its surface. His body is telling him to do... something. Something he can't comprehend. Is it something else asking him for this, or is it him? He doesn't understand. The vermilion glow of his irises brightens up like day brightens night.

It's getting worse. But he doesn't know what 'it' is. It's like a call, a voice telling him something. He feels like it wants him to Ǫ̴̧̧̢̠̗̠͈͔̫̺̜̼̱̖͓̜̺͔̜̞̲͈̰͍̫͖̣̬͍̩̳̜͇̱̳̖͔̞̫̍̋͛͆̈́͊B̷̢̧̢̛͈̳̞̰̫͈̝̩̖͇̠̻͚͖̏͂̾̅̓̍̌̔̍̽̄̐͋́̌̈́͒̃́̀̂͐͐̂͋̌̓̌͂̄̅͛̔̑̀̍̌̽̅̌͗̀̉͗̏́̈̽̋̍̈̚̕͝͝͝͝ͅĘ̴̢̢̨̖̘̬͙̝͖͍͚͓̻̟̩̣̺̠̩̭͔͍̝̻̬̲͖͖̻͖͖͓͈̦͈͈͎͚͔̻̺̟̬̈́̅̓̎͜ͅY̷̧̡̧̨̧̡̨͈͓̖̹͇̦̱̫̲̬̩̯̭͔͔̳̭̫͇̮̣̰̝͓̜̰̫͔͔͈̘̭̲̱̤̝̰̬̙͇̹̙̫͈̑͊̃̌̈̎͐̍̓̀̋͛͂̏́̔̉͘͜͜͜͝ͅ but he... he doesn't want to. That doesn't sit right with him.

The blood in his eyes grows stronger. He won't hop from a pit into another. He's had ENOUGH. HE is alive. HE is something. HE won't let himself be controlled by ANYONE.

...He is special. He's not like those pieces of scrap that squirm like the worms they are in that hellish place. He breathes. He can feel it. It HAS to be real, his breath.

Why else would he feel so conflicted?

He yanks his hand away just as the ATM machine goes haywire. Money spills from it in extreme quantities, and he backs up to clutch his head, mouth wide with suffering.

Oh, God... how it hurts.