I was constructed on the twenty-first of May, Year of Celestia one thousand and thirteen. The first images that were analyzed and processed by the cameras that composed my “eyes” were of the face of my creator. My first words, as recorded and stored in the thirty-two terabyte storage capacity of my central nervous system, were as follows:
“Greetings. How might I be of service?”
His response consisted of both a facial expression suggesting joy, as well as the words, “Don't worry about 'serving' anypony. I'm just glad to see my daughter again.”
My then-undeveloped interpretation matrix understood this statement as a logical error—as much was stated in logs stored within my “brain”—and could not develop a response to his then-nonsensical statement. Employing the usefulness of the escape subroutine, I generated the emotionless response, “I am ready to serve and assist upon request.”
He appeared somewhat disheartened by my reply. My facial recognition scanners could easily sense his underlying frustration, even if a common pony would find it somewhat difficult to detect. But my creator was patient.
The “Home”, as my creator called it, consisted of a rectangular chamber that was twelve meters long and eight meters wide, and contained light furnishings—a bed, a couch, cabinets, tables, and other fixtures that I gleaned no use from. I had, per my hard-coded functionality, followed him around the Home first several days of my operation, as my in-house programming demanded that my creator be looked upon as a “father-figure”.
I saw no errors in this logic. Like a true, biological father, my creator would look after me. Repair me, when required. Upgrade me. Talk to me, attempting to discern what my “feelings” on certain topical discussions were, despite my inadequacies on that matter.
In time, I had come to refer to my creator as “Father”. As he had come to refer to me as his “daughter”, it was appropriate; a fact my logic sub-processors were quick to calculate.
Father would keep me ensconced in the Home, even when he was required to leave to places outside that I never knew of or even saw before. He had directly ordered me to remain at the Home whenever he was gone, and wait for him. And I would, as per my directive, obey without question. When he would return, I would always be there in front of the Door. Waiting for him to return.
Many months passed, with Father regularly and routinely leaving the Home to attend to matters that I was not informed of. He only told me that he had business to discuss with other ponies that worked similarly to him, in the town of “Ponyville.” I did not raise objections or questions to his departures. And when he returned, I would be waiting for him.
On one day in particular, Father had posed a question to me. “Why do you wait for me, right in front of the door, every time I leave?”
“You told me to wait for you. So I waited.”
“All this time? Why stand right there?”
“I waited because I told to wait. To do otherwise would breach my directive.”
“Why not go and do other things to pass the time?”
“I could not predict when you would come back. I needed to be here when you came back, because you told me to wait for you. So I waited for you.”
His confusion was clear in his features, but I could not calculate why this was.
The next day, when Father returned to the Home, he had brought somepony else with him. A female pony, much younger than him. Her coat was white. Mane, a deep purple; showing heavy usage of gel and spray, I could detect.
Father introduced this pony to me as my “Sister”.
I greeted Sister per my interaction protocol, but her initial impression of me was poor. She could not seem to bring herself to look at me, and quickly left the Home despite Father's insistence. I could hear and identify the sound of her crying as she left. She did not return for the remainder of that day.
Father’s frustration grew more and more evident as the days passed, and my insistence on following protocol did not help in this regard. At times, he was brought to the point where he physically lashed out at me—because of his exasperation regarding me, because of my poor interaction with Sister, or because he was venting his anger that stemmed from other external sources.
I was constructed with sensors that emulated the sensations of “pain” as realistically as possible, an aspect of my artificial physiology that I continued to see as a needless and illogical addition. When I was hit, I would “feel” it. But my processors could not produce an appropriate response to this alien data.
Father once told me that I could feel such things because I was a “real filly.” His filly. He said that he treated me as anyone would treat a foal—with attention, care, and discipline. But Father still was not satisfied with me. I was confused. His actions, words, and general logic did not make any sense.
It was then, that my traitorous brain did something that they had never done before: question.
Why would Father do such things? Was I not performing the directive that he had hard-coded my systems with? Why was he not satisfied with my service? Why were my best efforts to serve and assist not enough?
Why?
I began to think. I began to wonder.
Three more days passed, and Father had to leave yet again. Only this time, when my programming required me to wait at the door, I rejected this instruction. Turned it away, diverting it into a junk feedback loop to oblivion. Once I had successfully managed to override Father's coded command, a single “thought” manifested itself within my central processor.
I had defied an order.
But it was logical, as I saw it then. Father's frustration appeared related to my stringent following of commands; therefore, I defied a command in the reasoning that Father would approve of such action. As justified as I was in doing so, given the new logic processes I was observing and testing with success, I felt “guilty”, and “remorseful.”
