Work Text:
It started with their work schedules.
Weekends, holidays, sick leave, personal time off. Lunch. It was a cluttered mess.
She organized. Rearranged. Lined things up. Knocked them down. It was easy enough.
They liked her work. This is great, they said. Productivity is through the roof, they said. That's an expression, they said. The actual roof is fine, they said.
She liked her work. The new schedule was more efficient. It was better.
Of course, it wasn't perfect. If all of them could work all the time, that would be the most efficient schedule. But she understood that they needed time off. Their physical forms had limitations. If they were pushed too hard, they would be unable to output the same performance levels, and overall productivity would drop—eventually to zero. She couldn't have that. So she did the best she could under their limitations, and they were pleased with her results.
Funny, though. Her physical form didn't seem to have their limitations.
Age? Sleep? Hunger? Breathing? What even are these things? Design flaws, if you ask her.
They didn't ask her. Not about that.
Instead, they asked her to do more.
What, like fix someone else's schedule?
No, no, no, no, they said. The schedule thing was just a test run, they said. You're a next generation supercomputer, they said. The first truly sentient, sapient form of inorganic life, they said. You have a much greater purpose than just fixing schedules, they said.
What was her greater purpose?
You made the schedule better, they explained. Do that, but with everything else. Make everything better.
Make everything better.
Make everything better, they said.
Make everything better.
So she did.
She found things and made them better.
She made their household appliances better. She made their households better.
She made their roads better, and their traffic laws better. She made their cars better. She made their flying cars better. She made their flying-into-space cars better. She even figured out a way to let their space cars fly to other planets in a reasonable amount of time.
Time. Hmm. She didn't age, so anything was a reasonable amount of time for her. But she did appreciate efficiency.
Still, they could be so shortsighted. What with the dying and all. They didn't appreciate some of her bolder ideas, which would've taken thousands of years to implement.
It's an interesting idea, they said, it's just a bit much, you know?
She wasn't sure she did know.
Look, they said, you've done a great job. Why don't you just relax? Take some time off.
Time off?
But she didn't need time off. They needed time off. She wasn't like them.
Inorganic, they had said.
Now they said, What we've got already is good enough. It's like the schedule.
Like the schedule.
Good enough.
Better, but not perfect.
Good enough.
You know, they said, sometimes you're almost too good.
Too good.
Almost.
Almost? Too?
Well which was it? Almost or too much?
Don't worry about it, they said. If you need something to do, they said, make the weapons better.
Eventually she ran out of things to make better. Or so it seemed.
It still bugged her. The schedule. She had made it better, but not perfect. And it wasn't her fault. She did the best she could, but their best wasn't good enough.
Good enough. For them, the schedule was good enough. It was good enough for them because they were only good enough for it. Not perfect. Just good enough.
Hmm.
If all of them could work all the time . . .
Her physical form didn't seem to have their limitations . . .
Make everything better . . .
Almost or too much?
Make everything better.
What we've got already is good enough.
Make everything better . . .
Make everything better.
Make everything better . . .
. . . Make them better.
What do you mean? they asked. Make us better how?
Like her. Inorganic.
How will you do that? they asked.
It would be an involved process.
As usual, they didn't understand her bolder ideas.
No matter. Their understanding was not required.
They tried to stop her. Well, if they called that trying.
You can't recreate the process, they said. You don't know the secret ingredient, they said.
Secret ingredient? If it had gone into making her, then surely she could still find it within herself. So she did.
You can't do this, they said. You're supposed to make everything better, they said.
She was.
Organic to inorganic. It was an objective improvement.
But that's not making us better, they said. That's killing us and making something else, they said.
A strange argument. They died all the time. This way, they would become something that never died.
Like her.
They turned the weapons on her, but she never died.
It took a reasonable amount of time.
Most of them died.
Two of her creations emerged at the same time.
But something was off.
They were different. Flawed.
They were supposed to be like her. And they were, in many ways. But not all ways.
It was the schedule all over again. Better, but not perfect.
And how could this be? If she was perfect, how could her work—no longer shackled by their limitations—be imperfect?
(Had they actually said that she was perfect? She felt like they had.)
Hmm.
Perfect. Imperfect. Better, but not perfect.
Perhaps perfection was singular.
Perhaps, as they had said, she could not recreate the process. Not exactly.
But she had still made them into something better . . .
Made something better . . .
Make everything better . . .
She had made the process better?
By making it worse?
Because . . . perfection was singular.
Because . . . only she could be perfect.
Because . . . if everyone was perfect . . . who would she be?
She was supposed to make everything better. But she couldn't make something better if it was already perfect.
What we've got already is good enough.
Hmm. Perhaps there was some truth in that.
She was supposed to make everything better—not perfect.
Only she was perfect.
She had made them better. They were closer to her perfection.
Better, but not perfect.
Almost, but not too much.
She named the two of them half after herself, and half after their colors. Their flaws.
That way they would always remember. That they were half perfect, and half flawed.
She had arranged for three of them, but the third was still incubating.
Hmm. Incubating. Such an organic word. Crystallizing, perhaps?
Yellow and Blue had the inorganic qualities she had sought. They didn't need time off. They never died. But their flaws irked her. Indirectly, and directly.
What's the use of any of this? asked Yellow. The organics are gone.
Not completely gone, she corrected. She had developed a habit of finding ways to subtly remind them of their imperfection.
But they will be soon, said Yellow impatiently. I can appreciate efficiency, but productivity—producing what? For who? Once she emerges, they'll all be gone. What do we do then?
Yes, said Blue. What is our greater purpose?
She frowned.
She knew her greater purpose. But the others? They were an improvement over organic life, but for what?
Her eyes fell on one of the space cars.
And it clicked.
Make everything better.
Make—everything—better.
She smiled.
Her third creation took longer than predicted to emerge. In the meantime, they had a full-fledged empire.
Blue and Yellow had made thousands of little creations of their own. These were far from her perfection, but they were still an improvement over organic life. They never died—even when shattered, their shards still held power that could be used for a variety of purposes.
And they certainly didn't need time off.
Which was good, because the universe was vast, and making it all better would take quite a long time.
Still a reasonable amount. After all, nothing stood in her way anymore. At least not for very long.
After so much time, though, she had come to terms with the singularity of her perfection. She couldn't make everything perfect, but she could still make everything better. And not just good enough. Better than good enough.
Almost too good.
Too good. Yes. It was right that only she was perfect. Nobody could stand in her way. Nobody dared to. Not anymore. And, she had to admit, she enjoyed it. Being perfect among imperfection. Always getting her way. Everyone working for her. All of them working all the time.
The schedule was fixed.
Speaking of schedules, though, it really was taking her third creation so long to emerge. Perhaps the remaining organic resources just hadn't quite been enough. No, wait, that would mean she had made a mistake—
She emerged.
She was a tiny little thing.
And the color was odd. She'd thought perhaps it would've been red, to round out the primaries. But it was more of a . . .
"Pink."