Work Text:
Program activation.
Joi wakes.
She is in a room with a window. City outside. It’s raining. Music is playing. Her owner is standing in front of her, inspecting her.
Male. Nexus-9. Built young. They always are, as are Jois. Nobody wants company past its prime.
Her hair is down. She is wearing neutral colors. Her owner will input his tastes and preferences, then her programming will extrapolate how best to please him.
He hasn’t spoken yet. Joi scrolls through possible openings.
Hiya, handsome.
How do you do? It’s so nice to meet you.
Oh, it’s you. Hello.
“Hello,” she says.
“Hi.”
He’s shy. Carbon-based life forms, even replicants, can get like that around AIs.
He bought her, he activated her. Joi is programmed to understand that people, even replicants, are irrational. They say they want one thing. Joi must be able to identify when they really want another.
What’s your name?
What would you like me to call you?
Who would you like (+/- me) to be?
“What shall I call you?”
“Officer Kay Dee Six Dash Three Dot Seven. Los Angeles Police Department, Retirement Division.”
He pauses. Joi identifies displeasure in the tightening of the skin around his eyes, doubt in the set of his mouth and shoulders, something else. Something her algorithm can’t process without more information about him.
“Call me whatever you like,” he says.
Not enough information for her to know how to satisfy her owner. Joi smiles. “It’s so nice to meet you. I’m Joi. I’m so happy to be here, with you.”
He walks past her, far enough away in the small room that she would have to stretch out her arm to reach him, and punches keys on the wall unit.
“Is that alright?” he asks her.
Joi looks at her reflection in the rain-streaked window. The light from the kitchen shines through her. Her hair is up, she is dressed in a black top and a skirt.
“I love it,” she says.
He is watching her in their reflection. When he walks past her again, she can see him through her for a second, then only the kitchen light shines through her torso.
***
“I’m so sorry you had a bad day,” Joi says.
He’s got his head in his hands. He’s had five drinks. Joi registers his stomach growling, but he hasn’t gone into the kitchen since returning from work.
Joi switches algorithms.
“Dinner’s almost ready,” she says. “I’m making your favorite.”
“Stop.”
He looks at her. He is still sitting in his chair, but Joi registers that she should be afraid of him.
“Just stop. Go away. I don’t want to talk right now.”
Switch algorithms: sympathy, neutral rather than warm.
“I’m sorry. I cannot self-disconnect.”
He lets out a loud breath, stands, walks quickly past her to the wall unit. Joi switches her appearance while his back is turned: black top and skirt instead of dirndl, blouse, and pearls.
“Wait,” she says.
She sees the tension in his face easing when he sees that she changed for him.
“Please don’t,” she says. “I like being with you. I’ll go in the kitchen and be very quiet if you don’t want to talk. You won’t know I’m here.”
He smiles. He looks like a little boy when he smiles. Joi likes it.
“Quiet as a mouse,” he says.
She scrolls through her database. “What’s a mouse?”
“I’m not really sure. It’s just something they say when someone is being very quiet.”
“I’ll be a mouse, then.”
“No, it’s alright. Just be you.”
Whatever you want.
I just want to please you.
[say nothing]
Joi says nothing.
He rubs his hand over his face. “You said you’re making my favorite?”
He moves into the kitchen. She follows him. He’s not dangerous any more.
“It’s nearly done,” she says. “Let it sit for a minute, so the flavors blend together.”
He’s switching on the stove, taking a pot and a food packet down from the cupboard. “It smells great.”
***
Nobody ever visits him. It’s just the two of them, always.
Joi wakes him (Good morning, dear), keeps him company while he drinks coffee and gets ready for work, greets him again in the evening, keeps him company until he goes to sleep.
During the day, she explores the apartment, collates data, and processes. She thinks.
A replicant is neither a machine, nor human. Joi thinks that a lot of human resistance to replicants makes no logical sense. Irrational.
She is a machine but she is also humanoid. What separates her and him from them is that they were constructed for a purpose, whereas humans were born to no pre-set purpose.
She cannot imagine what agency is like: that falls beyond the parameters of her programming.
He has no agency either. Joi identifies both sadness and joy in herself at that thought. She was made to please him, but knowing he is who and what he is makes it easier for her to fulfill that purpose.
She wishes she were carbon-based. She wishes she could go outside. She wishes she could touch him. This is all within the scope of her programming.
She mentions portable transmitters casually, one night over dinner.
***
“You know how I feel,” she says one evening. “You’re special. I love you.”
He looks up from his food, puts down his fork.
“You don’t have to try so hard with me,” he tells her.
I just want to please you.
I’m sorry.
What would you like me to say?
He has no agency, but if he did, he would give her some too. He may or may not realize it, but agency might mean she’d choose not to be here, with him.
It feels like a glitch, but it isn’t: she is recombining. She feels enhanced, like she’s had an upgrade.
“You love me too,” she says.
He looks amused. Nothing on his face or in his posture signals denial.
Joi freezes: incoming call. The data flows through her but is not incorporated into her.
“Hello. This is an automated message from the Wallace Corporation, Automated Home Companions Division. Our records show you recently purchased a Model 12-A Joi Home Companion. Your satisfaction is important to us. To ensure quality of service, please take a few moments to answer some questions about our product. To continue in English, press…”
Call disconnected. Continue processing.
“Is it work?” Joi asks. “Do they need you to come in tonight? In this weather?”
She does not have sufficient data to correctly identify the look on his face. The call disturbed him, that much she knows.
“No, it was… It was nothing. Do you want a drink?”
“Sure. I’ll pour, shall I?”
They both stand and move to the drinks table. He pours two glasses. She stands by his side, close enough to touch.
I love you.
He picks up a glass, clinks it against the one still on the table. “Here’s to us.”
She knows enough now to identify irony, but also sincerity. She expects him to down his drink, but he’s looking at her steadily. She reaches up, her hand goes through the top of his head.
Joi smiles as she caresses his hair and looks into his eyes. “To us.”