The gears began to work. The wires buzzed to life. A minute passed. Two. Graham counted the seconds in his head, hopeful, watchful. A faint blue emanated from the machine, seeping through the artificial slits on its human face. The light grew, grew, grew. Then, all at once, it disappeared.
Graham sighed, believing he had failed again. But just as he was reaching for a cigarette, the machine began to move.
It was a twitch of a limb at first, eerily artificial. Then a sharp intake of breath followed--nothing but a mimicry, but at once familiarly human. Then, its eyes. Where they were glass before, they now took on a life. Emotion warred on the machine's face, as though a soul was trapped in there somewhere, screaming to be let out.
It stood, wobbled, like a child learning how to walk. The artificial limbs sighed underneath its weight. Graham looked on, face devoid of expression, but in his heart of hearts he was relieved. He had succeeded. Now, he could die in peace.
With a flourish that suggested habit, Graham produced a crumpled cigarette and lit it with a match. He remained sitting, as if the sight before him were nothing out of the ordinary, as if it were an every day victory. Acrid smoke billowed from his mouth as he leaned against the wall. Meanwhile, the machine continued to flounder about and look around.
He had all but forgotten its existence when it began to speak. How unnatural it sounded, how clumsy it was.
This was supposed to replace their race? Ah, but it was inconsequential now. By the time machines succeed mankind, he would be long gone. He doubted he would remain disturbed in his grave.
The accusations spilled out of the robot's lips, but Graham couldn't care any less. It could believe what it wanted to believe, but his job here was done. It was only when it threatened to kill him that he actually started paying attention.
"Kill me?" He echoed, almost menacingly slow. There was a sort of irony in his voice. Though he had done what Eliza had wanted to do, that didn't mean he still condoned these machines. But then his face relaxed, and he began to laugh a deep, guttural laugh. He took another long drag of his cigarette, letting the stuff burn his nicotine-benumbed lungs. "You want to kill me? I won't stop you, kid. You just let me finish my cigarette. It's long since I had one."
But it did nothing of the sort. It stumbled backwards, convulsed, escaped the now smoke-filled room. For a moment, Graham was left to his devices, but not long after there was a thud.
A long sigh escaped from Graham's lips. Had the machine malfunctioned after all? He pushed himself up from the ground and went outside.
The brightness of daylight pouring out of a window blinded him for a moment. Swearing, he shielded his eyes, then looked around the deserted hallway. There, by the wall, sat the machine, looking much like a child cowering in fright. A frown tugged at Graham's lips. Pity swelled inside him for a brief second, before he pushed it all down, reminding himself that the girl was not a
girl, but a machine.
"Look around you, kid. You're in a different time now. Things aren't what they used to be anymore." As he said this, he produced his notebook. There, all her questions would be answered. It detailed the research, the machinery, the intended goal of the entire project. It was Eliza's once. Now, he was giving it to the machine, for the notebook did not belong to him. It never did.
Somewhere in the distance, hidden in the shadows, something stirred ever-watchful.
@Sanguine Fox 
