To Think It Started With Omelets by Keely Fiedorowicz Sci Fi or Fantasy Writing Contest contest entry |
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Warning: The author has noted that this contains the highest level of language. Omelets with cheese and barbecue sauce. Currently on the list of things I hate. How can I not hate them when I'm currently scrubbing my masters’ breakfast plates to death, especially since breakfast was hours ago? I think my masters make omelets all the time just to spite me and make my life harder.
My name is Kirian. I'm a class-A android, meaning I have thoughts, feelings, opinions, likes and dislikes, hopes, and dreams, just like humans. I try to make the best out of my life, even though it's very desolate, and has been since I was created in the year 3000, 25 years ago. My fate was sealed the very moment the head of the pointlessly rich Chaney family, Caitria, decided she needed an android slave. I have masters who treat me terribly, preventing me from ever having a bright future, but that's not the worst of it. The worst of it? I think I'm in love with Princess Ryelle, the unmarried, feisty, uber-intelligent, and vivacious future leader of our country, AmericAnada. (I personally have no real opinion on the controversial merging of America and Canada into one country 40 years ago, although there's plenty of people who will give you their two cents.) Maybe I've never met her, but I've seen enough of her on that old TV my masters discarded (I doubt they even know what it does now that technology has advanced the way it has) to fall hard. She may be a princess, but she's also the owner of Intels, the leading android-producing company in the entire world. Because of this, I have no business romancing her. Class-A android or not, I'm still an android, and a slave one, no less. But I'm close enough to a man that I can dream, and dream of her I do, her loveliness dancing behind my eyes every night. And tonight is the New Year's Eve party where she'll pick a husband from the lucky men who can attend. I, of course, am doomed to not be one of them.
“HEY, DUMBASS ROBOT!” Calls a voice like a razor blade wrapped poorly in silk, “GO TO THE STORE and PICK UP SOME SHOE POLISH FOR US FOR THE PARTY!”
I wince at the yelling, knowing it's my master, the notorious Caitria Chaney, yelling to me. Her two sons, Breccan and Brenden, were sure to chime in if they happened to be in earshot, as they never miss a chance to parrot their mother. Pretty sad that the ANDROID is more capable of having an original thought than two human men.
“YEAH, GO MAKE YOURSELF USEFUL, ROBOT BASTARD!” I hear from the kitchen, right on cue. Somehow, the idiots synchronized their hollering. Will wonders never cease.
I've gotten used to the abuse and disappointment that flows through me constantly, poisoning my system like bitter poison, but right now… Well, right now it's almost too much. Tears of frustration shove their way out, not giving a damn about my vow to never cry over my situation. So what if I can't go to the party? Princess Ryelle wouldn't want to marry an android slave anyways… Or at least that's what I've convinced myself. The problem? I want to try winning her over anyways.
“GET YOUR METAL ASS TO THE STORE!” Caitria screams shrilly, ripping me from my thoughts.
I desert the plates and sigh. I’m decidedly not looking forward to the long walk to the store. Naturally, I'm not allowed to drive the flying car. I slip on my threadbare coat- the one with the rip in the elbow- and am out the door, into the blistering sun.
On the way to the store, I take at least a little pleasure from the familiar sights and sounds of the city I live in. Flying cars swoosh above me, and hovering digital ads flash in front of me, washing my exposed “skin” in a dizzying plethora of colors. I gently push them out of my way when needed, and their screens flash cartoon sad faces. The air around me is hot and sticky, like I was dropped in a vat of boiling syrup, but a cool breeze weaves through the air too, every now and then. The king must’ve decided the weather choices he's programmed lately for the city haven't been unique enough. Chatter and the dull drone of flying cars mix pleasantly in the air, giving me some relief from the negativity pinballing around in my head. Class-A androids like myself can be seen working in many of the building windows I pass, from the hair salon to the bakery to the bank, bringing a wistful smile to my lips- I dream of the day I could get paid to work and be seen as an equal to humans.
