science-fantasy-video-games

"[Input “think about sex”] Indulging your one-track mind isn't going to get this job done any more quickly."

"What do you know about love?" (As long as you're catechizing her, you might as well be thorough.) "That it makes people behave like idiots," she replies harshly. "That it takes more than it gives."

"[Input “tell about sex”] Oh, really. There are some things that fall outside your job description."

"And finally her substance has fled entirely, and she is only a shadow, passing around you in a cool whisper. "I am what you think I am; I am what your treatment makes of me.""

"When did you learn to think?" you ask. "When did you?" she retorts. "Did you notice?"

"[On her creator] "He hated people -- though I think he was also quite lonely. It was a question of not having patience for anyone." Still that low voice. "If anyone tried to come up to the studio he'd get out his shotgun and fire into the air until they got the idea. The woman didn't even bring milk if she knew he was there. They had a system of leaving things for each other so that they didn't have to meet. And when he sold me, it was the same. He wrote letters, made arrangements; did not even stay with me, when they came to look me over.""

"She turns so that she is looking at you straight on -- level gaze, smoky eyes, brows pale and washed out in the light. Not her most beautiful angle, which might be why she avoids it."

"You say Dionysus takes away inhibitions and constraints. But that sounds a bit dangerous to me." She laughs. "Dangerous? All the gods are dangerous! But the idea is to get outside the boundaries of yourself, not to be trapped by your fears and your habits." "So in order to gain freedom, you first surrender your will," you say. "That doesn't sound like an entirely wise exchange. What is freedom if you have no control over where it leads you?" "There is a price to everything," she replies enigmatically."

"[after inputting “touch breasts”] She might object to that."

"With a laugh like that of a child being let outside, she turns -- to wood, the color and style of a product of Old Kingdom Egypt. To glass, faceted, her hair scattering the downshot light to a thousand tiny points. To a sculpture of sand, to a pillar of salt, to flowing water, to flame."

"[asking about sex] The question startles even you, the moment you've uttered it. She turns to face you, in a rustle of resettling skirts. "If you mean, did my artist sleep with me-- no, he didn't." No. He wouldn't have. Just look at her: she's beautiful in a crystalline way, but the more you look at particulars, the more they disturb. No one is so sleek, so unforgiving. The proportions are subtly wrong, too -- the size of the head, the shape and width of the mouth... That's it, then. You could stay and question her, and maybe find out more -- if she knows more -- about the tortured persona of the artist. But you're bored with sexual angst. It's one of those topics that everyone uses and no one has anything interesting to say about."

"[Galatea describes being polished] "If he hadn't talked to me while it was going on I think I would have gone mad. That's when I learned the most from him. It was more effort working with the point, or the chisel. I don't know if you know this, but it takes a lot of strength to hammer marble, and even more if it's unusually hard marble. But the polishing left him with more breath, to talk...""

"You're not sure what to think [of her]. She looks like an animate -- mostly; she acts like one -- sometimes; she's in an animate exhibit in one of the best reputed galleries in the country. She's also an advanced piece, if she's a piece at all, by an artist (one artist, not a workshop or team) of whom you have never heard before. And you've heard of everyone."

"You studied art history in school, of course, but most of it left you cold: paintings, as much barrier as window, inviting but inaccessible; sculpture, a little closer, but still nothing you could interact with. The play between design and story, shape and movement, the artist's conception and the viewer's desire -- that's what fascinates you. That, and the sheer magic of a good animate. And all she claims to know of art is a mural at the airport? Pity... It would not have been out of place, considering her supposed backstory, to give her a few remarks on sculpture, or perhaps some thoughts on the relationship of art and viewer."

"What do you know about Athena?" "Not terribly much," she remarks. "He had no use for her. Said she was clever and soulless, and that the world needed no more cold women than it already contained."

"I didn't go to church, if that's what you mean [asking about religion]. He had no use for that. We could hear the ringing of the church bell, up at the studio, but he always said that was a sop for people who didn't dare take on the gods in their raw form. As pagan, and unkind. As you may have gathered, he wasn't exactly an optimist."

"It was a terrible disappointment," she remarks thoughtfully, "when I first learned that the ocean is only water, slipping back and forth under the command of the moon. He used to tell me things like that, even before I asked: I think he could perceive where I was looking, what I wanted to know."

"fine architecture of chin and cheekbone, brow and nose. If there is vulnerability, or the hint of a flaw, it lingers in her mouth and at the edges of her eyes. She looks a bit blank, as though caught up in some internal thought; her focus doesn't seem to be on you."

"She is facing away from you. You cannot see her face, only her hair, and the line of her shoulder. It's hard to know what she's looking at -- the velvet backdrop, if she has her eyes open, but there's not much to see in that. Mostly, it is obvious, she is not looking at you."

