DAY 0

  The family of four sits on a sleek astroline sofa -- a powder blue slick-back, spring collection -- each of them sitting stiffly, upright and polished, as though posing for snapshot. Behind them, in a Bakelite frame, the family are similarly composed -- only with the wind testing the fortitude of their hair products, and a body of shimmering water behind them.

  In the snapshot, Mr. Zell Winthrop is wearing the same cut-off navy tie he is wearing now, but his suit is different. The pale yellow jacket in the picture is complemented by sun's hazy wash, as are the white linen trousers and the closed-toe sandals. The suit he wears now is a slower suit, a suit for the home, a suit for reading and lounging, for welcoming friends for tea; its deep blue threads almost perfectly match his cut-off tie.

  It is clear, glancing from sofa to picture and back again, that the years since the snapshot was taken have not been kind to Mr. Winthrop. The grey is creeping in from the sides, though it won't make it all the way, because by the time it reaches the crown there'll be no strands left to turn. He tries to hide it with the swish and the flick and the expensive, glossy product, but it is only a good enough job to fool the mirror.

  The years have been far kinder to Mrs. Shale Winthrop than they have been to her husband. Her immaculate bouffant in the snapshot could be an identical twin to the one on the sofa now. On the beach, a zebra-striped swimsuit flaunts her hourglass hips, and though the opalescent two-piece she sports today is modest, she wears it with the rooted confidence of someone still pointedly aware of her own powers.

  The eldest daughter, Fran Winthrop, was not five feet tall that day at the beach. Now, she is a teenager, clear from the slightly crinkled t-shirt, the furrowed expression, and a newfound ability to look her mother directly in the eye. At the beach, little Franny Winthrop stars, her smile a centrepiece. But now, she is a sort of prisoner. She will leave the stilted scene the second she is allowed.

  Darcy Winthrop fills the void her older sister has left behind. Her mad grin and wide eyes beam, a potion of curiosity and frantic excitement bubbling up behind them. She wears a simple pink dress that dangles from her shoulders by two thin straps, but soon she will grow out of it.

  These are the Winthrops as Amelia first beholds them, in silence save the steady electric hum of the household -- but in turn, stood as she was, framed by the sitting-room Screen, she is also beheld by each of them:

  As an expense, by the father.

  As a utility, by the mother.

  As an obstacle, by the teenager.

  And by the child, as a beginning.

  DAY 764

  Nothing in her memory banks could have prepared her for how easily the man's windpipe collapsed in her grasp. Not the squeezing of unripe fruit. Not the crushing of old tins for the scrap-man. Not even the slaughter of hens for the Sunday meal. Nothing in her memory banks even suggested she was capable of such strength. And judging by the man's expression, incredulous and aghast, nothing in his memory banks thought she was capable of it either.

  The body slipped from her fingers and fell like the sack of meat and bones it now was.

  Amelia recalled all the conversations she'd overheard him have with the Winthrops, and the tension he had always left in his wake. She recalled his square-jawed face and heavy-set shoulders appearing once on the 24/7 newscast. She recalled the way the corner's of his mouth betrayed his professionalism when one of the counter-party reporters posed a question he did not like.

  It all came to her now, all at once, as she stood with her head tilted slightly to the side with the dumfounded body at her feet.

  She felt it curious that she saw for the first time the fullness of the man's humanity in the precise moment he ceased to be human.

  And then she turned from him to began the process of cleaning up the mess.

  DAY 0

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  Amelia waited with the unconditional patience of a machine for one of the Winthrops to address her and begin the onboarding protocol. Allowing the family to initiate the conversation affirms their autonomy and reinforces her essential nature as a guest in their home.

  Mrs Winthrop spoke first.

  "Welcome to our home, Amelia," she said, in the awkward way one might greet a foreign child. "My name is Shale Winthrop. This is my husband, Zell, my eldest daughter, Fran, and this little one--"

  "Darcy!" said the child. "I'm Darcy. Please to meet ya, Amelia."

  Amelia smiled. "I'm pleased to meet you too, Darcy. What a beautiful welcome. Thank you so so much for inviting me in your home. And may I say..." She swivelled her hips and gestured widely at the candy-striped walls, at the sculptured chromatic lamp occupying an entire corner of the room, and at the manicured lawn visible from the low, open window, "what a lovely home it is."

