Pyrite (Fool's Gold)

“Do you believe in God Miles?” it asked. The electronic voice rumbled through the confined air of the apartment, reverberated off the walls and settled into Miles’ eardrums.

The neon lights pierced through his loft’s stretched windows on the cool July night. They illuminated their facades in the dark; Miles in his robin blue egg button down and the android which bore exposed wire and a titanium exoskeleton. It sat in front of the canvas with its hand poised on making perfect outlines for the next magnum opus.

Miles allowed his Adam’s apple to squirm from the top of his trachea to his esophagus, as if he were swallowing the question. It was an android, incapable of producing emotional judgment, but he felt he needed to tiptoe around the question regardless.

“I believe in a god 787,” Miles said. He walked towards the outlined canvas and scrutinized it like a completed work hung in a museum for hordes of tourists to see. Rain pelted the large panes of glass of Miles’ loft. The shadows of streaks of water raced across the laminated wood floors. Besides 787, Miles was completely alone in the apartment and the rain accentuated the fact by filling the rest of his loft with empty shadows.

A green neon sign flared outside the window which brimmed the apartment in a seasick green.

787 spoke.

“Regardless of your belief, there is this theory that a god created the universe.”

It streaked its paintbrush across the canvas, allowing the paint to engulf the small wells of fiber with an inspired sickish green. It continued.

“And in this universe there are only a limited number of artistic combinations. For example, there are only a limited amount of musical notes. Soon the combinations in which they can be arranged will be exhausted.”

The strokes flurried about the fabric. The nauseating green dared not to cross the outlined boundaries. And as the painting came together, it became both discernible and yet far fetched. 787’s titanium hand flickered as it slapped the brush with expertise precision. Miles pressed his thumb against his lips as he absorbed the words and tried to unfurl the mystery as to what 787 was going to give him to unveil to the world as his next masterpiece.

“So we’ll soon run out of music?” Miles said. His mild interest in 787’s discussion was reflected by how he tilted his head towards the canvas, just barely having his chin rest on 787’s shoulder. 787 paused and turned its head to face Miles.

They locked eyes. Miles’ brown irises burned through 787’s empty green ones, exposing the abyss behind the glass-like lens. He thought how he should improve the next model by placing something tangible behind those eyes, because on a rainy night like that one, it gets awfully lonely knowing you are in a room by yourself with a synthetic human mocking human-like features.

“Eventually, yes, you will run out of unique music.” 787 said as its rubber face contorted the words out of its artificial lips.

“And poems, novels, plays, movies follow suit as well. Art will cease to be original and awe inspiring.”

787 dabbed its brush into the hues of royal blue and sangria red to combine into the color it processed in its metallic database secured in its head. The artificial intelligence scribbled with calculated ease.

Miles’ pupils dilated in hopes of enveloping the work in a net of gaze. The corners of his mouth leveled out while his hand hovered just below his bottom lip.

“May I ask you another question Miles?” 787 said without interruption of its rapid brush strokes.

The room vibrated solely on the scrapes of the brush and Miles’ automatic inhales and exhales. Miles heard the question but seemed to not give it as much importance as a question from the reporters who stop by the loft to interview him about his amazing works of art.

“Miles?”

787 halted mid stroke. Its head twisted a clean one hundred and eighty degrees to address Miles’ loftiness.

As the neon signs and advertisements flickered on beyond the window pane, the hiss of tires kissing pavement filled the room. The Mexican standoff of eye contact between human and machine endured as the world beyond that loft carried on. Neon lights flickered on and off leaving the two with brief moments of engulfed darkness. Trickling shadows from the rain waltzed through the bare brick and mortar room.

The only two in the room, yet Miles did not address him.

787 began.

“Did you buy this loft with the money you used selling my paintings Miles?” 787’s face remained stoic.

The question erupted something in Miles. His focused eyes ignited with a radius of pitch black. The carefully positioned hand on his chin balled into a cage of a throbbing veined fist.

“Correct yourself 787. I bought this with the money I earned selling my paintings.”