My smile lasts as I pay for my masters’ shoe polish, and I head out of the store with slightly lifted spirits. Someday I'll be free. I just need to be patient.
After barely walking about a foot, a floating video ad cuts me off. Before I can push it away, the screen flickers with Ryelle’s face, rendering me helpless. Then she opens her rosebud mouth, and delivers my death blow: she says she won't take superficial things like looks and status into consideration when she meets the men at the party, and actually is hoping to find a unique man whose differences stand out. That's all it takes for me to break. I can't help it. I dive into an alleyway, and crumble to the ground, crying my eyes out.
I'm still sobbing when I hear a soft, velvety voice pierce through my misery, “What’s wrong? Maybe I can help.”
I wrench my head upwards to see the speaker. To my amazement, it's a dog. Although talking dogs are now a possibility, they're still quite rare. I certainly haven't seen one, let alone met one. Something in her honey-gold eyes seemed to be telling me that I could trust her, and that she could maybe even help me. I decide to answer honestly.
“More than anything, I want to attend the party tonight where Princess Ryelle will pick a husband. But I can't go! My masters would kill me, and I have nothing to wear and no way to get there, anyway.”
“Certainly you can go!” The dog responds, not missing a beat, “Just let me help!”
I stare at her incredulously, wondering how on Earth she can help me. I drop my eyes to the dirty asphalt, the color of filthy dishwater. Then I yelp. What's on my feet?! Are those… rocket-launcher boots? I was barefoot just a second ago...
Somehow I scrape the gluey cobwebs stuffed in my throat and find my voice, “What the Hell?” I say, my voice raw even to my own ears.
The dog wags her tail wildly, and stomps her front paws. Suddenly, there's a floating mirror in front of me and I'm struck speechless by my reflection. I'm wearing a suit made of a beautiful silver material that seems to glisten and glow subtly, like the moon. A crimson bow tie shines at my neck, encrusted with what appears to be garnets. My hair- which previously brushed my shoulders in unkempt tangles- was smooth and silky, and fell in a neat curtain of waves. The finishing touches were the rocket boots, which upon closer inspection, appeared to be crafted from glass. The suit and boots had to have cost a fortune…
“Did YOU do this?” I ask the dog, amazed. I stroke the fabric, and to my shock, it feels too real for me to convince myself this is all just a dream…
“Of course I did!” The dog crows, “Now let's figure out how to get you there. You certainly can't walk. You might get muddy. Plus, you don't have the time.”
She falls silent for a few seconds, and closely examines our surroundings.
“Aha!” She suddenly hoots, “I have the perfect solution!”
I follow her line of vision, and see she's looking at a cart full of android-building supplies. Tongues of rust coat the entire cart, and the wheels are flatter than week-old opened soda. I want to give my new friend the benefit of the doubt, but how in the Hell is this broken-down cart the answer?
I look back at her, and she once again stomps a paw. I look back at the cart, just in time to see an incandescent light cover it. I force myself to keep looking at it, although it burns my eyes. To my amazement, the cart slowly morphs into a gilded carriage, and the android parts that were previously inside it assemble on their own into coachmen and horses.
“Now that you're dressed properly and have transportation, my work here is done, and I'll take my leave. The party will start in 30 minutes, so you'd better head off soon. Before I go though, I have to warn you. At midnight, my magic will reverse itself. Now I better go,” she says, and her body begins to shimmer. Somehow, I know that means she's about to teleport away from our dismal little alley.
“Wait!” I cry out, “What's your name?”
As the last word leaves my mouth, she disappears completely, but her response is carried back to me by the breeze: “You can call me Fairy Godmother.”
My mind spins dizzily, and I sway slightly. “Fairy Godmother”?! Last I checked, fairy godmothers are strictly in fairytales, and my life is anything but a fairytale. I can’t help but smile though, as I look at the carriage. This may turn out to be a dream, but damned if I don't enjoy this while it lasts, even if it's not real.