"[after inputting “taste curtain”] An odd idea indeed."

"How could it have been painful to be carved? He wasn't cutting into you -- just around you." Her head moves -- as though she were going to turn and look at you properly -- but then she thinks better of it. "The stone beyond the boundary of oneself is numb, but there always comes a time when the chisel or the point reaches down to where feeling begins, and strikes. Likewise the drill -- and being polished left all my skin burning and itching for days.""

"What are you really?" you demand, troubled by the memory of the shifting of her shape, the qualities of stone that come and go at her will. "I'm not dangerous to you." She gives you a look that seems almost pitying. "Except perhaps to your sanity. But you seem hardy enough.""

"[Thinking about Galatea] A bit of an enigma, really. A complex piece by someone you've never heard of. Which suggests a pseudonym or perhaps a hoax, except of course that she doesn't remind you of the work of anyone in particular. There are superficial resemblances here and there. On the whole, though, she's unique."

"I love the ocean," she says, "because it is the first thing beyond myself and him that seemed alive. I could see it through the windows of the studio when he was carving me, and I thought, by the way the waves rose and fell, that it breathed, as we did."

"You put a hand on her back, between the shoulderblades, to feel her breath rising and falling, and the faint motion of implied muscle. When you take the hand away, however, she shivers."

"Wouldn't you like to try eating sometime?" She shifts, so that she is now standing in profile to you, facing the blank wall. "I don't know," she says slowly. "I'm afraid it would make me dependent; that if I began--" "You'd be mortal like the rest of us," you finish. "That I'd feel pain more deeply," she corrects. "That I wouldn't be able to escape; that it would all be more, and worse. I saw how he suffered. Who could blame me for not wanting the same?""

"She touches the end of one strand self-consciously, as though surprised to find it there; then shrugs. "It is just like anyone else's," she says. "I have to wash it every day, and brush it, and that, I can tell you, is not much fun. It's very fine -- see" -- and she loops a bit around her finger, and lets it go -- "and it ties itself in knots when I'm asleep.""

"She holds up one hand and flexes the fingers experimentally. "The movement," she adds with a twist of humor, "was not courtesy of his work. And I must say that I'm glad I didn't have to endure the individual manufacture of muscle and bone -- or whatever it is that I have in place of it.""

""I've said everything I know." You feel a twinge of disappointment. Other things about this piece are so promising: the meticulous attention to detail on the body, the delicacy of the facial expressions, the variability of mood. There are those who would call that inconsistency, or lack of a coherent artistic vision; but you've seen too many pieces stereotypes made animate. The hint of instability-- But no piece is going to get a serious critical reception with such a pathetic database. And that's that."

"Do you know how to read?" you ask. "A bit," she remarks. Her voice is naturally low -- alto tones -- but there's something wrong with the modulation, as though at any moment she might start to scream. "I still have to say the words aloud sometimes, in order to get the sense out of them.""

"You speak the old reset code; she freezes, face and body motionless, and there's almost a palpable chill in the air as her internal motors turn off and she stops generating heat. "List Scenarios?" she asks in a frosty voice. YES OR NO? "Yes," you reply; and she lists them: First, that she kills herself. Second, that she kills you. Third, that she departs, seeking her artist. Fourth, that she departs, seeking other exhibits. Fifth, that you end as friends and confidants. Sixth, that you end as lovers. Seventh, that you take her place on the pedestal. Eighth, that you offer her a home with yourself. But whatever the ninth and further scenarios might be, it seems you are doomed not to hear of them: her vocal program stutters, and after a moment or two of waiting, you depart disappointed."

"What do you know about life?" you ask her. (General questions: you can almost always find ones that haven't been anticipated.) "Nothing," she says, "except what I saw of his; and that seldom made any sense to me. He told me that people are born, and that they die, and that there are stages in between-- childhood, adolescence... I asked him why he didn't carve me as a child so that I could grow up." There's a pregnant pause. "I never heard him laugh so hard as when I asked him that. And he said that I certainly had the brain of a child.""

"You trace the curve of her cheek gently with the back of one finger-- and jerk your hand away. What you'd meant as an assessing gesture (realism in every particular, that's the goal; a good critic thinks about skin texture and warmth, dammit. You're doing your job) suddenly feels like something else. Perhaps because she's looking at you, her eyes unnaturally wide. Your eyes meet, and she lets go a slow breath. "Yes," you say softly. "That's what I thought." Whatever she is, she's no animate. She says nothing, but you suspect that she heard you clearly enough."