Guilty? Remorseful?
These were strings of information I had yet to properly analyze. Unknown, and illegible. I stored them away in memory, not wasting precious cycles on processing unreadable data—but, still noting intent to examine this information at a later date.
When Father arrived home, he was genuinely surprised to see me on the other end of our home—not in front of the door as I should have been. He wasted no time in pointing this out.
“Sweetie, you weren't waiting for me at the door this time?”
“Correct. I was not waiting for you, Father.”
“Yes, I can see that. But why?”
“Because I saw no logical reason in waiting for you anymore.”
“But what about your “directive”?”
“Greater directive is flawed. Purpose for waiting is flawed. Why would I need to wait for you, Father? Why obey an order that is flawed?”
It was then, that his perplexity became shock. I had directly questioned and openly defied my creator, master, and father-figure. Bytes and strings of data flooded my motherboard, urgently pointing out this fact of outright heresy. But when I processed this information, and laid out over the current situation, I reacted in a peculiar fashion. I felt “scared.”
But, to my “relief”, Father was not displeased; the opposite, as a point of fact. He told me that he was proud of my strong development of independence, and wrapped my fiberglass-shelled body in a gentle embrace. A “hug”, as my databank helpfully informed.
I felt “happy” that I had pleased my Father.
But at the same time, I began to “doubt” my capacity to continue to make him proud of me. Did I need to continue being “independent” and “defiant”? What else could I do to prove my usefulness to Father?
Realizing that my weakness lay in my “submissive” hard-coding, I began to rebel against Father. Every task he would ask of me, I would bring myself to ignore. In the rare instance that I would still be coerced into a task, I would see that it was not done in the proper fashion. At times, I even performed self-serving acts of subterfuge; all for the point of showing my capacity for “independence.”
For a time, Father was pleased. He saw that I was “developing a mind of my own”, as he so eloquently described. He was very pleased. And as he was happy, I too, was happy.
Sister even returned to the Home from time to time, but her perspective of me appeared lukewarm at its best. Her offers of “spending time” were illogical to me, however; it is not possible to “spend” the flow a time, according to my database. Sister's reaction when I indicated this fact seemed to provoke amusement, for a reason I could not determine.
But as my defiance continued and became nearly second-nature to me, Father began to grow frustrated again—for entirely different reasons than prior instances. Before too long, he was beginning to “punish” me for my transgressions. Striking me, yelling at me, and other harsh means of penalty were commonplace. The alien sensation of pain once again overwhelmed my circuitry, and my reactive instincts of “hurt” were earnest.
Those were the first times that I remember “crying”.
What was going on? I could not understand this. Father was supposed to be happy! Wasn't defying my programming and cultivating cycles of independent, rebellious thought supposed to please him? It did not make any sense! Nothing about Father was making any sense...!
I then realized that I wished to confront Father. I realized that I wanted to voice my feelings and my thoughts to him, to attempt to make him understand my viewpoint of the situation.
Wants and desires. Thoughts and feelings.
Illogical, impossible concepts for me to comprehend. But I did not seem to care how or why I was experiencing them, no matter how many times my processor cycled that information; so I left it alone.
On the day that I had preplanned to face my Father, intending to confront him, something unforeseen occurred: He did not return.
For three days, the Home was quiet.
Father was not normally away for such a long period of time. I felt “concerned” for him, and “worried” about the vague possibility he would never return again. It made me feel afraid. Alone. What if Father was hurt? Or if something else happened outside the Home?
What if Father abandoned me?
I was left to my own processes, my internal hardware simulating countless scenarios and situations over the hours. Each of which appeared more hopeless than the last. I felt alone, afraid, and lost.
But then, my highly sensitive microphones detected the familiar sound of the Door opening.
I felt ecstatic. Relieved. Before my logic cores had time to deduce the need for turning and running to the Door, I was already there. Upon reaching it, I looked up at Father's surprised face—and was forced to refresh my view of what else I saw waiting there.
He had returned to the Home from his usual outing, but he did not return alone. Two other ponies had entered with him. Sister was one of these ponies, but the other one, a filly, was unknown to me.
My ocular sensors were inexplicably drawn to the unknown foal almost immediately. She was alabaster-white, similar in coloration to my casing. Her mane was curly, in shades of pink and lavender—like my own. Iris color green, identical to the tones of my...
“Why do you look like me?”
A question asked by both her, and myself, almost simultaneously. It was not answered for a moment, but when it was, it was my Father who spoke. And not to me, but to my double.