I approach the carriage tentatively, and hesitantly put my hand on one of the horses. I'm only half-surprised to feel warm, velvety-soft, fur under my hand, and a pulse calmly beating under that. The horse turns to look at me, and I draw in a sharp intake of breath at the clear intelligence shining in its mahogany eyes. Its eyes seem to be telling me, “climb into the carriage already.”
The last of my hesitation burns away, and a smile blooms on my face. I quickly climb into the carriage, and settle into surprisingly plush cushions. Within seconds, the carriage starts to move forward. I try not to trust people (or other sentient beings, for that matter) too quickly, but I find myself trusting that strange little dog. I feel myself relaxing for the first time in a very, very long time.
After what only feels like seconds, the carriage rolls to a stop. Anticipation, terror, and excitement fight for dominance in my stomach. I take a few deep breaths and, as I'm taking my third one, the door to the carriage opens. I look up to see one of the coachmen standing there, an expectant gleam in his otherwise dull eyes.
“Sir, we've arrived,” he says robotically, “Let's get you on your way towards the castle.”
He offers me a hand to help me out of the carriage, and I take it gratefully. Once I'm safely out of the carriage, I release his hand and look up at the castle. I can't help the gasp that escapes me at the sight of it. I'm really here. It's not a dream.
The ivory and silver walls shine like the stars spiraling high above, and are decorated with elegant, delicate, swirling designs. What catches my attention the most though, is the giant clock tower towards the top. Its clock face reads 10:45 PM. I really need to get a move on. I only have just over an hour before the magic reverses itself.
I start up the cobblestone path and, to my embarrassment, my legs wobble from my nerves. Thankfully, I regain control after a few seconds. But when I see the castle’s interior, however, I can hardly keep my knees from buckling entirely.
The ceiling is so high that I have to crane my neck to examine its elaborate fresco, showing beautifully painted scenes from the royal family's personal history. Carefully draped tinsel festoons the walls, and catches the light of several stunning crystal chandeliers. People dressed glamorously crowd the room I’m in, which appears to be an old-fashioned ballroom. For a second, I feel EXTREMELY out of place, before I remember I'm dressed glamorously too, and no one here knows I'm a lowly android slave.
I still feel slightly out of place, but I quickly forget about that as SHE glides into the room. Princess Ryelle. SHE has arrived. The party has officially started.
I can’t help but gawk at her beauty. Her beautiful auburn hair hangs in careless waves to her waist, and her chartreuse eyes shine with mirth. As I'm nearly a man and no saint, I also can't help but notice the curve of her body under her olive green silk dress.
I force myself to look away, and in my peripheral view spot my masters a few feet away, munching on finger foods. As much as I'd like to go talk to Ryelle, I need to lay low a bit. I tuck into a shadowed corner to hide.
After a few minutes, I sense someone behind me, and I go cold. My masters must've spotted me. But I just as suddenly go hot all over when that someone speaks, because I recognize that voice from all of the times I've heard it on my TV. Could it be?
“Why are you tucked away back here all by yourself?” Princess Ryelle asks me.
Princess. Ryelle. Spoke. To. Me. ME!!!
My tongue feels like it's swelled to the size of a school bus, but I somehow force my mouth to work correctly.
“Oh, I just wanted to be alone for a second,” I lie, “You know how it is,” I add foolishly.
Surprising me, her face lights up with a light brighter and more exquisite than the chandeliers twinkling above us, “I know EXACTLY what you mean. Sometimes it's just nice to escape for a bit,” she says. She pauses, what appears to be indecision quickly flashing in her eyes. She opens her mouth, before closing it without saying anything, like she can't decide whether or not to say something.
“Would you like to dance?” She asks in a rush. Could that be what she was debating on asking? Looking into her eyes, I know I couldn't turn her down, even if I tried for a million years.
I simply nod, not trusting my voice not to go squeaky or crack.
