Human

A routine noise complaint call for an investigator in New Los Angeles.

I often ask myself during this time and age whether or not we can be truly considered ‘human’. The world we live in, the life a person lives is decided at the hands and thoughts of another, what they decide affects that person, and what that person decides affects someone else in turn. While I’m sure what I’m thinking may be on the thoughts of others as well, it bugs me more than it should.

However, thoughts such as these are best left alone while on duty. The year is 2093 A.D., and even with as much technology that is available, old fashioned detectives like me are still needed. Machines we have today are near flawless, lie detectors, DNA scanners, etc., etc, however, the one thing they do not have is an item we as humans are born with-- intuition. Intuition grants discovery, and discovery leads to knowledge, a base human concept. Such discovery lead to the creation of the Robots, servants to man and man alone, created to help in any way they can, but still regarded only as half people. We put a price on the value of a human soul, and due to an incident back in 1914, it was decided that only two robots, I believe they were called something else back then, would equal one human, giving them little to no rights, but to only follow the will of man. I shook my head as I neared my destination, enough with the history lessons, I had a job to do.

I’m currently on a routine run somewhere in the Lower Gates section of New Los Angeles, something about a noise complaint at the Milton’s house, or whatever his name is. The point is, I’ve been working for nearly 13 hours, no lunch, nor dinner, and I really wanted to get out of this job as quickly as possible. I keep nodding off in the back seat of the taxi I rode to get to this house, but immediately once the door automatically opens when I arrive at my destination I wake up. I step out into a light rain on a cool summer's night, and make my way to the door of the Milton’s house. I look around and see a very unkept lawn with trash in it as well as burn marks, clearly either the Milton kids, if he has any, or the neighborhood ones have too much fun. Once I reach the door, I knock softly and stand there, only to wait nearly a full five minutes before the door opened mid-yawn. A middle aged man opened the door only a little bit, only enough to poke his head through it.

“Bradley Kent, Investigator for the New Los Angeles Police Department.” I said to the man.

“David Milton, owner of the house.” He replied. Great, another jokester.

“We received a noise complaint about an hour ago, something about loud screaming. Was that you, sir?” I asked

“No, I’ve heard no such thing around here.” He replied, rather irritated. From inside the house a few noises of something moving were behind him. Another face popped out from the doorway, but this time it was much lower than the man’s, a young girl’s looking to be only about seven or eight. “Not again,” he murmured. “I told you to go to bed, Bentley, where’s Bentley?”

“I’m sorry, I was just curious who was at the door is all. I’m really sorry, Dad.” But he wasn’t hearing any of it, he was too busy yelling at Bentley, doing so he opened the door nearly entirely revealing a dirty and trash covered entry hallway.

“Bentley! BENTLEY!” He yelled, until something came stumbling into the hallway. A boy came running towards the man, and in doing so I noticed he had a slight limp, nothing too out of the ordinary though. I look at the man, and presumably his two children and a question immediately came to my mind.

“Sir, are these children well cared for?” I asked, eyeing the children. I look closer at the little girl and see she's wearing an extraordinarily large shirt for her age with holes that look like they were burned into it. Curious.

“What are you trying to say? Of course they’re well cared for,” he turned back to the inside of the house, “Get over here!” he growled. The little boy named Bentley limped his way over to the door and asked David a question.

“Yes?” he said, looking down at the ground while asking.

“Put your sister to bed, now. I have to handle this out here and I don’t need her dumb a*s blocking my way.” He replied, getting angrier with each word.

“I will.” He said back to David, he grabbed the little girl’s hand. “Come on, Lizzie.” He lead her away from the door and down a messy hallway and turned a corner. David turned to face me again and stared me directly in the eyes.

“Look, Mr. ‘Investigator’, I don’t know why or who called you here, but there is absolutely nothing wrong with this house, or with my children, now if you have any common sense at all, you’ll take yourself and your stupid hat, and leave my property before I force you to leave.” He spat in my face, slamming the door shut afterwards. I stood there staring at the door for a moment, then I started to turn away and heard a noise. A crash that sounded like it was coming from the inside once again. I knocked on the door again, “Mr. Milton?” I asked, “Is everything alright?”

“JUST FINE, NOW LEAVE.” he yelled back. Another crash and a yelp in pain, something had gone terribly wrong, I pulled out my old but handy 9mm handgun and beat on the door.

“Open this door!” I yelled.

“Will you just f**k off!” He yelled back, another crash, this one louder and another scream in pain.

I started to tackle the door, throwing my weight into it. “Open this door now!” I yelled to him even louder. I looked over at a window and I saw what I thought was true before, David was throwing Lizzie around into various pieces of furniture. I decided enough was enough, and aimed my gun at the lock and door knob and fired off two rounds, bang bang, the lock and door knob were knocked off and I tackled the door once more. It finally gave in and I landed on the floor of the dirty hallway, I stand as I hear more commotion going on towards the right.

I stepped further into the main hallway and I heard another large crash, a big thump, a cry of pain and a large sound of something falling coming from the living room. I cautiously leaned against the hallway wall and stepped closer, no more noises were heard except the crying of a little girl. I finally rushed into the doorway and placed my gun in front of me, yelling instructions at a figure I couldn’t make out yet, “Get on the ground! I said get on the ground!” the figured followed orders and I approached it, getting a flashlight out of my jacket I turned it on and noticed two things. David Milton was laying across the ground of the living room, his body limp and bleeding around his head, and the figure that followed my orders was Bentley, he had laid on the ground with his arms over his head, covering a wound across his face. I heard the girl crying behind the couch.

“Aren’t you the boy he was yelling at?” I asked him, pulling him up by his arm. He nodded, “And you realize what you did was a crime, right?” I asked him once more, he nodded as well.

“It’s not like I have any rights anyways.” He responded.

“Why did you do it, kid?” I asked him one last question.

“Because,” He lifted his hand away from his face revealing skin ripped away and a metal endoskeleton under it. “He was no more human than I was.”