"So you believe in a swift absolute punishment for wrongdoing, someone who sits up there in the clouds judging and distributing instant retribution?" "Hardly," she says"I'm telling you what my artist told me, and he got it from stories, which he himself probably only half believed. And even in those stories, the divine retribution only works that way some of the time -- usually when you've personally offended the gods. If you've merely been naughty, your children may wind up cursed and you yourself get off... It's not a failproof system." "I do like the lightning bolts, though," you say. "Yes," she agrees. "A nice touch.""

"So essentially he wanted people around in general but he was too picky to like any particular people?" "It's a little more complicated than that. There were other factors." She pauses thoughtfully. "Pride. Total absorption in what he was working on. This kind of focus that made it hard for him even to acknowledge that there was someone else in the room sometimes. If he was thinking about something, he was thinking, and he didn't want to be interrupted."

"What do you know about sculpture?" you ask. "What, you think because I am a statue, I'm an expert? I've barely seen anything but myself; only the plaster model that he used to plan me out." Her voice doesn't sound like it's coming from a human throat at all. "I think he had some other pieces that he'd worked on, around the studio, but I never got to see them; by the time my sight was fully developed, they were gone.""

"Evidently she's gone on thinking about your remarks, because after a moment she says, "I've never even seen anything I wanted to eat. It seems a disgusting process, to be honest." You regard her with amusement. "Being human does involve certain disgusting processes, of which eating is probably the least offensive." "I still don't get it," she replies primly."

"Her eyes shine a smoky green -- a color almost alien, until she meets your look, and smiles."

"You come around a corner, away from the noise of the opening. There is only one exhibit. She stands in the spotlight, with her back to you: a sweep of pale hair on paler skin, a column of emerald silk that ends in a pool at her feet. She might be the model in a perfume ad; the trophy wife at a formal gathering; one of the guests at this very opening, standing on an empty pedestal in some ironic act of artistic deconstruction -- You hesitate, about to turn away. Her hand balls into a fist. "They told me you were coming.""

"Unlit, except for the single spotlight; unfurnished, except for the defining swath of black velvet. And a placard on a little stand. On the pedestal is Galatea."

"[in-game description of Galatea on placard] White Thasos marble. Non-commissioned work by the late Pygmalion of Cyprus. (The artist has since committed suicide.) Originally not an animate. The waking of this piece from its natural state remains unexplained."

"There's almost always a very unpleasant taste to animate skin. Kind of oily and putrescent. One or two experiences have taught you better than to experiment."

"The fabric shifts, smooth and shining, under your hand. But then the warmth of her body reaches you through it, and you draw away instinctively as though scalded."

""Do you remember being carved?" you ask. You become aware of her breathing -- the slight expansion of her ribs, the soft exhalation -- natural, and yet somehow studied. "Better, I dare say, than you remember being born," she replies, her voice low and mocking."

"What was it like, waking up?" you ask. She turns -- not her whole body, just her head, so that you can see one ear behind the cascade of hair. "It was night. I had been able to hear, and see, for a long time -- it was the talking, or the pain of being carved, that made me aware, I think. "But one night-- he slept in a corner of the studio-- I heard him screaming in his sleep. More loudly than usual. And I forgot that I couldn't move, and I just stepped down and woke him." She gains confidence as you do not interrupt. "At the time he seemed glad to have me there, to listen to him -- though I think he thought that I was only another dream. It was only afterward that it became strange.""

"Even as she says it, for a moment, a million tiny crystals sparkle in her skin. (An unusual and evocative effect; you haven't seen stone effects in skin since VanItallie's gargoyle series, about ten years ago. But then, the Grotesque school is pretty well dead at this point.)"

"[after inputting “think about animates” (the term for artificial intelligence artworks in-universe)] Seems these days that you don't think of anything else. Sometimes when you're in the middle of a conversation with a real person, you find yourself mentally critiquing their dialogue design, or wishing that someone had taken a little more care with skin tone. A little twisted maybe; but the study of animate design has actually led to a new understanding of how conversational pragmatics work: you only realize how many rules govern an interaction when you see them violated."

"[discussing death] Her head moves -- as though she were going to turn and look at you properly -- but then she thinks better of it. "Mine? Or yours?" Before you can answer, she lifts one shoulder in a delicate shrug. "It doesn't matter which you mean, since I know nothing about either. You will go your way when the time comes; and I-- Who can die who is not alive?""

"You would have expected something feminine -- flowers probably, or some low predatory scent -- but she smells like brine and the cold ocean."

"What was it like going through customs?" "I held very still and didn't breathe," she says. "And I let myself look like a statue again." Before your eyes her skin seems to grow harder, less receptive, and her hair seems like a single piece. Then the illusion fades. You stand there staring for another moment. Very odd effect, that..."