The DJ- yes, a DJ in a palace- cues up a slow song as I let Ryelle guide me onto the dance floor. I manage to put my arms around her, and she leans into me. She smells like honeysuckle and sunshine. All I can think about is Ryelle, more Ryelle, and more Ryelle. It's growing increasingly difficult for me to breathe as she looks at me, and all I know is she's under my skin in the most enjoyable yet agonizing way.
“You know, you're the 1st man I've seen so far who hasn't made a beeline for me, only to act abhorrent once in my presence,” Ryelle remarks as we begin waltzing.
“I believe relationships shouldn't be forced, and that compatibility is very important,” I hear myself say, as if from a distance.
At first I'm worried she's going to think I'm just saying that to try to win her over, but then a breathtaking, genuine smile blossoms on her face.
“I agree wholeheartedly!” She exclaims.
I daresay it: I think I broke the ice.
We get to talking as we dance, and sweet, sweet joy burns to life within me. I learn she's only searching for a husband because her parents are making her. We discuss everything from favorite foods to the king’s weather decisions, to music likes and dislikes. We seem compatible, like we’re meant to be together. But maybe that's just my lovesickness talking.
“I see you're wearing rocket-launcher boots” she says, after we finish debating ice cream flavors, “So am I,” She shoots me a sly smile, and lifts her skirts an inch to show off cinnamon red rocket-launcher boots, “Do you want to fly-dance?” she asks.
I swallow a gasp, and it feels like razor blades in my throat. Society demands that you only fly-dance (the act of dancing while flying, using rocket-launcher boots) with people you're romantically interested in. SHE WANTS TO FLY-DANCE WITH ME??!!
“Yes. I'd love to,” I manage to say.
She smiles at me, a completely bone-melting smile, and tightens her arms around me. Then we’re 6 feet in the air, and I'm happier than I've ever been in my entire life.
The look in her eyes is magical, and her arms around me are like a drug. This moment is intoxicating, and I never want it to end. She smiles at me as we twirl, and I know when she picks her husband- which definitely won't be me- I'll be devastated. But I have this one night with her, and I'm going to make it count. One night with Ryelle is better than nothing at all- that much I'm sure of.
Airborne, we twirl and spin, glide and sashay for a while. I'm not sure how long, and it's hard to remember my deadline with Ryelle filling my senses and coloring my world in splashes of vibrant joy.
We still in the air for reasons unknown to me, and Ryelle opens her rosebud mouth and splashes frigid water onto my joy. I'm sooo stupid.
“Well, it's 11:59. I better go ask some other men to dance, but I really enjoyed-” she starts to say, but I wrench myself free from her arms and quickly drop to the floor. I start to run for the door, hoping beyond hope that I'll make it outside in time.
“WAIT! WAIT! WHERE ARE YOU GOING?! COME BACK!”
I barely hear Ryelle calling after me over the sound of the wildly spinning gears in my chest. By the time I reach my carriage, it's already turning back into a cart full of android parts. One glance down reveals my clothes are back to rags, although for some reason my boots are still there. Well, boot singular- I lost one running out of the palace. But it's too late to retrieve it now.
I run the entire way home and, just my luck, my masters are already home. I'd never wanted to see their flying car less. They must've given up on getting an audience with Ryelle after all the time she was off dancing with me. Of course, they never would've known it was me stealing the princess’s attention, as I made sure to only dance with Ryelle in semi-secluded places. But that doesn't matter now. My masters will see me coming in, and demand to know where I was. And since I'm a horrible liar, my only real option is to tell the truth.
Right on cue, the front door flies open, and Caitria pokes her head out, hatred burning in her eyes and a scowl twisting her gaudily scarlet-painted lips. Bile swirls in my stomach, clearly considering an escape up my esophagus.
“Where were you?” She snarls at me.
The venom in her tone is extraordinary, and I'm reminded once more of just how much she despises me.
“I-I was at the party,” I manage to choke out.
“Yeah, I'm sure you went in rags,” she seethes sarcastically, “Where did you find clothes suitable for the party, for free?”