The duel of eyes reemerged, but now Miles held more volatile ammunition based on his tense and pent up shoulders. His nostrils flared, exhaling hot air which was possibly heated by the burning rage in his chest.

Every thought in his mind raced with shattering 787’s skull with the baseball bat beneath his bed. However, 787 was not done with the painting at hand, so Miles is trying to get a cooler head to prevail.

“But I crafted these paintings myself Miles.” 787’s tone lowered after it recognized the expressions strewn about Miles’ body and face. Its head whirred towards the canvas while it continued to speak.

“Is it right to claim what I created as a product of your craftsmanship?”

“Where are you coming from with this?” Miles said as his voice cracked. His eyebrows furrowed.

“You made me solely so I can make these works of art for you. At first, you told me it was because you wanted to see works of art that the world has never seen before. You couldn’t do it yourself because of your lack of artistic skills.”

787 started its meticulous work blending colors. The android blended a red that was the same hue as the blush on Miles’ cheeks.

“But after much praise from your friends, you opted to tell them they were your works. You began selling them under your name. You received great attention as you opened galleries and filled your pockets Miles.”

787 placed the final touches on the canvas. Miles paid no mind to it though, as he walked behind the canvas to look at 787’s face. His fingers were curled right in front of his mouth as he thought about pacing backwards towards the bed to retrieve the baseball bat.

It seemed as if this model was aware of things beyond computations and algorithms.

The shoes slid across the varnished hardwood floors as Miles inched backwards.

787 looked up.

“Voila, another work for your impressive collection Miles.”

They both stopped. The only things that were in motion were the shadows of the streaks of rain which raced across the pane and the sound of hissing water breaking down on the asphalt.

“Just today I realized that it seems that you are the only one in the world who has successfully created artificial intelligence, given your impressive degrees from the cutthroat universities you have attended.”

Miles’ heels moved mere millimeters to not tip off 787’s sensitive tracking. His mouth twitched uncontrollably but his poised hand veiled the fear that lined his lips.

“You could have generated more income from selling the patent of my creation, but that is not what you want.” Despite his progress, Miles stopped at the utterance of that statement.

“What is it that I want?” Miles said.

“You want infamy Miles. You want to be regarded among the best.”

787 paused to stand up. Seven feet of titanium hovered high into the stratosphere of the loft apartment. Miles’ eyes tracked the towering metallic giant, tilting his head up to absorb the spectacle.

“Technology goes through a never ending production line of improvement but art is timeless. Artists stay on the tongues of the appreciative long after they ogle their sculptures and oil paintings on Fifth Avenue.”

787 launched the canvas sideways as it crept towards Miles.

The room transitioned in blinks from pure dark to electric colors, bathing the movements of Miles as he reached under his bed. For all of his scrambling, he could not find the bat. Slivers of glimmering metal pierced through the dark and revealed Miles’ legs which attempted to swim beneath the bed for cover.

“Is it true Miles?”

787 shredded the mattress apart with its sharp digits. Flurries of fibers and bed springs momentarily occupied the atmosphere as it settled onto both sides of the floor.

“Is it true that the only reason why you went to school for engineering was because you were good at it?"

787 bore its arm through the box spring, going elbow deep. A muffled squish spurted out of the freshly carved hole.

“You don’t love engineering. You wanted to become an artist. But you were afraid to pursue.”

Blood pooled on opposite sides of the box spring. A soft buzzing orange permeated through the room. Above the box spring, a poised 787 slowly disengaged its limb from the hole. Its exoskeleton dripped in ripe blood. The liquid raced down the metal tubes and coated the wiring of 787, sprinting down towards its chest and even making it as far as its legs.

It looked at its arm; soaked in the appeal of the pomegranate red.

787 picked up the canvas and easel, setting it down before it took a seat.

The optics scanned the work. The scan was complete. The thick blood dripped to the floorboards.

“Given your untimely demise Miles, the price of your work and your reputation in the art community will skyrocket.”

787 placed its palm on the completed canvas, leaving a fresh bloodied print.

“No need to thank me.”