Recycle

Recyc-ALL Chapter 1: Shared Interests “You want to WHAT?” Sarah asked. Mary repeated herself. “I want to get recycled at Jeff’s factory.” “That’s… that’s crazy! What are you talking about?” “Well, I’ve always had… I guess it’s a fetish… about people being turned into normal objects. It started with forniphilia and such… you know, girls being bound in place and used like furniture. But I’ve come across a lot of websites which show people actually being transformed into things, like clothing and such, and that just really turns me on somehow…” ...

Two department store workers fall into a machine and emerge as mannequins… “Debbie, this is Flynn. She’s a new girl, and we’re going to start her in Display. Would you mind taking her in hand and showing her what we do?” The supervisor left Flynn with Debbie, who gave the new girl a rather cool greeting. All the girls who worked in the fashion department at Roebuck’s were attractive and well-dressed, and Flynn was no exception. But there was a style gap here; none of the other girls wore asymmetrical pigtails, or a top that was cut off to show off a navel piercing, or sneakers with two different bright-colored shoelaces. Flynn was dressing downtown at a very uptown department store. She was a tall, lavishly built brunette who always thought she should lose ten pounds, even though boys never complained. Though she fretted aloud about having a curvy belly instead of a flat one, she had a marked tendency to show that belly off with short tops and low-cut jeans. ...

“Happy 18th birthday baby.” “Oh Mom, it’s beautiful.” Jessie said. “My little girl is all grown up, blow the candles out Honey.” Dad said. Jessie closes her eyes and blows out the candles. Mom cuts the cake while Dad answers the front door. He returns with an official looking letter, his sad face speaks the words he can’t say. “Not today, it can’t come today.” Jessie said. “They can’t even respect a girls birthday anymore?” Mom said. ...

It was her fate to be recycled. She only understood that, being part of the estate of her deceased mistress, it had been decided to have her sold off for reconditioning. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she did realize that after thirteen years of activation, and a nearly unwavering routine of service, everything was going to change. The Recycler’s name was Humbolt, who arrived at the house with his assistant Percival. Both were dressed in black suits, matching their blank painted service vehicle. This wasn’t typical of the profession, but an odd caprice of Humbolt, who liked to refer to these trips as ‘bringing out the dead’. Percival didn’t think much of the joke, but knew the value of an apprenticeship in this sort of tech industry, and so he quietly played along. The house was to be sold as well, and with so much of the furniture already moved out, the interior felt very dark and empty. It struck Percival as a rather sad and lonely image then when they found her. Seated on a plain wooden chair in the middle of the bare living room, her head was bowed, a single black power cord running from some part of her back to an outlet in the wall. “You see this,” Humbolt said gruffly, holding out the crumpled yellow work-order sheet in front of her. “Yes,” she replied, raising her head. She was dressed in the manner of an old English maid, with a long black dress and white apron. She had the fair complexion of a European, but had been given long slick black hair that appeared very Asian. “You’ve been given over for reconditioning,” Humbolt informed her, “You will come along with us.” Percival came around behind her, unhooking the power cord from it’s socket at the base of her neck. Moving aside some of her thick hair, he read off the stamped serial number. “Hmm, a 213,” he remarked. “I was expecting something more ancient from what we’d been told.” “Yes, well, still hardly state of the art,” Humbolt shrugged, studying her. “At least it’ll be an easier job though. I quite like the face.” “She is pretty,” Percival agreed, helping the machine to her feet. At first glance, she did seem very human. But, in accordance with the Artificial Persons Act, did possess one distinctly non-human feature. Circular metal panels, lined with a single groove in the middle, were mounted on either side of her head, just above and behind the ears. “My name is Lynn,” she introduced herself to them both, her voice inflected with a slight English accent, though her overall pattern of speech was characteristically deliberate. “Only for now it is,” Humbolt told her. “Come on, follow us into the van.” ...

It was her fate to be recycled. She only understood that, being part of the estate of her deceased mistress, it had been decided to have her sold off for reconditioning. She didn’t know exactly what that meant, but she did realize that after thirteen years of activation, and a nearly unwavering routine of service, everything was going to change. The Recycler’s name was Humbolt, who arrived at the house with his assistant Percival. Both were dressed in black suits, matching their blank painted service vehicle. This wasn’t typical of the profession, but an odd caprice of Humbolt, who liked to refer to these trips as ‘bringing out the dead’. Percival didn’t think much of the joke, but knew the value of an apprenticeship in this sort of tech industry, and so he quietly played along. The house was to be sold as well, and with so much of the furniture already moved out, the interior felt very dark and empty. It struck Percival as a rather sad and lonely image then when they found her. Seated on a plain wooden chair in the middle of the bare living room, her head was bowed, a single black power cord running from some part of her back to an outlet in the wall. “You see this,” Humbolt said gruffly, holding out the crumpled yellow work-order sheet in front of her. “Yes,” she replied, raising her head. She was dressed in the manner of an old English maid, with a long black dress and white apron. She had the fair complexion of a European, but had been given long slick black hair that appeared very Asian. “You’ve been given over for reconditioning,” Humbolt informed her, “You will come along with us.” Percival came around behind her, unhooking the power cord from it’s socket at the base of her neck. Moving aside some of her thick hair, he read off the stamped serial number. “Hmm, a 213,” he remarked. “I was expecting something more ancient from what we’d been told.” “Yes, well, still hardly state of the art,” Humbolt shrugged, studying her. “At least it’ll be an easier job though. I quite like the face.” “She is pretty,” Percival agreed, helping the machine to her feet. At first glance, she did seem very human. But, in accordance with the Artificial Persons Act, did possess one distinctly non-human feature. Circular metal panels, lined with a single groove in the middle, were mounted on either side of her head, just above and behind the ears. “My name is Lynn,” she introduced herself to them both, her voice inflected with a slight English accent, though her overall pattern of speech was characteristically deliberate. “Only for now it is,” Humbolt told her. “Come on, follow us into the van.” ...