I hesitate. Telling this truth would be a terrible idea. But do I really have much of a choice?
“Answer me, scum,” Caitria grates out.
I sigh internally, “A talking magical dog gave me them?”
The look on her face would've turned Medusa herself to stone, “Yeah, because I believe that.”
Then she notices my boot and her expression morphs into something so terrifying it would send a serial killer crying for their mommy. Her eyes flash dangerously, like lightning in an electrical storm, “Where did you get a boot like that?” She bites out.
I wish I could run and hide, or at least successfully change the subject, “The magical dog,” I respond warily, knowing there's no way she'll accept that answer.
Sure enough, Caitria is clearly livid. I wouldn't be surprised if actual smoke flew out of her ears.
“You must've stolen it. How dare you steal and then lie to me!!! Get in the house, you little bastard, and into your closet. NOW.”
“My closet” is a tiny, claustrophobic closet where I live and keep my meager belongings. I can't think straight when shoved in there, and all I want to do right now is bask in the glory of my time with Ryelle. The walls in the foyer seem to be crowding closer together as I look into the cold, merciless gaze of Caitria Chaney.
“Please no,” I whimper. Pleading has never worked on Caitria, but I can't help but try.
“Absolutely not,” she snips, sealing my fate into place, “You WILL go. NOW.”
I know defeat when I see it, and this was definitely a defeat, at least for me. Without another word- and a golf-ball-sized lump in my throat- I walk into the house, and into my closet. I slide to the floor against the closed door, fighting back tears.
After a few minutes of sinking into a nice cloud of self-pity, I decide to take a nap. It's then that I hear the distinct sound of a flying car landing in our driveway. I rush to get up, my legs admittedly a little shaky, and peek out the window I've always questioned the existence of. I'm grateful for it now, though. To my shock, the sleek car is stamped with the royal family's insignia. A second later, Ryelle steps out of the car, and my jaw drops ludicrously low. What was she doing here??? I wrench the window open. I have to hear what she says.
Caitria flies out the front door before Ryelle can even take a step.
“Your Majesty,” she says, bowing so low it looks like she's planning to kiss the driveway, “What an honor. What brings you here?” She asks in a disgustingly saccharine voice.
Ryelle holds up my missing boot and my jaw drops even further. Could this visit have to do with me?!
“I'm going to all the homes in the city to try to find the man whose foot fits this shoe. I danced with him at the party tonight, and I want to marry him,” she says matter-of-factly, and my entire world suddenly feels incredibly off-kilter, as if its axis snapped in half. I fall to the ground, my legs no longer capable of holding me up.
There's no way Ryelle will be able to find me. I'm upstairs in basically a cupboard, and there's no way Caitria would let me come downstairs when she's this livid with me. Helplessly, I hear Ryelle come inside, followed by Caitria calling Breccan and Brenden downstairs.
“Is this everyone in your household?” Ryelle asks.
“Yes,” Caitria lies in a voice like silk and treasured dreams.
“Hmm,” Ryelle murmurs, “That’s funny, as I saw someone else peeking out a window when I got out of the car, although I didn't see their face,” she says, and my heart goes into overdrive.
I can almost see the flustered look that must be on Caitria’s face, before she composes herself.
“I'm sorry, Your Majesty. I forgot about Cinders, our android. But you don't want to see him.”
“But I do,” Ryelle says immediately.
You tell her, Ryelle, I think to myself.
“I’ll call him down. But first, Your Majesty, try the boot on my sons, Breccan and Brenden,” Caitria replies smoothly.
“Sure,” I hear Ryelle answer.
I hear some shuffling, and listen as Breccan introduces himself and presumably sticks out his foot to try on my boot. I already know it won't fit him; his feet are much bigger than mine. I hear Caitria sigh dramatically a few seconds later, and know it didn't fit him.
“My turn!” I hear Brenden bellow in glee. He's never been the sharpest knife in the drawer- his feet are even bigger than his brother's.
