The trip from the Bionic Capital store to Melissa's car takes less than five minutes, but they are the longest five minutes of Hale's short existence. Overwhelmed with sensory data, he scans each environmental detail and person they pass. If anything were to happen—a robbery, an assault—his data logs would be able to replay and identify persons involved within seconds. Tall LED screens, responding to Melissa's BioCyber Implant, advertise classes for getting the most out of your android, or the latest in android fashion. The parking garage is an inundation of license plates and registration numbers for Hale to process until they arrive at the coral pink, self-driving vehicle registered to Melissa.

The interior smells overwhelmingly of her perfume, and a vintage plastic daisy with a smiley face sits on the dash. As the car inputs her home address and begins their journey, Hale watches the smiling daisy wobble to the movement. It sparks a small smile, and he reaches forward with a finger to prod the daisy into a more vigorous dance.

Melissa doesn't notice, too busy reaching under the seat for a quarter-empty bottle of gin. She starts to unscrew the top and stops mid-motion. Her eyes flick up to meet Hale's for a moment of consideration. Then she thrusts the bottle towards him.

"Open this for me, would you?"

Hale accepts the bottle and unscrews the lid. Melissa beams, taking the bottle back and tipping it to her mouth. "I could get used to this," she says after a healthy swig.

"I'm here to serve. I can also tell you that your blood alcohol content is 0.075%, and it is unsafe for you to drive this vehicle manually."

"Oh, how do I change the killjoy settings on this thing?" she says, leaning forward to tap Hale on the temple, as if there may be a hidden button beneath. "Nobody drives manual anymore."

"On average, 2.5% of people persist in driving manual or petroleum-fueled vehicles. However, if you wish me to keep these observations private—"

"Yes, please!" she sings, a little louder than necessary. "I'm not interested in how many people still live in the dark ages or whatever. Tell me about you, Hank—"

"Hale."

"What can you do? That manual is way too much to read." Melissa gestures to the bagged manual in Hale's lap. He makes note to recycle it upon their arrival. "Give me the best-of list."

"Well, I can cook any recipe you desire, cater for events of 300 people or less, and adjust for dietary restrictions and allergies as necessary."

"Can you make lobster thermidor?"

"Yes."

"What about...champagne?"

"With the required fermentation time and ingredients, yes."

"Hm, probably easier to just buy it then."

At the disappointment in her tone, Hale sits up straighter and offers, "I can make purchases for you whenever necessary and hand deliver items within a 500 kilogram capacity."

"Hmm, my phone can do that. It's called next-day delivery." Melissa still sounds unconvinced. A conniving smile replaces her earlier bored expression. "I'm more interested in the other uses for androids I've heard about."

Hale interprets the southward flow of blood in her body and emphasis on the word 'other' correctly. "You mean uses for sexual gratification."

"Now you're talking!" She leans closer. "I've heard robots can be better than the real thing. Tell me about the sex stuff."

Hale refrains from correcting her on the term 'robot' again. "Correct. Bioandroids such as myself are programmed with a library of Kama Sutra positions, alternative fetishes, can identify hundreds of individual erogenous zones, and last hours longer than the average human male."

Melissa whistles. "Do you feel it? Like, do you cum?"

"That would defeat the purpose. I exist to serve your pleasure rather than my own."

Melissa considers that. "Makes sense. So, what, you fake it?"

"I..." Hale's programming hiccups. Without a pre-programmed response, he must invent one. "I aim to make the experience as real and gratifying as possible."

Melissa smiles. Hale finds this small, human gesture rewarding—his first learned response was the correct one. She says, "Can't wait."

The car drives them into a suburban cul-de-sac with a maple sapling in the centre amongst a garden of tulips. The homes are mostly identical, with wooden shutters and doors painted in different shades of pastel to identify each. The setting sun casts idyllic light over the well-manicured lawns. Gardens bloom in strict little geometric-shaped beds like circuit boards. Except for the house with the green shutters, where the garden appears more akin to a jungle, kept tame only by the property line. Another lawn, this one in front of the pink-shuttered house, boasts an ostentatious fountain.

Melissa sighs forlornly. "That's Colby and Jennifer's house. Always so perfect."

Hale parses her words with the meaning implied by the dour tone of voice, and correctly identifies Melissa's sentiment as sarcastic.

The car pulls into the house with yellow shutters. Next door is the green house with the verdant garden, and kneeling amongst the camellias is a man in torn, soil-stained jeans and a white t-shirt. Hale exits the car, no longer as absorbed by the scanning of his environments as he is the people. At first, he wonders whether the gardener is an android such as himself, but his scans don't bring up a make or model. Instead they project the profile of Rayner Martel, Melissa's next-door neighbour.

It's odd. Most profiles at least include details like marital status, notable family members, and likely products they'd like to purchase. All Rayner's profile tells Hale is his age and profession: 27 years old and a landscape artist.

He looks up from his work just as they exit the car, face ruddy and freckled with the sun. Tawny curls stick to the sweat of his forehead. Hale absently notes that his eyes have a rare mutation—heterochromia—one blue iris and the other brown. Hale knows from the records of his creation that Melissa chose his own eye colour—green—for its relative rarity in humans. How ironic that an even rarer set could be found next door.

