FicWad

I was designed by Better Living Industries to spy on people.
Yeah, this is a touchy subject. Not the bestest opening line either. “Hi! I’m here to Narc on you to the Government, don’t mind me!” Bloody hell. Sorry. Sorry. Jesus. Sorry.
Now for the shocker: I’m gay!
Bwahaha. No I’m not. Not really. I’m an Artificial Intelligence program. Like a robot. Dexter model 2246890.
I know what you’re thinking. You’re probably all “Artificial intelligence? But you look so REAL!” C’mon people, I’m supposed to look real. Real enough so that you can trust me and tell me your anti-Gov rantings and I can get you thrown in prison.

My name is Dexter. I like music. I don’t have to eat and I hate being outside for long periods of time. I also like the smell of chocolate and I hate fresh cookies because they find joy in melting on me. I have two friends, named Lindsey and Jim. They’re also A.I. programs like me. We’re linked up through that new Spyder network thing. Spyder network, it’s the new craze, all the stupid people are getting it done.
It’s a feed in your brain that uplinks your thoughts to other people. It gives you the ability of telepathy. Like you can send music to other people’s Spyder feeds, and send thoughts.
It’s handy, but the spam is so not worth it sometimes.

Lindsey pinged-that’s message for you old people-me before I even woke up. The code of Lindsey’s messages always functioned into Leet when translated.

Running transcripts....
Lindsey: H3Y D3Xt3R! S0 h0w’s my 1ittl3 8411 0f fun th1s m0rnin6?
Dexter: GO AWAY LINDSEY I’M BUSY.
Lindsey: Sur3 y0u 4re 101010101.
Dexter: It’s far too early for that many lol’s.
Lindsey: :D
Lindsey: C4n I c0m3 0v3r? I’m 80r3d.
Dexter: NO. STAY WHERE YOU ARE.
Lindsey: Why?
Dexter: Cuz I’m not there.
Lindsey: 101 D3x s33 y0u s00n.

{Lindsey_87990_chat_ping_timeout.}

Dexter: ARGG LINDSEY WHY AARGASDFASDFASASDF.

{Dexter_2246890_chat_ping_timeout.}

I burrowed deeper into my mattress. I no want out of bed. I no want to clean apartment. I no want to see Lindsey now. It warm here.
Lindsey coming over meant that I’d have to clean my apartment (I should’ve done it weeks ago, but I didn’t want to and it was fine anyway) get out of bed (NO) and be social at this hour (NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO).
Besides, I had things around my apartment that I didn’t want Lindsey to know about. There was the eyeliner, hell, the whole makeup kit really. I’ve been experimenting with eyeliner and lipstick and all that, I don’t know what you women complain about really, it’s quite fun. I’d also been having weird thoughts lately, maybe it was Spyder Spam or something.

I sort of have memories that aren’t mine. Memories of beaches and music I’ve never heard, of me doing art even though I can’t draw. Of a brother.
I don’t have a brother.
Most A.I. units, about 98% are based off real people. Stolen DNA samples. We’re created to be lookalikes. It’s part of the almost real charm.
Most DNA hosts are dead. Lindsey’s got cancer a while ago, kicked it that way. Jim’s died in an car wreck. Mine is missing. I don’t know who my host is yet. That bothers me, I mean, I should at least know whose DNA I match up to, right?

Lindsey rings the doorbell for my apartment. I navigate around precariously stacked books and teacups and clothes. And a top hat.
Lindsey rings the bell again.
“HELL, WOMAN, QUIT ABUSING THAT BELL! I’M COMING!”
I leap most epically over a lamp and open the door like a champion.