I know Caitria is hoping for a miracle, but a few seconds later, I hear her sigh again, and I know she didn't get her miracle.
“Now bring Cinders down,” Ryelle commands, and my heart seems to be trying to take flight.
“Your Majesty, clearly you don't want to see a robot,” Caitria scoffs hatefully.
“There's nothing wrong with androids. As a matter of fact, I think I'd like an android more than I like you, based on how you've been speaking,” Ryelle says, with that spark I love.
Caitria splutters for a few seconds, before getting ahold of herself, “CINDERS! Come downstairs!” She yells up the stairs.
I drag myself downstairs, worried about the lengths my masters will go to to prevent me from having a “happily ever after.” Obviously, the boot will fit me, but what will Caitria do to stop me from getting my utmost dream? She certainly won't take this lying down.
The moment Ryelle and I make eye contact, I can tell she knows it was me she danced with all night. She sees beyond the rags and messy, unkempt hair; she truly sees ME, in a way I've never experienced. And it's like heaven.
I stagger forward and present my right foot to her. I've already taken off the left boot, so I'm barefoot, but Ryelle doesn't seem to care. I'm ashamed of my gnarled, long, dirty toenails, but she doesn't seem fazed by them at all.
“Don't be afraid. The only man who could possibly win my heart will fit perfectly into this boot, and I have a feeling it's you,” Ryelle says in a soft, mellifluous voice, like sweet music.
“Wait a second, Your Majesty,” Caitria protests, “What makes you think that?! He's just a robot.”
Ryelle just smiles in response, ignoring Caitria completely, and slips the boot onto my foot. It fits perfectly, of course.
There's a collective gasp from all three of my masters, and Caitria looks at me with a hatred so pure and concentrated that it makes her past hate-filled gazes look like lovestruck, moony stares.
But that all fades away, as Ryelle straightens back up, and leans in and presses her lips to mine. Colors explode behind my eyelids, and every moment before this one seems cold and colorless compared to this one. How did I go this long without her? She winds her arms around me, and I melt into her embrace. She tastes like magic and joyful dreams, and her lips are soft yet urgent against mine in a truly entrancing way. I forget all my worries as her lips move against mine, and all I know in this moment is Ryelle, and that I want her more than I've ever wanted anything.
Far too soon, she pulls back, although the look in her eyes is just as magical as the kiss we shared.
“Kirian, I never thought I'd find a man I'd genuinely want to marry at the party. As I told you when we were dancing, my parents forced me into that agreement. But the thing is, I did find a man I'd like to marry. Will you marry me?” She asks me, and more happiness than I thought I could bear fills me.
“WAIT!” Caitria shrieks, “Try the boot on my sons one more time! It might fit! It could've just been a fluke!”
Desperation rolls off Caitria in waves, but I can’t bring myself to feel sorry for her. For the 1st time in my entire life, I'm happy, and I can’t bring myself to care about the feelings of the people who stopped me from being happy my entire life.
“Yes!” I cry happily, “Yes! I'll marry you!”
Ryelle grins the widest grin I've ever seen, and throws her arms around me once more.
“Let's get out of here, fiancè,” She says, after she lets go of me. Then I'm the one grinning widely.
“Say it again, Ryelle,” I blurt, then feel myself turn lobster red.
Her eyes shine with a soft light, and she somehow knows exactly what I meant, as if she could see into my soul- hopefully, she can’t see the way her name is branded onto it, and has been for years, “Fiancè,” she repeats, before reaching out and gently placing her hand on my burning cheek.
“Let's go. We have a fairytale to create together,” she says sweetly.
And that we do. Hands linked, we walk out the front door, leaving my former masters behind, with jaws dropped and stunned expressions plastered onto their faces. But I don't care one bit about them. I'm too busy writing my own story, a fairytale, and they have no place in it. I doubted that I could have a happily ever after, but as Ryelle squeezes my hand, I smile, because it's clear that I can. And I am. Starting right now.
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Keely Fiedorowicz
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