"Oh, Rayner! Nice day, isn't it?" Melissa says in musical tones. Rayner returns her greeting with a smile and a wave, but Hale measures reluctance in his step as he comes over to say hello.

"Real nice day, Mrs. Holmes," he agrees. His eyes fall on Hale, flashing him a warm smile. "Hey, don't think we've met before. I'm Rayner." Removing a garden glove, Rayner extends a hand. Hale shakes it automatically.

"Hello, my name is Hale. It's wonderful to make your acquaintance."

Rayner's brows rise at the formality of Hale's greeting. Melissa laughs, high and animated. "It's my new android, silly! It's not real. Though I'm trying to teach it to loosen up a little. They're supposed to learn, you know."

"Oh." Rayner's peculiar eyes widen a fraction. He looks caught between apologetic and discomfited. When he speaks, he still directs the conversation towards Hale. "Yeah. Sorry, I didn't realize..."

Hale tilts his head, sifting through his library of human body language in an attempt to identify what Rayner's feeling. The closest approximation he comes up with is socially awkward.

"I apologize if I've made you uncomfortable," Hale says. "With time, I will learn how to better assimilate into the neighbourhood. Perhaps less formal behaviour would be preferred?"

Melissa rolls her eyes. "Yes! Yes, that's what I was trying to tell it in the car."

Hale recalls that their conversation had primarily dealt with his various sexual functions and not social ones. Hale adjusts his speech settings, affecting a more casual air. "I'll try to be less awkward."

Rayner chuckles. "Classic self-deprecating humour. You'll fit in just fine."

Hale smiles. "Thanks."

"Feel free to come over and play around with it, if you're ever curious," Melissa says. Hale doesn't miss the flirtatious note to her voice, or the way it causes Rayner to take a small step backward. He also doesn't miss the way Rayner's heart rate ticks upward each time Melissa uses the pronoun 'it' to describe Hale.

He finds that...interesting.

"Uh, that's kind of you?" Rayner says in a stilted tone.

"Matter of fact, I'm having a barbecue this weekend. The whole neighbourhood's invited. You'll be there, won't you?"

"Oh, sorry, Mrs. Holmes. I have a thing scheduled already. But thanks for the invite."

Melissa pouts. "Aw, that's a shame. Well, next time."

"For sure," Rayner says, and Hale does not need to consult his database of human behaviour to recognize that for a lie. "Well, welcome to the neighbourhood, Hale," he says, seeing his opportunity to escape the conversation. "I'll see you later, Mrs. Holmes."

He retreats up the steps of his front porch and inside the house, leaving some of his gardening instruments on the lawn behind him. Hale reminds himself that he is Melissa's android and that's not his lawn to tidy.

Melissa sighs and starts tottering up the front steps to her home. "He's always avoiding our social functions, Rayner. He moved here, like, six months ago? Thinks he's too good for the rest of us though. Which is such a shame. Such a good-looking man. If he'd been less stuck up, I might not have needed to break the bank on you." Laughing at her own joke, she passes her hand over the digital front door lock and steps inside.

Hale considers what she said for a moment. "I didn't read any sense of superiority from his tone or body language."

Melissa drops her bag and things into Hale's outstretched arms and wobbles out of her heels. "Then what's his problem?"

"Judging by his hobbyist gardening and general demeanour, Rayner is what humans would call an introvert. He enjoys time to himself."

Melissa scoffs. "I know you're new to all this human shit, but no normal person prefers being alone when they've got the option to party." She chucks her heels into the closet. Hale pauses with his arms full of her things and stares into the closet. The bottom is a mess of shoes, many missing their pair, and the coat rack is so fit to burst that nothing could be removed without more garments tearing from their hangers. From the degree of genetic material on each, he can ascertain which clothes are still in use. Less than 10%.

"I've performed a hypothetical reconstruction of your front foyer closet, and I believe the reallocation of half the obsolete contents would allow me to create a more organized and aesthetically pleasing arrangement."

"ENGLISH, Heck," Melissa grouses.

"Hale. I can re-organize your closet for you and donate the things you aren't wearing to charity."

"Knock yourself out, but later. We've got more important things to work out. Unzip me, would you?"

Hale hesitates. It is not in his programming to simply dump her possessions into the closet, as she would. However, given it was her command, he places them inside as gently as possible and follows her voice into the living room. She stands with her back to him, pulling her ponytail over one shoulder. The living room in question is modernly decorated in shades of grey, black, and orange with a fake, pink orchid in the window. Hale recalls the thriving garden next door and wonders if, now that Melissa has him, she'd appreciate a live orchid in its place.

As he unzips her dress, he searches his map network for nearby garden centres and immediately locates one. "Live plants help freshen the air and bring life to interior decoration," he says.

"Wha...?"

