There’s a poster of the sun on the wall in Mary’s room, above her bed. It’s illuminated in the dark space by the lamp on her nightstand, which sits next to a worn unmarked book, open and facedown. It’s the first thing you see when you and your classmates break into her student dormitory room after curfew. What would she care about the sun? You smirk, point at the book, and whisper, Wonder what she’s “reading”? You make little air quotes. Human Behavior for Dummies, your friend mutters, and you all laugh. Then you help them grab hold of Mary’s legs, arms, and hair, and pull her from her bed. You clamp a hand over her mouth so she can’t scream. Her eyes are on you, wide and beginning to wet, and you think, Nice trick.

The cluster of students shifts like a school of pilot fish around a pod of sharks, making room for you to drag your prey through the door and down the hushed hallway. Their faces shift in and out of view in the dark, shiny and frenetic with anticipation. Your hand that’s not on the girl’s mouth is clamped around her arm, and you squeeze harder. You know they know she’s your kill. They can do whatever they want with what’s left once you’ve opened her up.

Her arm trembles where your fingers dig in, and you figure you’d leave bruises if there was really blood in there. But it’s not like it matters, not like she can feel pain anyway. Why are you shaking, you breathe in Mary’s ear, am I making you glitch?

You and your acolytes make it to the laboratory classroom, and they help you splay her atop a steel table. Duct tape is fetched from the supply closet, used to bind her limbs down. They also grab a scalpel. She’s breathing shallowly now, high in her throat, nose sniffling. You glare into her dark eyes that display an impressive mimicry of terror, and replace the hand on her mouth with a line of duct tape. “You can stop pretending now, Mary. We’ve caught you.” 

You feel pleased that you’ve found this imposter. She never acted like a real human. She kept to herself at lunch. You never saw her eat. She didn’t get your humor, never laughed with you all, never spoke normally, always seeming a step ahead, above, like she knew things you all didn’t. It was that artificial brain, you told them, computing away, she knows all the test answers already. It’s not fair, they agreed, she’s cheating, she’s one of those bots, she’s not natural. Bots are dangerous, they’re the enemy. Your teachers will be proud of you for apprehending one and cutting out her cold, synthetic heart. You will present it to them, a trophy.

Your friends rip her shirt open, baring her to you. You brace yourself above her, scalpel poised in one hand above her breastbone. She has quieted now, and her eyes that should be blank are full of emotion. You can’t decipher it. That makes you angry. 

Right before your blade splits her skin, you remove the tape from her mouth. She doesn’t scream. You ask, “That poster in your room. Why the sun?”

Voice cracking, Mary replies, “Because I love it. It has beauty, and warmth.”

You grit your teeth, sink your scalpel into her chest cavity and snarl, “Like you could truly know either.” 

But in the stark laboratory, surrounded by icy eyes, you find that Mary’s dying face is beautiful, and her bright red blood is very, very warm.