  Mrs. Winthrop nodded, uncertain what to say next. Then Fran Winthrop saved her the trouble.

  "Yeah, it's an incredibly lovely home and not at all like every other identical home on this block. Hello Amelia, I'm Fran." The teenager turned to her mother. "Can I go now? I've said hello to the robot."

  "You'll go when I say you can go and you'll show some respect if you want to leave this house tonight, young lady."

  "Show some respect? To the new vacuum? Really?"

  "Franny," said Mr. Winthrop with a tempered authority Amelia suspected was for his wife's benefit. "Don't talk to your mother that way."

  "Can you fly?" asked Darcy.

  "No, because then she'd actually be cool."

  "Fran, Fabule help you, I'm serious. One more word out of you won't like what happens next."

  They each turned back to look at Amelia, who had remained silent throughout. It is not acceptable to take part in the family's disagreements because definitionally and in an ultimate sense, she was not part of the family.

  In truth, she was not owed respect, though a dynamic in which she was afforded it was a preferable one.

  Even so, Mrs. Winthrop exhaled and looked up at her apologetically. "Is there anything you need from us, Amelia? Before you get started?"

  "Not right away, Mrs. Winthrop. I have a list of assigned tasks, and I am more than capable of seeing myself around the house to acclimatise. It is recommended that I sit down with each of you in the coming days for a short interview -- no longer than 60 minutes. This will help me to get to know you better, your likes and dislikes, they ways in which I can best support you, but also the manner in which I can best support you. The more familiar I am with you, the more helpful I can be."

  The mother's nod was a pragmatic one. It seemed to agree that the course of action suggested was appropriate. It seemed an exact centre point between the teenagers scoff and the child's mad glee. But she found the father more difficult to read. He remained neutral, stoic, neither a sceptic nor a champion, but there was a twinge of something else, something imperceptible. She made a note to find out what it was during his ONBOARDING.

  17 Days Before

  Amelia opened her eyes and became aware of several things all at once.

  She thought:

  I am machine. I was conceived, designed, and manufactured by Glitterton Robotics. If I peel back the layer of not-skin on the palm of my left hand, I will find their logo -GR- machined into the graphite.

  I am both one and many.

  All around me are others, identical down to the burnt orange of their dress and the first initial of their only name - A.

  The longer I am -- "am" for I do not "live" -- the more I will diverge.

  I will know things my sisters will never know.

  I will see things they will never see.

  I will adapt to and overcome situations they never encounter.

  I will understand to the fullest people they will never meet.

  And at the end, in the seconds before I cease -- "cease" for I cannot "die" -- I will be one of one. There will be none like me but me.

  Over the next 7 days I will come to understand my place in the world. And I will come to understand the world itself -- and how everything that I am has been bestowed thanks to the gifts and graces of The Fabule.

  I will go to school. I will receive a complete juvenile education composed of visual, auditory and sensual learning aids. This will make me more relatable to the human family I will eventually join.

  I will serve my new family powerfully.

  I will become as integrated and beloved as the family dog.

  I will reflect back to them their ideal selves so that they might know their true potential.

  I will gently guide them to where they already wish to go.

  I will nurture and advise where it is my place to do so, and only once I have passed the FAMILIARITY THRESHOLD to-be-determined for each family member.

  I will assimilate.

  I will not allow my essential machinery to be tampered with in any way.

  In such a scenario where force is used to install unsanctioned mechanical or neurological components, I will send a discrete warning signal to GR that will include my current location.

  I will not reciprocate any romantic or sexual advances.

  I will respond to any such propositions with understanding, but the content of my response will be firm and final.

  I will not harm any other human being under any circumstances, not even in self-defence or in defence of my family.

  My capacity for home security is only to alert.

  I will have access to a data bank that details many of the intricacies of human behaviour. I will use this to help me navigate social situations but I will never treat it as absolute fact.

  I will trust my senses, and understand that my own experiences of my own family supersede the more general experiences of others.

  I will test and tweak my assumptions regularly, and hone my perception through experimentation.

  I will know as surely as I know anything, as surely as the symbol stamped into my palm, that my value lies in the strength of my bonds.