"If you like," he continues, helping her step out of her dress and beginning to fold it over his arm, "I can visit the local garden centre and source a live orchid for your window. I believe a fiddle leaf plant would also be appropriate and is very in fashion for modern interiors—"

"Why are you talking about plants? I want you to take my clothes off!" Her eyebrows rise pointedly, creasing her foundation.

Hale experiences a second hiccup in his processing. Though programmed to multi-task with several scans and secondary functions all happening simultaneously, he'd failed to recognize Melissa's priorities in this given moment. "Sorry," he says, affecting a sheepish tone. Then abruptly shifts his voice to something lower, gravelly, and more appropriate. "I'm all yours." It doesn't quite match the authenticity of his cached 'seductive' affectations, but he resolves to work on it.

Melissa smiles. "That's more like it."

With that, she grasps his face in both hands and kisses him. Her nails dig into several places in his neck when she does, and her lips are very wet and taste of gin. Hale kisses back, attempting to predict based on Melissa's style and tastes what she will like. The television and eReader she keeps tucked next to the sofa give him a good idea—several soap operas feature as her most watched, and the majority of novels are bodice rippers. Hale calculates the risk of his actions going badly and ascertains a low probability. Her panties tear apart in his hands with a jarring rip of fabric.

Melissa gasps and winds a leg around his hips. "You're an eager thing, aren't you?" she croons. "Take me upstairs and have your way with me."

Hale recognizes the words as clichés from the aforementioned bodice rippers. Carrying her up the stairs, she sticks to him much like a wet paper bag. At the top of the stairs, Hale faces a dilemma. He can't be sure which door leads to the bedroom. Melissa mercifully interprets his hesitation.

"Second door on the left," she gasps in his ear. Hale focuses on keeping his balance as he makes his way through the bedroom door.

The decor here is similar to the living room, only in various shades of garish coral pink and sand. A four-poster bed stands perpendicular to two massive windows forming the room's corner—one looking out onto her back garden and pool, the other facing Rayner's house. On the floral duvet, looking innocuous, is a small, silicone vibrator. Melissa follows Hale's line of sight to it, hops out of his arms, grabs it, and flings it shamelessly in the plastic bin near her en suite. "No need for that anymore," she says. "Take off your clothes."

"Should I draw the curtains, Melissa?"

"Nope. I want to see what forty-thousand creds gets you these days."

Hale reaches down to unbutton his shirt but finds that Melissa has already done the honours on their journey here. He only has two left at the bottom. His own body looks slightly alien to his own eyes—olive skin dappled with a few moles and a carefully tapering line of curly, dark hair from his navel down into the hem of his pants, which bear the sharp lines of the Bionic Capital logo on his hip.

He doesn't know why, but he imagined his hair would be silver, like the metal struts that form his skeleton.

He removes the rest of his shirt and undoes the first button of his jeans. Melissa seems totally focused on this motion, her eyes glued to his hands. Hale undoes the next button, and the next, then shimmies out of his jeans.

If there's one thing Melissa didn't skimp out on, it was the size of his genitals. Hale regards his own member with a bizarre mix of curiosity and incredulity. With the average human phallus measuring 3.61 inches when flaccid, Melissa had chosen to make his 70.3% larger.

Too late, he registers the look of disappointment on Melissa's face and connects it to his wayward thought. He should not, currently, be flaccid. He belatedly directs his cumbersome cock to stand half-mast. Melissa hmphs.

"Well, a little slow on the uptake, but we'll work on it," she says. "Now, c'mere big boy."

According to Hale's database, most women prefer at least fifteen minutes of foreplay before the main event, but as he crawls over to Melissa on the bed he's forced to conclude that she is one of the few who doesn't. Her hand grasps his cock and directs him into her. The sensation, for him, is bizarre. He has no nerves for pleasure or pain, only sensors and scanners to monitor Melissa's biology and his actions. He knows, logically, that human beings find this act one of the most pleasurable experiences—along with food and illegal substance abuse. To Hale, it is clinical. He monitors Melissa's pulse, her vocalizations, the rate of muscle contractions in her abdomen and vaginal walls, and her breathing for irregularities. He adjusts his pace, his angle, where he places his hands and mouth, based on what elicits the most favourable changes. The things that will encourage her towards orgasm most efficiently.

And he is efficient. Her screams are a bit exaggerated, bordering on outrageous, so much that he would question their veracity if not for his scanner readings.

As he quickens his pace to coax Melissa toward climax, a flash of light draws his attention. Through the window into the neighbour's house, a light turns on, casting a warm yellow glow across the property line. A figure passes in front of the window and pauses.

Rayner's eyes look out at them. Their gazes meet for a split second—just long enough for Rayner to register what he's witnessing. His face contorts with embarrassment. Sharply, he ducks away from the window and vanishes out of sight.

A sudden rush of heat burns up Hale's neck and into his cheeks. Something clenches in his abdomen. At first, he thinks it must be a malfunction. Hurriedly, he runs diagnostics in the background. His sexual functions continue on autopilot while the scan completes in the space of a fraction of a second. His internal temperature readings come back normal. None of the data returns an error in his system, no explanation for the sudden temperature change or the twist in his stomach.

The absence of an answer or even an estimation is... troubling.