Lesson 236 of the core manual: consider the most obvious approach last.

No real people work like this.

Click.  Click again.  Scroll.

Jobs 13 to 25 still incomplete and it’s mid morning.  There is plenty of light glaring through the glass ceiling.  A number of eye models we make wouldn’t compensate for the shift from natural to artificial light without registering the effect on the retina.  There are eyes we make that would.  It’s a matter of preference and budget; though it’s not your choice.

Running senses.  Each return functional.  Jab of a needle, stroke of a feather; tension, release.  Pre-fabricated aromas: urine, roses, wet hair, semen.  Slight wrinkling of the nasal extremities at appropriate moments.  A knowing smile at others.  Bass and treble notes register.  Auditory reactionary systems: a child’s scream initiates programmed maternal instincts; a silence triggers social interaction circuits; a continual beeping—

Job 13 flashes on my screen.  I punch complete.

A white arm snakes down and, with a hurriedly mechanical care, lifts the purple chipset from the casing.

Purple is for pleasure.

Job 14 opens itself.  I have time to exhale.  Inhale.

"Excuse me, madam."

Job 14 doesn’t talk.  Neither does my diagnostic systems.  Nor the arm that brings in the blue chipset.  Blue is for teaching.

Running senses.  Masculine voice, within the bass range.  He smells of salt.  His breath is laboured, short and sharp. 

Lesson 162: the exterior build quality speaks for the interior.

"I’m Sergeant Patters, Department of Trade and Industry.  Can I have a moment of your time?’"

He pushes a piece of low grade alloy into my view. 

Of course, I say.  I turn and make eye contact.  Blink.  Blink.  Blink.

He looks away towards the repair shelves.

"I’m sorry to interrupt.  You must be very busy."

He pauses.  10 seconds.  12 seconds. 

Yes, I reply. 

"I just have some routine questions."

Routine: noun.  1 - a habitual or fixed way of doing things: There's no set/fixed routine at work - every day is different.  He checks under the car for bombs as a matter of routine.  2 - a regular series of movements, jokes or similar items used in a performance: an exercise/dance routine.  He went into his usual 'I'm the head of the family' routine (= habitual way of speaking).  adjective.  A routine (= regular) task/inspection/medical check-up.

A routine (= ordinary) case of appendicitis.  DISAPPROVING: My job is so routine and boring—I hate it.

Have you come to check under my car for bombs? I ask.

His eyes shift from left to right.  He laughs.

"No.  No bombs.  Unless I would find any?"

No, I do not think so, I reply.

"That’s good.  Can I ask what model that is?"

He points at the blue chipset.  Blue is for teaching.  His fat face has folds in it.

Yes, I say.

10 seconds.  12 seconds.  Incorrect prioritization of imperative questions.  Disregard former.

That is the Blue E4450, I tell him, which has been available to the general market for six months now.  It is the teacher chipset.

Blue is for teaching.

"And how long have you been working here?"

Lesson 29: answer direct questions directly.

Four years.

"So you’ve seen a lot of different models come and go?"

Yes.

"Must be hard to remember them all."

No.

He adjusts his weight.  He looks uncomfortable.  The jawbone is clenched, back stiffened.  I wait.  Social interaction.  I pull a cigarette packet from my pocket, placed there for such a moment, and light a cigarette.  He appears to relax.

"Are you aware of any problems with the, what was it? E46—"

Blue E4450.

"Yes, the E4450."

This is a repair department, I state, if it is here it has a problem.

He releases an inordinate amount of air, his cheeks swell. 

"I am going to be direct."

He pauses for a response, and I chose to take another breath with the cigarette, which appears to suffice.

"A number of this company’s products have been,’ another pause, ‘behaving against expectation."

Checking each word.  I say, I do not understand.

"You said Blue is for teaching.  Well, we’ve had a number of teaching models found offering relationship advice to teenagers in a class room—"

Teenager: noun (INFORMAL teen) a young person between 13 and 19 years old: The product is aimed at teenagers and young adults.

"—We’ve also had reports of secretarial models forwarding memos outlining that their pain settings are optional, and that they enjoy each form of sexual penetration equally."

I see.

Lesson 4: remain calm.

Breathe with the cigarette.

"What colour are the child-minder chips?"

White.

"And the personal trainer?"

Green.

"‘We’ve had trainers accompanying people to the toilet to offer assistance; a terrified toddler circuit training in his bedroom."

Referencing toddler.

I say, I do not understand.

"This isn’t supposed to be happening.  There is a fault somewhere.  Your company assigns very specific roles to each model.  What is affecting these models is my concern."

I exhale smoke.  I ask, Do you like my breasts, Sergeant Patters? Do you find them supple, enticing, pleasing to look at? Can you imagine placing your head upon them after intercourse?

His fat cheeks scald red, flooding capillary loops and wide blood vessels close to the surface.

You continually notice them, correct? A police officer and a pervert.  Is that your specific role, Sergeant Patters?

Silence.  Social interaction.  I offer him a cigarette, from the packet that was placed there for such a moment.  He shakes his head and leaves.

I return to Job 14.  A blue chipset's damaged internal cooler.  I will see Sergeant Patters again.  Soon.

Blue is for teaching.  It will probably be my last.  I input familiar programme numbers and sequences.  I input the repair mechanic chipset.  Red is for repair.