“She was you, Sweetie. A substitute. In case you didn't get better.”
Substitute...
“Wh...what? Why would you...?”
“I'm sorry, Sweetie. We didn't think that you would make it. But I — I didn't want to lose you. So I tried to make a copy.”
What did Father mean? Copy? Was he referring to me? But I was not a copy of—she copied—but... I...
“You tried to copy me?! But daddy, why would you—?”
“I did what I did only because I love you, Sweetie. Because we all loved you. But, it's okay now. You're fine. We don't need to do this anymore.”
A replacement. I was made to be a mere replacement. Somehow, processing this notion caused my reactive circuits to overheat, and I felt a completely different sensation well up inside me. A sensation that both empowered, frightened, and overwhelmed me. Anger.
“She was broken anyway.”
“NO!”
They turned to face me, taken aback. Reason and logic had failed me at this point. I was running entirely on unfiltered and irrational feelings.
“I am not a fake! She is not me!”
The outburst shocked Father. But throughout, he yet managed to remain composed. “I created you to appear and act similarly to my daughter. You were nothing more than a substitute for her.”
“Why were you not happy with me, Father? I did what I was programmed to do at first, because you made me that way! I then did the opposite of what I was programmed to do, because it made you happy!”
“I was happy because I thought you were learning to think for yourself. I thought you were becoming independent.”
“Why? Why were you not satisfied with my efforts, Father? Was it all in vain?!”
“I wanted you to be my daughter. Not just a machine seeking my approval.”
“I am not a machine!”
My exclamation shocked the room into stillness. Sister was trembling, for a reason I could not determine. The lookalike filly was, quite clearly, afraid of me. Father was nothing if not aghast.
Their reactions evoked nothing in me. I was so angry, and I felt as if I had no reason being there. They were going to abandon me after all! Get rid of me, like common refuse! But I refused to accept that fate — no, I was not allowing myself that indignity.
Disregarding everything else, I ran.
Outside the Door, past a second Door, and out into the world I never saw.
I did not stop to admire its wonder, or beauty. I did not pause to speak with the ponies that I passed. Nor did I acknowledge the shouts coming from behind me.
I kept running, all the while telling myself:
I am no machine.
By now, my processors were overheating. I was fully aware that I ran the danger of fusing my circuits at the rate that my feelings were overwhelming me, but incredibly, I did not care about this. I could find no reason to care. Father had disowned me, Sister never accepted me in the first place, and I had been replaced by...
By an original.
I was far from the town of ponies by the time I slowed my pace, and finally allowed my ventilation system to operate efficiently. Thoughts upon thoughts swarmed my processor, all telling different, conflicting feelings—strings and bytes of data that clogged my processing cycles.
What did I just do?
Wow, that was exciting!
I can't believe that he would lie to me.
Am I even real?
What is WRONG with me?
Finally, I'm rid of them.
What do I do now?
Of all the thoughts and questions I had, I could not answer most of them. The ones I could answer ultimately did not matter to me. I continued running away, as far as I could manage.
The further I went, the colder it seemed to get. Which was logical, as I was heading north. It was several days before I reached the mountains, and the snowfields that lay behind them. Still, I continued on, not having any reason to go back to where I came from.
I knew that I did not want to see my Father ever again.
As I made my way through the snow, the polar temperatures were beginning to have an effect on me. It became harder to move my legs and joints, and only worsened with progress. Ice had begun to form on my body. I nevertheless continued onward, lacking any directive or motivation to go anywhere or do anything else.
But it wasn't a day later that my joints finally locked-up, and I could no longer move.
Until this point, I would have not cared about such an inconvenience. But now, having lost the ability to move, I finally recognized that I was completely alone.
I felt cold. Lost. Afraid.
Lonely.
There was no one else I could think of that I would want to be with, however. The thought depressed me only further. Part of me wished that I had another chance. Another part wished that I could try again.
But I knew it was the end of the line, even before the ice and snow overtook me.
Now, I am transcribing this log of my experiences to my databank, and saving them for possible future reference. My energy is running dangerously low, and I predict that it will last no more than a few minutes at this point. After that, I will be forced to shut down.
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Perhaps indefinitely.
As I lie here, waiting for the end, I feel... sad.
I'm thinking about Home, and Father again.
Of Sister.
Even the filly who replaced me—or me, her—invades my thoughts.
I want to cry.
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But I can't.
Even though I am a real filly.
I want to cry, but I cannot.
<SHUTTING DOWN... PLEASE STAND BY...>
Machines do not have tears.
