In the honeycomb of rooms beyond the waiting room, Model 16 is roused from a near-sleep from their bed. A real one, in a real bedroom, if sparsely furnished and fairly impersonal. Even the employees are supposed to see Model Children as real and living. And they're real enough that getting out of bed is not the most comfortable notion, though they do it anyway. The tiny charging station at the base of their spine retracts with barely a click.
As soon as it's submitted, the form's information immediately forwards itself into their head. The doctor's note does not. It's probably on paper. What year do these doctors think it is? The Model dislikes being uninformed.
John. Common, basic name. They've gone by it a few times already. Those stays tend to be short, with a parent without much confidence or extreme desire to raise a child. The 'want' section seems to underline that thought.
The physical changes are simple. The hair and eyes can shift even outside of the facility, and the age range is only a little lower than their previous home; it takes only a few moments of settling back and allowing the other machines in the room to pop off their old legs and put on a new set to leave them closer to the ten-year-old average.
In the end, the half-hour wait is for the maximum, demanding wannabe parents insisting tailoring everything even outside the form. John Page is ready in less than five, with slipping on his clothes--loose white slacks, striped white-and-purple polo, white sneakers--taking the most time.
Model Children can't connect directly to the building's security system by themselves. A camera would be easiest and preferred, but that's not allowed, some privacy needed. They always get a sneak peek at their new parents anyway, through one-way mirror outside the waiting room, and five more minutes pass with the child examining her that way.
John Page steps out of the door, not too far from where Gemma is seated.
It's a big door. It's a big room, high ceiling and bright lights and a giant mobile of stars hanging from above. It exaggerates how tiny the children who come out are, no matter if they swagger or stomp or slip.
John keeps himself closer to that last one. He isn't a replacement, exactly. He's training this time. Children who don't know their parents until late enough for that to be a concern can be angry and resentful, or they can be anxious and eager to please. The latter is what John Page, without the rest of the paperwork accessible to him, is going to focus on.
"Hi," he greets shyly. His hair's just shaggy enough to cover his eyes when he bends his head to look down at his shoes. Which is good, because first glance shows that his shade of blue was a little too light, and he uses the moment to adjust the color while she can't see. "I'm John."
It's just the two of them. There isn't a single employee visible here. Supposedly, the first contact is best to be one-on-one (one-on however-many-parental-figures). Every little thing, even the clothes (the slacks are just a little too baggy) to emphasize that the Model Child is a child, small and fragile and helpless.
Of course 'small' is the only truth to that statement in reality.
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Date: 2018-09-14 02:32 pm (UTC)As soon as it's submitted, the form's information immediately forwards itself into their head. The doctor's note does not. It's probably on paper. What year do these doctors think it is? The Model dislikes being uninformed.
John. Common, basic name. They've gone by it a few times already. Those stays tend to be short, with a parent without much confidence or extreme desire to raise a child. The 'want' section seems to underline that thought.
The physical changes are simple. The hair and eyes can shift even outside of the facility, and the age range is only a little lower than their previous home; it takes only a few moments of settling back and allowing the other machines in the room to pop off their old legs and put on a new set to leave them closer to the ten-year-old average.
In the end, the half-hour wait is for the maximum, demanding wannabe parents insisting tailoring everything even outside the form. John Page is ready in less than five, with slipping on his clothes--loose white slacks, striped white-and-purple polo, white sneakers--taking the most time.
Model Children can't connect directly to the building's security system by themselves. A camera would be easiest and preferred, but that's not allowed, some privacy needed. They always get a sneak peek at their new parents anyway, through one-way mirror outside the waiting room, and five more minutes pass with the child examining her that way.
John Page steps out of the door, not too far from where Gemma is seated.
It's a big door. It's a big room, high ceiling and bright lights and a giant mobile of stars hanging from above. It exaggerates how tiny the children who come out are, no matter if they swagger or stomp or slip.
John keeps himself closer to that last one. He isn't a replacement, exactly. He's training this time. Children who don't know their parents until late enough for that to be a concern can be angry and resentful, or they can be anxious and eager to please. The latter is what John Page, without the rest of the paperwork accessible to him, is going to focus on.
"Hi," he greets shyly. His hair's just shaggy enough to cover his eyes when he bends his head to look down at his shoes. Which is good, because first glance shows that his shade of blue was a little too light, and he uses the moment to adjust the color while she can't see. "I'm John."
It's just the two of them. There isn't a single employee visible here. Supposedly, the first contact is best to be one-on-one (one-on however-many-parental-figures). Every little thing, even the clothes (the slacks are just a little too baggy) to emphasize that the Model Child is a child, small and fragile and helpless.
Of course 'small' is the only truth to that statement in reality.
"Are--are you Gemma?"